When the Lamb opened the third seal, I heard the third living creature say, "Come!" I looked, and there before me was a black horse! Its rider was holding a pair of scales in his hand.

On the outstretch of a sand covered, deranged, post apocalyptic landscape, a blue semi-truck sped its way down a broken highway. With its supports bent, and the roads cracked, left to wether the storm alone in this pit of darkness.

The view panned down, to reveal the driver at the helm. Tattered wool gloves at the wheel, rough and course as the desert around them, before lifting to the figure they belonged to.

Covered from head to toe in fine clothing that befitted nothing more than a drifter. A dark grey duster jacket, followed by a white tank top, with tattered light blue jeans below, and coupled with nothing more than a pair of mud brown boots.

And on their face, a pair of sunglasses that reflected the sun, with a cigarette between their teeth, puffs of smoke leaving the jagged end, as the driver inhaled the richness of the tobacco, and lifted it from their mouth and rolled it between their fingers.

Oh, and it wasn't just the wind that passed by his speeding, nor the dust storms or tornados, but the chanting and beating of the radio that lifted his spirits as he continued on his drive down the highway.

Life's like a road that you travel on
When there's one day here, and the next day gone

Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your back to the wind

Finished with the smoke, he threw it out the window, and whatever remained of it was soon destroyed, as a zombified foot stomped on it as it made its way across the landscape. It's scared and ripped face growled at the vehicle heading into the distance, forever cursed to walk endlessly, until death.

There's a world outside every darkened door
Where blues won't haunt you anymore

Where the brave are free and lovers soar
Come ride with me to the distant shore

The chorus picking up, the figure removed their sunglasses to reveal a muscular face, one that was young in body, but old in spirit. Scars, new and old, littered his face, as well as a set of facial hair. Long black strands of hair, over growing and in need of a shave. The man's eyes, dark and tired, had trailed off from the road, one hand at the wheel, and the other to a recorder of sorts.

We won't hesitate

To break down the garden gate

There's not much time left today, yeah!

He instantly clicked record.

My name is Y/N. I worked for the Umbrella Corporation, a pharmaceutical company that secretly manufactured bio weapons on a global scale.

I was a member of their Special Forces Program, codename Phoenix, that was ordered to enter the Hive, a massive underground facility that created said bio weapons. We did that, oh boy we did. But it went wrong, a virus killed everybody inside and it got out. The place above ground, Raccoon City, it barely lasted days before Umbrella nuked it.

Me, and my friends, we barely got out alive.

He adjusted the recorder, placing it on the dashboard to continue his monologue, as his eyes drifted to the road and the distance ahead, a building he saw in his sights.

Now, it's been six years since Raccoon City.

Six. Horrible. Long. Years.

The Umbrella Corporation sank deeper and deeper into a shit storm of their own making. Bio weapons unleashed, killing billions upon billions of people all around the globe, starving the world of its resources, polluting, draining, corrupting what else remained.

The few of us, we thought we could stop them.

But we were wrong.

Pulling the truck to a stop, Y/N grabbed the recorder and paused it, throwing it back on the dashboard, and braked the vehicle.

Life is a highway
Well, I wanna ride it all night long, mmm, yeah

If you're goin' my way (if you're goin' my way)
I wanna drive it all night long (all night long)

The building in front of him was a bar at a lonesome crossroads situated in the Nevada desert. If anything, it'd be a place to stop for the day, as he noticed the sun had begun to darken, and night approaching.

There was a distance between you and I (between you and I)

A misunderstanding once
But now we look it in the eye—

With radio of the truck silenced, he slumped in his seat, and sighed through his nose. With nothing else to do, he exited the truck.

His boots dropped to the ground of the bar's parking lot, it's rolled out white lines faded, and the sand covered what was left. Looking down, he grimaced slightly at the sand that was already caking his footwear. Marching on ahead, he approached the bar. He took notice of his surrounding. The parking lot was empty of vehicles and infected.

Seems Nevada had a shortage of infected, less so than the more populated East Coast.

Eyes to the bar's roofing, the bar's neon sign above its rafters had long since faded, it's catchy name visible no longer. Looking back down, he focused on the door, it's saloon styled wooden entry you'd only see in an old western, and moved on in.

Ding!

On entry, the bell above the door sounded, and echoed out through the room. What he could see around him, with the darkness engulfing him thanks to boarded up windows, and no power, was what you expected in a bar. With six years and no repairs, it didn't do this place any favours.

The buzzing of insects could be heard, flies, he guessed, by the smell alone. Putting it aside, he walked on in, pushing past wooden chairs and tables that were rotting. Until he stopped at the bar. It was home to many empty bottles, some smashed, and because he was luck as could be, he spied a couple full of alcohol.

Running a hand across the bar, he pulled back at the dust, and wiped at his jacket. The place had long been deserted. He didn't need his T-virus senses to tell him that.

