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–but Claire didn't wait to see which force was greater. She opened fire again, two, three bullets hitting it in the head, bouncing harmlessly off its armored skull, but distracting it, too. The creature struggled an-other half second and then it and the two crates were gone, plunging into the dusky sky. Claire stared out at the passing stream of atmosphere for a time, knowing she should feel limp with relief, that she'd killed the monster, that she'd survived another Umbrella disaster, that they were finally, finally safe… but she was simply wrung out, any possibility for strong emotion having flown out the back along with Mr. X's big brother. "Please, let it be over," she said softly, and then turned and opened the door back into the cockpit. As she hopped the two steps up to the pilot area, Steve glanced back her, frowning. "What happened? Is everything okay?"
Claire nodded, flopping down in the seat next to him, absolutely beat. "Yeah. Score one more for the good guys. Oh, the rear cargo hatch is gone."Are you kidding?" Steve asked. "Nope," Claire said, and yawned widely, suddenlyoverwhelmed with fatigue. "Hey, I'm going to rest my eyes for a minute. If I fall asleep, wake me up in five, okay?"Sure," Steve said, still looking confused. "The hatch is gone?"
Claire didn't answer him, the dark already rushing up to claim her, her body melting into the seat…… and then Steve was shaking her, repeating her name over and over again.
"Claire! Claire!" "Yeah," she mumbled, sure she hadn't slept as she cracked her eyes open, wondering why Steve would want to torture her like this – until she saw his expres-sion, and a bolt of alarm jolted her awake. "What, what is it?" she asked, sitting up straight. Steve looked really worried. "Like a minute ago, we changed direction and then the controls suddenly locked down," he said. "I don't know what it is, there's no radio but everything else is still working fine – except I can't steer, or alter altitude or speed. It's like it's stuck on autopilot."
Before she could say a word, there was a crackling static sound from a small video monitor mounted close to the ceiling of the cockpit, one Claire hadn't noticed be– fore. Flickering distortion lines spread out across the screen, but the picture, when it came in, was clear enough.
Alfred!
He was also flying, it seemed, belted into the front seat of a two-man fighter jet, or something similar. He still had smears of makeup on his face, his eyes rimmed in black, and when he spoke, it was in Alexia's voice. "My apologies," he purred, "but I can't let you escape now. It seems you've eluded another of my playthings -
–naughty, naughty." "Cross-dressing freak," Steve snapped, but Alfred ei-ther didn't hear him or didn't care. "Enjoy the ride," Alfred said, giggling, and with a final buzz of static, the screen went blank. Claire stared at Steve, who stared back helplessly, and then they both looked out over the sea of clouds, watch– ing silently as the first shafts of sunlight broke through. Steve was dreaming about his father when he started awake suddenly, afraid for some reason, the dream slip– ping away even as he remembered where he was. Claire made a soft, sleepy sound in the back of her throat and nuzzled closer, her head against his left shoulder, her breath warm against his chest. Oh, Steve thought, afraid to move, not wanting to wake her up. They'd fallen asleep side-by-side leaning against the cockpit wall, and had apparently moved closer together at some point. He had no idea what time it was, or how long they'd slept, but they were still in the air, muted sunlight still coming in through the windows. They'd talked for a while after Alfred had taken con– trol of the plane, but not about what they were going to do at the end of their hijacked ride. Claire had remarked that since they couldn't do anything about it, there was no point in worrying. Instead, they'd eaten – Claire had nabbed a few packs of vending machine nuts, for which Steve would be eternally grateful – and done their best to wash up using a little of the bottled water, and then talked. Really talked. She'd told him about going to Raccoon City to find Chris, and everything that had happened there and what she knew about Umbrella and Trent the spy-guy… and she'd told him a lot of other stuff, too. She was in col– lege, and two years older than him, and she rode a mo– torcycle but was probably going to give it up because of how dangerous it was. She liked to dance so she liked dance music, but she also liked grange, and she thought politics were mostly boring, and cheeseburgers were her favorite food. She was totally, incredibly cool, the coolest girl he'd ever met – and even better, she'd actu– ally been interested in what he had to say. She'd laughed at a lot of his jokes, and thought it was cool that he ran track, and when he'd talked some about his parents, she'd listened without getting all pushy.
And she's so smart, and beautiful…
He looked down at her, at her tousled hair and long lashes, his heart pounding even though he was trying to relax. She moved again, shifting in her sleep, her head tilting back a little and her slightly parted lips were suddenly close enough for him to kiss, all he had to do was tip his face down a few inches, and he wanted to so bad that he actually started to do it, lowering his mouth toward hers… "Mmmm," she murmured, still totally asleep, and he stopped, pulling back, his heart beating even faster. He totally wanted to but not like that, not if she didn't want him to. He thought she did, but she'd also told him a lit– tle about her friend Leon, too, and he wasn't so sure that they were just friends. Feeling tortured, having her so close but not his, he was relieved when she rolled away from him a few sec– onds later. He stood up, stretching stiff legs, and walked to the front of the plane, wondering if the reserve fuel tank had been tapped yet, the thought of dealing with that crazy Ashford asshole once again drying up the last of his positive feelings. He hoped that Claire would sleep awhile longer, she'd been so tired…… until he saw what was outside, and read the head-ing, and realized that their altitude had dropped consid– erably. The plane was starting to pitch some, bucking, and no wonder. On the map reader next to the compass was an approximate latitude-longitude for their posi– tion.
"Claire, wake up! You gotta come see this!"
A few seconds later she was at his side, rubbing her eyes – which widened considerably when she looked out the window. There was a near blizzard of ice and
snow pounding down, extending as far as they could see. "We're over the Antarctic," Steve said. "As in the South Pole?" Claire asked, incredulous. She grabbed the back of the copilot seat as the plane roller-coastered. "Penguins and killer whales, all that?"I don't know about the wildlife, but we're at a lati-tude of 82.17 South," Steve said. "Definitely the bottom of the world. And I'm not positive, but I think we're coming in for a landing. We're slowing down, anyway."
Maybe Alfred's plan was to drop them in the middle of nowhere and let them freeze to death. Not flashy, but it would certainly do the trick. Steve wished he could get his bare hands on the guy for just a minute, just one. He wasn't much of a fighter, but Alfred would melt like a cream puff. "We must be headed for that," Claire said, pointing right, and Steve squinted, barely able to see through the storm… and then he saw the other planes, and the long, low buildings that she had spotted, only a few minutes away. "You think it's one of Umbrella's?" Steve asked, knowing before she nodded that it had to be. Where else? The plane's nose continued to dip down, carrying them to whatever Alfred had in mind, but Steve was ac– tually a little relieved. Meeting up with Umbrella again sucked, of course, but at least someone else would be in charge, and not every Umbrella employee was as shrink-wrapped as Alfred. He couldn't imagine that everyone would drop what they were doing to kiss Al– fred's ass, either. Maybe he and Claire could find some– one to bargain with, or bribe somehow… They were closing in for a first pass, the ride getting squirrelly, the wings probably heavy with ice – when Steve realized that they were way too low, too low and too fast. The landing gear had dropped at some point, but there was no way they could land at their speed and altitude. "Pull up, pull up…" Steve said, watching the build-ings get big too quickly, feeling prickles of sweat break– ing out all over. He slid into the pilot's chair, grabbing the yoke and pulling back – and nothing happened.
Oh, man. "Belt up, we're going to crash!" Steve shouted, grab-bing for his own belt as Claire jumped into her seat, the buckles snapping shut just as they touched down and alarms started shrieking as the landing gear crumpled and tore away, the plane's belly slamming into the ground. The cabin bounced wildly, the seat belts the only thing keeping them from hitting the roof. Claire let out a yelp as a wave of snow crashed into the wind– shield, and there was a giant metal SCREECH behind them as the tail or a wing ripped away – -and enough of the churning snow pack fell away from the glass for them to see the building in front of them, the out of control plane sliding for it, smoke com-ing from somewhere, they were going to hit and…
TEN
ELEVEN
Claire nodded, flopping down in the seat next to him, absolutely beat. "Yeah. Score one more for the good guys. Oh, the rear cargo hatch is gone."Are you kidding?" Steve asked. "Nope," Claire said, and yawned widely, suddenlyoverwhelmed with fatigue. "Hey, I'm going to rest my eyes for a minute. If I fall asleep, wake me up in five, okay?"Sure," Steve said, still looking confused. "The hatch is gone?"
Claire didn't answer him, the dark already rushing up to claim her, her body melting into the seat…… and then Steve was shaking her, repeating her name over and over again.
"Claire! Claire!" "Yeah," she mumbled, sure she hadn't slept as she cracked her eyes open, wondering why Steve would want to torture her like this – until she saw his expres-sion, and a bolt of alarm jolted her awake. "What, what is it?" she asked, sitting up straight. Steve looked really worried. "Like a minute ago, we changed direction and then the controls suddenly locked down," he said. "I don't know what it is, there's no radio but everything else is still working fine – except I can't steer, or alter altitude or speed. It's like it's stuck on autopilot."
