"Maybe this Umbrella guy…" "Rodrigo," Claire interjected. "Okay, whatever," Steve said impatiently. "Maybe he knows something about these proof key things. Like where they are." Good idea. "It would beat searching the entire island,
wouldn't it?" Claire said. "You up for a trip back to the prison? Assuming we can get out of here, that is." "Oh, I'll clear us a path," Steve said, not a trace of doubt in his voice. "You just leave that part to me." Claire opened her mouth to comment on the pitfalls of overconfidence, particularly where Umbrella was concerned, then closed it again. Maybe it was his belief in himself that had carried him this far that by not accepting the possibility of defeat, he was assuring himself a win. Fine in theory, dangerous in practice. She'd be there to cover him, at least. "We were on the first floor of the training facility," he continued. "Which means we're in the basement now. I know from my…"
Steve shook his head, flustered for some reason, but before she could ask about it, he continued on as if nothing had happened.
"There's a boiler room, and a sewer area … basically, we go that way," he said, gesturing at the door. Claire decided not to point out that since it was the only door, she'd already come to that conclusion. "I'm right behind you." "Stay close," Steve said roughly, walking to the door and looking back over the shoulder, trying to look fierce, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Claire was torn between irritation and laughter, finally choosing to think of it as endearing. Then he was opening the door, and the reality of their situation came back to her, floating in on the smell of gangrenous tissue. She stopped worrying about the little things, concentrating on the need to survive. What Steve knew about guns he could sum up in about five seconds, but he knew what he liked. And he decided immediately upon pulling the trigger of his newest find that it was the shit, hands down. He stepped out of the freight elevator ready to kick some rotten ass, and saw his opportunity less than ten feet away. There were five of them in all well, five and a half, including the crawling mess on the floor over by the shelves and all he had to do was tap the trigger, and then he was trying like hell to keep the weapon from flying out of his hand. Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam… He swept the kicking gun left to right, releasing the trigger as the last zombie's swiss-cheese brain parted company with its swiss-cheese head. It was all over in just a few seconds, so fast that it seemed unreal like he'd coughed and a building had blown up or something. Claire had taken care of the floor pizza during his sweep, and when he turned around, triumphant, he was
a little surprised to see that she wasn't smiling … until he thought about it for a second, and then he felt a little ashamed of himself. As far as he was concerned, they weren't really people anymore. He knew that if he were ever infected he'd want someone to plug him, to keep him from hurting anyone else not to mention granting him a fast death, rather than letting him rot on the hoof.
But they were human, once. What happened to them was entirely shitty and unfair, no question.
True, and maybe he should be more respectful, but on the other hand, the gun was extremely cool, and they were zombies. It was a touchy subject, not one that he was prepared to mess around with, but he decided he could at least not laugh about it in front of Claire. He didn't want her to think he was some bloodthirsty asshole. He pointed at the door ahead and to the right, fairly sure that they were heading in the right direction, at least roughly. The way he figured it, they'd come out at least close to the front yard of the training facility. Claire nodded, and Steve led the way once again, pushing the door open and stepping through. They were standing at the top of a half flight of open stairs, leading down into the boiler room. A room full of big, battered-looking, hissing machinery, anyway, Steve didn't actually know what a boiler looked like. There were four zombies milling around between them and the steps leading up and out, on the other side of the cold, hissing room. Steve raised the machine gun and was about to fire when Claire tapped his arm, moving to stand beside him. "Watch," she said, and pointed her 9mm at the zombie group not quite, he saw, she was aiming low at something just past them… … and pow, BOOM, three of the creatures went down, blackened and smoking. Behind them, what was left of a small, obviously combustible container, only jagged curls of splayed metal surrounded by a smudge of toxic smoke. The fourth zombie had been hit, but not as hard. Claire took it out with a single head shot before speaking again. "Saves ammo," she said simply, and brushed past him to walk down the steps. Steve followed, slightly awed by her, but playing it detached, like he'd already thought of that. If there was one thing he knew about chicks, it was that they didn't like guys who mooned all over them, acting all goofy. Not that I give a shit what she thinks about me, he told himself firmly. She's just … kind of cool, is all. Claire reached the next door first, and waited until he caught up, nodded that he was ready. As soon as she opened it they both relaxed, he could see her shoulders loosen and felt his own heart beating again. A dark stone walkway, totally empty, open on one side. There was
water running somewhere below, and some kind of a narrow gate straight ahead, like an old-fashioned elevator door. "This is starting to seem a little too easy," Claire said softly. "Yeah," Steve whispered back. So much for Alfieboy's evil playground shtick. They were about halfway across when they heard it, echoing up from somewhere in the black running waters below a strangely high, piercing trill, inhuman but not like an animal, either. Whatever it was, it sounded extremely pissed and from the splashing noises, it was coming closer. Steve was ready to start shooting but Claire grabbed his arm and took off running, practically jerking him off his feet. They were at the lift in about two seconds, Claire ripping the gate aside and shoving him into a tiny elevator cab, jumping in after him and slamming the gate closed. "Okay, jeez, you don't have to push," Steve said, rubbing his arm indignantly. "Sorry," she said, pushing an errant strand of hair behind one ear, looking as rattled as he'd seen her get. "It's just … I've heard that sound before. Hunters, I think they're called, extremely bad news. There were a bunch of them loose in Raccoon."
