I woke with my face in cold dirt and dead leaves. Dawn light seeped through the trees, a dull gray that made everything look washed-out and old. My head throbbed as I pushed myself up to my hands and knees, spitting out the taste of mud. I stayed there a moment, breathing hard and trying to remember where I was. The air was still, carrying the smell of rain-soaked earth and distant woodsmoke. My heart drummed in my ears as the Marine in me took over remember your training, stay calm and scan your area for threats in the quiet.
Nothing moved in the murky morning gloom. No gunfire, no voices—just the rustle of leaves and my own ragged breath. A low mist clung to the ground, coiling around tree roots and the weathered asphalt of a two-lane road nearby. I wiped my mouth and rose to my feet, every muscle tense. Where am I? The last thing I remembered was falling asleep in my bed. Now I was here, wherever here was, with no clue how. A prickle of confused dread ran up my back, but I forced myself calm. Panic gets you killed—I learned that young.
I patted myself down: no wounds except a dull ache in my ribs. My wallet was still in my pocket, damp but intact. Focus, Jasen. You're alive and in one piece. No gun, but my folding knife was clipped inside my jacket. Its familiar weight was a small comfort, a shard of control in the chaos.
I followed the road toward the faint outline of a town ahead. Weeds poked through cracks in the pavement, and even from afar the place looked like it had stopped in time. As I got closer, I passed a vine-choked billboard advertising gas for $1.12 a gallon beside the smiling faces of a family in dated clothes. I stared at the impossibly low price and those early-'90s fashions, and my pulse quickened. Something was very wrong here.
A handful of buildings emerged from the mist as I reached the outskirts of the town. A gas station with a rusty canopy and a single pump. A diner beside it, squat and cinderblock, its neon "OPEN" sign flickering while only one pickup truck sat out front. Across the road, a general store with a hand-painted sign and a cracked display window. It looked like a town lost in time. I was starting to believe that might literally be true.
I kept to the roadside, moving slowly and observing everything. An old payphone hung on the gas station wall, graffiti scrawled across its booth. The diner's windows glowed weakly, and inside a lone figure shuffled behind the counter. The scene felt like a dream from decades ago. My mouth was dry and my stomach twisted with hunger, but I hesitated. I didn't belong here, and if my hunch about how far from home I was proved true, I had bigger problems than finding breakfast.
A newspaper box stood outside the general store, its glass door greasy but not opaque. I crept up to it, heart pounding. The masthead on the visible front page read Raccoon City Times. I nearly staggered. Raccoon City. With shaking fingers, I dug out a quarter and slipped it into the slot. The coin clanked as I yanked the door open and snatched the paper.
I didn't even register the headline. My eyes went straight to the date: September 21, 1995. I stared until the numbers blurred. 1995. The newspaper trembled in my grasp as I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I was in 2025 now I'm in the past—thirty years in the past. And not just anywhere: I was standing in a place that shouldn't exist outside of a video game's lore. Yet there it was in newsprint and ink: Raccoon City, an ordinary American town in 1995.
A strained, hollow laugh bubbled out of me. I pressed the newspaper to my forehead, eyes shut. This can't be real. But the damp paper against my skin felt real, the ache in my ribs was real, and the cool air filling my lungs was real. I opened my eyes and forced myself to focus. The top story was something trivial about a county fair. But near the bottom, a small article made my blood run cold: a ribbon-cutting at a school funded by Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. The accompanying photo showed a smiling official shaking hands under a banner emblazoned with Umbrella's red-and-white logo.
Seeing that logo was like spotting a serpent in a garden. Umbrella. A household name here, respected even—but I knew the evil hiding behind that familiar icon. In a few short years, this company would help destroy the very city that now trusted it. The knowledge coiled in my gut, heavy and cold. I folded the newspaper under my arm. Two impossible facts were now certain: it was 1995, and I was in the Resident Evil universe made real.
My knees went weak as a wave of emotion crashed through me. I wanted to scream, or maybe to cry for everything I'd lost. A hot tear blurred my vision before I blinked it away and set my jaw. I could mourn later—if I lived that long. Adapt and survive. That was the job now.
A wooden sign over the store creaked in the breeze, jolting me from my daze. I was standing in the open, probably looking like I'd seen a ghost. Not good. I drew in a slow breath and set my face into a hard, composed mask. Inside, my mind raced. I know what happens here. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. This quiet little town—and the bigger city beyond—were on borrowed time. In three years, Raccoon City would erupt into hell on earth: zombies in the streets, monsters on the loose, and then a firestorm to wipe it all away. I knew that like a prophecy, and the weight of it pressed on me. I had to be ready long before then.
I probably looked like hell, but I needed a plan, fast. Assess the situation, gather resources, secure safety—basic field survival. I'd done it in combat zones; I could do it here.
First priority: supplies and information. My stomach cramped, reminding me I hadn't eaten in who knows how long. But I couldn't just waltz into that diner and chat over a meal. Not without a cover story and local cash that wouldn't raise eyebrows. And not while looking like I crawled out of a ditch. Trust no one, I reminded myself. Not yet. This world might resemble the one I knew from games, but it was real, and people could very well panic or call the cops if I slipped up and sounded crazy.
Sticking to back alleys and hedgerows, I crept around toward the rear of the buildings. Paranoia was my friend now; I had to assume any exposure could bite me. A pickup truck idled by the diner, an old man in a feed cap sipping coffee from a thermos, oblivious to anything unusual. The utterly normal scene almost made me doubt my sanity. For these people, it was just another Wednesday in 1995. They had no clue their world was fiction to me, or that unspeakable horror loomed in their future.
Behind the gas station, I found a water spigot by a shed. I turned it on and gulped down the cold, iron-tinted water, then splashed some on my face to wash away the grime. In that moment, it was the best drink of my life. The old man's truck eventually rumbled off down the road. Aside from a few birds chirping and the buzz of a neon sign, the town was still asleep.
My mind churned with everything I remembered about this universe, trying to line it up with reality.
Raccoon City had to be close by, probably just beyond those hills. Umbrella had secret facilities around here—I was sure of it. Monsters already existed in this world, caged in labs and waiting for a spark to unleash them. Despite the fear gnawing at my insides, I had one advantage no one else did: I knew what was coming. If I kept my head, I might stay alive. Maybe I could even save someone down the line. But trying to change fate outright was playing with fire; one wrong move could make things worse. Survival first, heroics later.
I slipped into a narrow alley between the store and a shuttered barber shop, pressing my back to the cool brick wall. In the shadows, I finally let out a long, unsteady breath. My hands were almost eerily steady despite everything. Fear and excitement dueled in my chest, but over them lay a grim determination. It was a feeling I remembered from the Marines, right before a firefight—that razor focus when panic falls away. Improvise, adapt, overcome. The mantra steadied me.
I knew this nightmare by heart—I'd played it out in games and stories. Now I was living it, every terrible part made real. Fate or chance had tossed me into this horror, but I was a Marine, and I knew how to survive.
A grim resolve settled over me, clicking into place like a round being chambered in a rifle. Whatever came next, I refused to be prey. The horrors were still beyond the horizon, but I could hear their distant thunder approaching.
"Game on," I muttered, a dark edge to my voice as I set my jaw. Call it bravado, but I meant it. If this world was hurtling toward nightmare, I would meet it on my terms. I'd use every bit of knowledge and every skill I had to stay ahead of the horror to come.
Stepping out of the alley, I emerged onto the empty street just as the sun broke through the clouds.
Pale light revealed the shabby details around me: peeling paint on siding, cracks in the pavement, an old sedan with its hood propped open and its guts exposed. The whole place had a worn, uneasy feel. I walked back toward the main road, each footfall a quiet promise: I would survive this. I wasn't just another character trapped in fate—I knew the script.
In the distance, a crow cawed atop a telephone pole, its cry echoing over the deserted road. I glanced up at the black bird watching me like an omen. In the Resident Evil games, crows were always harbingers of death. I gave a slight nod to the creature, acknowledging the warning. Then I set my eyes forward and started moving again, alone but unafraid, toward whatever the town held for me.
The nightmare was coming. But I had already arrived, and I intended to conquer it.