Before she could say a word, there was a crackling static sound from a small video monitor mounted close to the ceiling of the cockpit, one Claire hadn't noticed be– fore. Flickering distortion lines spread out across the screen, but the picture, when it came in, was clear enough.
Alfred!
He was also flying, it seemed, belted into the front seat of a two-man fighter jet, or something similar. He still had smears of makeup on his face, his eyes rimmed in black, and when he spoke, it was in Alexia's voice. "My apologies," he purred, "but I can't let you escape now. It seems you've eluded another of my playthings -
–naughty, naughty." "Cross-dressing freak," Steve snapped, but Alfred ei-ther didn't hear him or didn't care. "Enjoy the ride," Alfred said, giggling, and with a final buzz of static, the screen went blank. Claire stared at Steve, who stared back helplessly, and then they both looked out over the sea of clouds, watch– ing silently as the first shafts of sunlight broke through. Steve was dreaming about his father when he started awake suddenly, afraid for some reason, the dream slip– ping away even as he remembered where he was. Claire made a soft, sleepy sound in the back of her throat and nuzzled closer, her head against his left shoulder, her breath warm against his chest. Oh, Steve thought, afraid to move, not wanting to wake her up. They'd fallen asleep side-by-side leaning against the cockpit wall, and had apparently moved closer together at some point. He had no idea what time it was, or how long they'd slept, but they were still in the air, muted sunlight still coming in through the windows. They'd talked for a while after Alfred had taken con– trol of the plane, but not about what they were going to do at the end of their hijacked ride. Claire had remarked that since they couldn't do anything about it, there was no point in worrying. Instead, they'd eaten – Claire had nabbed a few packs of vending machine nuts, for which Steve would be eternally grateful – and done their best to wash up using a little of the bottled water, and then talked. Really talked. She'd told him about going to Raccoon City to find Chris, and everything that had happened there and what she knew about Umbrella and Trent the spy-guy… and she'd told him a lot of other stuff, too. She was in col– lege, and two years older than him, and she rode a mo– torcycle but was probably going to give it up because of how dangerous it was. She liked to dance so she liked dance music, but she also liked grange, and she thought politics were mostly boring, and cheeseburgers were her favorite food. She was totally, incredibly cool, the coolest girl he'd ever met – and even better, she'd actu– ally been interested in what he had to say. She'd laughed at a lot of his jokes, and thought it was cool that he ran track, and when he'd talked some about his parents, she'd listened without getting all pushy.
And she's so smart, and beautiful…
He looked down at her, at her tousled hair and long lashes, his heart pounding even though he was trying to relax. She moved again, shifting in her sleep, her head tilting back a little and her slightly parted lips were suddenly close enough for him to kiss, all he had to do was tip his face down a few inches, and he wanted to so bad that he actually started to do it, lowering his mouth toward hers… "Mmmm," she murmured, still totally asleep, and he stopped, pulling back, his heart beating even faster. He totally wanted to but not like that, not if she didn't want him to. He thought she did, but she'd also told him a lit– tle about her friend Leon, too, and he wasn't so sure that they were just friends. Feeling tortured, having her so close but not his, he was relieved when she rolled away from him a few sec– onds later. He stood up, stretching stiff legs, and walked to the front of the plane, wondering if the reserve fuel tank had been tapped yet, the thought of dealing with that crazy Ashford asshole once again drying up the last of his positive feelings. He hoped that Claire would sleep awhile longer, she'd been so tired…… until he saw what was outside, and read the head-ing, and realized that their altitude had dropped consid– erably. The plane was starting to pitch some, bucking, and no wonder. On the map reader next to the compass was an approximate latitude-longitude for their posi– tion.
"Claire, wake up! You gotta come see this!"
A few seconds later she was at his side, rubbing her eyes – which widened considerably when she looked out the window. There was a near blizzard of ice and
snow pounding down, extending as far as they could see. "We're over the Antarctic," Steve said. "As in the South Pole?" Claire asked, incredulous. She grabbed the back of the copilot seat as the plane roller-coastered. "Penguins and killer whales, all that?"I don't know about the wildlife, but we're at a lati-tude of 82.17 South," Steve said. "Definitely the bottom of the world. And I'm not positive, but I think we're coming in for a landing. We're slowing down, anyway."
Maybe Alfred's plan was to drop them in the middle of nowhere and let them freeze to death. Not flashy, but it would certainly do the trick. Steve wished he could get his bare hands on the guy for just a minute, just one. He wasn't much of a fighter, but Alfred would melt like a cream puff. "We must be headed for that," Claire said, pointing right, and Steve squinted, barely able to see through the storm… and then he saw the other planes, and the long, low buildings that she had spotted, only a few minutes away. "You think it's one of Umbrella's?" Steve asked, knowing before she nodded that it had to be. Where else? The plane's nose continued to dip down, carrying them to whatever Alfred had in mind, but Steve was ac– tually a little relieved. Meeting up with Umbrella again sucked, of course, but at least someone else would be in charge, and not every Umbrella employee was as shrink-wrapped as Alfred. He couldn't imagine that everyone would drop what they were doing to kiss Al– fred's ass, either. Maybe he and Claire could find some– one to bargain with, or bribe somehow… They were closing in for a first pass, the ride getting squirrelly, the wings probably heavy with ice – when Steve realized that they were way too low, too low and too fast. The landing gear had dropped at some point, but there was no way they could land at their speed and altitude. "Pull up, pull up…" Steve said, watching the build-ings get big too quickly, feeling prickles of sweat break– ing out all over. He slid into the pilot's chair, grabbing the yoke and pulling back – and nothing happened.
Oh, man. "Belt up, we're going to crash!" Steve shouted, grab-bing for his own belt as Claire jumped into her seat, the buckles snapping shut just as they touched down and alarms started shrieking as the landing gear crumpled and tore away, the plane's belly slamming into the ground. The cabin bounced wildly, the seat belts the only thing keeping them from hitting the roof. Claire let out a yelp as a wave of snow crashed into the wind– shield, and there was a giant metal SCREECH behind them as the tail or a wing ripped away – -and enough of the churning snow pack fell away from the glass for them to see the building in front of them, the out of control plane sliding for it, smoke com-ing from somewhere, they were going to hit and…
TEN
CLAIRE'S HEAD HURT. AGAIN. Something was on fire, she could smell smoke and she was incredibly cold, and she suddenly remembered what had happened – the snow, the building, the crash. Alfred. She opened her eyes and lifted her head, the action awk– ward and difficult because she was still strapped into her chair, now tilted forward at about a 45 degree angle and there was Steve in his chair, not moving.
"Steve! Steve, wake up!"
Steve groaned and mumbled something, and Claire breathed easier. After a few tries she managed to get her belt off and slid into a crouch, her feet on what had been the instrument panel. She couldn't see much out of the windshield with the angle they were at, but it appeared that they were inside some big building. There was gray metal siding some fifty or sixty feet in front of them, and through the gaping hole on her side of the plane, she could see a bit of walkway with a railing maybe eight or nine feet below. So where is everybody? Where is anybody? If it was an Umbrella facility, why weren't there a dozen soldiers dragging them out of the wreckage? Or at least a few pissed off janitors… Steve was coming around, though she could see a nasty bump at the edge of his hairline. She reached up and found that she had a matching bump just above her right temple, about an inch higher than the one she'd woken up with… yesterday? The day before?
My, how time flies when you keep getting knocked un-conscious. "What's burning?" Steve asked, opening bleary eyes. "I don't know," Claire said. There was just a trace of smoke in the cabin, she figured it was coming from some other part of the plane. In any case, she didn't want to stick around, see if anything blew up. "But we should get out of here. Do you think you can walk?" "These boots were made for walking," Steve mum– bled, and Claire grinned, helping him with his belt. They salvaged what they could from the weaponry that was piled at their feet, Steve's machine pistol and her 9mm. Unfortunately, they were low on ammo, and a couple of clips had gone missing. She had twenty-seven rounds, he had fifteen. They split them up, and with nothing else to keep them aboard, Steve lowered himself out over the walkway, dropping the last few feet. "What's out there?" Claire asked, sitting on the edge of the hole and tucking her gun in her belt. It was cold enough for her to see her breath, but she thought she could manage for a little while. "Not a whole hell of a lot," Steve called back, looking around. "We're in a big round building – I think it's built around a mine shaft or something, there's a straight drop through the middle. There's nobody here." He looked up at her and raised his arms. "Come on down, I gotcha."
Claire doubted it. He was in good shape but had a runner's physique, not overly muscular. On the other hand, she couldn't stay in the plane all day, and she hated jumping off things higher than a few feet, she def– initely wanted a helping hand… "Coming down," she said, and pushed herself off the hole's edge, holding on as long she could -
– and then she was dropping, and Steve emitted an oof sound, and then they were both on the ground, Steve on his back with his arms around her, Claire on top of him. "Nice catch," she said. "Aw, 'twas nothin'," Steve said, smiling. He was warm. And attractive, and sweet, and obvi– ously interested, and for a few seconds, neither of them moved, Claire content to be held… and Steve wanting more, she could see it in the way he searched her face.
