by S. D. Perry
Chapter 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, actu
ally 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, bigtime.
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 blackness, 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 forever 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, pushing 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.
"Give me the rifle," Steve said again, watching the thing take its first stumbling step in their direction, but Claire wasn't listening. She had her eye to the scope, was seeing what he saw but under magnification - and what he saw was an abomination. Blindfolded, its hands tied behind its back, wearing only a shapeless and stained cut of leather knotted around its waist, the thing had suffered horribly, that much was clear; he could see the raised scars, the an - cient welts, bloody shackle marks around its ankles. It looked almost human, but for its oversized body and strange flesh - gray and mottled, sitting over lean mus - cles that had ruptured through in places, exposing raw tissue. Its torso was bare, and he could see a kind of pulsing redness in the center of its chest, a clear target, and for a few seconds, Steve thought they were safe after all, it doesn 't have any weapons. . . . . . and there was a splintering, cracking sound, and four asymmetrical appendages, like the jointed legs of an insect, unfolded from its back and upper body, the longest easily ten feet, curling from its right shoulder like a scorpion's tail. It reeled forward another step and some dark liquid was spraying from its body, from its chest or back. As the droplets struck the frozen ce - ment, a thick, purplish-green gas began to hiss upward from where they landed, blown by the snowy wind first one direction, then another. It rumbled out some heavy, wordless sound and took another step toward them, the new arms whip - ping around its hairless head, making it weave from side to side. It could barely keep its balance, and as the thought occurred to him, Steve was already run - ning.
Go in low, head down, knock it off while it's still at the edge. . . "Steve!" Claire screamed fearfully, but he was almost there, close enough for the acrid tinge of its self-pro-
duced gas to sear his nostrils, has to be poison, gotta keep it away from her. . .
. . . and just before he rammed into it, something vi - ciously shoved him, slammed into his back and pushed, sending him flying to the ground. "Steve!" Claire screamed again, this time in absolute horror, because he was skidding across the icy cement on his side, and though he tried to stop himself, scrab - bling at the frozen platform with frozen fingers, there was suddenly no platform left. Steve was only a few feet from the monster when its strange arm whipped down over them both, hitting Steve in the back and hurtling him to the side.
"Steve!"
Steve skipped across the frozen platform like a flat stone on water and disappeared over the edge.
Oh, my God, no!
Claire doubled over, the emotional pain hitting her like a physical blow, sharp and hard in her gut. He'd been trying to protect her, and it had cost him his life. For a second, she couldn't move or breathe, couldn't feel the cold, did
n't care about the monster. But only for a second. She looked at the stumbling, tortured animal stagger - ing toward her, knew without doubt that the fury they'd heard came from long, hard years of abuse, of experi - mentation, and felt nothing. Her heart had sealed itself up, her mind suddenly colder than her body. She straightened, jacking a round into the chamber of the rifle, appraising the situation with a clear eye. Obviously, she could outrun it, leave it on the plat - form and be a mile away before it found its way back down - but that wasn't an option, not anymore. Its death would be a mercy, but that didn't figure in to her calcu - lations, either. It killed Steve, and now I'm going to kill it, she thought coolly, and walked to the northwest corner of the plat - form, the farthest from the stairs. Its appendages flailing over its head, the monster wove around in a painfully slow half circle, its blind face finally turned in her direction. It let out another deep, gasping, mindless sound and its body vomited out more of that smoking liquid, some kind of acid or poison, probably. She wondered who had created such a thing, and how - this was no T-virus zombie, and from its abused and tormented state, it wasn't a BOW, either. She supposed she'd never know. Claire raised the rifle and looked through the scope, focusing in on the pulsating tissue in the center of its chest, then raising to target its blank gray face. She didn't know about the tissue mass at its heart, but she was sure it wouldn't survive a head shot by a 30. 06. She didn't want to waste time stalking it, or inflicting unnec - essary pain; she just wanted it dead. She aimed at the center of its forehead. It had a strong jaw and fine, straight nose beneath the puckered flesh, as though it had once been handsome, even aristocratic. Maybe it's another Ashford, she thought mockingly, and fired. The monster's head split apart, almost seemed to shatter as the round found its mark. Shards of bone and brain matter flew, all of it as gray as the gray sky, steam rising up from the broken bowl of its skull as it fell -
- first to its knees, the mutant arms spasming in the snowy air, then onto its ruined face. Claire felt nothing, no pleasure, no dismay, not even pity. It was dead, that was all, and it was time for her to go. She still didn't feel the cold, but her body was shak - ing violently, her teeth rattling, and she knew she had to get warm. . .
"Claire?"
The voice was weak and shuddering and unmistak - ably Steve's, coming from the platform's east edge. Claire stared at the empty space for a split second, en - tirely dumbfounded - and then ran, dropping to her hands and knees beneath the soft patter of snow, leaning out to see him awkwardly wrapped around a support post, clinging to the frozen metal with both arms and one leg. His face was almost blue with cold, but when he saw her, his eyes lit up, a look of incredible relief crossing his pale features. "You're alive," he said. "That's my line," she answered, dropping the rifle and bracing herself against the edge, leaning down to grab his arm. It was a struggle, but in another moment, Steve was back on the platform, and then they were on their knees, embracing, too cold to do anything but hang on. "I'm so sorry, Claire," he said miserably, his face buried in her shoulder. "I couldn't stop it. " Her heart had unsealed when she'd seen him alive, and now tightened painfully. He was all of seventeen years old, his whole life ripped apart by Umbrella, and he'd just very nearly died trying to save her life. Again. And he was sorry. "Don't worry, I got it this time," she said, determined not to cry. "You get the next one, okay?" Steve nodded, sitting back on his heels to look at her. "I will," he said, so vehemently that she had to smile. "Cool," she said, and crawled to her feet, reaching down to help him up. "That'll save me some work. Now let's go catch a 'cat, yes?"
Supporting each other and staying close for warmth, they made their way to the stairs, neither of them willing to let go.