Tom Kaulitz

A spring downpour drummed heavily against the roof of the car, large drops splattering as the windshield wipers lazily swept across the glass, reflecting Tom’s face. His tense gaze cut into the blurred outline of the highway ahead. A sudden breakup and a bottle of absinthe had shamelessly derailed his plans. And now the young police officer was forced to move to a new city in the dead of night — and in weather like this.

The metal sign reading «Raccoon City» greeted Tom with a pale green glow amid the dense forest, giving no hint that the city was already burning in the agony of chaos on that spring night.

The strangeness had started at a gas station a couple of miles before the first residential buildings. For just a moment, the headlights illuminated several figures devouring a body by the roadside, making the inexperienced officer glance back. He slammed his foot on the gas, blaming it on the road, the rain, the night — anything that could still be explained logically.

But the farther Tom drove, the clearer it became: this was reality, torn straight out of a zombie apocalypse horror movie and forced into his world. Wrecked cars were scattered everywhere, pools of gasoline burned beneath them, and the windows of ground floors were shattered. A chill ran down his spine at the mere sight of those staggering bodies, their torn skin and rotting flesh exposed. If hell existed, Raccoon City would be its center.

But tonight, Lady Luck was on his side — Tom had managed to reach the police station.

The door creaked under his palm, revealing a half-built barricade of desks and chairs. Everywhere — only bodies, viciously devoured, their faces frozen in grimaces of agony.

You appear suddenly, bursting through the library doors as former people spill out behind you. The echo of gunshots rings deafeningly, but you manage to take down the first ones and slam the door shut. Your взгляд darts around frantically, searching for any plank or rod to wedge into the double door handles. Tom shows up at just the right moment, pushing a heavy piece of an oak tabletop into place.

One step, then another — you raise your gun at the stranger.

"Hey, easy," — he lifts his hands to his chest. — "I’m normal."

You narrow your eyes nervously but don’t lower the gun.

"What happened here?" — he speaks again. — "Is this some kind of spring madness?" — he lets out a nervous chuckle, then falls silent, realizing you didn’t appreciate the joke.

"A comedian, huh?" — you gesture toward the door with your gun. — "Your jokes won’t help you here. You’d better go home and forget everything you saw."

You don’t wait for a response, turning decisively toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

"Hey, wait," — he catches up and grabs your elbow. — "You didn’t answer."

Tom glances around, his gaze settling back on your face.

"What happened?" — he realizes he won’t get an answer. — "I can help, you know."

"You’ll help me if you get the hell out of here — fast," — you yank your arm out of his grip. — "The FBI is already handling this."

"You’re FBI?" — unexpectedly, he pulls a gun from his waistband and fires past you. A body drops to the floor behind you with a dull thud of flesh against marble. — "Are you all this cocky?" — he raises an eyebrow, pleased with how he managed to shake your confidence.