For Christ's sake, you're not on a vacation! Move! "We should probably…" "… figure out where we are," Steve finished, and though she could see a flash of disappointment in his eyes, he did his best to hide it, sighing melodramatically as he dropped his arms in pretend surrender. Reluc– tantly, she got to her feet and helped him to his. It did seem to be a mine shaft, sixty feet across give or take, the walkway they were on running about half way around, in steps – there were a couple of ladders, and she could see at least two doors from where they were, all down and to their left. There was only one door on their level, to the right, but Steve checked and it was locked. "So where do you think everybody is?" he asked, keeping his voice low. There was a definite echo effect probability, as massive and empty as the chamber was. Claire shook her head. "Making snow angels?" "Ha ha," Steve said. "Shouldn't Alfred be jumping out right about now with a flame thrower or something?" "Yeah, probably," Claire said. She'd been thinking that herself. "Maybe he isn't here yet, or he didn't expect us to crash, so he's in one of the other buildings where we were supposed to land… which means we should book. If we
can get to one of those other planes before he finds us…" "Let's do it," Steve said. "Do you want to split up? We could cover more ground that way, hurry things along." "With Alfred running around somewhere? I vote no,"
Claire said, and Steve nodded, looking relieved. "So… thataway," Claire said, and started for the first ladder, Steve right behind. A short climb later and they were at the next door to try, actually double doors set in a little ways from the walkway. Also locked. Steve offered to try and kick it in, but she suggested they try the others first. She was feel– ing more and more uneasy about how quiet things were, and didn't want the echoing thunder of a door being bro– ken down to announce their presence, though they'd have to be comatose not to have heard or felt the crash…
On to the next, the only other door before an opening in the wall with a flight of stairs going down. Claire jig-gled the handle and it turned easily; she and Steve read– ied their weapons just in case – and at a nod from Steve, Claire pushed the door open -
– and felt her mouth drop open, totally shocked.
What are the odds on that?
It was a bunk room, dark and reeking, and at the sound of the door opening, three, four zombies turned and started for them, all of them freshly infected, most of their skin still attached. At least one of them was starting to go gangrenous, the noxious smell of hot, rot– ting tissue heavy in the cold air. Steve had gone pale, and as she slammed the door closed, he swallowed, hard, looking and sounding kind of sick. "One of those guys worked at Rockfort. He was a cook."
Of course! She'd thought for a second that there'd been a spill here, too, but that really was too giant of a coincidence. At least one of those planes outside had come from the island, probably a bunch of panicked em– ployees – presumably not scientists – who hadn't real– ized they were carrying the infection with them.
More sick and dying viral cannibals… and what else? Claire shuddered, trying to imagine the kind of soldier Umbrella would be trying to invent for an arctic environment… and what natural animals might have been infected before their arrival. "We definitely gotta get out of here," Steve said. Well, maybe Alfred got eaten, anyway, Claire thought. Wishful thinking, though they certainly deserved a lucky break. "Let's go." The last place to check, a set of winding stairs, marked the end of the walkway, descending into a near total dark– ness. Remembering the matches she'd found at Rockfort, Claire handed Steve her gun and fished them out of her pack, giving him half before taking her weapon back. He took the lead, striking two of the matches about halfway down the stairs and holding them up. They didn't give off much light, but they were better than nothing. They reached the bottom and started to edge forward down a tight hall, Claire on high alert as the darkness closed around them. Something smelled bad, like rot– ting grain, and though she couldn't hear anything mov– ing, it didn't feel like they were alone. She was generally big on trusting her instincts, but it was so still and silent, not even a whisper of sound or movement… Nerves, she thought hopefully. They could only see about three feet in front of them, but they moved as quickly as possible, the feeling of being totally exposed and vulnerable pushing them forward. A few steps more and she could see that the corridor branched, they could keep going straight or turn left. "What do you think?" Claire whispered – and the hall suddenly exploded with movement, wings flapping, the rotten smell gusting over them. Steve cursed as the matches suddenly went out, completing the darkness. Something brushed past Claire's face, feathery and light and soundless, and she reflexively flailed at it in loathing, skin crawling, not sure where or what to shoot. "Come on!" Steve shouted, grabbing her upper arm and yanking her forward. She stumbled after him breathlessly, and again, something fluttering touched her face, dry and dusty…… and then Steve was pulling her through a doorway and slamming it closed behind them, both of them sag– ging against it, Claire shuddering, totally disgusted. "Moths," Steve said, "Jesus, they were huge, did you see them? Big as birds, like hawks…" She could hear him spit, like he was trying to clear his mouth out. Claire didn't answer, fumbling for a match. The room was pitch dark and she wanted to make sure there weren't more of them flapping around, moths, eeww! They somehow seemed worse than any zombie, that they could brush right up against you, flutter up against your face – she shuddered again, and struck her match. Steve had pulled them into an office, one apparently free of giant moths and any other Umbrella unpleasant– ness. She saw a pair of candlesticks on a trunk to her right and immediately grabbed them up, lighting the half burned tapers and handing one of them to Steve be– fore looking around, the soft candlelight illuminating their sanctuary in flickering shadows. Wood desk, shelves, a couple of framed paintings – the room was surprisingly nice, considering the utilitarian feel of the rest of the place. It wasn't as cold, either. They quickly checked around for weapons or ammo, but came up empty.
"Hey, maybe there's something we can use in these,"
Steve said, moving to the desk. There were a number of papers, and what appeared to be a collection of maps strewn across its top, but Claire was suddenly more in– terested in the whitish lump stuck on the back of his right shoulder. "Hold still," she said, stepping up behind him. There was some thick, web-like gunk holding the thing on, the lump itself about six inches long and kind of misshapen, like a chicken egg that had been stretched out. "What is it? Get it off," Steve said tensely, and Claire held the candle closer, saw that the white form wasn't entirely opaque. She could see inside, a little…… to where a fat white grub was squirming around, encased in translucent jelly. It was an egg case, the moth had laid an egg case on him. Claire wanted to vomit but held it together, looking around for something to grab it with. There was some crumpled paper in a wastebasket next to the trunk, and she snatched up a piece. "Hang on a sec," she said, amazed at how casual she sounded as she pulled the case off his shoulder. It didn't want to come, the wet webbing tenaciously holding on, but she got it, instantly dropping it to the floor. "It's off." Steve turned and crouched next to the paper, holding his candle out – and stood up abruptly, looking as sick– ened as she felt. He brought his boot down on it, hard, and clear jelly squirted from beneath the sole. "Oh, man," he said, his mouth turned down. "Remind me to blow chunks later, after we've eaten. And next time we go through there, no matches."
He checked her back – clean, thank God – and then they split up the papers on the desk, Steve taking the maps and sitting on the floor, Claire looking through the rest of it at the desk. Inventory list, bill, bill, list… Claire hoped Steve was having better luck. From what she could gather, they were in what Umbrella was calling a "transport ter– minal," whatever that was, and it had been built around an abandoned mine – she wasn't clear on what had been mined, exactly, but there were a number of receipts for some newer spendy equipment and a shitload of con– struction materials. Almost enough to build a small city. She found a series of memos between two extremely boring gentlemen, discussing Umbrella's budget allot– ments for the coming year. It was all the more boring be– cause everything appeared to be perfectly legal. The office they were in belonged to one of them, a Tomoko Oda, and it was from Oda that she finally ran across something that caught her eye, a postscript on one of his lengthy account– ing reports dated from only a week before.
PS – by the way, remember the story you told me when I first got here, about the "monster" prisoner? Don't laugh, but I finally heard him myself, two nights ago, in this very office. It was just as frighten-ing as the stories say, a kind of angry, moaning scream that echoed up from the lower levels. My fore-man tells me that workers have been hearing it for something like 15 years, almost always late at night – the most popular rumor has it that he screams like that because someone missed his feeding time. I've also heard that he's a ghost, a hoax, a scientific experiment gone wrong, even a demon. I haven't formed an opinion myself, and since none of us are allowed down there, I suppose it will continue to be a mystery. I have to tell you, though, after hearing that horrible, insane howling, I have no interest in going below B2. Let me know about that stem bolt shipment. Regards, Tom.
It seemed that the workers upstairs didn't know much about what was going on downstairs. Probably better for them, Claire thought… although considering the cur– rent situation, maybe not. Steve laughed suddenly, a short bark of victory, and stood up, grinning widely. He slapped an Antarctica po– litical map across the desk. "We're here," Steve said, pointing to a red spot that someone had penciled in, "about halfway in between this Japanese outpost, Dome Fuji, and the Pole itself, in the Australian territory. And right here is an Australian research station – we're looking at ten or fifteen miles, tops." Claire felt her heart skip a beat. "That's great! Hell, we could probably hike it if we could find some good gear…"… and if we can get out of this basement, she thought, some of her enthusiasm dying down. Steve unfolded a second map, spreading it out. "Wait, that's not the good part. Check this out."
