FOUR
CHRIS REDFIELD AND BARRY BURTON WERE
reloading rounds in the back room of the Paris safe
house, silent and tense, neither of them speaking. It had
been a bad ten days, not knowing what had happened to
Claire, not knowing if Umbrella still had her alive...
... stop, his inner voice said firmly. She's alive, she has
to be. To even entertain the alternative was unthinkable.
He'd been telling himself that for ten days, and it was
wearing thin. It had been bad enough hearing that she'd
been in Raccoon City for the final meltdown, and that
she'd gone there looking for him. Leon Kennedy, her
young cop friend, had filled him in on the details at their
first meeting. She'd survived Raccoon only to be hijacked
by Trent on the way to Europe, she and Leon and
the three renegade S.T.A.R.S.; they'd ended up facing
off with yet another group of Umbrella monsters, at a
facility in Utah. Chris hadn't known about any of it, had
ignorantly assumed that she was still safely studying
away at the University.
Hearing that she'd gotten tangled up in the fight
against Umbrella was bad, all right - but knowing that
Umbrella had captured her, that his little sister might already
be dead ... it was killing him, eating him up inside.
It was all he could do not to barge into Umbrella's
headquarters with a couple of machine guns and start demanding
answers, even knowing that it would be suicide.
Barry pumped the shell loader while Chris scooped
up the fresh rounds and boxed them, the acrid, familiar
scent of gunpowder suffusing the air. He was relieved
that his old friend seemed to understand his need for silence,
the steady click-click of the loader the only sound
in the small room.
It was also a relief to have something to do after a full
week of sitting still and praying, hoping that Trent might
contact them with news, or to offer help. Chris had never
met Trent, but the mysterious stranger had aided the
S.T.A.R.S. a few times in the past, passing along inside information
about Umbrella. Although his exact motivations
were unknown, his objective seemed clear enough - to
destroy the pharmaceutical company's secret bioweapons
division. Unfortunately, waiting on Trent was a long shot;
he'd only ever contacted them when it suited his needs,
and since they had no way of reaching him, the prospect
of his assistance was seeming less likely all the time.
Click-click. Click-click. The repetitive sound was
soothing somehow, a muted mechanical process in the
quiet of the rented safe house. They all had specific jobs
to do in their pledge to bring Umbrella down, tasks that
changed from day to day as the need arose. Chris had
been helping Barry out with the weapons for the past
week and a half, but he usually ran HQ surveillance.
They'd received a message from Jill a few weeks before,
she was on her way to Paris, and Chris knew that her
misspent youth would come in very handy for internal
recon. Leon had turned out to be a half decent hacker, he
was in the next room on the computer; he'd hardly slept
since Claire's capture, most of his time spent trying to
track Umbrella's recent movements. And the trio of
S.T.A.R.S. who'd come with Claire and Leon to Europe
- Rebecca, from the disbanded Raccoon squad,
and the two S.T.A.R.S. from Maine, David and John,
were currently off in London, meeting with an arms
dealer. After all they'd been through together, the three
of them worked well as a team.
There aren't many of us, but we've got the skills and
the determination. Claire, though...
With both their parents dead, he and Claire had developed
a close relationship, and he thought he knew her
pretty well; she was smart and tough and resourceful, always
had been ... but she was also a college student,
for Christ's sake. Unlike the rest of them, she didn't
have any formal combat training. He couldn't help
thinking that she'd been lucky so far, and when it came
to Umbrella, luck just wasn't enough.
"Chris, get in here!"
Leon, and it sounded urgent. Chris and Barry looked
at each other, Chris seeing his own worry mirrored in
Barry's face, and they both stood up. His heart in his
throat, Chris hurriedly led the way down the hall to
where Leon was working, feeling eager and afraid at
once.
The young cop was standing next to the computer, his
expression unreadable.
"She's alive," Leon said simply.
Chris hadn't even been aware of how bad things had
been for him until those two words. It was like his heart
had suddenly been released after being gripped hi a vise
for ten days, the sense of relief as physical as it was
emotional, his skin flushing with it.
Alive, she's alive...
Barry clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "Of
course she is, she's a Redfield."
