by S. D. Perry
Chapter Three
AS TERRIBLE AND DISHEARTENING AS THE DE-struction to Rockfort, Alfred couldn't deny that he en - joyed putting down a few of his subordinates on the way to the training facility's main control room. He'd had no idea how gratifying it could be to see them sick and dying, reaching for him in hunger - the same men who'd sneered at him behind his back, who'd called him abnor - mal, who had pretended allegiance with their fingers crossed - and then expiring by his hand. There were lis - tening devices and hidden cameras throughout the com-pound, installed by his own paranoid father, a hidden monitor room in the private residence; Alfred had known all along that he wasn't liked, that the Umbrella employ - ees feared but didn't respect him as he deserved.
And now. . .
Now it didn't matter, he thought, smiling, stepping out of the elevator to see John Barton at the other end of the hall, staggering toward him with outstretched arms. Barton had been responsible for training Umbrella's growing militia in small arms, at least at the Rockfort compound, and had been a loud, vulgar barbarian swaggering around with his cheap cigars, flexing his ridiculously bloated muscles, always sweating, always laughing. The pale, blood-drenched creature stumbling toward him bore little resemblance, but was undoubt - edly the same man. "You're not laughing anymore, Mr. Barton," Alfred said rightly, raising his. 22 rifle, using the sight to put a tiny red dot over the trainer's bloodshot left eye. The drooling, moaning Barton didn't notice. . .
Bam!
. . . although he surely would have appreciated Al - fred's excellent aim and choice of ammunition. The. 22 was loaded with safety slugs, rounds designed to spread out on impact - designated "safe" because the bullet wouldn't go through the target and injure anyone else. Alfred's shot obliterated Barton's eye and certainly a goodly part of his brain, rendering him harmless and quite dead. The large man crumpled to the floor, a pud - dle of blood spreading out beneath him. Some of the BOWs were unnerving to him, and he was relieved that most had either been locked down in various parts of the training facility or had been killed outright - he certainly wouldn't be wandering around if there were more than a few on the loose, but he didn't find the virus carriers to be particularly frightening. Al - fred had seen many men - and a number of women, as Well - turned into these zombie-like creatures by way of the T-virus, experiments that he'd witnessed throughout his childhood, that he'd directed himself as an adult. In fact, there were never more than fifty or sixty prisoners living at Rockfort at a time; between Dr. Stoker, the anatomist and researcher who'd worked at the "infir - mary," and the constant need for training targets and spare parts, no one incarcerated at the compound en - joyed Umbrella's hospitality for more than six months.
And where will we all be six months from now, I wonder?
Alfred stepped over Barton's swollen corpse, walking toward the control room to call his Umbrella HQ con - tacts. Would Umbrella choose to rebuild at Rockfort? Would he agree to it? He and Alexia had been perfectly safe from the virus during its "hot" stage, both pathways between the rest of the facility and their private home locked down throughout most of the air attack, but knowing that Umbrella's nameless enemy was willing to resort to such extreme measures, did he really want to risk refitting a laboratory so near their home? The Ash - fords feared nothing, but neither were they reckless.
Alexia would never agree to closing the facility, not now, not when she's so close to her goal. . .
Alfred stopped in his tracks, staring at the banks of radio and video equipment, at the blank computer screens that stared back at him with wide dead eyes. He stared but didn't see, a strange emptiness opening up inside of him, confusing him. Where was Alexia? What goal?
Gone. She's gone.
It was true, he could feel it in his bones - but how could she leave him, how could she when she knew that she was his heart, that he would die without her?
The monstrosity, screaming and blind, a failure and it was cold, so cold, the queen ant naked, suspended in the sea and he couldn 't touch her, could only feel the cold unyielding glass beneath his longing fingers. . .
Alfred gasped, the nightmare imagery so real, so hor - rid that he didn't know where he was, didn't know what he was doing. Distantly, he felt his hands clenching tighter and tighter around something, the muscles of his arms shaking. . . . . . and there was a burst of static from the console in front of him, loud and crackling, and Alfred realized that somebody was speaking.