A photocopy of a blueprint. Claire studied the hand– drawn diagrams, side and top views of a tall building and three of its floors, the levels and rooms neatly la– Beled and stood up herself, too elated to stay still. It was a comprehensive map of the building they were in, not tall but deep. "This is where we are at now," Steve said, pointing to a small square labeled "manager's office," on level B2. He traced his finger down and left and down again, stopping at an oddly shaped area at the bottom of the diagram, like a big quotation mark lying on its side. The tiny black letters read "mining room," and there was a lightly penciled tunnel extending out of it with "to surface/unfinished" written next to it, also in pen-cil. "And there's where we need to go," Claire finished, shaking her head in disbelief. The map Steve had found would probably save them hours of wandering around, and with as little ammo as they had, it might also save their lives.
"Yeah. If we run into any locked doors, we break 'em down, or shoot the locks, maybe," Steve said happily. "And it's like a one-minute walk from here. We'll be fly– ing the friendly skies in no time."It says the tunnel is unfinished…" Claire started, but Steve cut her off.
"So? If they're still working on it, there'll be some kind of equipment laying around," Steve said happily. "I mean, it says mining room, right?"
She couldn't argue with his logic, and didn't want to. It was almost too good to be true, and she was more than ready for some good news… and though it did mean another run through mothville, this time, they'd be ready."You win the prize," Claire said, giving in to her own enthusiasm. Steve raised his eyebrows innocently. "Oh, yeah? What's the prize?"
She was about to answer that she was open to sugges-tions when an unexpected and alarming noise stopped her, coming into the office from nowhere and every-where. For a split second she thought it was some kind of an air raid siren, it was so loud and penetrating, but no siren started so deep and low, or kept rising like that, or conjured up such feelings of dread. There was fury in the sound, a blind rage so complete that it was incom-prehensible. Frozen, they listened as the incredible, grisly screamstretched out and finally died away, Claire wondering how long it had been since feeding time. She had no doubt that it was one of Umbrella's creations. No ghost could produce such a visceral sound, and no human soul could encompass such rage. "Let's go now," Claire said quietly, and Steve nodded, his eyes wide and anxious as he folded the maps and tucked them away. They readied their weapons, laid out a quick plan, and on the count of three, Steve shoved the door open. As the monstrosity's roar echoed away, Alfred smiled at it through the thick metal bars of its bare, dank cell,
admiring his sister's handiwork. He'd helped, of course, but she was the genius who'd created the T-Veronica virus, and at only ten years of age… and though she had considered her first experiment a failure, Alfred thought not. The result was deeply gratifying on a per– sonal level. Things were so much clearer, had been since the very moment he'd left Rockfort. Memories had returned, things he'd buried or lost, feelings he'd forgotten he had. After fifteen years of gray area, of muddled confusion and unstable fantasy, Alfred felt that his world was fi– nally drawing to order – and he understood now why their home had been attacked, and how fortunate for him that it had been. "They knew that it was time, too, you see," Alfred said. "If not for the strike, I might have continued to be-lieve that she was with me."
He watched with some amusement as the monstrosity tilted its filthy head toward the door, listening. It was chained to its chair, blindfolded, hands bound behind its back… and though it had been incapable of anything like real thought for a decade and a half, it still re-sponded to the sound of words. Perhaps it even recog-nized his voice on some animal instinctual level. I should feed it, Alfred thought, not wanting it to die before Alexia awoke… but that would be soon, very soon – perhaps the process had already begun. The thought filled him with wonder, that he was to be pres– ent for her miraculous rebirth. "I missed her so," Alfred said, sighing. So much that he'd created a reflection of her, to share the lonely years of waiting. "But she's soon to emerge a reigning queen, with me as her faithful soldier, and we'll never be apart again."
Which reminded him of his final task, a last objective to be met before he could comfortably begin the final wait. His joy at discovering the crashed plane had been short-lived when he'd found it empty, but upon refresh– ing himself of the terminal's layout, he'd realized the peasant couple could only be in one or two places. He'd taken a sniper rifle from the armory at one of the other buildings, a 30.06 bolt action Remington with a magni– fying scope, a delightful toy, and was determined to try it out. He couldn't have Claire and her little friend showing up at some inopportune moment, mangling the celebration… Suddenly, Alfred started to laugh, a gem of an idea occurring to him. The monstrosity had to eat… why not bring it the two commoners? Claire Redfield had brought destruction down upon Rockfort, had attempted to soil the Ashford name, just as the monstrosity had, in away.
It will consume the enemy agents, an observance in honor of Alexia's return… and then we'll have a pri-vate family reunion, just the three of us.
At the sound of his laughter, the monstrosity became agitated, pulling at its chains with such force that Alfred stopped laughing. It let out another tremendous, linger– ing roar, straining to be free, but Alfred thought the re-straints would hold a bit longer. "I'll be back soon," Alfred promised, hefting his rifle and walking away, wondering what Claire would think about meeting his and Alexia's father under such un– usual circumstances – namely, her own bloody death. The monstrosity was drawn to body heat and the smell of terror, Alfred liked to believe, very much looking for– ward to watching a helpless Claire stalked through the dark. As Alfred started up the stairs to the second basement level, Alexander Ashford screamed again, as he'd done fifteen years before when his own children had drugged him and stolen his life.
"Steve! Steve, wake up!"
Steve groaned and mumbled something, and Claire breathed easier. After a few tries she managed to get her belt off and slid into a crouch, her feet on what had been the instrument panel. She couldn't see much out of the windshield with the angle they were at, but it appeared that they were inside some big building. There was gray metal siding some fifty or sixty feet in front of them, and through the gaping hole on her side of the plane, she could see a bit of walkway with a railing maybe eight or nine feet below. So where is everybody? Where is anybody? If it was an Umbrella facility, why weren't there a dozen soldiers dragging them out of the wreckage? Or at least a few pissed off janitors… Steve was coming around, though she could see a nasty bump at the edge of his hairline. She reached up and found that she had a matching bump just above her right temple, about an inch higher than the one she'd woken up with… yesterday? The day before?
My, how time flies when you keep getting knocked un-conscious. "What's burning?" Steve asked, opening bleary eyes. "I don't know," Claire said. There was just a trace of smoke in the cabin, she figured it was coming from some other part of the plane. In any case, she didn't want to stick around, see if anything blew up. "But we should get out of here. Do you think you can walk?" "These boots were made for walking," Steve mum– bled, and Claire grinned, helping him with his belt. They salvaged what they could from the weaponry that was piled at their feet, Steve's machine pistol and her 9mm. Unfortunately, they were low on ammo, and a couple of clips had gone missing. She had twenty-seven rounds, he had fifteen. They split them up, and with nothing else to keep them aboard, Steve lowered himself out over the walkway, dropping the last few feet. "What's out there?" Claire asked, sitting on the edge of the hole and tucking her gun in her belt. It was cold enough for her to see her breath, but she thought she could manage for a little while. "Not a whole hell of a lot," Steve called back, looking around. "We're in a big round building – I think it's built around a mine shaft or something, there's a straight drop through the middle. There's nobody here." He looked up at her and raised his arms. "Come on down, I gotcha."
Claire doubted it. He was in good shape but had a runner's physique, not overly muscular. On the other hand, she couldn't stay in the plane all day, and she hated jumping off things higher than a few feet, she def– initely wanted a helping hand… "Coming down," she said, and pushed herself off the hole's edge, holding on as long she could -
– and then she was dropping, and Steve emitted an oof sound, and then they were both on the ground, Steve on his back with his arms around her, Claire on top of him. "Nice catch," she said. "Aw, 'twas nothin'," Steve said, smiling. He was warm. And attractive, and sweet, and obvi– ously interested, and for a few seconds, neither of them moved, Claire content to be held… and Steve wanting more, she could see it in the way he searched her face.
For Christ's sake, you're not on a vacation! Move! "We should probably…" "… figure out where we are," Steve finished, and though she could see a flash of disappointment in his eyes, he did his best to hide it, sighing melodramatically as he dropped his arms in pretend surrender. Reluc– tantly, she got to her feet and helped him to his. It did seem to be a mine shaft, sixty feet across give or take, the walkway they were on running about half way around, in steps – there were a couple of ladders, and she could see at least two doors from where they were, all down and to their left. There was only one door on their level, to the right, but Steve checked and it was locked. "So where do you think everybody is?" he asked, keeping his voice low. There was a definite echo effect probability, as massive and empty as the chamber was. Claire shook her head. "Making snow angels?" "Ha ha," Steve said. "Shouldn't Alfred be jumping out right about now with a flame thrower or something?" "Yeah, probably," Claire said. She'd been thinking that herself. "Maybe he isn't here yet, or he didn't expect us to crash, so he's in one of the other buildings where we were supposed to land… which means we should book. If we
can get to one of those other planes before he finds us…" "Let's do it," Steve said. "Do you want to split up? We could cover more ground that way, hurry things along." "With Alfred running around somewhere? I vote no,"
Claire said, and Steve nodded, looking relieved. "So… thataway," Claire said, and started for the first ladder, Steve right behind. A short climb later and they were at the next door to try, actually double doors set in a little ways from the walkway. Also locked. Steve offered to try and kick it in, but she suggested they try the others first. She was feel– ing more and more uneasy about how quiet things were, and didn't want the echoing thunder of a door being bro– ken down to announce their presence, though they'd have to be comatose not to have heard or felt the crash…
On to the next, the only other door before an opening in the wall with a flight of stairs going down. Claire jig-gled the handle and it turned easily; she and Steve read– ied their weapons just in case – and at a nod from Steve, Claire pushed the door open -
– and felt her mouth drop open, totally shocked.
What are the odds on that?
It was a bunk room, dark and reeking, and at the sound of the door opening, three, four zombies turned and started for them, all of them freshly infected, most of their skin still attached. At least one of them was starting to go gangrenous, the noxious smell of hot, rot– ting tissue heavy in the cold air. Steve had gone pale, and as she slammed the door closed, he swallowed, hard, looking and sounding kind of sick. "One of those guys worked at Rockfort. He was a cook."
Of course! She'd thought for a second that there'd been a spill here, too, but that really was too giant of a coincidence. At least one of those planes outside had come from the island, probably a bunch of panicked em– ployees – presumably not scientists – who hadn't real– ized they were carrying the infection with them.
More sick and dying viral cannibals… and what else? Claire shuddered, trying to imagine the kind of soldier Umbrella would be trying to invent for an arctic environment… and what natural animals might have been infected before their arrival. "We definitely gotta get out of here," Steve said. Well, maybe Alfred got eaten, anyway, Claire thought. Wishful thinking, though they certainly deserved a lucky break. "Let's go." The last place to check, a set of winding stairs, marked the end of the walkway, descending into a near total dark– ness. Remembering the matches she'd found at Rockfort, Claire handed Steve her gun and fished them out of her pack, giving him half before taking her weapon back. He took the lead, striking two of the matches about halfway down the stairs and holding them up. They didn't give off much light, but they were better than nothing. They reached the bottom and started to edge forward down a tight hall, Claire on high alert as the darkness closed around them. Something smelled bad, like rot– ting grain, and though she couldn't hear anything mov– ing, it didn't feel like they were alone. She was generally big on trusting her instincts, but it was so still and silent, not even a whisper of sound or movement… Nerves, she thought hopefully. They could only see about three feet in front of them, but they moved as quickly as possible, the feeling of being totally exposed and vulnerable pushing them forward. A few steps more and she could see that the corridor branched, they could keep going straight or turn left. "What do you think?" Claire whispered – and the hall suddenly exploded with movement, wings flapping, the rotten smell gusting over them. Steve cursed as the matches suddenly went out, completing the darkness. Something brushed past Claire's face, feathery and light and soundless, and she reflexively flailed at it in loathing, skin crawling, not sure where or what to shoot. "Come on!" Steve shouted, grabbing her upper arm and yanking her forward. She stumbled after him breathlessly, and again, something fluttering touched her face, dry and dusty…… and then Steve was pulling her through a doorway and slamming it closed behind them, both of them sag– ging against it, Claire shuddering, totally disgusted. "Moths," Steve said, "Jesus, they were huge, did you see them? Big as birds, like hawks…" She could hear him spit, like he was trying to clear his mouth out. Claire didn't answer, fumbling for a match. The room was pitch dark and she wanted to make sure there weren't more of them flapping around, moths, eeww! They somehow seemed worse than any zombie, that they could brush right up against you, flutter up against your face – she shuddered again, and struck her match. Steve had pulled them into an office, one apparently free of giant moths and any other Umbrella unpleasant– ness. She saw a pair of candlesticks on a trunk to her right and immediately grabbed them up, lighting the half burned tapers and handing one of them to Steve be– fore looking around, the soft candlelight illuminating their sanctuary in flickering shadows. Wood desk, shelves, a couple of framed paintings – the room was surprisingly nice, considering the utilitarian feel of the rest of the place. It wasn't as cold, either. They quickly checked around for weapons or ammo, but came up empty.
"Hey, maybe there's something we can use in these,"
Steve said, moving to the desk. There were a number of papers, and what appeared to be a collection of maps strewn across its top, but Claire was suddenly more in– terested in the whitish lump stuck on the back of his right shoulder. "Hold still," she said, stepping up behind him. There was some thick, web-like gunk holding the thing on, the lump itself about six inches long and kind of misshapen, like a chicken egg that had been stretched out. "What is it? Get it off," Steve said tensely, and Claire held the candle closer, saw that the white form wasn't entirely opaque. She could see inside, a little…… to where a fat white grub was squirming around, encased in translucent jelly. It was an egg case, the moth had laid an egg case on him. Claire wanted to vomit but held it together, looking around for something to grab it with. There was some crumpled paper in a wastebasket next to the trunk, and she snatched up a piece. "Hang on a sec," she said, amazed at how casual she sounded as she pulled the case off his shoulder. It didn't want to come, the wet webbing tenaciously holding on, but she got it, instantly dropping it to the floor. "It's off." Steve turned and crouched next to the paper, holding his candle out – and stood up abruptly, looking as sick– ened as she felt. He brought his boot down on it, hard, and clear jelly squirted from beneath the sole. "Oh, man," he said, his mouth turned down. "Remind me to blow chunks later, after we've eaten. And next time we go through there, no matches."
He checked her back – clean, thank God – and then they split up the papers on the desk, Steve taking the maps and sitting on the floor, Claire looking through the rest of it at the desk. Inventory list, bill, bill, list… Claire hoped Steve was having better luck. From what she could gather, they were in what Umbrella was calling a "transport ter– minal," whatever that was, and it had been built around an abandoned mine – she wasn't clear on what had been mined, exactly, but there were a number of receipts for some newer spendy equipment and a shitload of con– struction materials. Almost enough to build a small city. She found a series of memos between two extremely boring gentlemen, discussing Umbrella's budget allot– ments for the coming year. It was all the more boring be– cause everything appeared to be perfectly legal. The office they were in belonged to one of them, a Tomoko Oda, and it was from Oda that she finally ran across something that caught her eye, a postscript on one of his lengthy account– ing reports dated from only a week before.
PS – by the way, remember the story you told me when I first got here, about the "monster" prisoner? Don't laugh, but I finally heard him myself, two nights ago, in this very office. It was just as frighten-ing as the stories say, a kind of angry, moaning scream that echoed up from the lower levels. My fore-man tells me that workers have been hearing it for something like 15 years, almost always late at night – the most popular rumor has it that he screams like that because someone missed his feeding time. I've also heard that he's a ghost, a hoax, a scientific experiment gone wrong, even a demon. I haven't formed an opinion myself, and since none of us are allowed down there, I suppose it will continue to be a mystery. I have to tell you, though, after hearing that horrible, insane howling, I have no interest in going below B2. Let me know about that stem bolt shipment. Regards, Tom.
It seemed that the workers upstairs didn't know much about what was going on downstairs. Probably better for them, Claire thought… although considering the cur– rent situation, maybe not. Steve laughed suddenly, a short bark of victory, and stood up, grinning widely. He slapped an Antarctica po– litical map across the desk. "We're here," Steve said, pointing to a red spot that someone had penciled in, "about halfway in between this Japanese outpost, Dome Fuji, and the Pole itself, in the Australian territory. And right here is an Australian research station – we're looking at ten or fifteen miles, tops." Claire felt her heart skip a beat. "That's great! Hell, we could probably hike it if we could find some good gear…"… and if we can get out of this basement, she thought, some of her enthusiasm dying down. Steve unfolded a second map, spreading it out. "Wait, that's not the good part. Check this out."
A photocopy of a blueprint. Claire studied the hand– drawn diagrams, side and top views of a tall building and three of its floors, the levels and rooms neatly la– Beled and stood up herself, too elated to stay still. It was a comprehensive map of the building they were in, not tall but deep. "This is where we are at now," Steve said, pointing to a small square labeled "manager's office," on level B2. He traced his finger down and left and down again, stopping at an oddly shaped area at the bottom of the diagram, like a big quotation mark lying on its side. The tiny black letters read "mining room," and there was a lightly penciled tunnel extending out of it with "to surface/unfinished" written next to it, also in pen-cil. "And there's where we need to go," Claire finished, shaking her head in disbelief. The map Steve had found would probably save them hours of wandering around, and with as little ammo as they had, it might also save their lives.
"Yeah. If we run into any locked doors, we break 'em down, or shoot the locks, maybe," Steve said happily. "And it's like a one-minute walk from here. We'll be fly– ing the friendly skies in no time."It says the tunnel is unfinished…" Claire started, but Steve cut her off.
"So? If they're still working on it, there'll be some kind of equipment laying around," Steve said happily. "I mean, it says mining room, right?"
She couldn't argue with his logic, and didn't want to. It was almost too good to be true, and she was more than ready for some good news… and though it did mean another run through mothville, this time, they'd be ready."You win the prize," Claire said, giving in to her own enthusiasm. Steve raised his eyebrows innocently. "Oh, yeah? What's the prize?"
She was about to answer that she was open to sugges-tions when an unexpected and alarming noise stopped her, coming into the office from nowhere and every-where. For a split second she thought it was some kind of an air raid siren, it was so loud and penetrating, but no siren started so deep and low, or kept rising like that, or conjured up such feelings of dread. There was fury in the sound, a blind rage so complete that it was incom-prehensible. Frozen, they listened as the incredible, grisly screamstretched out and finally died away, Claire wondering how long it had been since feeding time. She had no doubt that it was one of Umbrella's creations. No ghost could produce such a visceral sound, and no human soul could encompass such rage. "Let's go now," Claire said quietly, and Steve nodded, his eyes wide and anxious as he folded the maps and tucked them away. They readied their weapons, laid out a quick plan, and on the count of three, Steve shoved the door open. As the monstrosity's roar echoed away, Alfred smiled at it through the thick metal bars of its bare, dank cell,
admiring his sister's handiwork. He'd helped, of course, but she was the genius who'd created the T-Veronica virus, and at only ten years of age… and though she had considered her first experiment a failure, Alfred thought not. The result was deeply gratifying on a per– sonal level. Things were so much clearer, had been since the very moment he'd left Rockfort. Memories had returned, things he'd buried or lost, feelings he'd forgotten he had. After fifteen years of gray area, of muddled confusion and unstable fantasy, Alfred felt that his world was fi– nally drawing to order – and he understood now why their home had been attacked, and how fortunate for him that it had been. "They knew that it was time, too, you see," Alfred said. "If not for the strike, I might have continued to be-lieve that she was with me."
He watched with some amusement as the monstrosity tilted its filthy head toward the door, listening. It was chained to its chair, blindfolded, hands bound behind its back… and though it had been incapable of anything like real thought for a decade and a half, it still re-sponded to the sound of words. Perhaps it even recog-nized his voice on some animal instinctual level. I should feed it, Alfred thought, not wanting it to die before Alexia awoke… but that would be soon, very soon – perhaps the process had already begun. The thought filled him with wonder, that he was to be pres– ent for her miraculous rebirth. "I missed her so," Alfred said, sighing. So much that he'd created a reflection of her, to share the lonely years of waiting. "But she's soon to emerge a reigning queen, with me as her faithful soldier, and we'll never be apart again."
Which reminded him of his final task, a last objective to be met before he could comfortably begin the final wait. His joy at discovering the crashed plane had been short-lived when he'd found it empty, but upon refresh– ing himself of the terminal's layout, he'd realized the peasant couple could only be in one or two places. He'd taken a sniper rifle from the armory at one of the other buildings, a 30.06 bolt action Remington with a magni– fying scope, a delightful toy, and was determined to try it out. He couldn't have Claire and her little friend showing up at some inopportune moment, mangling the celebration… Suddenly, Alfred started to laugh, a gem of an idea occurring to him. The monstrosity had to eat… why not bring it the two commoners? Claire Redfield had brought destruction down upon Rockfort, had attempted to soil the Ashford name, just as the monstrosity had, in away.
It will consume the enemy agents, an observance in honor of Alexia's return… and then we'll have a pri-vate family reunion, just the three of us.
At the sound of his laughter, the monstrosity became agitated, pulling at its chains with such force that Alfred stopped laughing. It let out another tremendous, linger– ing roar, straining to be free, but Alfred thought the re-straints would hold a bit longer. "I'll be back soon," Alfred promised, hefting his rifle and walking away, wondering what Claire would think about meeting his and Alexia's father under such un– usual circumstances – namely, her own bloody death. The monstrosity was drawn to body heat and the smell of terror, Alfred liked to believe, very much looking for– ward to watching a helpless Claire stalked through the dark. As Alfred started up the stairs to the second basement level, Alexander Ashford screamed again, as he'd done fifteen years before when his own children had drugged him and stolen his life.
ELEVEN
THEY PUSHED OUT INTO THE DARK, STEVE ahead of Claire, leaving the office door open. There was just enough light to see where the hall branched right, which was all the light they needed.
– right, walk, door on the right, walk, steps to the left -
It looped through his mind, the directions simple but he didn't want to make even a tiny mistake. The image of what Claire had pulled off his back was still fresh in his mind, and they didn't know what else the moths could do. Two strides forward and the first moth came at them, a whitish, silent blur, and Steve opened up. Bam-bam-bam! Three shots and the flapping thing disintegrated, soft plop sounds as the pieces hit the floor, and here came the rest, fluttering out from the cor– ridor he and Claire wanted. They flew on a dusty wave of rot smell, shadowy, flopping shapes… and what was that, the thick, hanging, man-size thing webbed against the ceiling? – don't think about it, now, go now -"Now!" Steve said, and Claire ran out from behind him, darting to the right and down the hall as he opened fire again, two– and three-round bursts. Feathery pieces of wing and warm, repulsive goo rained down as he fired into the whirling dark shapes overhead, splashing him, making him gag, the moths dying as silently as they attacked. He felt one of them in his hair, felt something warm and wet touch his scalp, and frantically brushed at the top of his head, firing, knocking a sticky egg case away. "Open!" Claire shouted, much closer than he expected, and though he'd planned to back down the hall, firing as he went, the feel of that crap in his hair was the last straw. He ducked, covered his head with one arm, and sprinted. He saw her silhouette in a doorway on the right and plunged ahead, running directly into her outstretched arm. Claire grabbed a handful of his shirt and jerked him inside, slamming the door closed behind them – and then turned and started firing, blocking his body with hers.
"Hey, what's…"
Bam! Bam! The room was huge, the shots echoing from faraway corners. There was a trace of light coming from somewhere, but Steve heard them before he saw them. Zombies, moaning and gasping, three or four of them closing in on their position. He could only make out their outlines, staggering and weaving forward, saw two of them go down but two more moving in to take their place. "I'm okay!" he called out between rounds, and Claire stepped aside, shouting for him to take the right flank. Steve targeted and fired, blinking and squinting against the dark, trying to get head shots. He took down three of them, then a fourth, so close that he felt blood splashing his hand. He immediately wiped it against his pants, praying that he didn't have any open cuts, that he wouldn't run out of ammo, but there was another zom-bie, and another…… and then Claire was pulling him again and he stopped firing, let her lead him through the dark toward where the mining room was supposed to be. Behind them, zombies shuffled and wailed, giving slow motion chase. He tripped over a warm body and stepped on another, feeling something crunch underfoot, but as helpless and afraid as he felt, it was nothing to suddenly hearing Claire cry out in pain, to feel her fingers leave his arm. "Claire!" Terrified, Steve reached out for her, felt only air… "Watch your step, I stubbed my goddamn toe," Claire said irritably, no more than two feet away, and he felt his knees go weak. He could also feel a cold metal railing against his right shoulder – the steps to the mining room. They'd made it. Together, they climbed the few steps, Claire still in front and when she opened the door, real light spilled out in shafts, piercing the blackness. "Praise Jesus," Steve muttered, holding the door from behind as Claire stepped inside…… and before he could follow, he heard that disturbed, girlish giggling that he'd come to know and hate, and Claire had slipped one hand behind her back and was motioning him to freeze. He let go of the door and she didn't move, letting it settle on her hip as Alfred said something and she slowly raised both her hands. It seemed Alfred had gotten the drop on Claire…… but not on me, Steve thought, unaware that he was wearing a tight, grim smile. Alfred had a lot to answer for, but Steve was pretty certain that in another minute or two, he wasn't going to be saying much of anything, ever again. He had her. As he'd surmised, they – well, she had come to see about the tunnel, the one exit from the ter– minal that didn't require a key. She wasn't a stupid girl, by no means, but he was superior, in intellect and strat– egy. Among other things. Still standing in the doorway, Claire raised her hands, her expression annoyingly blank. Why wasn't she afraid? "Drop your weapon," Alfred snapped, his finger on the rifle's trigger. His voice, naturally amplified by the mining pit that took up most of the floor, emanated throughout the icy chamber, sounding authoritative and a bit cruel. He liked the strong sound of it, and knew it was effective when she let the handgun drop from her fingers without hesitating. "Kick it toward me," he commanded, and she did so, the weapon clattering across the concrete. He didn't pick it up, instead kicking it beneath the rail to his left, both of them listening to her only hope bounce away over frozen rocks, lost to the depths of the icy pit.
How wonderful, to exert such control! "What happened to your traveling companion?" he asked, sneering. "Has he met with an accident? Oh, and step away from the door, if you don't mind. And keep your hands when I can see them."
Claire edged forward, the door mostly closing behind her, and he saw a flash of some unhappy emotion cross her face, knew immediately that he'd scored a point. Less of a hot meal for father, it seemed, but he doubted the monstrosity would complain. "He's dead," she said simply. "What happened to Alexia? Or am I speaking to Alexia – you know, you two look so much alike…" "Shut your mouth, little girl," Alfred snarled. "You don't deserve to say her name. You already know that it's time for her return, that's why your people attacked Rockfort, to lure her out – or were you hoping to kill her outright, to cut short her first breath?"
Claire acted confused, determined to keep up her pre– tense, it seemed, but Alfred didn't want to hear any more of her lies. The game was losing interest for him.
In the face of Alexia's imminent triumph, everything had paled by comparison. "I already know it all," he snapped, "so don't bother. Now, if you'll come with me…"
Claire suddenly looked up and right, to the raised platform where the tunnel began. "Look out!" she shrieked, collapsing as Alfred spun around, seeing only the massive ice digger machine, the tunnel's dark entrance…… and the door had crashed open behind Claire, the boy diving in and landing on his side, pointing a weapon at him, at him. Furious, Alfred swung the rifle and pulled the trigger, three, four times, but he hadn't had enough time to tar– get properly, the explosive shots going wide…… and it was as though a giant hand suddenly shoved Alfred backward, taking his breath away, the boy firing and then clicking on empty, out of bullets. Alfred stumbled back another step and opened his mouth to laugh, ready to kill them both and, and the rifle wasn't in his hands anymore, he'd dropped it for somereason, and his laugh was only a wet, painful cough -
– and something gave way behind his back, and then he was falling into the mining pit. He landed on a thick crust of ice and started to get up, but there was a great, searing pain in his chest. Was it possible that he'd been shot? With barely a sound, the ice gave way all around him and he screamed, falling, he had to see her once more, had to touch her but he could hear his father screaming, too, coming for him, and then everything was lost in pain and dark. The sound of the terrible, monstrous howl that had risen up to meet Alfred's got them moving, Claire paus– ing just long enough to grab the Remington before climbing after Steve to the high platform. With Steve on empty and her own gun kicked into the pit, it was their only weapon. They clambered into the cab of the huge yellow ma– chine parked in front of the slanted, rising tunnel, Steve taking the wheel – and again, they heard that deep, in– sane scream, and it was definitely closer, the monster prisoner loose somewhere inside. Steve flipped a bunch of switches, nodding and mum-bling to himself as he went. Claire listened as she checked the rifle – only six rounds – gathering that the machine's digging device, an enormous screw-looking thing, actually heated up to melt the ice. She didn't care what it did, as long as it got them out before the monster came looking for them. With the heavy machine humming to life, Steve ex– plained that the tunnel was probably unfinished because the workers would have had to go slowly and without using the heating element, to avoid flooding half the fa– cility, "But we don't," he said, grinning. "What do you say we make a lake?" "Go for it," she said, grinning back at him, wishing she felt a little more enthusiastic. God, they were getting out, and with Alfred Ashford finally dead, there was no one standing in their way. So why was she still so uncertain?
It's that shit he was babbling about his sister…
Crazy, yeah, but it had brought up the one question she still didn't
have an answer for – why had Rockfort been attacked?
Steve jammed on the throttle and the machine lurched
forward. There weren't seat belts, so Claire put one
hand on the roof, the digger bouncing almost as much as
their plane had right before it crashed. Their view was
mostly blocked by the giant twisting screw-thing, but it
was obvious when they hit the end of the tunnel, big-
time.
The noise was incredible, deafening, like rocks in a
blender times a hundred. There was a burning steam
smell, and as they inched forward through total black-
ness, she could hear the thaw even over the digging, as
torrents of water rushed past the cab.
The grinding, waterfall noises seemed to go on for-
ever as they continued to climb – and then the machine
stuttered, jerking, and the treads were straining – and
sudden light flooded into the cab, gray and shadowy and
beautiful.
The digger crawled out of its brand-new hole near a
standing tower, Claire recognizing it as a helipad even
as Steve pointed out the snow-cats parked near the base.
It was snowing, fat wet flakes spinning down from a
slate sky, the humid cold seeping into the cab before
they'd been on the surface a minute. There was a wind
blowing, the snow angled slightly – not a big wind, but
steady.
" 'Copter or 'cat?" Steve asked lightly, but she could
see that he was starting to shiver. So was she.
"Your call, fly boy," she said. A helicopter would be
faster, but staying on the ground seemed safer. "Can we
even take off in this?"
"As long as it doesn't get any worse," he said, looking
up at the tower, but he didn't seem sure. She was about
to recommend one of the 'cats when he shrugged, push-
ing his door open and sliding out, calling back over his
shoulder.
"I say we hit the tower, fly girl," he said. "We can at
least see if there's actually a choice."
She got out, too, craning her neck back, but she couldn't see the top of the tower, either. And it was cold, frostbite cold. "Whatever, let's just hurry," Claire said, slinging the rifle over her shoulder. Steve jogged for the stairs, Claire following, freezing but exhilarated, suddenly totally high on being free to choose, to decide what they wanted to do, how they wanted to do it. And either way, they'd be at the Aus– tralian station in an hour or so, wrapped in blankets and drinking something hot and telling their story. Well, at least the more believable parts, she thought, climbing the recently sanded stairs after him. Even the most open-minded people in the world wouldn't believe half of what they'd been through. Her happiness was wearing thin as they neared the top, three stories later, her teeth chattering it away – and when Steve turned around, frowning, she no longer cared about much of anything beyond getting warm. "There's no helicopter," he said, snow starting to stick to his hair. "I guess we'll…" He saw something behind her and his face suddenly contorted with horror and surprise. He reached out to pull her up but she was already moving. "Go!" she said, and he turned and bolted up the stairs, Claire barely a half step behind him. She didn't know what he'd seen -
–yes you do
– but from the look on his face, she knew she didn't want it behind her.
It's the thing, the monster, it was loose and now it's coming for you, her fear helpfully provided, and then Steve was grabbing her arm and jerking her up the last few steps. She stumbled onto a giant, empty, square platform, the landing lines mostly obscured by fresh snow, a gray haze of anomalous fog making it hard to see clearly. "Give me the rifle," he breathed, and she ignored him, turned to see if it was true, if she would recognize the awful pain of the thing that had screamed so horri– bly – and as it gained the platform, she saw that it was true, and she recognized it with no trouble at all. She un-slung the rifle and backed away, motioning for Steve to stay behind her.
Alfred woke up in a world of pain. He could barely breathe, and there was blood on his face and in his nose and mouth, and when he tried to move, the agony was instant and overwhelming. Every inch of bone was bro– ken, cut or smashed or punctured, and he knew he was going to die. All that was left was his surrender to the dark. He was very afraid, but he ached so badly that per– haps sleep would be best…… Alexia… He couldn't give up, not when he'd been so close, not when he was still so close. He forced his eyes to open, and saw through a thin red haze that he was on one of the lower level platforms that jutted out into the mining pit. He'd fallen at least three levels, perhaps as many as five. "Aa…lexi…iaa," he whispered, and felt blood bubbling up from his chest, felt bones grinding as he shifted, felt afraid of the pain he'd have to endure – but he would go to her, because she was his heart, his great love, and he would be sustained by his name on her lips.
– right, walk, door on the right, walk, steps to the left -
It looped through his mind, the directions simple but he didn't want to make even a tiny mistake. The image of what Claire had pulled off his back was still fresh in his mind, and they didn't know what else the moths could do. Two strides forward and the first moth came at them, a whitish, silent blur, and Steve opened up. Bam-bam-bam! Three shots and the flapping thing disintegrated, soft plop sounds as the pieces hit the floor, and here came the rest, fluttering out from the cor– ridor he and Claire wanted. They flew on a dusty wave of rot smell, shadowy, flopping shapes… and what was that, the thick, hanging, man-size thing webbed against the ceiling? – don't think about it, now, go now -"Now!" Steve said, and Claire ran out from behind him, darting to the right and down the hall as he opened fire again, two– and three-round bursts. Feathery pieces of wing and warm, repulsive goo rained down as he fired into the whirling dark shapes overhead, splashing him, making him gag, the moths dying as silently as they attacked. He felt one of them in his hair, felt something warm and wet touch his scalp, and frantically brushed at the top of his head, firing, knocking a sticky egg case away. "Open!" Claire shouted, much closer than he expected, and though he'd planned to back down the hall, firing as he went, the feel of that crap in his hair was the last straw. He ducked, covered his head with one arm, and sprinted. He saw her silhouette in a doorway on the right and plunged ahead, running directly into her outstretched arm. Claire grabbed a handful of his shirt and jerked him inside, slamming the door closed behind them – and then turned and started firing, blocking his body with hers.
"Hey, what's…"
Bam! Bam! The room was huge, the shots echoing from faraway corners. There was a trace of light coming from somewhere, but Steve heard them before he saw them. Zombies, moaning and gasping, three or four of them closing in on their position. He could only make out their outlines, staggering and weaving forward, saw two of them go down but two more moving in to take their place. "I'm okay!" he called out between rounds, and Claire stepped aside, shouting for him to take the right flank. Steve targeted and fired, blinking and squinting against the dark, trying to get head shots. He took down three of them, then a fourth, so close that he felt blood splashing his hand. He immediately wiped it against his pants, praying that he didn't have any open cuts, that he wouldn't run out of ammo, but there was another zom-bie, and another…… and then Claire was pulling him again and he stopped firing, let her lead him through the dark toward where the mining room was supposed to be. Behind them, zombies shuffled and wailed, giving slow motion chase. He tripped over a warm body and stepped on another, feeling something crunch underfoot, but as helpless and afraid as he felt, it was nothing to suddenly hearing Claire cry out in pain, to feel her fingers leave his arm. "Claire!" Terrified, Steve reached out for her, felt only air… "Watch your step, I stubbed my goddamn toe," Claire said irritably, no more than two feet away, and he felt his knees go weak. He could also feel a cold metal railing against his right shoulder – the steps to the mining room. They'd made it. Together, they climbed the few steps, Claire still in front and when she opened the door, real light spilled out in shafts, piercing the blackness. "Praise Jesus," Steve muttered, holding the door from behind as Claire stepped inside…… and before he could follow, he heard that disturbed, girlish giggling that he'd come to know and hate, and Claire had slipped one hand behind her back and was motioning him to freeze. He let go of the door and she didn't move, letting it settle on her hip as Alfred said something and she slowly raised both her hands. It seemed Alfred had gotten the drop on Claire…… but not on me, Steve thought, unaware that he was wearing a tight, grim smile. Alfred had a lot to answer for, but Steve was pretty certain that in another minute or two, he wasn't going to be saying much of anything, ever again. He had her. As he'd surmised, they – well, she had come to see about the tunnel, the one exit from the ter– minal that didn't require a key. She wasn't a stupid girl, by no means, but he was superior, in intellect and strat– egy. Among other things. Still standing in the doorway, Claire raised her hands, her expression annoyingly blank. Why wasn't she afraid? "Drop your weapon," Alfred snapped, his finger on the rifle's trigger. His voice, naturally amplified by the mining pit that took up most of the floor, emanated throughout the icy chamber, sounding authoritative and a bit cruel. He liked the strong sound of it, and knew it was effective when she let the handgun drop from her fingers without hesitating. "Kick it toward me," he commanded, and she did so, the weapon clattering across the concrete. He didn't pick it up, instead kicking it beneath the rail to his left, both of them listening to her only hope bounce away over frozen rocks, lost to the depths of the icy pit.
How wonderful, to exert such control! "What happened to your traveling companion?" he asked, sneering. "Has he met with an accident? Oh, and step away from the door, if you don't mind. And keep your hands when I can see them."
Claire edged forward, the door mostly closing behind her, and he saw a flash of some unhappy emotion cross her face, knew immediately that he'd scored a point. Less of a hot meal for father, it seemed, but he doubted the monstrosity would complain. "He's dead," she said simply. "What happened to Alexia? Or am I speaking to Alexia – you know, you two look so much alike…" "Shut your mouth, little girl," Alfred snarled. "You don't deserve to say her name. You already know that it's time for her return, that's why your people attacked Rockfort, to lure her out – or were you hoping to kill her outright, to cut short her first breath?"
Claire acted confused, determined to keep up her pre– tense, it seemed, but Alfred didn't want to hear any more of her lies. The game was losing interest for him.
In the face of Alexia's imminent triumph, everything had paled by comparison. "I already know it all," he snapped, "so don't bother. Now, if you'll come with me…"
Claire suddenly looked up and right, to the raised platform where the tunnel began. "Look out!" she shrieked, collapsing as Alfred spun around, seeing only the massive ice digger machine, the tunnel's dark entrance…… and the door had crashed open behind Claire, the boy diving in and landing on his side, pointing a weapon at him, at him. Furious, Alfred swung the rifle and pulled the trigger, three, four times, but he hadn't had enough time to tar– get properly, the explosive shots going wide…… and it was as though a giant hand suddenly shoved Alfred backward, taking his breath away, the boy firing and then clicking on empty, out of bullets. Alfred stumbled back another step and opened his mouth to laugh, ready to kill them both and, and the rifle wasn't in his hands anymore, he'd dropped it for somereason, and his laugh was only a wet, painful cough -
– and something gave way behind his back, and then he was falling into the mining pit. He landed on a thick crust of ice and started to get up, but there was a great, searing pain in his chest. Was it possible that he'd been shot? With barely a sound, the ice gave way all around him and he screamed, falling, he had to see her once more, had to touch her but he could hear his father screaming, too, coming for him, and then everything was lost in pain and dark. The sound of the terrible, monstrous howl that had risen up to meet Alfred's got them moving, Claire paus– ing just long enough to grab the Remington before climbing after Steve to the high platform. With Steve on empty and her own gun kicked into the pit, it was their only weapon. They clambered into the cab of the huge yellow ma– chine parked in front of the slanted, rising tunnel, Steve taking the wheel – and again, they heard that deep, in– sane scream, and it was definitely closer, the monster prisoner loose somewhere inside. Steve flipped a bunch of switches, nodding and mum-bling to himself as he went. Claire listened as she checked the rifle – only six rounds – gathering that the machine's digging device, an enormous screw-looking thing, actually heated up to melt the ice. She didn't care what it did, as long as it got them out before the monster came looking for them. With the heavy machine humming to life, Steve ex– plained that the tunnel was probably unfinished because the workers would have had to go slowly and without using the heating element, to avoid flooding half the fa– cility, "But we don't," he said, grinning. "What do you say we make a lake?" "Go for it," she said, grinning back at him, wishing she felt a little more enthusiastic. God, they were getting out, and with Alfred Ashford finally dead, there was no one standing in their way. So why was she still so uncertain?
It's that shit he was babbling about his sister…
Crazy, yeah, but it had brought up the one question she still didn't
have an answer for – why had Rockfort been attacked?
Steve jammed on the throttle and the machine lurched
forward. There weren't seat belts, so Claire put one
hand on the roof, the digger bouncing almost as much as
their plane had right before it crashed. Their view was
mostly blocked by the giant twisting screw-thing, but it
was obvious when they hit the end of the tunnel, big-
time.
The noise was incredible, deafening, like rocks in a
blender times a hundred. There was a burning steam
smell, and as they inched forward through total black-
ness, she could hear the thaw even over the digging, as
torrents of water rushed past the cab.
The grinding, waterfall noises seemed to go on for-
ever as they continued to climb – and then the machine
stuttered, jerking, and the treads were straining – and
sudden light flooded into the cab, gray and shadowy and
beautiful.
The digger crawled out of its brand-new hole near a
standing tower, Claire recognizing it as a helipad even
as Steve pointed out the snow-cats parked near the base.
It was snowing, fat wet flakes spinning down from a
slate sky, the humid cold seeping into the cab before
they'd been on the surface a minute. There was a wind
blowing, the snow angled slightly – not a big wind, but
steady.
" 'Copter or 'cat?" Steve asked lightly, but she could
see that he was starting to shiver. So was she.
"Your call, fly boy," she said. A helicopter would be
faster, but staying on the ground seemed safer. "Can we
even take off in this?"
"As long as it doesn't get any worse," he said, looking
up at the tower, but he didn't seem sure. She was about
to recommend one of the 'cats when he shrugged, push-
ing his door open and sliding out, calling back over his
shoulder.
"I say we hit the tower, fly girl," he said. "We can at
least see if there's actually a choice."
She got out, too, craning her neck back, but she couldn't see the top of the tower, either. And it was cold, frostbite cold. "Whatever, let's just hurry," Claire said, slinging the rifle over her shoulder. Steve jogged for the stairs, Claire following, freezing but exhilarated, suddenly totally high on being free to choose, to decide what they wanted to do, how they wanted to do it. And either way, they'd be at the Aus– tralian station in an hour or so, wrapped in blankets and drinking something hot and telling their story. Well, at least the more believable parts, she thought, climbing the recently sanded stairs after him. Even the most open-minded people in the world wouldn't believe half of what they'd been through. Her happiness was wearing thin as they neared the top, three stories later, her teeth chattering it away – and when Steve turned around, frowning, she no longer cared about much of anything beyond getting warm. "There's no helicopter," he said, snow starting to stick to his hair. "I guess we'll…" He saw something behind her and his face suddenly contorted with horror and surprise. He reached out to pull her up but she was already moving. "Go!" she said, and he turned and bolted up the stairs, Claire barely a half step behind him. She didn't know what he'd seen -
–yes you do
– but from the look on his face, she knew she didn't want it behind her.
It's the thing, the monster, it was loose and now it's coming for you, her fear helpfully provided, and then Steve was grabbing her arm and jerking her up the last few steps. She stumbled onto a giant, empty, square platform, the landing lines mostly obscured by fresh snow, a gray haze of anomalous fog making it hard to see clearly. "Give me the rifle," he breathed, and she ignored him, turned to see if it was true, if she would recognize the awful pain of the thing that had screamed so horri– bly – and as it gained the platform, she saw that it was true, and she recognized it with no trouble at all. She un-slung the rifle and backed away, motioning for Steve to stay behind her.
Alfred woke up in a world of pain. He could barely breathe, and there was blood on his face and in his nose and mouth, and when he tried to move, the agony was instant and overwhelming. Every inch of bone was bro– ken, cut or smashed or punctured, and he knew he was going to die. All that was left was his surrender to the dark. He was very afraid, but he ached so badly that per– haps sleep would be best…… Alexia… He couldn't give up, not when he'd been so close, not when he was still so close. He forced his eyes to open, and saw through a thin red haze that he was on one of the lower level platforms that jutted out into the mining pit. He'd fallen at least three levels, perhaps as many as five. "Aa…lexi…iaa," he whispered, and felt blood bubbling up from his chest, felt bones grinding as he shifted, felt afraid of the pain he'd have to endure – but he would go to her, because she was his heart, his great love, and he would be sustained by his name on her lips.