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 contacts. 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 Ashfords 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 horrid 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 saying, 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 seriously, 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 besides, 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 meddlesome 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 signal 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 encouraged 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, creating 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 happier note than the dismal discord which had marked its beginning.
If there were infected dogs roaming the grounds, they were hiding. The open yard Claire stepped into was littered 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, wanting 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 unknowingly stumbled into the Raccoon nightmare, running into Leon had made all the difference in the world; they hadn'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 forceful 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 definitely good news but the island attack was a tragedy nonetheless. Prisoners had died along with employees, and the T-virus perhaps th
e 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; nothing, 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 leaping over the dead man and sprinting away, aware that the dog if that's what it was wouldn't be preoccupied forever. The realization that it had been less than a meter away lent her speed as she took the corner, her boots slapping against the wet, hard packed earth, her arms pumping. 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 behind her… … only to hear the multiple wails of zombies, to smell the feverish rot of the dying virus carriers even as something 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 disgust, 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 maneuvering 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, understanding 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 behind 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 unintentionally created these particular monsters, like nightmarish 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 committed. 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 … although 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 evaluation 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, reminding 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 handgun and then reached for the handle, absently wondering if she would ever see her brother again. Sometimes holding on to her hope was a tremendous burden, made all the heavie
r 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 compound 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, actually 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 detector 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 absorbed, when he heard a noise behind him. He scooped his gun off the counter and spun around, mentally kicking himself for not paying better attention 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.
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