". . . please, if anyone can hear me - this is Doctor Mario Tica, in the second floor lab," the voice was say - ing, breaking with fear. "I'm locked in, and all the tanks have gone down, they're waking up. . . please, you have to help me, I'm not infected, I'm in a suit, swear to God, you gotta get me out of here. . . "
Dr. Tica, locked in the embryo tank room. Tica, who had long been sending private reports to Umbrella about his progress with the Albinoid project, secret reports that were different than the ones he showed Alfred. Alexia had suggested that Tica be sent to Dr. Stoker some months ago. . . wouldn't she be amused, to hear him now? Alfred reached over and turned off Tica's babbling plea, suddenly feeling much better. Alexia had warned him time and again about his peculiar episodes, the flashes of intense loneliness and confusion - stress, she insisted, telling him that he was not to take them seri - ously, that she would never leave him voluntarily. She loved him too much for that. Thinking of her, thinking of all the trouble and pain that Umbrella's incompetent defenses had brought about for them both, Alfred abruptly decided not to place his uplink call. HQ had certainly heard about the attack by now, and would be sending a cleanup crew soon enough; really, there was no need to speak with them. . . and be - sides, they didn't deserve to hear his observations of the situation, to have foreknowledge of the dangers they'd be facing. He was no employee, no ignorant lackey who had to report to his superiors. The Ashfords had created Umbrella; they should be reporting to him.
And I did speak to Jackson only a week ago, about the Redfield girl. . .
Alfred felt his eyes widen, his mind working madly. Claire Redfield, sister to Chris Redfield, he of the meddle - some S. T. A. R. S. holdouts, had arrived mere hours before the attack. She had been caught in Paris, inside Umbrella's HQ Administration building, claiming to be searching for her brother - and they'd sent her to him, to keep her locked up while they decided what to do with her. But. . . what if the plan had been to lure her brother out into the open, to crush his ridiculous insurrection once and for all, a plan they'd conveniently forgotten to tell him? And what if she'd been followed to Rockfort by Redfield and his comrades, her very presence a sig - nal for them to attack. . . . . . or perhaps even allowed herself to be captured in the first place?
It was as if a puzzle was falling into place. Of course, of course she had. Clever girl, she'd played her part well. Whether or not Umbrella had unwittingly encour - aged the attack didn't matter, not now, he would deal with them later; what mattered was that the Redfield witch had brought the enemy to Rockfort, and she might still be alive, stealing information, spying, perhaps even planning to, to hurt his Alexia. . . "No," he breathed, the fear immediately transforming into fury. Obviously that had been her plan all along, to do as much damage to Umbrella as possible and Alexia was undoubtedly the brightest scientific mind working in bioweapons research, perhaps the brightest in any field. Claire wouldn't get away with it. He'd find her. . . or, better yet, wait for her to come to him, as she surely would. He could watch for her, lay in wait like a hunter, the girl his prey.
And why kill her immediately, when you could have so much fun with her first? It was Alexia's voice in his thoughts, reminding him of their childhood games, the pleasure they'd shared in their own experiments, creat - ing environments of pain, watching things suffer and die. It had forged the bond between them in steel, to share such intimate things. . . . . . I can keep her alive, let Alexia play with her. . . or better, I could invent a maze for her, see how she fares against some of our pets. . .
There were many possibilities. With few exceptions, Alfred could unlock all the doors on the island by computer; he could easily lead her wherever he wanted, and kill her at his discre-
tion. Claire Redfield had underestimated him, they all had, but no more. . . and if things worked out the way Alfred was starting to hope, the day would end on a much hap - pier note than the dismal discord which had marked its beginning.
