Two
CLAIRE SNAPPED THE LIGHTER CLOSED AT
the base of the covered stairs and took a deep breath, trying
to psych herself up for whatever came next. The chill
of the dark corridor behind her pressed at her back like an
icy hand, but still she hesitated, the knife haft sweaty beneath
her fingers as she slipped the warm lighter into her
vest pocket. She wasn't particularly looking forward to
ascending into the unknown, but she had nowhere else to
go, not unless she meant to go back to the cell. She could
smell oily smoke, and she guessed that the flickering
shadows at the top of the wide cement steps meant fire.
But what's up there? This is an Umbrella facility...
What if it was like Raccoon City, what if the attack on
the island had unleashed a virus, or some of the animal
abominations that Umbrella kept creating? Or was
Rockfort only a prison for their enemies? Maybe the
prisoners had rioted, maybe things had only been bad
from Rodrigo's point of view...
... maybe you could walk up the goddamn stairs and
find out instead of guessing all day, hmm?
Her pulse thumping, Claire forced herself to take the
first step up, vaguely wondering why movies always
made it seem so easy, to bravely throw oneself into probable
danger. After Raccoon, she knew better. Maybe she
didn't have much of a choice about what she had to do,
but that didn't mean she wasn't scared. Considering the
circumstances, only a complete moron wouldn't be afraid.
She climbed slowly, opening her senses as new adrenaline
flushed her system, replaying the brief glimpse
she'd had of the small graveyard when the guards had
led her through. No help there, she'd only seen a few
headstones, remembered them as bizarrely ornate for a
prison cemetery. There was definitely a fire close to the
top of the stairs, but apparently not a big one - there was
no heat filtering down, only a cool and humid breeze
that carried the pervasive smoke smell. It seemed quiet,
and as she neared the top, she heard drops of rain hissing
as they met the flames, an oddly comforting sound.
As she emerged from the stairwell, she saw the
source of the fire, only meters away. A helicopter had
crashed, a large portion of it merrily burning amid a
thick, smoking haze. To her left was a wall, another just
past the flaming wreck; to her right, the open space of
the cemetery, gloomy and shrouded by the increasing
rain and the oncoming night.
Claire squinted into the rainy dusk and made out a
number of dark shapes, though none of them seemed to
be moving; more headstones, she thought. A whisper of
relief edged through her anxiety; whatever had happened
seemed to be over.
Amazing, she thought, that she could possibly be relieved
to be alone in a cemetery at night. Even six
months ago, her imagination would have conjured up all
sorts of horrible things. It appeared that ghosts and
cursed souls just didn't cut it on the scary meter anymore,
not after her run-ins with Umbrella.
She took a right on the U-shaped path, moving
slowly, remembering how she'd been led through the
graveyard before being pushed to the stairs. She thought
she could make out what looked like a gate past the line
of graves in the center of the yard, or at least an open
space in the far wall...
... and suddenly she was flying, the sound of an explosion
behind her assaulting her ears, WHUMP, a wave
of broiling heat throwing her into the mud. The wet twilight
was suddenly brighter, the reek of burning chemicals
stinging her nose and eyes. She landed without
grace but managed not to stab herself with the combat
knife, all of it happening so fast that she barely had time
to register confusion.
... don't think I'm hurt ... helicopter's fuel tank must
have blown...
"Unnnh..."
Claire was on her feet instantly, the soft, pitiful, unmistakable
moan inspiring a near panic of action, the
sound joined by another, and another. She spun around
and saw the first one stumbling toward her from what
was left of the burning helicopter, a man, his clothes
and hair on fire, the skin of his face blistering and
black.
She turned again and saw two more of them crawling
up from the mud, their faces a sickening gray-white,
their skeletal fingers grasping in her direction, clutching
air as they reeled toward her.
Shit! Just as in Raccoon, Umbrella's viral synthesis
had effectively turned them into zombies, stealing their
humanity and their lives.
She didn't have time for disbelief or dismay, not with
three of them closing in, not when she realized that there
were others farther along the path. They staggered out
from the shadows, slack, brutalized faces all turning
slowly toward her, mouths hanging open, their gazes
blank and unchanging. Some wore shreds of uniforms,
camo or plain gray, guards and prisoners. There had
been a spill, after all.
"Uhhhh..."
"Ohhh..."
The overlapping cries epitomized great longing, each
plaintive wail that of a starving man looking at a feast.
Goddamn Umbrella for what they'd done! It was beyond
tragic, the transformation from human into mindless,
dying creatures, decaying as they walked. The
inevitable fate of each virus carrier was death, but she
couldn't let herself mourn for them, not now, her pity
limited by the need to survive.
Go go go NOW!
Her assessment and analysis lasted less than a second
and then she was moving, no plan except to get away.
With the path blocked in both directions, she leaped for
the center of the graveyard, clambering over the marble
slabs that marked the resting places of the true dead. Her
wet, muddy jeans clung to her legs, hampering her, her
boots slipping against the smooth headstones, but she
managed to climb up and balance her weight between
two of them, out of reach for the moment.
For the second! You gotta get out of here, fast. The
knife was no good, she didn't dare get close enough to use
it - a single healthy bite from one of those things and
she'd end up joining their ranks, if they didn't eat her first.
The one with the blackened face was nearest, his hair
melted away, part of his shirt still smoldering. He was
close enough for her to smell the greasy, nauseating
smell of burnt flesh, overlaid by the stench of the fuel
that had cooked it. She had ten, fifteen seconds at most
before he'd be close enough to grab for her.
She shot a glance at the southeast corner of the yard,
her arms out for balance. There were only two of them
between her and the exit, but that was two too many,
she'd never make it past both of them. She knew from
Raccoon that they were slow, and that their reasoning
skills were zip - they saw prey, they moved toward it in
a straight line, regardless of what was in the way. If she
could just bait them away from the gate...
Good idea, except there were too many on the
ground, six or seven of them, she'd end up surrounded...
.. 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 prison 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 obnoxious
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.
0 comments
Post a Comment