She smiled shakily, which suddenly made him want to put his arm around her, or hold her hand or something. He didn't. "Brings up some bad memories, you know?" she said. Raccoon … that was the place that had been blown up a few months ago, if he remembered right, right before he'd come to Rockfort. The town's own police chief had done it. "Did Umbrella have something to do with Raccoon?"
Claire seemed surprised, but then smiled a little easier, turning her attention to the elevator controls.
"Long story. I'll tell you about it when we get out of here. So, first floor?" "Yeah," Steve said, then changed his mind. "Actually, maybe we should go up to the second. That way we can look out over the yard, see what we'll be up against." "You know, you're smarter than you look," Claire said teasingly, punching the button. Steve was still trying to think of a witty comeback when the elevator came to a stop, and Claire opened the door. There was a shuttered lockdown door to their right, so they went left, the short hallway empty. There was only one door in that direction, too, but they were in luck, the knob turned when Claire tried it. Again, there were no surprises. The door opened up to a cramped wooden balcony thick with dust, overlook-
ing a big room full of junk a rusted military Jeep, stacks of grungy old oil drums, broken boxes and the like. It seemed more like a storage shed than anything else, and though it was well lit, there were enough piles of crap that it was impossible to see if anyone was down there. There was, though, Steve could hear shuffling noises. He took a few steps to the left, trying to see the corner beneath the balcony, and Claire followed. The boards creaked and shifted beneath their steps. "Doesn't seem too sturdy…" Claire started, and was cut off by a giant, splintering craaack, pieces of the balcony floor flying up as both of them went down.
Shit.
Steve didn't even have time to tense for the impact, it was over so quick. He landed on his left side, jarring his shoulder, his left knee cracking against a random bit of wood. Almost immediately, a pyramid of empt
y barrels fell over behind him, clattering hollowly to the ground and Steve heard a zombie's hungry wail. "Claire?" Steve called, crawling to his feet and turning, looking for her and the zombie. There she was amid the barrels, still down, rubbing one ankle. Her handgun was about ten feet away. Steve saw her eyes go wide and followed her gaze, a lone zombie teetering toward her… … and all he could do was stare at it, his body suddenly a million miles away. Claire said something but he couldn't hear her, too intent on the virus carrier. It had been a big man, leaning toward fat, but someone had blasted off part of his gut. The open, sticky, belly wounds were seeping, the dark shirt made even darker by the almost uniform layer of blood that had soaked the cloth. It was gray-faced and hollow-eyed, like all of them, and had either bitten through its tongue or had been eating his, its mouth was smeared with blood. Claire said something else, but Steve was remembering something, a sudden, vivid flash of memory so real that it was almost like reliving the experience. He'd been four or five years old when his parents had taken him to his first parade, a Thanksgiving parade. He was sitting on his father's shoulder, watching the clowns go by, surrounded by loud, shouting people, and he'd started to cry. He couldn't remember why; what he remembered was his father looking up at him, his eyes concerned and full of love. When he'd asked what was wrong, his voice was so familiar and well-loved that Steve had wrapped his tiny arms around his father's neck and hidden his face, still crying but knowing he was safe, that no harm could come to him so long as his father held him…
"Steve!"