Chris grinned, turned his attention back to Leon
and felt his smile slipping at the cop's carefully neutral
expression. There was something else.
Before he could ask, Leon motioned at the screen,
taking a deep breath. "They've got her on an island,
Chris ... and there's been an accident."
Chris was leaning over the computer in a single
stride. He read the brief message twice, the reality of it
slow to sink in.
Infection trouble approximately 37S, 12W following
attack, perps unknown. No bad guys left, I think, but
stuck at the moment. Watch your back, bro, they know
the city if not the street. Will try to be home soon.
Chris stood up, silently locking gazes with Leon as
Barry read the message. Leon smiled, but it looked
forced.
"You didn't see her in Raccoon," he said. "She knows
how to handle herself, Chris. And she managed to get to
a computer, right?"
Barry straightened up, took his cue from Leon. "That
means she's not locked down," he said seriously. "And if
Umbrella's got its hands full with another viral spill,
they're not going to be paying attention to anything else.
The important thing is that she's alive."
Chris nodded absently, mind already working on
what he would need for the trip. The coordinates she'd
listed put her in an incredibly isolated spot, deep in the
South Atlantic, but he had an old Air Force buddy who
owed him, could jet him down to Buenos Aires, maybe
Capetown; he could rent a boat from there, survival
gear, rope, medkit, an assload of firepower...
"I'm going with you," Barry said, accurately reading
his expression. They'd been friends a long time.
"Me, too," Leon said.
Chris shook his head. "No, absolutely not."
Both men started to protest, and Chris raised his
voice, talking over them.
"You saw what she said, about Umbrella homing in on
me, on us," he said firmly. "That means we have to relocate,
maybe one of the estates outside the city - someone
has to stay here, wait for Rebecca's team to get back,
and someone else needs to scout out a new base of operations.
And don't forget, Jill will be here any day now."
Barry frowned, scratched at his beard, his mouth set
in a thin, tight line. "I don't like it. Going in alone is a
bad idea..."
"We're at a crucial phase right now, and you know it,"
Chris said. "Somebody's got to mind the shop, Barry,
and you're the man. You've got the experience, you
know all the contacts."
"Fine, but at least take the kid," Barry said, gesturing
toward Leon. For once, Leon didn't protest the label,
only nodded, drawing himself up, shoulders back and
head high.
"If you won't do it for yourself, think about Claire,"
Barry continued. "What happens to her if you get yourself
killed? You need a backup, somebody to pick up the
ball if you fumble."
Chris shook his head, immovable. "You know better,
Barry, this has to be as quiet as possible. Umbrella may
have already sent in a cleanup crew. One person, in and
out before anyone even realizes I'm there."
Barry was still frowning, but he didn't push it. Neither
did Leon, although Chris could see that he was
working up to it; the cop and Claire had obviously gotten
pretty close.
"I'll bring her back," Chris said, softening his tone,
looking at Leon. Leon hesitated, then nodded, high
color burning in his cheeks, making Chris wonder exactly
how close Leon and his sister had become.
Later. I can worry about his intentions if we make it
back alive...
... when we make it back alive, he quickly amended.
If was not an option.
"It's settled, then," Chris said. "Leon, find me a good
map of the area, geographical, political, everything, you
never know what might help. Also post back to Claire,
just in case she gets another chance to check for messages
- tell her I'm on my way. Barry, I want to be packing
major influence, but lightweight, something I can
hike in without too much trouble, maybe a Glock...
you're the expert, you decide."
Both men nodded, turned away to get started, and
Chris closed his eyes for just a second, quickly offering
up a silent prayer.
Please, please stay safe until I get there, Claire.
It wasn't much - but then, Chris had the feeling he
would be praying a lot more in the long hours to come.
The hidden monitor room was behind a wall of books
in the Ashfords' private residence. Upon his return to
their home, secreted behind the "official" receiving mansion,
Alfred slung his rifle and immediately walked to the
wall, touching the spines of three books in quick succession.
He felt a hundred pairs of eyes observing him from
the front hall shadows, and though he had long since
grown used to Alexia's scattered collection of dolls, he
often wished that they wouldn't always watch him so intently.
