.. but not if you stay on the headstones.
There were multiple zombies to either side of the center row of graves, but only one standing at the end of the line, directly in front of her … and that one barely functional, an eye gouged out, an arm broken and hanging. It was a risky plan, one stumble and she was toast, but the burned man was already reaching for her ankle with his charred and shaking hands, rain sizzling on his upturned face. Claire leaped, arms wheeling as she landed with both feet on the narrow top of the next stone slab in line. She started to pitch forward, jerking and swiveling her body to maintain her center of gravity, but it was no good, she was going to fall –
– and without thinking, she quickly jumped again, then again, using the uneven stones like rocks in a river, using her lack of balance to propel her forward. An ashen-faced virus carrier snatched at her lower legs, moaning in feverish hunger, but she was already past it, leaping to the next headstone. She didn't have time to consider how she was going to stop, which was just as well because the unlikely path ran out one jump later and her next leap was into a sloppy shoulder roll against the muddy ground a meter below. Oof, a hard drop, but she followed through and came up on her feet, just barely, her legs sliding unsteadily in the muck. The one-eyed zombie lurched toward her, gurgling, within easy reach, but she quickly stumbled around it, keeping on its blind side, the knife ready. The creature attempted to turn, to find its meal once more, but she easily stayed out of its limited sight. She risked a glance away from her awkward, shuffling dance and saw the other zombies closing in. The rain intensified, sluicing the mud off of her. It's working, just another few seconds… Frustrated by its lack of success, the half-blinded carrier pawed at the air with its one good arm. The dirty, blackened nails scraped across her chest and the zombie moaned anxiously, scrabbling at the wet denim, but it couldn't get a solid grip. God, it's touching me.
With a wordless cry of fear and disgust Claire slashed out with the knife, deep, nearly bloodless cuts opening up across its wrist. The zombie continued to clutch at her, oblivious to the damage she was doing as it staggered closer, and Claire decided that it was time to leave. She pulled her arms back, hands fisted, and then drove them forward into the creature's chest, pushing as hard as
she could. She turned again to the center line of graves as the creature fell backward, the others much closer now. How she managed to climb back up so quickly she didn't know; one second she was on the ground, the next she was on top of beveled granite. She saw that the exit was clear, the zombies now loosely grouped near the west wall. Her hopping second journey along the headstones was only slightly more controlled than the first, each leap like a leap of faith, that she wouldn't slip and seriously injure herself. The rain was tapering off, and she could hear the wet, sucking sounds of their plodding, slow-motion chase clearly; unless one of them suddenly remembered how to jog, they were too far away to catch up to her.
Now I just have to pray that the door isn't secured,
she thought dizzily, jumping down from the last headstone. The gate was standing open, but the door just past it wasn't; if it turned out to be locked, she was probably doomed. Three giant strides from where she landed, she was through the gate and reaching for the handle of a dented metal door, the exit set into the stone wall. It clicked open smoothly and she held the knife ready, hoping that if there were more carriers on the other side, at least the odds might be better. Behind her, the chemical cannibals lamented their loss, moaning loudly as she stepped through. Some kind of courtyard, piled with pieces of random wreckage, overlooked by a low guard tower. There was an overturned transport vehicle to her left, a low fire burning inside. The night was coming on quickly but the moon was also rising, either full or close to it, and as she secured the door behind her, she could see there was no immediate danger no zombies headed toward her, anyway. There were several bodies strewn about, none of them moving, and she mentally crossed her fingers that at least one of them had a gun and some ammo. A brilliant light suddenly snapped on, a spotlight on the guard tower, the force of it instantly blinding her and as she instinctively looked away, the whining chatter of automatic fire broke out, bullets splashing in the mud at her feet. Blind and panicked, Claire dove for cover, the random thought that she might have been better off in that cell repeating itself through her terror.
The fighting had been over for some time, the last gunshots maybe an hour past, but Steve Burnside thought he might stay where he was for a while, just in case. Besides, it was still raining a little, a bitter ocean wind picking up. The guard tower was safe and dry, no
dead people and no zombies wandering around, and he'd be able to see anyone coming in plenty of time to head them off … with a little help from the machine gun mounted on the window ledge, of course, a seriously kick-ass weapon. He'd mowed down all the courtyard zombies without breaking a sweat. He had a handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he'd taken off one of the past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not quite as much.
So, hang here another hour or so, assuming it doesn 't start pouring again, then go find a way off this rock.
He thought he could handle a plane, he'd seen his … he'd been in cockpits often enough, but he thought a boat might be better not as far to fall if he screwed the pooch, so to speak. Steve leaned casually against the cement window ledge, looking out over the moonlit courtyard, wondering if he should try to find a kitchen before ditching out. The guards hadn't gotten around to serving lunch, being as how they were all dying, and it seemed they didn't stock the tower room with doughnuts or whatever, he'd already looked. He was starving.