Claire, practically screaming his name and he saw that the zombie was almost on top of her, its gray fingers closing around her vest, pulling her up to its drooling, bloody mouth. Steve screamed, too, opening fire, the thunder of bullets ripping into his father's face and body, tearing him away from Claire. He kept firing, kept screaming until his father lay still and the thunder had stopped, only dry clicks coming from the gun, and then Claire was touching his shoulder, turning him away as he called out for his father, weeping. They sat for a while. When he could speak, he told her about it, parts of it, his arms around his knees and head down. Told her about his father, who had worked for Umbrella as a truck driver, who had been caught trying to steal a formula from one of their labs. He told her about his mother, who had been gunned down by a trio of Umbrella soldiers in their own home, lay choking and bloody and dying on the living room floor when Steve came home from school. The men had taken them away, taken Steve and his father to Rockfort. "I thought he was killed in the air strike," Steve said, wiping at his eyes. "I wanted to feel bad about it, I did, but I just kept thinking about Mom, about how she looked … but I didn't want him to die, I didn't, I … I loved him, too."
Saying it out loud made him start crying again. Claire's arm was around him but he barely felt it, so sad that he thought he might die. He knew he had to get up, he had to find the keys and go with Claire and fly the plane, but none of that seemed important anymore. Claire had been mostly quiet, only listening and holding him, but she stood up now and told him to stay where he was, that she'd be back soon and then they could leave. That was okay, it was good, he wanted to be alone. And he was more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life, so tired and heavy that he didn't want to move. Claire went away, and Steve decided that he should go looking for the proof keys soon, very soon, as soon as he stopped shaking.
SEVEN
In the cool darkness, rodrigo had been resting uneasily. Now he heard a noise out in the corridor, and forced himself to open his eyes, to get ready. He lifted his weapon, bracing his wrist on the desk when he realized he hadn't the strength to hold it up. I'll kill anyone who messes with me, he thought, more by habit than anything else, glad he had the gun even if he was already a dead man. A zombie guard had fallen
down the stairs and crawled into the cell room sometime after the girl had left, but Rodrigo had killed it with a boot to the head and taken its weapon, still holstered on its broken hip. He waited, wishing that he could go back to sleep, trying to stay alert. The gun eased his mind, took away a lot of his fear. He was going to die soon, it was inevitable … but he didn't want to become one of them, no matter what. Suicide was supposed to be a particularly awful sin, but he also knew that if he couldn't manage to wipe out an approaching virus carrier, he'd eat a bullet before he let it touch him. He was probably going to hell, anyway. Footsteps, and someone was walking into the room, too fast. A zombie? His senses weren't working right, he couldn't tell if things were speeding up or he was slowing down, but he knew he had to shoot soon or he'd miss his chance. Suddenly, a light, small but penetrating and there she was, standing in front of him like some dream. The Redfield girl, alive, holding a lighter up in the air. She left it burning, set it on the desk like a tiny lantern. "What're you doing here?" Rodrigo mumbled, but she was rummaging through a pack at her waist, not looking at him. He let the heavy gun drop from his fingers, closing his eyes for a second or a moment. When he opened them again, she was reaching for his arm, a syringe in one hand. "It's hemostatic medicine," she said, her hands and voice soft, the prick of the needle small and quick.
"Don't worry, you won't OD or anything, somebody wrote dosage numbers on the back of the bottle. It says it'll slow down any internal bleeding, so you should be okay until help comes. I'll leave the lighter here … my brother gave it to me. It's good luck."
As she spoke, Rodrigo concentrated on waking up, on overcoming the apathy that had taken him over. What she was telling him didn't make sense, because he'd let her go, she was gone. Why would she come back to help him? Because I let her go. The realization touched him, flooded him with feelings of shame and gratitude. "I … you're very kind," he whispered, wishing there was something he could do for her, something he could say that would repay her for her compassion. He searched his memories, rumors and facts about the island, maybe she can escape… "The guillotine," he said, blinking up at her, trying not to slur his words too badly. "Infirmary's behind it, key's in my pocket … supposed to be secrets there. He knows things, puzzle pieces … you know where's the guillotine?"
Claire nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Rodrigo, that helps me a lot. You rest now, okay?"
She reached out and stroked his hair back from his forehead, a simple gesture, but so sweet, so nice, he wanted to weep. "Rest," she said again, and he closed his eyes, calmer, more at peace than he'd ever felt in his life. His last thought before he drifted off was that if she could forgive him after the things he'd done, show him such mercy as if he deserved it, maybe he wouldn't go to hell, after all. Rodrigo had been right about secrets. Claire stood at the end of the hidden basement corridor, steeling herself to open the unmarked door in front of her. The infirmary itself was small and unpleasant, not at all what she would have expected for an Umbrella clinic no medical equipment to be seen, nothing modern at all. There was only a single examination table in the front room, the splintery wooden floor around it stained with blood, a tray of medieval-looking tools nearby. The adjoining room had been burned beyond recognition; she couldn't tell what purpose it had served, but it looked like a cross between a recovery room and a crematorium. Smelled like one, too. There was a tiny, cluttered office just off the first room, a lone body sprawled in front of it, a man in a stained lab coat who had died with a look of horror on his narrow, ashen face. He didn't appear to have been infected, and since there were no virus carriers in the room and no obvious wounds, she guessed that he'd had a heart attack, or something like it. The contorted expression on his pinched features, bulging eyes and gaping, downturned mouth, suggested to her that he'd died of fright. Claire carefully stepped over him, and found the first secret in the small office almost by accident. Her boot had nudged something when she walked in, a marble or stone that had rolled across the floor which had turned out to be a most unusual key. It was a glass eye, one that belonged in the grotesque plastic face of the office's anatomical dummy, propped leering in the corner. Considering what Steve had said, about no one coming back from the inf
irmary, and considering what she already knew about the kind of insanity that Umbrella seemed to attract, Claire wasn't surprised to find a hidden passage behind the office wall. A worn set of stone steps were revealed when she'd placed the eye back where it belonged, which hadn't really surprised her, either. It was a secret, a trick, and Umbrella was all about secrets and tricks.
So open the door, already. Get it over with.
Right. She didn't have all day. She didn't want to leave Steve alone for too long, either, she was worried
about him. He'd had to kill his own father; she couldn't imagine the kind of psychological damage that would do to someone… Claire shook her head, irritated with her own dawdling. It didn't matter that she was in a barren, frightening place where lots of people had apparently died, where she could feel the pervasive atmosphere of terror emanating from the cold walls, trying to wrap around her like a burial shroud… "Doesn't matter," she said, and opened the door. Immediately, three stumbling virus carriers started for her, drawing her attention, keeping her from really seeing the details of the large room they'd been trapped in. All three were badly disfigured, missing limbs and long, ragged strips of skin, their putrefying flesh flayed and raw. They moved slowly, painfully dragging themselves toward her, and she could see older scars on the exposed rotting tissue. Even as she targeted the first, the knot of dread in her stomach was expanding, making her feel sick. It was over quickly, at least but the terrible suspicion that had been growing in her mind, that she'd been hoping was false, was confirmed with a single good look around.
Oh, Jesus.
The room was strangely elegant, the muted lighting coming from a hanging chandelier. The floor was tiled, with a runner of finely woven carpet leading from the door to a kind of sitting area on the other side of the room. There was an overstuffed velvet chair and cherry wood end table there, the chair facing out so that someone sitting there would be able to see the entire room … which was worse than she could have imagined, worse than the mad Chief Irons's dungeon, hidden beneath the streets of Raccoon. There were two custom-built water wells, one with a pillory built into its rail, a steel cage suspended over the other. Chains hung from the walls, some with well-used manacles attached, some with leather collars, some with hooks. There were a few elaborate devices that she didn't look at too closely, things with gears and metal spikes. Swallowing back bile, Claire focused on the sitting area. The elegance of the furnishings and of the room itself made things worse somehow, adding a touch of warped ego to the obvious psychosis of its creator. Like it wasn't enough to enjoy torturing people, he –or she –
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