Not that he could use them anyway...

Thud!

Snapping in the direction of the noise, Y/N quickly moved onto behind the bar. Opening up the barkeep, it groaned at the pressure, it's hinges long since rusted. Towards the end of the bar was a wooden door, and he guessed from there that the noise originated.

Stepping up beside it, he placed a hand on the door, and moved his right hand to a sheath at his side, a combat knife laid tucked away. Eyes closed now, he breathed in slowly, calmly, and then exhaled. He felt a pressure on the door, a body weighing it down. He knew what to do.

Y/N gave the door a good old tug by the handle.

Only to be greeted by a host of eager infected.

Stepping back quickly, Y/N pulled his knife out swift and true, and immediately stabbed the first infected in the side of neck. Ripping it out, he shoved the body aside as the second ran at him full force, he grabbed it by the shoulder and threw it over the bar, it's body crashing onto the floor behind him.

Turning towards the door, two more infected began running out from the room and straight at him. Acting fast, brought up his knife, aimed and threw. The blade fell through the air like a bullet itself, and penetrated through one of the infected's eyeball.

While the other stumbled over it's comrade's fallen body, Y/N pushed ahead and kicked the infected into the very room it dared to escape. It collapsed to the floor on its back, snarling and groaning at him, but before it could get up, it was stomped on, it's face demolished into a fine, black-red paste.

Not even breaking a sweat, Y/N returned back to the front of the bar, grabbing his knife from the dead body as he walked, and marched out into the open area. He found the last one, struggling on the floor, squirming and biting, it's course tongue letting out a brutal cry.

"Shut up."

One knife slash later, and Y/N was stood in the room once again, the infected around him all but dead. With them taken care of, he quickly moved outside of the building, having found no more. The back of the bar had been cleared, a side room where the infected had been. It was a simple living space. Couch and blankets, desk and a chair, an office for the owner perhaps.

Dusting his hands, Y/N finished with the dead bodies onto the pile outside. And with the night's darkness falling on the world, he left them to rot, and retreated inside. Making sure all the windows were secure, and doors were locked accordingly, Y/N found himself in the side room, with a bottle of rum as his only confident.

Placing the bottle on the desk, Y/N slumped onto the couch, and sighed, gaze falling upon the room around him. It would do him for the night, and in the morning, he'd move on.

Like he always did...

Shaking his head, he picked up the bottle of rum and inspected its content. It slushed around as he shook it, and it looked good enough.

But good enough, wasn't enough. Rage began to litter his face, and suddenly the bottle was in his hand no long. It was thrown and smashed against the fading walls of the room. Caking it in its brown sludge and shattered glass.

Whatever was left slid to the floor, and caused a great mess. Calming down, his rage faltered not long after and in it's place a frown took over. He stared down at the remains, and suddenly he was taken back to a place he regretted the most.

The past.

—

42 days in — after the Raccoon City Event.

A lot had happened in the weeks after the destruction of Raccoon City, and none of it was good. Hence why Y/N had found himself here alone, willowing away in a rundown bar in downtown Cheyenne, Wyoming. Out of sight, out of mind, was what he told himself at night.

If he was honest, he was just fooling himself.

The Umbrella Corporation had fucked them all in every way they could think of. Wanted lists, bounties, false stories and rumours plagued them to anyone with a cell phone. Half of their faces were on the FBI, CIA, NASA databases, you name it.

It was all thanks to them, that no one believed them.

Not a single goddamn soul.

And that wasn't even the worst part.

Now, here he was, getting absolutely shit faced in a bar. Ridding himself of every thought he had on him. His vision was cloudy, his mind abuzz, and hands shaking. He was a mess. After everything that had happened in those months, he needed it. He couldn't handle what had transpired.

It's why he was alone.

Well, he wasn't truly alone.

He was surrounded by men and women alike, people going about their day as if all was well in the world. If only they knew the shit hiding behind those rose coloured curtains of theirs.

But they would, it was only a matter of time, they all would see it as he saw it now...

Looking down into his cup, Y/N grunted and frowned at the emptiness. He gestured to the bartender, a pretty lady in black, to pour him another drink. She came over, finished with due customers, and poured him one last drink, if her glare was anything to go by.

"One more, and you leave."

Y/N downed the rum from his glass, and felt the contents burning down the back of his throat. Relieving of him of any thought process and stability, he guessed the lady wasn't too happy with him, what with the fact that he had consumed enough rum to kill a man or two.

He was downright bleeding her supply.

And quite frankly, after everything he had endured, he didn't give a fuck whatsoever.

"Listen, lady." Y/N slurred, a passive glare on his face as he grabbed the bottle from the counter, and poured himself another drink. "Your job is to pour drinks, and look pretty. Mine is to drink till I'm dead. So get back to work."

The glass from the counter was picked up immediately and the liquid thrown at his face, followed by a slap that didn't faze him.

"Out of my bar. Now."

Chuckling, Y/N grabbed the bottle from the counter and left his warmed seat, and made his way to a table in the middle of the room. Only for a guy, he assumed was the bouncer, stopped besides him, chest puffed out and face mean as can be.

The man didn't scare him.

"Sir, the lady asked you to leave. Peacefully."

Hell, it only amused him further.

"Peacefully?" Y/N asked, turning his way as he settled the bottle on the table and pulled out a chair. "I came in peace, and besides, I'm not done here."

Y/N went to sit down, but soon found a hand at his shoulder attempting to move him. The man harshly tugged at him, and in response, Y/N's smirk vanished. rage took over.

He pushed the man, and grabbed him by the arm shoving his face into the table with a crack, and picked up the bottle, and prepared to smash it over his head.

But before he could, a hand clasped onto his arm, and Y/N found himself looking at another man, one that had a familiar air about him.

"Never thought I'd find Y/N L/N wasting away in a place like this." The man dropped his hand, and let him go. He had black hair, with tanned skin, and an outfit in forest green.

Stumbling back, Y/N placed the bottle on the table and sat down, opening it up as he took note of the man sitting down across from him at his table.

"Who the hell are you?" Y/N asked, before placing the bottle to his lips and titling his head back.

"Olivera. Carlos Olivera."

Y/N pulled the bottle back, wiping at his mouth, "Never heard of you."

Carlos rolled his eyes, and fished something out from his jacket pocket, "How about this?" In his hand was a phone, and on it showed the destruction of Raccoon City's aftermath. A huge crater left from the blast. Not that Y/N could recall, he was out of it. "You heard of this?"

Something in his head began to turn, and Y/N focused on the bright emitting from the device, even as his words slurred.

"W-what is that?"

Surprised, if not a little shocked, Carlos' grip on the phone hardened, "You really don't remember anything, do you? Raccoon City?

"Raccoon... City?"

The name sound familiar, even to his putrid state of mind, the bottle in his hand forgotten as he tried to focus on what was right in front of him.

"You can't hide from your past, Y/N." Carlos told him, phone to the table, his hands free, "No matter where you go or what you do."

Feeling a sense of uneasiness, Y/N pulled back, knocking the bottle over and onto the floor in the process, exclaiming as he did.

"Who the fuck are you?" Y/N's glare hit hard, even as he forced himself further into his seat, and table his hands pressed against began to crack with ease. "What is this?"

Carlos sighed, eyes light with understanding, "Okay. You don't remember me? Well how about them?" He brought up his phone once more and suddenly a file of photos filled the screen. Each one he knew quite well, "Those were your men! Men who died under your command!" The familiar faces of his old team, Shade, J.D, Kaplan, Rain. "You owe it to them to remember, Y/N. If you walk away then this was all for nothing!"

Suddenly his mind was assaulted with photos. Vivid ones, of faces, people he knew and places he'd been, the Hive, the hospital, the square. J.D, Valentine, Angie, Nicholai, Terri, Matt, and Alice. They all shouted out at him, beating him down like a storm that never stopped. It was too much to handle, too much to bare, and immediately he shouted out to stop.

"Enough!"

The phone was smacked out of his sight, and thankfully the voices and the images stopped all at once, calming him down, and relaxing him far better than he had been. With only his heavy breathing, his eyes to the ground, Carlos shuffled besides him.

"Six weeks I've spent searching for you, and this is where I find you?" Carlos gestured with a hand, waving around at this pitiful place.

Y/N felt a heavy burden lift from his shoulders, with his drunken mind sobering up and paving way for a sense of rationality and clear logical thinking, he was soon frowning, eyes wide, at his table side partner.

"...Carlos?"

Carlos Olivera, once soldier, now mercenary, softened and smiled at Y/N, hands pushed forward on the table, "Yeah, yeah it's me." He was surprised, but happy, slumping forward, "And I'm not the only one. Everyone's waiting for you, Y/N."

Y/N frowned deeper, before doffing as Carlos left his seat and he followed, "Everyone?"

The men and woman surrounding him in the bar, all covered in civilian clothes, got up from their seats around the room. Dozens of faces stared back at him, some he recognised, some he didn't. And yet one face he desired to see most of all was not there to be found...

Carlos smirked, folding his arms as the others backed him up behind, and proudly watched on, bringing home their comrade once and for all.

"We're taking you back, Captain. One way or another."

—

Back in the present, less than six years later, Y/N lifted his eyes from the shattered remains of the rum bottle and settled in on the couch, head against an old pillow, the older man, not that young one from Raccoon City, tried to relax, and sleep to better days ahead.

But he knew, god he always knew, the road ahead was ever easy, and it wouldn't start being easy now.

Especially, after the hard long years that had graced him with nothing but nightmares and scars. Scars he could live with, the nightmares, however, they never ended.

Not. Even. Once.

A/N: Welcome back! :)