A hand burst through the thick rock and dirt that once housed a small town in the middle of nowhere. A man in a torn apart black tactical suit emerged shortly afterward. Black veins decorated his exposed forearm and sections of his face like grotesque tattoos. His normally pale skin glowed slightly green but it eventually died out and the veins sunk back into his skin.

Wesker had managed to escape death once again and he didn’t have the scars to prove it. He looked to his left and a man wearing a similar uniform, with a gas mask, stood there. He breathed heavily through the mask in a good imitation of Darth Vader.

“Hey, Hunk,” Wesker said to the other man. “I take it we need to go.”

The mask moved up and down and Wesker brushed himself off. They approached a heavily armored vehicle with bright yellow letters that read “H.C.F.”

---

Jill Valentine entered her New York City apartment after an exhausting five hour flight from the Phoenix airport. She dropped her keys on her kitchen counter and dropped onto the black leather sofa that faced a Sony 25-inch TV. She had managed to get her Beretta through the security checkpoints, since she still carried her S.T.A.R.S. ID tag, and it was currently digging into her hip. She absently pulled it out of its holster, ejected the remainder of the magazine, popped the bullet of the chamber, and set them down on the oak coffee table before her.

“Another day, another city blown up,” she muttered before she fell asleep.

---

Billy Coen didn’t like flying, and he absolutely hated long flights. He now found himself in a hotel room in Ocean City, Maryland. Rebecca the rabbit watched him from her perch on top of the small room’s dresser. Billy examined himself in the mirror, now dressed in a gray muscle shirt and dark denim jeans.

“I think I lost a couple pounds from sweating on that flight,” Billy muttered, examining his biceps. “I tell ya, they need to install air conditioners on those things.”

Rebecca nodded in understanding. Being cramped into a crate for a five hour flight wasn’t that thrilling for her.

“But this is nothin’ compared to what Leon had to endure,” Billy mutters. “Catching a connecting flight to Europe after a flight from Arizona to D.C. ain’t my idea of a good time.”

---

Leon could barely keep his eyes open as the truck rocked across the uneven terrain. The Spanish cops in the front seat seemed to be talking about him, but he didn’t care. After failing Spanish in junior high, the most he could understand was, “Donde esta la biblioteca?”

The truck came to a jarring stop and one of the cops said, “Just up ahead is the village.”

“I’ll go and take a look around,” Leon says, getting out of the car.

“We’ll stay and watch the car,” the second cop said. “Don’t want any parking tickets.”

“Right, parking tickets,” Leon mutters.

“Good luck,” the first cop said in a mocking tone.

“Jeez, who are these guys?” Leon muttered to himself, walking towards a wooden bridge.

“Did you say something?” the first cop called out.

Leon gave a dismissive wave and walked across the bridge. He saw that the ground had indents of where a car was, but it wasn’t there any more. Up ahead he spotted a run-down old house.

Just as good a place to check as any, Leon thought.

He knocked on the door, but got no reply. He slowly opened the door and walked in. He looked around and saw a man standing in front of a fire. Leon approached him, his hand taking hold of a photograph.

“Ah, excuse me,” Leon says to the man. “Sir? I was wondering if you might recognize the girl in this photograph.” He shows the photo of the blonde girl to the man. He gives it a look and began to shout in Spanish. Leon backed away and said, “Sorry to have bothered you.”

And before Leon knew it, the man was brandishing an axe and he had drawn his recently acquired handgun from Wesker’s Hummer. He took aim and shouted, “Freeze! I said freeze!”

Gunshots ran out through the small house and three more people came out of the woods and surrounded the ramshackle building.