Maybe I should head for Europe, get myself some international cuisine. I can go anywhere I want now, anywhere at all. There's nothing holding me back.
The thought was supposed to get him excited for all the possibilities, but it didn't, it made him feel anxious and kind of weird, so he went back to considering his escape. The main gate that led out of the prison was locked down, but he figured if he searched enough guards, he'd find one of the emblem keys. He'd already run across the warden, the late Paul Steiner, but all his keys were gone. So was most of his face, Steve thought, not particularly unhappy about it. Steiner had been a serious dick, strutting around like he was King Turd of Shit Mountain, always smiling when another prisoner got led off to the infirmary. And nobody ever came back from the infirmary –
-snick. Steve froze, staring at the metal door straight across from the tower. The graveyard was on the other side, and he knew for a fact it was full of zombies, he'd sneaked a look right after plugging the courtyard corpses. Jesus, could they open doors? They were walking vegetables, mush brains, they weren't supposed to be able to open doors, and if they could do that, what else were they capable of…
… don't panic. You've got the machine gun, remember?
All of the other prisoners were dead. If it was a person, he or she was no friend of his … and if it wasn't human, or was a zombie, he'd be putting it out of its
misery. Either way, he wasn't going to hesitate, and he wasn't going to be afraid. Fear was for pussies. Steve grabbed for the searchlight handle with his right hand, his left already on the trigger guard of the heavy black rifle. As the door swung open, he swallowed dryly and snapped the light on, firing as soon as he had the target piimed down. The weapon rattled out a stream of bullets, the handle jouncing against his hand, rounds kicking up tiny fountains of mud. He caught a glimpse of something pink, a shirt maybe, and then his target was diving out of the line of fire, moving way too fast to be one of the cannibals. He'd heard about some of the monsters Umbrella had cooked up and machine gun or no, he hoped to God he wasn't about to meet one of them. I'm not afraid, I'm not… He tracked right with the searchlight and kept firing, a sudden anxious sweat on his brow. The person or thing was behind the protruding wall near the base of the tower, out of sight, but if he couldn't kill it, he could at least scare it away. Cement chips flew, the high-intensity beam illuminating the lower half of a dead pri
son guard, mud, and debris, but no target… … and there was a lightning flash of motion from behind the wall, a glimpse of pale, upturned face… BAM! BAM! BAM! … and the searchlight shattered, white-hot chunks of glass spraying across the tower room floor. Steve let out an involuntary yell as he jumped back from the machine gun, somebody was shooting at him, and he didn't care if it was pussy, he was about to shit his pants. "Don't shoot!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "I give!" It was dead silent for a few seconds, and then a cool female voice came out of the dark, low and somehow amused.
"Say Uncle."
Steve blinked uncertainly, confused and then remembered how to breathe again, feeling his cheeks go red as the fear fell away.
"I give," that was totally lame. So much for first impressions. "I'm coming down," he said, relieved that his voice didn't break this time, deciding that anyone who could make a joke after being shot at couldn't be all bad. If she was the enemy, he had the 9mm … but friendly or not, there was no way he was going to ask her not to shoot again, that would just make him look worse.
And it's a girl … maybe a pretty one…
He did his best to ignore the thought, no point in getting his hopes up. For all he knew, she was ninety-eight, bald, and smoked cigars … but even if she wasn't, even if she was a total hottie, he didn't want to end up taking
responsibility for any life besides his own, screw that shit. He was free now. Having someone count on you was almost as bad as having to depend on others… The thought was uncomfortable, and he pushed it aside. Anyway, the circumstances weren't exactly romantic, what with a bunch of diseased monsters running wild and death around every corner. Gross, slimy death, too, the kind with maggots and pus. Steve took the steps to the courtyard two at a time, his eyes adjusting to the post-searchlight dark as he stepped out to meet her. She stood in the center of the courtyard, a gun in hand … and as he got closer, it was all he could do not to stare. She was muddy and wet and about the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, her face like a model's, big eyes and fine, even features. Reddish hair in a dripping ponytail. An inch or two shorter than him, and about the same age, he thought he'd be eighteen in a couple of months, and she couldn't be much older. She wore jeans, boots, and a sleeveless pink vest over a tight black half tee, her flat stomach showing, the entire outfit accentuating her lean, athletic body … and although she looked tired and wary, her gray-blue eyes sparkled brightly.
Say something cool, play it cool no matter what…
Steve wanted to tell her he was sorry about firing at her, to tell her who he was and what had happened during the attack, to say something suave and worldly and interesting… "You're not a zombie," he blurted, inwardly cursing even as it came out. Brilliant. "No shit," she said mildly, and he suddenly realized that her weapon was pointing at him, she held it low, but she was definitely aiming it. Even as he froze she took a step back and raised the gun, watching him closely, her finger under the trigger guard and the muzzle only inches from his face. "And who the hell are you?"
The kid smiled. If he was nervous, he was doing a good job of not letting it show. Claire didn't take her finger off the trigger, but she was already half convinced that he was no threat to her. She'd shot out the light, but he easily could have strafed the yard and taken her down. "Relax, beautiful," he said, still smiling. "My name's Steve Burnside, I'm … I was a prisoner here." "Beautiful?" Oh, great. Nothing annoyed her more than being patronized. On the other hand, he was obviously younger than her, which probably meant he was just trying to assert his maleness, to be a man rather than a boy. In her experience, there were few things more ob-
noxious than someone trying to be something they weren't. He looked her up and down, obviously checking her out, and she took another step back, the gun unwavering; she wasn't going to take any chances. The weapon was an M93R, an Italian 9mm, an excellent handgun and apparently standard issue for the prison guards; Chris had one of them. She'd found it after diving for cover, next to the dead, outstretched fingers of a man in uniform … and if she shot the young Mr. Burnside with it at this range, most of his handsome face would be on the ground. He looked like an actor she'd seen before, the lead in that movie about the sinking ship; the resemblance was striking. "I'm guessing you're not from Umbrella, either," he said casually. "I'm sorry about opening up on you like that, by the way. I didn't think there was anyone else alive around here, so when the door opened…" He shrugged. "Anyway," he said, cocking an eyebrow, obviously trying to be charming. "What's your name?" There was no way Umbrella had hired this kid, she was more sure of it with each word out of his mouth. She slowly lowered the semiautomatic, wondering why Umbrella would want to imprison someone so young. They wanted to imprison you, remember? She was only nineteen. "Claire, Claire Redfield," she said. "I was brought here as a prisoner just today." "Talk about timing," Steve said, and she had to smile a little at that; she'd been thinking the same thing herself. "Claire, that's a nice name," he continued, looking into her eyes. "I'll definitely remember that." Oh, brother. She wondered if she should shut him down now or later she and Leon had gotten pretty tight and decided that later might be better. There was no question that she'd have to take him with her to look for an escape, and she didn't want to deal with his reproach along the way.
"Well, much as I'd like to hang around, I've got a plane to catch," he said, sighing melodramatically. "Assuming I can find one. I'll look for you before I take off. Be careful, this place is dangerous."
He started toward a door next to the guard tower, directly opposite from the one she'd come through.
"Catch you later."
She was so surprised that she almost couldn't find her voice in time. Was he nuts, or just stupid? He was at the door before she spoke up, jogging after him.
"Steve, wait! We should stick together…"
He turned and shook his head, his expression incredibly condescending. "I don't want you following me, okay? No offense, but you'll just slow me
down."
He smiled winningly again, working the eye contact as hard as he could. "And you'd definitely be a distraction. Look, just keep your eyes and ears open, you'll be fine."
He was through the door and gone before she could say anything. Dumbfounded and thoroughly annoyed, she watched the door settle closed, wondering how he had survived so far. His attitude suggested that he thought this was just one big video game, where he couldn't possibly get hurt or killed. It appeared that sheer bravado counted for something … the one thing teenaged boys seemed to have in abundance.
That and testosterone.
If being perceived as cool was his main concern, he wasn't going to make it very far. She had to go after him, she couldn't leave him to die…
Arroooooooo…
The terrible, lonely, ferocious sound that suddenly shattered the still night was one she'd heard before, in Raccoon City, and it was coming from behind the door that Steve had just gone through. There was no mistaking it for anything else. A dog, infected by the T-virus, turned from a domestic animal into a ruthless killer. After a fast search of the dead guards in the courtyard, she had two more full clips and part of a third. As ready as she was going to get, Claire took a few deep breaths and then slowly pushed the door open with the 9mm's barrel, hoping that Steve Burnside would stay lucky until she found him … and that by meeting him, her own luck hadn't just taken a serious turn for the worse.
THREE
As terrible and disheartening as the destruction to Rockfort, Alfred couldn't deny that he enjoyed 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 abnormal, who had pretended allegiance with their fingers crossed and then expiring by his hand. There were listening devices and hidden cameras throughout the compound, 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 employees 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 undoubtedly 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 Alfred'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 puddle 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. Alfred 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 "infirmary," and the constant need for training targets and spare parts, no one incarcerated at the compound enjoyed Umbrella's hospitality for more than six months.
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