If there were infected dogs roaming the grounds, theywere hiding. The open yard Claire stepped into was lit - tered with corpses, their flesh a sickly gray beneath the pale moonlight except for where the countless splashes of blood had fallen; no dogs, nothing moving except the low clouds scudding across the thickening night sky. Claire stood for a moment, watching the shadows, want - ing to make sure of her surroundings before leaving the exit behind. "Steve," she whispered harshly, afraid to shout for fear of what might be lurking. Unfortunately, Steve Burnside was as scarce as the howling dog she'd heard; he hadn't just wandered away, it seemed, he'd taken off at a sprint. Why? Why would he choose to be alone? Maybe she was wrong, but Steve's bit about not wanting to be slowed down just didn't ring true. When she'd unknow - ingly stumbled into the Raccoon nightmare, running into Leon had made all the difference in the world; theyhadn't stuck together the entire time, but just knowing that there was someone else as shocked and scared as she was. . . instead of feeling helpless and isolated, she'd been able to form clear objectives, goals beyond mere survival - finding transportation out of the city, looking for Chris, taking care of Sherry Birkin.
And simply from a safety standpoint, having someone to watch your back is a hell of a lot better than going it solo, no question.
Whatever his reason, she was going to do her damnedest to talk him out of it, assuming she could find him. The yard in front of her was much bigger than the one she'd just stepped out of, a long, one-story cabin to her right, a wall without doors to her left, the back of a larger building, perhaps. A low fire was burning in one of the wall's broken windows, and there was plenty of debris strewn among the dead, evidence of the force - ful attack. To her immediate right was a locked gate, a moonlit dirt path on the other side, and a closed door. . . which meant that Steve was either in the cabin or had gone around it, using the trail at the far end of the yard that also headed to the right. She decided to try the cabin first. . . and as she hopped the few steps up to the railed porch that ran most of the length of the building, she found herself wonder-ing who had attacked Rockfort, and why. Rodrigo had said something about a special forces team, but if that was true, whose orders were they following? It seemed that Umbrella had its share of enemies, which was defi - nitely good news - but the island attack was a tragedy nonetheless. Prisoners had died along with employees, and the T-virus - perhaps the G-virus, too, and God only knows how many others - didn't differentiate between the guilty and the innocent. She had reached the plain wooden door of the cabin, and holding the 9mm at the ready, she gently pushed it open and immediately closed it, her course decided by the two virus carriers she'd seen inside, both stumbling around a table. A second later there was a thump at the door, a low, pitiful moan filtering out. The trail it is, then. She doubted that the cocksure Steve would have left anyone standing if he had gone into the cabin, and she probably would have heard the shots. . .
. . . unless they got him first.
Claire didn't like it, but the grim reality of her situation was mat she couldn't afford to waste the ammo to find out. She'd follow the path, see where that led and if she couldn't find him then, he was on his own. She wanted to do the right thing, but she also felt pretty strongly about saving her own ass; she had to get back to Paris, to Chris and the others, which she certainly couldn't do if she blew her ammo and ended up being someone's lunch. She moved back along the porch, all of her senses on high as she neared the end of the building. She hadn't forgotten about the zombie dog or dogs, and listened for the patter of claws against dirt, for the heavy panting that she remembered from her previous experience in Raccoon. The damp, chill night was quiet, a shivering breeze sweeping lightly through the yard, the only breathing she heard her own. A quick glance around the corner of the cabin; noth-ing, only a man's body lying half in and half out of the building's crawl space, some five meters away. Another ten past that and the path turned right again, much to Claire's relief - she'd seen that leg of the trail through the locked gate, and it had been empty then.
So he must have gone through that door, the one on the west wall. . . It was also a relief to know something, to know anything certain when it came to Umbrella. She started down the path, thinking about what it would take to convince the macho teen to stay with her. Maybe if she told him about Raccoon, explained that she'd had some practice with Umbrella disasters. . . Claire was just about to step over the lone corpse's upper body when it moved. She jumped back, her semi pointed at the man's bloody head, her heart hammering - and she realized that he was dead, that someone or something in the shadows of the crawl space was pulling him inside by his legs, a strong and steady series of jerks. . .
. . . like a dog backing up with something heavy in its jaws.