There were times that he expected some privacy.
As the wall pivoted open, he heard the whistling chitter
of bats hiding in the eaves and frowned, pursing his lips. It
seemed that the attic had been breached during the attack.
No mind, no mind. Concerns for another day. He had
more important business that demanded his attention.
Alexia had apparently retreated to her rooms once
more, which was just as well; Alfred didn't want her
upset any further, and news of a possible assassin at
Rockfort would certainly achieve that. He stepped inside
the hidden room and pushed the carefully balanced
wall closed behind him.
There were usually seventy-five different camera
shots that he could choose from, to watch on any of the
ten small monitors in the small room, but much of the
equipment around the compound had been damaged or
destroyed, leaving him with only thirty-one usable images.
Knowing Claire's foul objectives, to steal information
and search for Alexia, Alfred decided to focus on
her approach from the prison compound. He had no
doubt that she would appear shortly; one such as her
would not have the good manners to die in the attack or
its aftermath ... though as his expectations built, his interest
in the game growing, he began to feel anxious that
she might, in fact, have expired.
Thankfully, his initial assumption had been correct.
Another of the prisoners came through the main gate
first, but he was followed shortly by the Redfield girl.
Amused at their halting progress, Alfred watched as
Claire tried to catch up to the young man, prisoner 267
according to the back of his uniform, who seemingly
had no idea that he was being pursued.
As the young man topped the stairs that led up from
the prison area, stood uncertainly looking between the
palace grounds and the training facility, Alfred entered
267 into the keypad beneath his left hand and found a
name, Steven Burnside. It meant nothing to him, and as
the boy hesitated indecisively, Alfred found his attention
moving back to his quarry, curious about the young
woman who was soon to be his short-term playmate.
Claire was walking across the damaged chasm bridge
only a moment or two behind Burnside, walking high on
the balls of her feet like an athlete. She seemed quite
self-possessed, cautious but unapologetic about her
right to cross the span ... but she was also careful not to
look down into the mist-filled darkness, the massive
crevice walls extending down hundreds of feet, nor did
she linger. In the warm security of his home, Alfred
smiled, imagining her delicious fear ... and found himself
remembering the trick that he and Alexia had once
played on a guard.
They'd been six or seven years old, and Francois
Celaux had been a shift commander, one of their father's
favorites. He'd been a fawning sycophant, a bootlick, but
only to Alexander Ashford. Behind their father's back he
had dared to laugh cruelly at Alexia one afternoon when
she had tripped in a pouring rain, splashing her new blue
dress with mud. Such an offense was not to be withstood.
Oh, how we planned, talking late into the night about a
suitable punishment for his unforgivable behavior, our
child minds alive and whirling with all the possibilities...
The final plan had been simple, and they'd executed it
perfectly only two days later, when Francois had duty as
guard of the main gate. Alfred had sweetly begged the
cook to let him bring Francois his morning espresso,
a chore he'd often performed for favored employees
... and on the way to the chasm bridge, Alexia had
added a special twist to the strong, bitter brew, just a few
drops of a curare-like substance she'd synthesized herself.
The drug paralyzed flesh but allowed the nervous
system to continue working, so that the recipient
couldn't move or speak, but could feel and understand
what was happening to him.
Alfred had approached the prison gates slowly, so
slowly that the impatient Francois had stalked out to
meet him. Smiling, aware that Alexia had returned to the
residence, was watching and listening from the monitor
room - Alfred had been wearing a small microphone -
- he'd stepped close to the railing before apologetically
offering the demitasse cup to Francois. Both twins had
watched in secret delight as the guard swilled it down,
and in seconds, he was gasping for air, leaning heavily
against the bridge rail. To anyone watching, it appeared
only that the man and boy were looking out across the
chasm ... except for Alexia, of course, who later told
him that she'd applauded his performance of innocence.
I looked up at him, at the frozen expression of fear on
his unrefined features, and explained what we had done.
And what we were going to do.
Francois had actually managed a soft squealing noise
through his clenched jaw when he'd finally understood,
that he was helpless to defend himself against a child.
For almost five minutes, