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"You saw what she said, about Umbrella homing in on me, on us," he said firmly. "That means we have to relo-cate, maybe one of the estates outside the city – some-one has to stay here, wait for Rebecca's team to get back, and someone else needs to scout out a new base of oper-ations. And don't forget, Jill will be here any day now."
Barry frowned, scratched at his beard, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. "I don't like it. Going in alone is a bad idea…" "We're at a crucial phase right now, and you know it," Chris said. "Somebody's got to mind the shop, Barry, and you're the man. You've got the experience, you know all the contacts." "Fine, but at least take the kid," Barry said, gesturing toward Leon. For once, Leon didn't protest the label, only nodded, drawing himself up, shoulders back and head high.
"If you won't do it for yourself, think about Claire,"Barry continued. "What happens to her if you get your– self killed? You need a backup, somebody to pick up the ball if you fumble."Chris shook his head, immovable. "You know better, Barry, this has to be as quiet as possible. Umbrella may have already sent in a cleanup crew. One person, in and out before anyone even realizes I'm there."
Barry was still frowning, but he didn't push it. Nei– ther did Leon, although Chris could see that he was working up to it; the cop and Claire had obviously got– ten pretty close.
"I'll bring her back," Chris said, softening his tone, looking at Leon. Leon hesitated, then nodded, high color burning in his cheeks, making Chris wonder ex– actly how close Leon and his sister had become.
Later. I can worry about his intentions if we make it back alive… when we make it back alive, he quickly amended. If was not an option. "It's settled, then," Chris said. "Leon, find me a good map of the area, geographical, political, everything, you never know what might help. Also post back to Claire, just in case she gets another chance to check for mes– sages – tell her I'm on my way. Barry, I want to be pack– ing major influence, but lightweight, something I can hike in without too much trouble, maybe a Glock… you're the expert, you decide."
Both men nodded, turned away to get started, and Chris closed his eyes for just a second, quickly offering up a silent prayer.
Please, please stay safe until I get there, Claire.
It wasn't much – but then, Chris had the feeling he would be praying a lot more in the long hours to come.
The hidden monitor room was behind a wall of books in the Ashfords' private residence. Upon his return to their home, secreted behind the "official" receiving man– sion, Alfred slung his rifle and immediately walked to the wall, touching the spines of three books in quick succes-sion. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes observing him from the front hall shadows, and though he had long since grown used to Alexia's scattered collection of dolls, he often wished that they wouldn't always watch him so in– tently. There were times that he expected some privacy. As the wall pivoted open, he heard the whistling chitter of bats hiding in the eaves and frowned, pursing his lips. It seemed that the attic had been breached during the attack. No mind, no mind. Concerns for another day. He had more important business that demanded his attention. Alexia had apparently retreated to her rooms once more, which was just as well; Alfred didn't want her upset any further, and news of a possible assassin at Rockfort would certainly achieve that. He stepped in– side the hidden room and pushed the carefully balanced wall closed behind him. There were usually seventy-five different camera shots that he could choose from, to watch on any of the ten small monitors in the small room, but much of the equipment around the compound had been damaged or destroyed, leaving him with only thirty-one usable im– ages. Knowing Claire's foul objectives, to steal informa– tion and search for Alexia, Alfred decided to focus on her approach from the prison compound. He had no doubt that she would appear shortly; one such as her would not have the good manners to die in the attack or its aftermath… though as his expectations built, his in– terest in the game growing, he began to feel anxious that she might, in fact, have expired. Thankfully, his initial assumption had been correct. Another of the prisoners came through the main gate first, but he was followed shortly by the Redfield girl. Amused at their halting progress, Alfred watched as Claire tried to catch up to the young man, prisoner 267 according to the back of his uniform, who seemingly had no idea that he was being pursued. As the young man topped the stairs that led up from the prison area, stood uncertainly looking between the palace grounds and the training facility, Alfred entered 267 into the keypad beneath his left hand and found a name, Steven Burnside. It meant nothing to him, and as the boy hesitated indecisively, Alfred found his attention moving back to his quarry, curious about the young woman who was soon to be his short-term playmate. Claire was walking across the damaged chasm bridge only a moment or two behind Burnside, walking high on the balls of her feet like an athlete. She seemed quite self-possessed, cautious but unapologetic about her right to cross the span… but she was also careful not to look down into the mist-filled darkness, the massive crevice walls extending down hundreds of feet, nor did she linger. In the warm security of his home, Alfred smiled, imagining her delicious fear… and found him-self remembering the trick that he and Alexia had once played on a guard. They'd been six or seven years old, and Francois Celaux had been a shift commander, one of their father's favorites. He'd been a fawning sycophant, a bootlick, but only to Alexander Ashford. Behind their father's back he had dared to laugh cruelly at Alexia one afternoon when she had tripped in a pouring rain, splashing her new blue dress with mud. Such an offense was not to be withstood.
Oh, how we planned, talking late into the night about a suitable punishment for his unforgivable behavior, our child minds alive and whirling with all the possibilities…
The final plan had been simple, and they'd executed it perfectly only two days later, when Francois had duty as guard of the main gate. Alfred had sweetly begged the cook to let him bring Francois his morning espresso, a chore he'd often performed for favored employ– ees… and on the way to the chasm bridge, Alexia had added a special twist to the strong, bitter brew, just a few drops of a curare-like substance she'd synthesized her– self. The drug paralyzed flesh but allowed the nervous system to continue working, so that the recipient couldn't move or speak, but could feel and understand what was happening to him. Alfred had approached the prison gates slowly, so slowly that the impatient Francois had stalked out to meet him. Smiling, aware that Alexia had returned to the residence, was watching and listening from the monitor room – Alfred had been wearing a small microphone -
– he'd stepped close to the railing before apologetically offering the demitasse cup to Francois. Both twins had watched in secret delight as the guard swilled it down, and in seconds, he was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the bridge rail. To anyone watching, it appeared only that the man and boy were looking out across the chasm… except for Alexia, of course, who later told him that she'd applauded his performance of innocence.
I looked up at him, at the frozen expression of fear on his unrefined features, and explained what we had done. And what we were going to do.
Francois had actually managed a soft squealing noise through his clenched jaw when he'd finally understood, that he was helpless to defend himself against a child. For almost five minutes, Alfred had cheerfully cursed Francois as the spawn of pigs, as a mannerless peasant, and had jabbed him in the meat of his thigh with a sewing needle too many times to count. Paralyzed, Francois Celaux could only endure the pain and humiliation, surely regretting his beastly con– duct toward Alexia as he suffered in silence. And when Alfred had tired of their game, he'd kicked the guard's dirty bootheels a few times, describing his every sensa– tion to Alexia as Francois slid helplessly beneath the rail and plummeted to his death.
And then I screamed, and pretended to cry as others came rushing across the bridge, trying desperately to console their young master as they asked one another how such a terrible thing could happen. And later, much later, Alexia came into my room and kissed my cheek, her lips warm and soft, her silken tresses tickling my throat…
The monitors tore his attention away from his sweet memories, Claire now standing at the same spot where Burnside had hesitated. Quite put out with himself for his lack of care, Alfred spent an uncertain moment searching for the young hoodlum, switching between cameras, finally spotting him on the very steps of the re– ceiving mansion. Quickly, Alfred checked his console's control panels to be sure that all of the mansion's doors were unlocked, suspecting that the boy would probably hang himself easily enough…… and crowed with delight when he saw that Claire was following, having chosen the same path as her young friend.
How much more exquisite her terror will be, when she pleads for her life kneeling in Mr. Burnside's cooling blood…
If he meant to greet them properly, he needed to leave right away. Alfred stood and opened the wall once more, his excitement rising as he closed it behind him and stepped out into the great hall. He very much wanted to tell Alexia his plans before leaving, to share a few of his ideas, but was concerned that time was a factor. "I'll be watching, my dear," she said. Startled, Alfred looked up to see her at the top of the stairs, not far from the life-size child doll that hung from the uppermost balcony, one of Alexia's favorite toys. He started to ask her how she knew, but realized how silly a question it was. Of course she knew, because she knew his heart; it was the same that beat within her own snowy white breast. "Go now, Alfred," she said, gracing him with her smile. "Enjoy them for both of us." "I will, sister," he said, smiling in turn, thankful anew that he was brother to such a miracle of creation, lucky that she so understood his needs and desires.
It was like some bizarre reality twist, Claire decided, closing the mansion doors behind her. From the ram-shackle, death-filled cold of the dark prison yards to where she stood now… it was hard to believe, and yet so like Umbrella that she had no choice.
But goddamn. I mean, seriously.
The grand, beautifully designed sunken lobby spread out in front of her was marred only by a few sets of muddy footprints across the hand-tiled floor, a few splotches of blood painted across the delicate eggshell walls. There were also a number of large cracks near the ceiling, and a single maroon handprint drying on one of the thick decorative columns that lined the west wall, thin rivulets of red streaking down from the base of the palm.
So the prisoners weren't the only ones to suffer a shitty afternoon. It was classist and petty of her, she knew, but it made her feel a little better to know that the Umbrella higher-ups had taken an ass-kicking along with everybody else. She stood where she was for a moment, relieved to be out of the cold and still mildly shocked by the different faces of the Rockfort facility as she took hi the layout. Behind one of the columns to her left was a blue door, a second door in the northwest corner of the spacious room. Straight ahead was a polished mahogany recep– tion desk, abutting an open flight of stairs along the right wall that led up to a second floor balcony, richly hung with a strangely damaged portrait. The face of the por– trait's subject had been scratched out for some reason. Claire stepped down into the lobby, crouched and ran a finger through one of the muddy footprints; still wet, and more tracks leading to the corner door. She couldn't be certain they were Steve's, but thought the odds were pretty good. He'd left a trail, from the open prison gate to a couple of dropped shell casings just outside the mansion, along with two more dead dogs. For such an obviously troubled young man, he was a surprisingly accurate shot…… so why am I going through so much trouble to help him out? She thought sourly, standing. He doesn't want my assistance, doesn't seem to need it, and it's not like 1 don't have anything better to do.
When he'd taken off running, she hadn't followed im– mediately, wanting to get a message to Leon ASAP; she'd also felt obliged to run a quick search of the office for medical supplies, something to help Rodrigo, but she hadn't found anything useful… "Help! Help meee!" A muffled shout, from some– where in the building.
Steve?
"Let me out! Hey, somebody, help!"
Claire was already running for the comer door, weapon up. She slammed into the heavy wood, the door crashing open into a long hallway. Steve shouted again, from the far end of the corridor. Claire hesitated just long enough to see that the three bodies sprawled on the tiled floor weren't going to get up and then ran, fixing the door straight ahead as the one.
"Help!" Jesus, what's happening to him? He sounded panic-stricken, his voice breaking with it. Reaching the end of the hall, Claire shoved at the door, ran in sweeping with the handgun – and saw nothing, a room with display cases and stuffed chairs. An alarm was buzzing somewhere, but she didn't see its source. Movement to the left. Claire spun, desperate for a tar– get – and saw that a piece of film was being projected on a small wall screen, silent and flickering. Two attrac– tive blond children, a boy and girl, staring intently into each other's eyes. The boy was holding something, something wriggling -
– a dragonfly, and he's
Claire looked away involuntarily, disgusted. The boy was pulling the wings off of the struggling insect, smil– ing, both of them smiling. "Steve!" Why wasn't he shouting anymore, where was he? She had the wrong room, must be…
"Claire? Claire, in here! Open the door!"
His voice was coming from behind the projection screen. Claire dashed across the room, searching the wall, absently aware that the towheaded children had dropped the tortured dragonfly into a container full of ants, were watching the crippled bug being stung to death. "What door, where?" Claire shouted, running anxious hands over the wall, pushing at a glass display case, pulling at the screen -
–and the screen raised up, disappearing into a slot. Behind it was a console, a keyboard, and six picture boxes in two rows of three, a switch beneath each one.
"Claire, do something, I'm burning up!"
"What do I do, how did you get in there? Steve!"
No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain -
–concentrate. Do it, now.
Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked, Steve would die.
There's no door. There's a console with boxes.
Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out an– other terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes, focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife, a gun, an airplane… They weren't all different, there were two guns, a semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches la– beled "C" and "E." Nothing else matched, and her first thought was that it was like one of those grade-school tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her rea-soning, Claire reached out and flipped the two switches, the two boxes lighting up -
– and to her right, a display case slid out from the wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, bak– ing heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers.
Guess I picked the right boxes.
She leaned over him, trying to remember what the signs of heatstroke were – dizziness and nausea, she thought. "Are you okay?" Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then he grinned, and the illusion was lost. "What took you so long?" he cracked, pushing him-self to his feet. Claire straightened, scowling. "You're welcome."
His grin softened and he ducked his head, pushing thick bangs away from his forehead. "Sorry… and I'm sorry about before, too. Thanks, seriously."
Claire sighed. Just when she'd decided he was a total asshole, he decided to be nice. "And look what I got," he said, snapping both hand-guns up and aiming at one of the display cases. "They were hanging on a wall back there, fully loaded and everything. Cool, huh?"
She had to resist a sudden urge to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. He had nerve, she'd give him that, and he obviously had at least a few sur– vival skills… but did he not understand that he would have died, if she hadn't heard him calling for help?
This place is probably full of booby traps, too; how do I keep him from running off again?
She watched him pretend-shoot a bookshelf, won– dered absently if the whole macho tiling was just his way of dealing with fear – and a different approach sud– denly occurred to her, one that she thought might actu– ally work.
He wants to play Mr. Tough Guy, let him. Appeal to his ego. "Steve, I understand that you're not looking for a partner, but I am," she said, doing her best to look sin-cere. "I… I don't want to be alone out there." She could actually see his chest puff out, and felt a huge sense of relief, knowing that it had worked before he said a word. She also felt a little guilty for manipulat– ing him, but only a little; this was for the best.
Besides, it's not lying, exactly. I really don't want to be alone out there. "I guess you could tag along," he said expansively. "I mean, if you're scared."
She only smiled, teeth gritted, aware that if she opened her mouth to thank him, she didn't know what would come out. "And anyway, I know how to get us out of here," he added, his bluff manner slipping, his youthful enthusi– asm spilling out. "There's a little map under the counter at the front desk. According to that, there's a dock just west of here, and an airstrip somewhere past that. Which means we have a choice, but my piloting skills are a little iffy, so I vote cruise. We can go right now."Maybe she had underestimated him a bit. "Really? Great, that's…" Claire trailed off. Rodrigo, she couldn't forget about Rodrigo, between the two of us we could probably get him to the dock…"Would you come with me back to the prison, first?" She asked. "The guy who let me out of my cell is back there, he's pretty badly wounded…"
"One of the prisoners?" Steve asked, perking up. Uh-oh. She could lie, but he'd know the truth soon enough. "Urn, I don't think so… but he did let me go, and I kinda feel like I owe him…" Steve was frowning, and she quickly added, "… and it seems like the, uh, honorable thing to do, to at least get him a first-aid kit, you know?" He wasn't buying. "Forget it. If he's not a prisoner, he works for Umbrella, he deserves dick. Besides, they'll be sending troops in soon enough; it's their problem, let them deal with it. Now, are you coming or not?"
Claire met his gaze squarely, reading anger and hurt in his dark eyes, surely caused by Umbrella. She couldn't blame him for how he felt, but she didn't agree with him, either, not in Rodrigo's case. And there was no question in her mind that he would die before Um– brella showed if he didn't get help. "I guess not," she said. Steve turned away, took a few steps toward the door and then stopped, sighing heavily. He turned back, clearly exasperated. "There's no way I'm risking my neck to save an Umbrella employee, and no offense, but I think you're totally batshit for wanting to… but I'll wait for you, okay? Go give the guy a Band-Aid or whatever and then meet me at the dock."
Surprised, Claire nodded. Less than she'd hoped for but more than she'd expected, particularly after his weird people-will-let-you-down rant -
– oh!
For the first time, it occurred to her why Steve might have said those things, why he was denying the trauma of what had happened, what was still happening. He was here by himself, after all… how could he not have abandonment issues? Claire smiled warmly at him, remembering how angry she'd felt as a child when her father had died. Being snatched away from one's family couldn't be much better. "It'll be nice to go home," she said gently. "I bet your parents will be glad…"
Steve's sneering interruption was immediate and ex– treme. "Look, come to the dock or not, but I'm not going to wait all day, got it?"
Startled, Claire nodded mutely, but Steve was already striding out of the room. She wished she hadn't said anything, but it was too late… and at least now she knew what not to say. Poor kid, he probably missed his parents like crazy. She'd have to try to be a little more understanding. With a last look around the strange little den, Claire started back toward the front door, wondering what to do about Rodrigo. Steve was right, Umbrella might al– ready have a team on the way, they could tend to him, but she meant to get him stabilized before she left. She needed to find a vial of that hemostatic liquid; she didn't know much about triage herself, but he had seemed to think it would help. She opened both of the other doors in the hallway on her way back to the lobby, stopping briefly at the first to gaze in at a number of portraits, some kind of pictorial history room for a family called Ashford. There was a shattered urn on the floor, but nothing else of interest. Behind the second door was an empty conference room, only a few scattered papers and si– lence. Claire stepped back into the front hall, deciding that she should probably try the upstairs before retracing her steps; just above the bridge to the prison – and wasn't she looking forward to crossing that creaking nightmare again – there'd been a door she'd bypassed in order to keep up with Steve's trail… A tiny red light on the floor caught her attention, like one of those laser pointer things, her geometry prof had used one. The small light jerked toward her and Claire looked up, followed a pencil-thin beam to… Gah! She dove for cover as the first shot bit into the tiles mere inches from where she'd stood, ceramic shards flying. She crashed behind one of the ornamental pillars as the second shot thundered through the lobby, shattering more tile. She scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself as tiny as possible, wondering if she'd actually seen what she'd thought she'd seen – a thin blond man with a rifle and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uni-form jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child's idea of what noble authority should wear. "My name is Alfred Ashford," a pinched, snobby voice called out. "I am the commander of this base and I demand that you tell me who you're working for!" What? Claire wished she had something brilliant to say, some snappy comeback, but she couldn't get any further than that. "What?" she asked loudly. "Oh, there's no point in your feigned ignorance," he continued, his jeering voice moving a little, as though he were descending the stairs. "Miss Claire Redfield. I know what you've been planning, I've known from the start, but you're not dealing with just anyone, Claire. Not when you're dealing with an Ashford."
He actually tittered, a high, girlish giggle, and Claire was suddenly absolutely positive that he was a whacko, she was talking to a whacko.
Yeah, and keep hint talking, you don't want to lose his position. She could see the tiny red light flicker on the wall behind her, as he worked to keep the pillar in his sights. "Okay, ah, Alfred. What is it that I'm planning?" She jacked the action on her semi as quietly as possible, making sure there was a round in the chamber. It was as though she hadn't spoken. "Our legacy of profundity, supremacy, and innovation is beyond ques-tion," Alfred said haughtily. "We can trace our heritage to European royalty, my sister and I, and to some of the greatest minds in history. But then I don't suppose your masters told you that, did they?" My masters? "I don't have any idea what you're talk-ing about," Claire called out, watching the flickering red dot, deciding that she could dart a glance out from be– hind the pillar's other side, maybe get off a shot before he could target her. The longer Alfred talked, the more strongly she felt that meeting him face-to-face would be a bad idea. Dangerously mentally ill people were unpre– dictable at best. He'd mentioned a sister… the children in that movie, with the dragonfly? She didn't have proof, but her instincts shouted a resounding yes. It seemed he'd stayed the course, from creepy kid to creep.
"Of course, if you were willing to surrender yourself to me now," Alfred purred, "I might be persuaded to spare you your life. Providing that you confess to trea-son against your superiors…" Now!
Claire ducked her head around the pillar, gun up -
– and bam, wood and plaster exploded next to her face, the shot splintering the pillar's molding as she pulled back. She leaned heavily against the pillar, her breathing fast and gulping. If he'd been a hair more accurate… "Aren't you the fast little rabbit," Alfred said, his amusement unmistakable. "Or should I say rat? That's what you are, Claire, a rat. Just a rat in a cage."
Again, that insane, unnatural giggle… but it was re-ceding, following him back up the stairs. Footsteps, and then a door closed, and he was gone.
Well, doesn't that round out things nicely? What's a biohazardous disaster without a crazy or two? It'd al– most be funny, if she wasn't so totally weirded out. Al– fred was a fruit loop. Claire waited a moment to be sure he was gone, then exhaled heavily, relieved but not relaxed. She wouldn't, couldn't relax until she was well away from Rockfort, leaving Umbrella and monsters and insanity far behind. God, but she was tired of this shit. She was a second year lit major, she liked dancing and motorcycles and a good latte on a rainy day. She wanted Chris, and she wanted to go home… and since neither of those seemed likely at the moment, she decided she'd settle for a good, solid nervous breakdown, complete with screams and floor-pounding hysterics. It was almost tempting, but that would have to wait, too. She sighed inwardly. Alfred had gone upstairs, so she thought she'd better check out that other door she'd passed back near the bridge, see if she could find some– thing for Rodrigo there. At least things probably won't get any worse, she thought dismally, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as she opened the front door. It felt so much like Raccoon City… but that had been a serious catastrophe, rather than an isolated disaster.
Big, fat difference. All of it bites.
Claire had no way of knowing that compared to what lay ahead, things hadn't even started to get bad.
FIVE
Barry frowned, scratched at his beard, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. "I don't like it. Going in alone is a bad idea…" "We're at a crucial phase right now, and you know it," Chris said. "Somebody's got to mind the shop, Barry, and you're the man. You've got the experience, you know all the contacts." "Fine, but at least take the kid," Barry said, gesturing toward Leon. For once, Leon didn't protest the label, only nodded, drawing himself up, shoulders back and head high.
"If you won't do it for yourself, think about Claire,"Barry continued. "What happens to her if you get your– self killed? You need a backup, somebody to pick up the ball if you fumble."Chris shook his head, immovable. "You know better, Barry, this has to be as quiet as possible. Umbrella may have already sent in a cleanup crew. One person, in and out before anyone even realizes I'm there."
Barry was still frowning, but he didn't push it. Nei– ther did Leon, although Chris could see that he was working up to it; the cop and Claire had obviously got– ten pretty close.
"I'll bring her back," Chris said, softening his tone, looking at Leon. Leon hesitated, then nodded, high color burning in his cheeks, making Chris wonder ex– actly how close Leon and his sister had become.
Later. I can worry about his intentions if we make it back alive… when we make it back alive, he quickly amended. If was not an option. "It's settled, then," Chris said. "Leon, find me a good map of the area, geographical, political, everything, you never know what might help. Also post back to Claire, just in case she gets another chance to check for mes– sages – tell her I'm on my way. Barry, I want to be pack– ing major influence, but lightweight, something I can hike in without too much trouble, maybe a Glock… you're the expert, you decide."
Both men nodded, turned away to get started, and Chris closed his eyes for just a second, quickly offering up a silent prayer.
Please, please stay safe until I get there, Claire.
It wasn't much – but then, Chris had the feeling he would be praying a lot more in the long hours to come.
The hidden monitor room was behind a wall of books in the Ashfords' private residence. Upon his return to their home, secreted behind the "official" receiving man– sion, Alfred slung his rifle and immediately walked to the wall, touching the spines of three books in quick succes-sion. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes observing him from the front hall shadows, and though he had long since grown used to Alexia's scattered collection of dolls, he often wished that they wouldn't always watch him so in– tently. There were times that he expected some privacy. As the wall pivoted open, he heard the whistling chitter of bats hiding in the eaves and frowned, pursing his lips. It seemed that the attic had been breached during the attack. No mind, no mind. Concerns for another day. He had more important business that demanded his attention. Alexia had apparently retreated to her rooms once more, which was just as well; Alfred didn't want her upset any further, and news of a possible assassin at Rockfort would certainly achieve that. He stepped in– side the hidden room and pushed the carefully balanced wall closed behind him. There were usually seventy-five different camera shots that he could choose from, to watch on any of the ten small monitors in the small room, but much of the equipment around the compound had been damaged or destroyed, leaving him with only thirty-one usable im– ages. Knowing Claire's foul objectives, to steal informa– tion and search for Alexia, Alfred decided to focus on her approach from the prison compound. He had no doubt that she would appear shortly; one such as her would not have the good manners to die in the attack or its aftermath… though as his expectations built, his in– terest in the game growing, he began to feel anxious that she might, in fact, have expired. Thankfully, his initial assumption had been correct. Another of the prisoners came through the main gate first, but he was followed shortly by the Redfield girl. Amused at their halting progress, Alfred watched as Claire tried to catch up to the young man, prisoner 267 according to the back of his uniform, who seemingly had no idea that he was being pursued. As the young man topped the stairs that led up from the prison area, stood uncertainly looking between the palace grounds and the training facility, Alfred entered 267 into the keypad beneath his left hand and found a name, Steven Burnside. It meant nothing to him, and as the boy hesitated indecisively, Alfred found his attention moving back to his quarry, curious about the young woman who was soon to be his short-term playmate. Claire was walking across the damaged chasm bridge only a moment or two behind Burnside, walking high on the balls of her feet like an athlete. She seemed quite self-possessed, cautious but unapologetic about her right to cross the span… but she was also careful not to look down into the mist-filled darkness, the massive crevice walls extending down hundreds of feet, nor did she linger. In the warm security of his home, Alfred smiled, imagining her delicious fear… and found him-self remembering the trick that he and Alexia had once played on a guard. They'd been six or seven years old, and Francois Celaux had been a shift commander, one of their father's favorites. He'd been a fawning sycophant, a bootlick, but only to Alexander Ashford. Behind their father's back he had dared to laugh cruelly at Alexia one afternoon when she had tripped in a pouring rain, splashing her new blue dress with mud. Such an offense was not to be withstood.
Oh, how we planned, talking late into the night about a suitable punishment for his unforgivable behavior, our child minds alive and whirling with all the possibilities…
The final plan had been simple, and they'd executed it perfectly only two days later, when Francois had duty as guard of the main gate. Alfred had sweetly begged the cook to let him bring Francois his morning espresso, a chore he'd often performed for favored employ– ees… and on the way to the chasm bridge, Alexia had added a special twist to the strong, bitter brew, just a few drops of a curare-like substance she'd synthesized her– self. The drug paralyzed flesh but allowed the nervous system to continue working, so that the recipient couldn't move or speak, but could feel and understand what was happening to him. Alfred had approached the prison gates slowly, so slowly that the impatient Francois had stalked out to meet him. Smiling, aware that Alexia had returned to the residence, was watching and listening from the monitor room – Alfred had been wearing a small microphone -
– he'd stepped close to the railing before apologetically offering the demitasse cup to Francois. Both twins had watched in secret delight as the guard swilled it down, and in seconds, he was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the bridge rail. To anyone watching, it appeared only that the man and boy were looking out across the chasm… except for Alexia, of course, who later told him that she'd applauded his performance of innocence.
I looked up at him, at the frozen expression of fear on his unrefined features, and explained what we had done. And what we were going to do.
Francois had actually managed a soft squealing noise through his clenched jaw when he'd finally understood, that he was helpless to defend himself against a child. For almost five minutes, Alfred had cheerfully cursed Francois as the spawn of pigs, as a mannerless peasant, and had jabbed him in the meat of his thigh with a sewing needle too many times to count. Paralyzed, Francois Celaux could only endure the pain and humiliation, surely regretting his beastly con– duct toward Alexia as he suffered in silence. And when Alfred had tired of their game, he'd kicked the guard's dirty bootheels a few times, describing his every sensa– tion to Alexia as Francois slid helplessly beneath the rail and plummeted to his death.
And then I screamed, and pretended to cry as others came rushing across the bridge, trying desperately to console their young master as they asked one another how such a terrible thing could happen. And later, much later, Alexia came into my room and kissed my cheek, her lips warm and soft, her silken tresses tickling my throat…
The monitors tore his attention away from his sweet memories, Claire now standing at the same spot where Burnside had hesitated. Quite put out with himself for his lack of care, Alfred spent an uncertain moment searching for the young hoodlum, switching between cameras, finally spotting him on the very steps of the re– ceiving mansion. Quickly, Alfred checked his console's control panels to be sure that all of the mansion's doors were unlocked, suspecting that the boy would probably hang himself easily enough…… and crowed with delight when he saw that Claire was following, having chosen the same path as her young friend.
How much more exquisite her terror will be, when she pleads for her life kneeling in Mr. Burnside's cooling blood…
If he meant to greet them properly, he needed to leave right away. Alfred stood and opened the wall once more, his excitement rising as he closed it behind him and stepped out into the great hall. He very much wanted to tell Alexia his plans before leaving, to share a few of his ideas, but was concerned that time was a factor. "I'll be watching, my dear," she said. Startled, Alfred looked up to see her at the top of the stairs, not far from the life-size child doll that hung from the uppermost balcony, one of Alexia's favorite toys. He started to ask her how she knew, but realized how silly a question it was. Of course she knew, because she knew his heart; it was the same that beat within her own snowy white breast. "Go now, Alfred," she said, gracing him with her smile. "Enjoy them for both of us." "I will, sister," he said, smiling in turn, thankful anew that he was brother to such a miracle of creation, lucky that she so understood his needs and desires.
It was like some bizarre reality twist, Claire decided, closing the mansion doors behind her. From the ram-shackle, death-filled cold of the dark prison yards to where she stood now… it was hard to believe, and yet so like Umbrella that she had no choice.
But goddamn. I mean, seriously.
The grand, beautifully designed sunken lobby spread out in front of her was marred only by a few sets of muddy footprints across the hand-tiled floor, a few splotches of blood painted across the delicate eggshell walls. There were also a number of large cracks near the ceiling, and a single maroon handprint drying on one of the thick decorative columns that lined the west wall, thin rivulets of red streaking down from the base of the palm.
So the prisoners weren't the only ones to suffer a shitty afternoon. It was classist and petty of her, she knew, but it made her feel a little better to know that the Umbrella higher-ups had taken an ass-kicking along with everybody else. She stood where she was for a moment, relieved to be out of the cold and still mildly shocked by the different faces of the Rockfort facility as she took hi the layout. Behind one of the columns to her left was a blue door, a second door in the northwest corner of the spacious room. Straight ahead was a polished mahogany recep– tion desk, abutting an open flight of stairs along the right wall that led up to a second floor balcony, richly hung with a strangely damaged portrait. The face of the por– trait's subject had been scratched out for some reason. Claire stepped down into the lobby, crouched and ran a finger through one of the muddy footprints; still wet, and more tracks leading to the corner door. She couldn't be certain they were Steve's, but thought the odds were pretty good. He'd left a trail, from the open prison gate to a couple of dropped shell casings just outside the mansion, along with two more dead dogs. For such an obviously troubled young man, he was a surprisingly accurate shot…… so why am I going through so much trouble to help him out? She thought sourly, standing. He doesn't want my assistance, doesn't seem to need it, and it's not like 1 don't have anything better to do.
When he'd taken off running, she hadn't followed im– mediately, wanting to get a message to Leon ASAP; she'd also felt obliged to run a quick search of the office for medical supplies, something to help Rodrigo, but she hadn't found anything useful… "Help! Help meee!" A muffled shout, from some– where in the building.
Steve?
"Let me out! Hey, somebody, help!"
Claire was already running for the comer door, weapon up. She slammed into the heavy wood, the door crashing open into a long hallway. Steve shouted again, from the far end of the corridor. Claire hesitated just long enough to see that the three bodies sprawled on the tiled floor weren't going to get up and then ran, fixing the door straight ahead as the one.
"Help!" Jesus, what's happening to him? He sounded panic-stricken, his voice breaking with it. Reaching the end of the hall, Claire shoved at the door, ran in sweeping with the handgun – and saw nothing, a room with display cases and stuffed chairs. An alarm was buzzing somewhere, but she didn't see its source. Movement to the left. Claire spun, desperate for a tar– get – and saw that a piece of film was being projected on a small wall screen, silent and flickering. Two attrac– tive blond children, a boy and girl, staring intently into each other's eyes. The boy was holding something, something wriggling -
– a dragonfly, and he's
Claire looked away involuntarily, disgusted. The boy was pulling the wings off of the struggling insect, smil– ing, both of them smiling. "Steve!" Why wasn't he shouting anymore, where was he? She had the wrong room, must be…
"Claire? Claire, in here! Open the door!"
His voice was coming from behind the projection screen. Claire dashed across the room, searching the wall, absently aware that the towheaded children had dropped the tortured dragonfly into a container full of ants, were watching the crippled bug being stung to death. "What door, where?" Claire shouted, running anxious hands over the wall, pushing at a glass display case, pulling at the screen -
–and the screen raised up, disappearing into a slot. Behind it was a console, a keyboard, and six picture boxes in two rows of three, a switch beneath each one.
"Claire, do something, I'm burning up!"
"What do I do, how did you get in there? Steve!"
No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain -
–concentrate. Do it, now.
Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked, Steve would die.
There's no door. There's a console with boxes.
Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out an– other terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes, focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife, a gun, an airplane… They weren't all different, there were two guns, a semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches la– beled "C" and "E." Nothing else matched, and her first thought was that it was like one of those grade-school tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her rea-soning, Claire reached out and flipped the two switches, the two boxes lighting up -
– and to her right, a display case slid out from the wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, bak– ing heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers.
Guess I picked the right boxes.
She leaned over him, trying to remember what the signs of heatstroke were – dizziness and nausea, she thought. "Are you okay?" Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then he grinned, and the illusion was lost. "What took you so long?" he cracked, pushing him-self to his feet. Claire straightened, scowling. "You're welcome."
His grin softened and he ducked his head, pushing thick bangs away from his forehead. "Sorry… and I'm sorry about before, too. Thanks, seriously."
Claire sighed. Just when she'd decided he was a total asshole, he decided to be nice. "And look what I got," he said, snapping both hand-guns up and aiming at one of the display cases. "They were hanging on a wall back there, fully loaded and everything. Cool, huh?"
She had to resist a sudden urge to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. He had nerve, she'd give him that, and he obviously had at least a few sur– vival skills… but did he not understand that he would have died, if she hadn't heard him calling for help?
This place is probably full of booby traps, too; how do I keep him from running off again?
She watched him pretend-shoot a bookshelf, won– dered absently if the whole macho tiling was just his way of dealing with fear – and a different approach sud– denly occurred to her, one that she thought might actu– ally work.
He wants to play Mr. Tough Guy, let him. Appeal to his ego. "Steve, I understand that you're not looking for a partner, but I am," she said, doing her best to look sin-cere. "I… I don't want to be alone out there." She could actually see his chest puff out, and felt a huge sense of relief, knowing that it had worked before he said a word. She also felt a little guilty for manipulat– ing him, but only a little; this was for the best.
Besides, it's not lying, exactly. I really don't want to be alone out there. "I guess you could tag along," he said expansively. "I mean, if you're scared."
She only smiled, teeth gritted, aware that if she opened her mouth to thank him, she didn't know what would come out. "And anyway, I know how to get us out of here," he added, his bluff manner slipping, his youthful enthusi– asm spilling out. "There's a little map under the counter at the front desk. According to that, there's a dock just west of here, and an airstrip somewhere past that. Which means we have a choice, but my piloting skills are a little iffy, so I vote cruise. We can go right now."Maybe she had underestimated him a bit. "Really? Great, that's…" Claire trailed off. Rodrigo, she couldn't forget about Rodrigo, between the two of us we could probably get him to the dock…"Would you come with me back to the prison, first?" She asked. "The guy who let me out of my cell is back there, he's pretty badly wounded…"
"One of the prisoners?" Steve asked, perking up. Uh-oh. She could lie, but he'd know the truth soon enough. "Urn, I don't think so… but he did let me go, and I kinda feel like I owe him…" Steve was frowning, and she quickly added, "… and it seems like the, uh, honorable thing to do, to at least get him a first-aid kit, you know?" He wasn't buying. "Forget it. If he's not a prisoner, he works for Umbrella, he deserves dick. Besides, they'll be sending troops in soon enough; it's their problem, let them deal with it. Now, are you coming or not?"
Claire met his gaze squarely, reading anger and hurt in his dark eyes, surely caused by Umbrella. She couldn't blame him for how he felt, but she didn't agree with him, either, not in Rodrigo's case. And there was no question in her mind that he would die before Um– brella showed if he didn't get help. "I guess not," she said. Steve turned away, took a few steps toward the door and then stopped, sighing heavily. He turned back, clearly exasperated. "There's no way I'm risking my neck to save an Umbrella employee, and no offense, but I think you're totally batshit for wanting to… but I'll wait for you, okay? Go give the guy a Band-Aid or whatever and then meet me at the dock."
Surprised, Claire nodded. Less than she'd hoped for but more than she'd expected, particularly after his weird people-will-let-you-down rant -
– oh!
For the first time, it occurred to her why Steve might have said those things, why he was denying the trauma of what had happened, what was still happening. He was here by himself, after all… how could he not have abandonment issues? Claire smiled warmly at him, remembering how angry she'd felt as a child when her father had died. Being snatched away from one's family couldn't be much better. "It'll be nice to go home," she said gently. "I bet your parents will be glad…"
Steve's sneering interruption was immediate and ex– treme. "Look, come to the dock or not, but I'm not going to wait all day, got it?"
Startled, Claire nodded mutely, but Steve was already striding out of the room. She wished she hadn't said anything, but it was too late… and at least now she knew what not to say. Poor kid, he probably missed his parents like crazy. She'd have to try to be a little more understanding. With a last look around the strange little den, Claire started back toward the front door, wondering what to do about Rodrigo. Steve was right, Umbrella might al– ready have a team on the way, they could tend to him, but she meant to get him stabilized before she left. She needed to find a vial of that hemostatic liquid; she didn't know much about triage herself, but he had seemed to think it would help. She opened both of the other doors in the hallway on her way back to the lobby, stopping briefly at the first to gaze in at a number of portraits, some kind of pictorial history room for a family called Ashford. There was a shattered urn on the floor, but nothing else of interest. Behind the second door was an empty conference room, only a few scattered papers and si– lence. Claire stepped back into the front hall, deciding that she should probably try the upstairs before retracing her steps; just above the bridge to the prison – and wasn't she looking forward to crossing that creaking nightmare again – there'd been a door she'd bypassed in order to keep up with Steve's trail… A tiny red light on the floor caught her attention, like one of those laser pointer things, her geometry prof had used one. The small light jerked toward her and Claire looked up, followed a pencil-thin beam to… Gah! She dove for cover as the first shot bit into the tiles mere inches from where she'd stood, ceramic shards flying. She crashed behind one of the ornamental pillars as the second shot thundered through the lobby, shattering more tile. She scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself as tiny as possible, wondering if she'd actually seen what she'd thought she'd seen – a thin blond man with a rifle and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uni-form jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child's idea of what noble authority should wear. "My name is Alfred Ashford," a pinched, snobby voice called out. "I am the commander of this base and I demand that you tell me who you're working for!" What? Claire wished she had something brilliant to say, some snappy comeback, but she couldn't get any further than that. "What?" she asked loudly. "Oh, there's no point in your feigned ignorance," he continued, his jeering voice moving a little, as though he were descending the stairs. "Miss Claire Redfield. I know what you've been planning, I've known from the start, but you're not dealing with just anyone, Claire. Not when you're dealing with an Ashford."
He actually tittered, a high, girlish giggle, and Claire was suddenly absolutely positive that he was a whacko, she was talking to a whacko.
Yeah, and keep hint talking, you don't want to lose his position. She could see the tiny red light flicker on the wall behind her, as he worked to keep the pillar in his sights. "Okay, ah, Alfred. What is it that I'm planning?" She jacked the action on her semi as quietly as possible, making sure there was a round in the chamber. It was as though she hadn't spoken. "Our legacy of profundity, supremacy, and innovation is beyond ques-tion," Alfred said haughtily. "We can trace our heritage to European royalty, my sister and I, and to some of the greatest minds in history. But then I don't suppose your masters told you that, did they?" My masters? "I don't have any idea what you're talk-ing about," Claire called out, watching the flickering red dot, deciding that she could dart a glance out from be– hind the pillar's other side, maybe get off a shot before he could target her. The longer Alfred talked, the more strongly she felt that meeting him face-to-face would be a bad idea. Dangerously mentally ill people were unpre– dictable at best. He'd mentioned a sister… the children in that movie, with the dragonfly? She didn't have proof, but her instincts shouted a resounding yes. It seemed he'd stayed the course, from creepy kid to creep.
"Of course, if you were willing to surrender yourself to me now," Alfred purred, "I might be persuaded to spare you your life. Providing that you confess to trea-son against your superiors…" Now!
Claire ducked her head around the pillar, gun up -
– and bam, wood and plaster exploded next to her face, the shot splintering the pillar's molding as she pulled back. She leaned heavily against the pillar, her breathing fast and gulping. If he'd been a hair more accurate… "Aren't you the fast little rabbit," Alfred said, his amusement unmistakable. "Or should I say rat? That's what you are, Claire, a rat. Just a rat in a cage."
Again, that insane, unnatural giggle… but it was re-ceding, following him back up the stairs. Footsteps, and then a door closed, and he was gone.
Well, doesn't that round out things nicely? What's a biohazardous disaster without a crazy or two? It'd al– most be funny, if she wasn't so totally weirded out. Al– fred was a fruit loop. Claire waited a moment to be sure he was gone, then exhaled heavily, relieved but not relaxed. She wouldn't, couldn't relax until she was well away from Rockfort, leaving Umbrella and monsters and insanity far behind. God, but she was tired of this shit. She was a second year lit major, she liked dancing and motorcycles and a good latte on a rainy day. She wanted Chris, and she wanted to go home… and since neither of those seemed likely at the moment, she decided she'd settle for a good, solid nervous breakdown, complete with screams and floor-pounding hysterics. It was almost tempting, but that would have to wait, too. She sighed inwardly. Alfred had gone upstairs, so she thought she'd better check out that other door she'd passed back near the bridge, see if she could find some– thing for Rodrigo there. At least things probably won't get any worse, she thought dismally, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as she opened the front door. It felt so much like Raccoon City… but that had been a serious catastrophe, rather than an isolated disaster.
Big, fat difference. All of it bites.
Claire had no way of knowing that compared to what lay ahead, things hadn't even started to get bad.
FIVE
THE ALLEGED DOCK WASN'T REALLY A DOCK at all, much to Steve's disappointment, and there wasn't a boat in sight. He'd expected a long pier with pilings and seagulls, all that shit, and a half dozen ships to choose from, each of them stocked with full pantries and soft beds. Instead, he'd found a tiny, grungy platform that sat over an unpleasantly gray lagoonish area, pro– tected from the ocean by a ridge of jagged rock that he could barely make out in the dark. There was a pulpit kind of thing with a ship's steering wheel stuck on it at the edge of the platform, probably some dumbass "mon– ument to the sea" or whatever, a decrepit table with some trash on it, and a ratty, moldy old life jacket heaped in a corner, the once bright orange stained to a murky mus– tard color. Nothing bigger than a canoe was ever going to dock at this particular pier; in a word, lame.
Great. So how did all those people get off the island, backstroke? And if there's an air strip, where the hell is it?
Bad enough that now he had to find another escape, he'd also told Claire that he'd meet her here. He couldn't just take off, but he didn't want to stand around waiting, either.
You could still ditch her.
Steve scowled, irritably kicking at a rusted-out hunk of random machinery. Maybe she was a little nosy, a lit– tle naive… but she'd saved his ass, no question, and her wanting to go back to help some wounded Umbrella hand just because he'd set her free – that was… well, it was nice, it was a nice thing to do. Leaving her behind didn't seem right. Not sure what to do next, he walked over to the mounted steering wheel (wasn't there some kind of sailor name for it, one of those port-starboard-ahoy words? He didn't know.) and gave it a spin, surprised at how smoothly it turned considering how crappy the rest of the "dock" was…… and with a low mechanical hum, the platform be– neath his feet abruptly detached from the rest and slid out over the water, as giant bubbles started to break the water's surface in front of him. Christ! Steve held on to the wheel with one hand, pointed one of the gold Lugers at the rising bubbles with the other. If it was one of Umbrella's creatures, it was about to be breathing hot lead…… and a small submarine rose up out of the water like a dark, metal fish, the hatch conveniently popping open directly in front of his feet. A runged ladder led down into the sub, which appeared to be empty. Unlike the worn-out surroundings, the little sub looked sturdy and well-maintained. Steve stared at it, astounded. What was this shit? It was like some theme park ride, so weird that he wasn't sure what to think.
Is it any weirder than anything else I've dealt with today?
Point taken. The map he'd looked at back at the man– sion had been vague, just a couple of arrows and the words dock and airstrip… and apparently you had to take a submarine ride to get there. Umbrella was one messed up company. He stepped down onto the top rung and then hesi-tated, his skin still red from the last unknown he'd stepped into. He didn't want to drown any more than he'd wanted to get baked alive.
Ah, screw it, won't know 'til you try.
Again, point taken. Steve climbed down the ladder, and when he stepped off, he triggered a pressure plate in the floor of the sub. Above him, the hatch closed. He quickly stepped on it again, and the hatch reopened. It was good to know he wouldn't suffocate, at least. The interior of the submarine was very plain, maybe as big as a large bathroom, bisected by the narrow lad– der. There was a small padded bench on one side, the rear of the sub, and a simple control console in front. "Let's see what we got here," Steve muttered, step– ping up to the controls. They were ridiculously simple, a single lever with two settings – the handle was currently next to the upper setting, marked "main." The lower set– ting was marked "transport," and Steve grinned, amazed that it could be this easy. Talk about user-friendly.
He tapped the pressure plate again, sealing the hatch, wondering if Claire would be impressed by his discov– ery as he pulled the lever down. He heard a soft metallic fhunk and then the submarine was moving, descending. There was a single porthole, but it was too dark to see anything besides a few rising bubbles. The anticlimactic ride was over in about ten seconds. The sub seemed to stop moving, and he heard a sharper metallic sound coming from the hatch, like it was brush– ing against something – definitely not an underwater sound. Onward and upward. The hatch opened as he started to climb the ladder, gun firmly in hand… and he stepped out onto a metal platform walled in glass or plexi, surrounded by black water on either side. There were a few steps leading down to a well-lit hallway, where only the left-hand wall was made out of water. Yees. It was like the displays at some aquariums, where you could go through an underwater tunnel, look at the fish. He'd never liked those things, finding it way too easy to imagine the glass breaking just as a shark de– cided to cruise by… or something worse. Enough of that. Steve stepped down into the hall and followed it around two bends, deliberately staring straight ahead. It was the first time since the attack on the island that he'd felt really nervous – not so much claustrophobia as a kind of primal fear, that something would come flashing out of the dark water toward the glass, an animal or something else – a pale hand, per– haps, or maybe a dead, white face pressing against the window, smiling at him… He couldn't help it. He broke into a run, and when the corridor met a door that apparently led away from the water room, he called himself pussy but was vastly re– lieved, anyway. He pushed the door open – and saw two, three…… four zombies in all, and all of them suddenly quite eager for his company. Each of them turned and began to limp or stagger toward him, the rags of their clothing – Um– brella uniforms, no question – hanging from their out– stretched arms. There was a smell like dead fish. "Unnnh," one of them moaned, and the others chimed in, the wails strangely gentle in a way, kind of sad and lost-sounding. Considering what Umbrella had put him through, he didn't feel a whole lot of sympathy. None, in fact. The room was half-split by a wall, the three zombies on the left unable to see the lone ranger on the right… though maybe they could, he thought, peering closer. Each of the trio had eyes that seemed to glow, a strange dark red. They reminded him of a movie he'd seen once, about a man with super X-ray vision, who saw all kinds of shit. Guess we'll never know what they see. Steve took aim at the nearest, closed one eye, and bam, right through the ol' frontal lobe, a clean hole appearing in its gray– green forehead like magic. The creature's red eyes seemed to fade and go out as it dropped, first to its knees, then flat down on its face, sploosh. Gross. The zombie's comrades took no notice, kept coming. The lone ranger's progress had been stopped by a desk; he continued to walk anyway, apparently not noticing that he wasn't going anywhere. Steve took out the next in line same as the first, a one shot kill, but for some reason, he didn't feel all that great about it. Shooting them down like that. It hadn't both– ered him before, back at the prison – then it had felt good, powerful even; he'd been stuck in that hellhole for long enough to be pretty righteously pissed, and having some control again had been like Christmas, like a great, big, Christmas present that some little kid had been waiting for all year, like he used to wait… Shut up. Steve didn't want to think about it, it was bullshit. So he didn't feel like clapping every time he wasted another one of them, so what? All it meant was that he was getting bored. He hurriedly shot the last two, the shots seeming louder than before, practically deafening. A quick look around for anything useful – if paper clips and dirty old coffee mugs were useful, he was sitting pretty – and he was ready to move on. There were two doors on the back wall, one on either side of the room; he picked left on general principles. He'd read somewhere that when given a choice, most people picked right. After checking his ammo, he walked past a big, empty fish tank that dominated the left side of the room and cautiously pushed the door open, taking in as much as he could in a single glance. Dark, cavernous, smells of salt water and oil, nothing moving. He stepped inside, sweeping with the Luger…… and laughed out loud, a rash of pure joy washing through his system as his laugh echoed back at him. It was a seaplane hangar, and there was one big-ass sea-plane sitting right in front of him. Big to him, anyway, he'd mostly flown in a little twin-engine private plane. Thoroughly pleased, Steve walked toward the plane, which sat just below the mesh platform under his feet. He was an inexperienced pilot, but figured he probably knew enough not to crash the thing.
First things first, board her and check fuel, general condition, learn the controls…
He stopped at the edge of the platform and looked down, frowning. He was at least ten feet above the front hatch, which looked to be locked down tight. There was a bank of machinery to his left, a few pan– els lit up. Steve walked over and looked at them, smiling when he saw a control to power up the boarding lift. The system should also open the plane door, according to the tiny diagram. "Presto," he said, flipping the switch. A loud and grat-ing mechanical noise bellowed through the giant hangar, making him wince, but it stopped after a few seconds, as a two-man lift slid to a halt at the platform's edge. He stepped onto the lift, studied the standing control panel – and started to curse, every bad word he could think of, twice. Next to a trio of hexagonally shaped spaces were the words, "insert proof keys here." No keys, no power.
They could be anywhere on the whole goddamn is-land! And what are the chances that all goddamn three of them will be goddamn together?
He took a deep breath, made himself calm down a lit– tle, and spent the next few minutes figuring out how the plane's controls were hooked up to the rest of the sys– tem, looking for a way to bypass the keys. And after a careful, thoughtful deliberation, he started cursing again. When he finally got tired of that, he resigned himself to the inevitable. Steve turned around and started to search the area, peering into every dark crevice, formulating theories about where the proof keys might be as he ran his hands over the greasy, dust-slimed machinery cabinets – and he decided that he was definitely going to dance all over the bones of the next Umbrella employee he gunned down, just for working at such an unnecessarily compli– cated place. Keys and emblems and proofs and sub– marines; it was a wonder they ever got shit done.
The virus carrier was wearing a lab coat and its lower jaw had fallen off somewhere, or been broken off; it gur– gled and spluttered horribly, its wormy tongue flopping limply across its neck. Claire couldn't tell if it had been a man or woman, although she supposed it didn't really matter. As pitiful as it was revolting, she put it out of its misery with a single shot to the temple and then searched the area – working laboratory office, small in– ventory room – before stepping back into the hall, dis– couraged at her overwhelming lack of success. The entrance she'd walked back to from the mansion had opened up into a reasonably big courtyard, hard packed dirt and totally utilitarian – more like the prison than the palace, although even after searching a few rooms, she still couldn't figure out where she was, ex– actly; some kind of testing facility, maybe, or a training ground for guards or soldiers. Maybe just a building designed to destroy hope, she thought blackly, looking toward the front door. She'd walked in maybe ten minutes ago, hoping that Rodrigo wasn't already dead, that Steve had found a boat, that Mr. Psycho Ashford and his sister weren't planning to blow up the island – and in just ten minutes, those hopes had been thoroughly stomped on. All she really wanted now was a goddamn bottle of medicine, because then she'd be one step closer to leaving. She'd tried the upstairs first, undergoing an exciting lit– tle adventure that had shaved a few years off her age. All she'd found up there was a small, locked lab with a lot of broken glass on the floor, from what appeared to be rup– tured holding tanks. She'd seen the damage through an observation window, and had been about to leave when some poor, bloody guy in an environmental suit threw himself at the glass. It had been his dying act; the suit ob– viously hadn't done him much good, his head had practi– cally exploded, coating the inside of his helmet with gore. It hadn't done her heart much good, either, scaring her half to death, and the whole upstairs experience had been topped off by an emergency shutter lockdown, apparently triggered by the suit guy. She'd practically had to hurl herself down the stairs to avoid being trapped.
Whee.
Nine zombies she'd had to put down so far, three of them in lab coats or scrubs, and not even a cotton swab to show for it. Nothing in the locker room – and she'd looked through practically every damned one of the lockers, turning up jockstraps and porn, but little else, nothing in the odd little shower room, zip and zilch. She'd have thought that a pharmaceutical company might actually have a few Pharmaceuticals lying around, but it was looking more doubtful by the mo– ment. Claire walked back to the long hall that branched off from the building's first floor, that opened into an out– door courtyard. She'd hoped to find something for Rod– rigo without having to leave the building proper, but there was no help for it.
If I get lost, I can just follow the trail of corpses back,
she thought, walking quickly down the nondescript cor– ridor. Not funny, but she wasn't feeling all that politi– cally correct at the moment. She was starting to run low on ammo, too, which made her even less inclined to a positive frame of mind. She stepped from the relative warmth of the hall into the mist-cloaked courtyard, smells of the ocean perme– ating the cold gray night. A small fire burned against one wall. The whole Rockfort facility was strangely laid out, she thought, an unlike mix of new and old. Ineffi– cient, but interesting; the little courtyard was actually cobblestoned, definitely not a recent addition… Claire froze. The narrow red beam of a laser scope sliced through the mist in front of her, swept toward her from somewhere above. A low balcony to her right, the stairs for it set against the east wall.
Stairs, cover!
It was all she had time to think before the little red dot was stuttering across her chest. She threw herself out of the way as the first shot blasted through the cold air, burying itself in a miniature fountain of stone chips. She rolled to her feet and sprinted for the stairs, the red light jerking back and forth, trying to find her. Bam, a second shot, it missed but was close enough that she could actually hear it cutting through the air, a high– pitched buzzing sound. She caught a glimpse of the shooter just before ducking behind the low stone balustrade, not surprised at all to see slicked-back blond hair and a red jacket trimmed in gold. She was more angry than scared, that after all she'd been through, she hadn't been more careful – and that she'd almost been taken out by such a weird little elitist creep. That stops right now. Claire raised her handgun over the stone railing and fired off two rounds in Alfred's general direction. She was immediately rewarded with a cry of shocked outrage. Not so much fun when the peas-ants fire back, is it?
Ready to capitalize on his surprise, Claire scrambled up three steps and risked a look over the rail – just in time to see him run through a door on the west wall, slamming it behind him. She leaped up the stairs and took off after him, bang– ing through the door and down a moonlit hall, shafts of cool light gently piercing the shadows. It wasn't a con– scious decision to pursue him, she just did it, not want– ing to stumble into any more of his ambushes. She could see what looked like a soda machine at the end of hall, could still hear his running footsteps…… and heard a door slam just before she reached the corridor's end, a small room with two decrepit vending machines and two doors to choose between. Claire hesitated, looking at either door – and then put her hands on her knees to catch her breath, giving up the chase. For all she knew, he was standing on the other side of one of those doors, just waiting for her to walk through. Score one for the nutcase. Not a big victory, anyway. With any luck, she'd be off the island soon, Alfred Ash– ford just another bad memory.
Great. So how did all those people get off the island, backstroke? And if there's an air strip, where the hell is it?
Bad enough that now he had to find another escape, he'd also told Claire that he'd meet her here. He couldn't just take off, but he didn't want to stand around waiting, either.
You could still ditch her.
Steve scowled, irritably kicking at a rusted-out hunk of random machinery. Maybe she was a little nosy, a lit– tle naive… but she'd saved his ass, no question, and her wanting to go back to help some wounded Umbrella hand just because he'd set her free – that was… well, it was nice, it was a nice thing to do. Leaving her behind didn't seem right. Not sure what to do next, he walked over to the mounted steering wheel (wasn't there some kind of sailor name for it, one of those port-starboard-ahoy words? He didn't know.) and gave it a spin, surprised at how smoothly it turned considering how crappy the rest of the "dock" was…… and with a low mechanical hum, the platform be– neath his feet abruptly detached from the rest and slid out over the water, as giant bubbles started to break the water's surface in front of him. Christ! Steve held on to the wheel with one hand, pointed one of the gold Lugers at the rising bubbles with the other. If it was one of Umbrella's creatures, it was about to be breathing hot lead…… and a small submarine rose up out of the water like a dark, metal fish, the hatch conveniently popping open directly in front of his feet. A runged ladder led down into the sub, which appeared to be empty. Unlike the worn-out surroundings, the little sub looked sturdy and well-maintained. Steve stared at it, astounded. What was this shit? It was like some theme park ride, so weird that he wasn't sure what to think.
Is it any weirder than anything else I've dealt with today?
Point taken. The map he'd looked at back at the man– sion had been vague, just a couple of arrows and the words dock and airstrip… and apparently you had to take a submarine ride to get there. Umbrella was one messed up company. He stepped down onto the top rung and then hesi-tated, his skin still red from the last unknown he'd stepped into. He didn't want to drown any more than he'd wanted to get baked alive.
Ah, screw it, won't know 'til you try.
Again, point taken. Steve climbed down the ladder, and when he stepped off, he triggered a pressure plate in the floor of the sub. Above him, the hatch closed. He quickly stepped on it again, and the hatch reopened. It was good to know he wouldn't suffocate, at least. The interior of the submarine was very plain, maybe as big as a large bathroom, bisected by the narrow lad– der. There was a small padded bench on one side, the rear of the sub, and a simple control console in front. "Let's see what we got here," Steve muttered, step– ping up to the controls. They were ridiculously simple, a single lever with two settings – the handle was currently next to the upper setting, marked "main." The lower set– ting was marked "transport," and Steve grinned, amazed that it could be this easy. Talk about user-friendly.
He tapped the pressure plate again, sealing the hatch, wondering if Claire would be impressed by his discov– ery as he pulled the lever down. He heard a soft metallic fhunk and then the submarine was moving, descending. There was a single porthole, but it was too dark to see anything besides a few rising bubbles. The anticlimactic ride was over in about ten seconds. The sub seemed to stop moving, and he heard a sharper metallic sound coming from the hatch, like it was brush– ing against something – definitely not an underwater sound. Onward and upward. The hatch opened as he started to climb the ladder, gun firmly in hand… and he stepped out onto a metal platform walled in glass or plexi, surrounded by black water on either side. There were a few steps leading down to a well-lit hallway, where only the left-hand wall was made out of water. Yees. It was like the displays at some aquariums, where you could go through an underwater tunnel, look at the fish. He'd never liked those things, finding it way too easy to imagine the glass breaking just as a shark de– cided to cruise by… or something worse. Enough of that. Steve stepped down into the hall and followed it around two bends, deliberately staring straight ahead. It was the first time since the attack on the island that he'd felt really nervous – not so much claustrophobia as a kind of primal fear, that something would come flashing out of the dark water toward the glass, an animal or something else – a pale hand, per– haps, or maybe a dead, white face pressing against the window, smiling at him… He couldn't help it. He broke into a run, and when the corridor met a door that apparently led away from the water room, he called himself pussy but was vastly re– lieved, anyway. He pushed the door open – and saw two, three…… four zombies in all, and all of them suddenly quite eager for his company. Each of them turned and began to limp or stagger toward him, the rags of their clothing – Um– brella uniforms, no question – hanging from their out– stretched arms. There was a smell like dead fish. "Unnnh," one of them moaned, and the others chimed in, the wails strangely gentle in a way, kind of sad and lost-sounding. Considering what Umbrella had put him through, he didn't feel a whole lot of sympathy. None, in fact. The room was half-split by a wall, the three zombies on the left unable to see the lone ranger on the right… though maybe they could, he thought, peering closer. Each of the trio had eyes that seemed to glow, a strange dark red. They reminded him of a movie he'd seen once, about a man with super X-ray vision, who saw all kinds of shit. Guess we'll never know what they see. Steve took aim at the nearest, closed one eye, and bam, right through the ol' frontal lobe, a clean hole appearing in its gray– green forehead like magic. The creature's red eyes seemed to fade and go out as it dropped, first to its knees, then flat down on its face, sploosh. Gross. The zombie's comrades took no notice, kept coming. The lone ranger's progress had been stopped by a desk; he continued to walk anyway, apparently not noticing that he wasn't going anywhere. Steve took out the next in line same as the first, a one shot kill, but for some reason, he didn't feel all that great about it. Shooting them down like that. It hadn't both– ered him before, back at the prison – then it had felt good, powerful even; he'd been stuck in that hellhole for long enough to be pretty righteously pissed, and having some control again had been like Christmas, like a great, big, Christmas present that some little kid had been waiting for all year, like he used to wait… Shut up. Steve didn't want to think about it, it was bullshit. So he didn't feel like clapping every time he wasted another one of them, so what? All it meant was that he was getting bored. He hurriedly shot the last two, the shots seeming louder than before, practically deafening. A quick look around for anything useful – if paper clips and dirty old coffee mugs were useful, he was sitting pretty – and he was ready to move on. There were two doors on the back wall, one on either side of the room; he picked left on general principles. He'd read somewhere that when given a choice, most people picked right. After checking his ammo, he walked past a big, empty fish tank that dominated the left side of the room and cautiously pushed the door open, taking in as much as he could in a single glance. Dark, cavernous, smells of salt water and oil, nothing moving. He stepped inside, sweeping with the Luger…… and laughed out loud, a rash of pure joy washing through his system as his laugh echoed back at him. It was a seaplane hangar, and there was one big-ass sea-plane sitting right in front of him. Big to him, anyway, he'd mostly flown in a little twin-engine private plane. Thoroughly pleased, Steve walked toward the plane, which sat just below the mesh platform under his feet. He was an inexperienced pilot, but figured he probably knew enough not to crash the thing.
First things first, board her and check fuel, general condition, learn the controls…
He stopped at the edge of the platform and looked down, frowning. He was at least ten feet above the front hatch, which looked to be locked down tight. There was a bank of machinery to his left, a few pan– els lit up. Steve walked over and looked at them, smiling when he saw a control to power up the boarding lift. The system should also open the plane door, according to the tiny diagram. "Presto," he said, flipping the switch. A loud and grat-ing mechanical noise bellowed through the giant hangar, making him wince, but it stopped after a few seconds, as a two-man lift slid to a halt at the platform's edge. He stepped onto the lift, studied the standing control panel – and started to curse, every bad word he could think of, twice. Next to a trio of hexagonally shaped spaces were the words, "insert proof keys here." No keys, no power.
They could be anywhere on the whole goddamn is-land! And what are the chances that all goddamn three of them will be goddamn together?
He took a deep breath, made himself calm down a lit– tle, and spent the next few minutes figuring out how the plane's controls were hooked up to the rest of the sys– tem, looking for a way to bypass the keys. And after a careful, thoughtful deliberation, he started cursing again. When he finally got tired of that, he resigned himself to the inevitable. Steve turned around and started to search the area, peering into every dark crevice, formulating theories about where the proof keys might be as he ran his hands over the greasy, dust-slimed machinery cabinets – and he decided that he was definitely going to dance all over the bones of the next Umbrella employee he gunned down, just for working at such an unnecessarily compli– cated place. Keys and emblems and proofs and sub– marines; it was a wonder they ever got shit done.
The virus carrier was wearing a lab coat and its lower jaw had fallen off somewhere, or been broken off; it gur– gled and spluttered horribly, its wormy tongue flopping limply across its neck. Claire couldn't tell if it had been a man or woman, although she supposed it didn't really matter. As pitiful as it was revolting, she put it out of its misery with a single shot to the temple and then searched the area – working laboratory office, small in– ventory room – before stepping back into the hall, dis– couraged at her overwhelming lack of success. The entrance she'd walked back to from the mansion had opened up into a reasonably big courtyard, hard packed dirt and totally utilitarian – more like the prison than the palace, although even after searching a few rooms, she still couldn't figure out where she was, ex– actly; some kind of testing facility, maybe, or a training ground for guards or soldiers. Maybe just a building designed to destroy hope, she thought blackly, looking toward the front door. She'd walked in maybe ten minutes ago, hoping that Rodrigo wasn't already dead, that Steve had found a boat, that Mr. Psycho Ashford and his sister weren't planning to blow up the island – and in just ten minutes, those hopes had been thoroughly stomped on. All she really wanted now was a goddamn bottle of medicine, because then she'd be one step closer to leaving. She'd tried the upstairs first, undergoing an exciting lit– tle adventure that had shaved a few years off her age. All she'd found up there was a small, locked lab with a lot of broken glass on the floor, from what appeared to be rup– tured holding tanks. She'd seen the damage through an observation window, and had been about to leave when some poor, bloody guy in an environmental suit threw himself at the glass. It had been his dying act; the suit ob– viously hadn't done him much good, his head had practi– cally exploded, coating the inside of his helmet with gore. It hadn't done her heart much good, either, scaring her half to death, and the whole upstairs experience had been topped off by an emergency shutter lockdown, apparently triggered by the suit guy. She'd practically had to hurl herself down the stairs to avoid being trapped.
Whee.
Nine zombies she'd had to put down so far, three of them in lab coats or scrubs, and not even a cotton swab to show for it. Nothing in the locker room – and she'd looked through practically every damned one of the lockers, turning up jockstraps and porn, but little else, nothing in the odd little shower room, zip and zilch. She'd have thought that a pharmaceutical company might actually have a few Pharmaceuticals lying around, but it was looking more doubtful by the mo– ment. Claire walked back to the long hall that branched off from the building's first floor, that opened into an out– door courtyard. She'd hoped to find something for Rod– rigo without having to leave the building proper, but there was no help for it.
If I get lost, I can just follow the trail of corpses back,
she thought, walking quickly down the nondescript cor– ridor. Not funny, but she wasn't feeling all that politi– cally correct at the moment. She was starting to run low on ammo, too, which made her even less inclined to a positive frame of mind. She stepped from the relative warmth of the hall into the mist-cloaked courtyard, smells of the ocean perme– ating the cold gray night. A small fire burned against one wall. The whole Rockfort facility was strangely laid out, she thought, an unlike mix of new and old. Ineffi– cient, but interesting; the little courtyard was actually cobblestoned, definitely not a recent addition… Claire froze. The narrow red beam of a laser scope sliced through the mist in front of her, swept toward her from somewhere above. A low balcony to her right, the stairs for it set against the east wall.
Stairs, cover!
It was all she had time to think before the little red dot was stuttering across her chest. She threw herself out of the way as the first shot blasted through the cold air, burying itself in a miniature fountain of stone chips. She rolled to her feet and sprinted for the stairs, the red light jerking back and forth, trying to find her. Bam, a second shot, it missed but was close enough that she could actually hear it cutting through the air, a high– pitched buzzing sound. She caught a glimpse of the shooter just before ducking behind the low stone balustrade, not surprised at all to see slicked-back blond hair and a red jacket trimmed in gold. She was more angry than scared, that after all she'd been through, she hadn't been more careful – and that she'd almost been taken out by such a weird little elitist creep. That stops right now. Claire raised her handgun over the stone railing and fired off two rounds in Alfred's general direction. She was immediately rewarded with a cry of shocked outrage. Not so much fun when the peas-ants fire back, is it?
Ready to capitalize on his surprise, Claire scrambled up three steps and risked a look over the rail – just in time to see him run through a door on the west wall, slamming it behind him. She leaped up the stairs and took off after him, bang– ing through the door and down a moonlit hall, shafts of cool light gently piercing the shadows. It wasn't a con– scious decision to pursue him, she just did it, not want– ing to stumble into any more of his ambushes. She could see what looked like a soda machine at the end of hall, could still hear his running footsteps…… and heard a door slam just before she reached the corridor's end, a small room with two decrepit vending machines and two doors to choose between. Claire hesitated, looking at either door – and then put her hands on her knees to catch her breath, giving up the chase. For all she knew, he was standing on the other side of one of those doors, just waiting for her to walk through. Score one for the nutcase. Not a big victory, anyway. With any luck, she'd be off the island soon, Alfred Ash– ford just another bad memory.