She didn't think anything after that, instinctively leap - ing over the dead man and sprinting away, aware that the dog - if that's what it was - wouldn't be preoccupied for - ever. The realization that it had been less than a meter away lent her speed as she took the corner, her boots slap - ping against the wet, hard packed earth, her arms pump - ing. Zombies were slow, uncoordinated; the dogs that both she and Leon had run across were vicious and lightning quick. Even armed, she wasn't interested in facing off with one of them, a single bite and she'd be infected, too. Arrroooooo! The gurgling howl came from farther away than the crawl space, from somewhere back in the front part of the yard. Shit, how many. . . Didn't matter, she was almost there, her salvation ahead on the left. Not daring to look back, she didn't slow down a step until she reached the door, grabbed the handle and shoved. It opened easily, and since she didn't see anything with teeth directly in front of her, she jumped in and slammed the door be - hind her. . . . . . only to hear the multiple wails of zombies, to smell the feverish rot of the dying virus carriers even as some - thing crashed into the door at her back and began to claw at it, growling like some feral monster. How many dogs, how many zombies? The thought flashed through her panicked mind, the need to conserve ammo deeply ingrained after Raccoon, and what if I'm about to hit a dead end? She almost turned back in spite of the risk, until she saw where the zombies were. The passage she'd entered was thick with gloom, but she could see several stumbling men locked in a caged area to her left, all of them pretty far gone. One of them was beating on the mesh door, its nearly skeletal hands hanging with ribbons of damaged tissue, oblivious to the pain of its disintegrating body.
Must be the kennel. . .
Claire took a few steps farther in, focusing worriedly on the simple and somewhat flimsy lock holding the door closed - and saw the three uncaged zombies just as the first was reaching for her, its gaping mouth dripping with saliva and some other dark fluid, its bony fingers stretching out to touch her. She'd been so intent on the caged creatures, she hadn't realized that there were more of them. She reflexively dropped her weight and snapped her left leg into its chest, a solid and effective side kick that knocked the creature back. She could feel her boot sink into its deteriorating flesh but didn't have time for dis - gust, already bringing the 9mm up. . . . . . and with a thin metallic crash, the kennel door banged open, and suddenly she was facing seven instead of three. They crowded toward her, clumsily maneuver - ing past a Dumpster, a few barrels, the bodies of their fallen brethren. Bam! She shot the closest one without thinking, a neat hole punching through its right temple, understand - ing that she was doomed as it crumpled and hit the dirt. Too many, too tightly grouped, she'd never make it -
- the barrels! One of them was marked flammable, same trick I used in Paris. . .
Claire dove for cover behi
nd the Dumpster, switching the gun to her left hand as she landed. The target marked in her mind's eye, she came up shooting, only her arm curling around the Dumpster as the confused zombies teetered and searched, moaning hungrily. . .
Bam! Bam! B. . . . . . KA-BLAM!
The Dumpster slammed into her right shoulder, knocking her over backward. She curled into a ball on her side, ears ringing, as jagged, burning shreds of metal rained down from above, clattering atop the Dumpster, a few of them landing on her left leg. She slapped them off, scarcely able to believe that it had worked, that she was still alive. She sat up, pushing herself into a crouch, looking out at what remained of her assailants. Only one of them was still whole, leaning heavily on the kennel, its clothes and hair on fire; the upper body of a second was trying to crawl toward her, its black and bubbling skin sloughing off as it inched forward. The rest were in pieces, the burning earth licking up to claim the pathetic remains as its own. Claire quickly dispatched the two left alive, her heart aching a little at the dismal end these people had come to. Ever since Raccoon City, her dreams were haunted by zombies, by the stinking, dripping creatures that sought live flesh as sustenance. Umbrella had uninten - tionally created these particular monsters, like night - marish walking corpses straight out of the movies, and it was kill or be killed, there was no choice.
Except they were people not so long ago. People with families and lives, who hadn't deserved to die in such terrible ways, no matter what evils they may have com-mitted. She looked down at the poor burned bodies, feeling almost sick with pity and a low but insistent fever of hatred for Umbrella.
Claire shook her head and did her best to let it go, aware that allowing herself to carry all that pain might make her hesitate at some crucial moment. Like a soldier at war, she couldn't afford to humanize the enemy. . . al - though she had no doubts as to who the real enemy was, and she hoped fervently that Umbrella's leaders would all burn in hell for what they'd done. Not wanting to be surprised again, she carefully and thoroughly checked the passage's shadows in her evalu - ation of next-step choices. In the back of the kennel was an actual guillotine, stained with what appeared to be real blood. Just looking at it made her shudder, remind - ing her of RPD's Chief Irons, and his hidden dungeon; Irons had been living proof that Umbrella didn't run psych tests on their undercover employees. Behind the nasty execution device was a door, but Steve obviously hadn't gone that way, not with the zombies locked in. Next to the kennel was a kind of metal sliding shutter, but it wouldn't open. . . and next to that, the only door he could have gone through, because the passage was a dead end just past it. Claire walked to the door, suddenly feeling very tired and very old, her emotions spent. She checked the hand - gun and then reached for the handle, absently wonder - ing if she would ever see her brother again. Sometimes holding on to her hope was a tremendous burden, made all the heavier because she couldn't set it aside, not even for a moment.
Steve jumped when he heard the explosion outside, reflexively looking around at the small, cluttered office as though expecting the walls to crumble. After a few beats he relaxed, figuring it was probably just another heat blast, nothing to worry about. Ever since the attack, the unchecked fires burning throughout the prison com-pound occasionally rolled over something combustible, a canister of oxygen or kerosene or whatever, and then ker-blooey, another explosion. It was just such a blast that had kept him alive, actu - ally - he'd been knocked out by a flying chunk of wall when an oil barrel had blown up, the debris covering him completely, hiding him. When he'd finally come to, the big zombie chow-down was pretty much over, most of the prison guards and prisoners already dead. . . Bad train of thought. He shook it off and returned his attention to the computer screen, to the file directory he'd stumbled across while trying to find a map of the island. Some dumbass had written the pass code number on a sticky note and slapped it on the hard drive, giving him easy access to some obviously secret stuff. Too bad most of it was dull as dishwater - prison budgeting, names and dates he didn't recognize, information about some kind of special alloy that metal detectors couldn't pick up. . . that one was kind of interesting, considering he'd had to walk through a two-way lockdown metal de - tector to get to the office, but three or four well-placed bullets to the mechanism had taken care of that. Good thing, too; he'd found one of the main gate emblem keys tucked in a desk drawer, which would definitely have triggered a lockdown on his way back through.
All I need is a goddamn map to the nearest boat or plane and I'm history. He'd pick up the chick after he cleared a path, too, play the knight in shining armor. . . . . . and she'd undoubtedly be appreciative, maybe even enough to want to. . . A name on the file directory caught his eye. Steve frowned, peering closer at the screen. There was a folder labeled Redfield, C. . . as in Claire Redfield? He tapped it up, curious, and was still reading, totally ab - sorbed, when he heard a noise behind him. He scooped his gun off the counter and spun around, mentally kicking himself for not paying better atten - tion and there was Claire, her own weapon pointing at the floor, a slightly irritated look on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked casually, as if she hadn't just scared the crap out of him. "And how did you get past the zombies outside?" "I ran," he answered, annoyed by the question. Did she think he was helpless or something? "And I'm looking for a map. . . hey, are you related to a Christopher Redfield?" Claire frowned. "Chris is my brother. Why?" Siblings. That explains it. Steve motioned toward the computer, vaguely wondering if the entire Redfield clan kicked ass. Her brother sure as hell did, ex-Air Force pilot and S. T. A. R. S. team member, a competition marksman and a serious thorn in Umbrella's side. No way he would have admitted it out loud, but Steve was kind of impressed.
"You might want to tell him that Umbrella's got him under surveillance," he said, stepping back so she could read what was on the screen. Apparently Redfield was in Paris, though Umbrella hadn't managed to locate his exact whereabouts. Steve was glad that he'd run across a file that meant something to her; a little gratitude from a pretty girl was always a good thing. Claire scanned the info and then tapped a few keys, glancing back at him with a look of relief. "Thank God for private satellites. I can get through to Leon, he's a friend, he should have hooked up with Chris by now. . . "
She'd already started typing, absently explaining her - self as her fingers moved across the keys. ". . . there's a
message board we both use. . . there, see? 'Contact ASAP, the gang's all here. ' He posted the night I was caught. "
Steve shrugged, not really interested in the life and times of Claire's pals. "Go back a file, the longitude and latitude of this rock are written down," he said, smiling a little. "Why don't you send your brother directions, let him come save the day?"
He expected another irritated look, but Claire only nodded, her expression dead serious. "Good idea. I'll say there's been a spill at these coordinates. They'll know what I mean. " She was pretty, all right, but also pretty naive. "That was a. joke," he said, shaking his head. They were in the middle of nowhere. She was staring at him. "Hilarious. I'll tell it to Chris when he shows up. "
Entirely without warning, a fiery rage welled up in - side of him, a tornado of anger and despair and a whole bunch of feelings he couldn't even begin to understand. What he did understand was that little Miss Claire was wrong, she was stupid and snotty and wrong.
"Are you kidding? You actually expect him to show, with what's going on here? And look at the coordi - nates!" The words came out hot and fast and louder than he intended, but he didn't care. "Don't be such an idiot - believe me, you can't depend on people like that, you'll only get hurt in the end, and then you'll have no-body to blame but yourself!"
Now she was looking at him like he'd lost his mind, and on top of his fury came a crushing wave of shame, that he'd freak out for no good reason. He could feel tears threatening, only adding to his humiliation, and there was no way he was going to cry in front of her like some baby, no way. Before she could say a
nything, he turned and ran, blushing furiously.
"Steve, wait!"
He slammed the office door behind him and kept going, wanting only to get out, to get away, hell with the map, I've got the key, I'll figure something out and I'll kill anything that tries to stop me. . . Through the long hall, past the dead metal detector and out, his weapon ready, a part of him bitterly disap - pointed as he ran past the kennel, twice nearly tripping over wet and smoldering body parts - there was nothing to shoot, no one to blast into oblivion, to make him stop feeling whatever it was he was feeling. He barreled through the door that came out behind the bunkhouse and started around the long building, sweat-ing, his heart pounding, his thick hair sticking to his scalp in spite of the cold air - and he was so focused on his own strange madness, his need to run, that he didn't see or hear anything coming until it was almost too late. Wham, something hit him from behind, knocking him sprawling. Steve immediately rolled onto his back, a sudden mortal terror blocking out everything else - and there were two of them, two of the prison's guard dogs, one of them circling back from having jumped on him, the other growling deep in its throat, its legs stiff and head down as it slowly approached.
Jesus, look at 'em. . .
They had been rottweilers, but not anymore; they'd been infected, he could see it in their glazed red eyes and dripping muzzles, in the strange new ridges of mus - cle that flexed and bunched beneath their almost slimy-looking coats. And for the first time since the attack, the immensity of Umbrella's craziness - their secret experi - ments, their ridiculous cloak and dagger mentality - re - ally hit home. Steve liked dogs, a hell of a lot more than he liked most people, and what had happened to these two poor animals wasn't fair.
Not fair, wrong place at the wrong time, I didn't de-serve any of this, I didn 't do anything wrong. . .
He wasn't even aware that the object of his pity had changed, that he was admitting to himself how shitty things really were, how badly he'd been screwed; he didn't have time to notice. It had been less than a second since he'd rolled onto his back, and the dogs were get - ting ready to attack. It was over in another second, the time it took to pull the trigger once, pivot, pull it again. Both animals went down instantly, the first taking it in the head, the second, in the chest. The second dog let out a single yip of pain or fear or surprise before it collapsed in the mud, and Steve's hatred for Umbrella multiplied exponentially with that strangled sound, his mind repeating again and again how unfair it all was as he crawled to his feet and broke into a stumbling run. He had the key to the prison gate; he wasn't going to be their captive anymore. Time for a little payback, he thought grimly, suddenly hoping, praying that he crossed paths with one of them, one of the sick, decision-making asshole bastards who worked for Umbrella. Maybe if he got to hear them beg for death, maybe then he'd feel a little better.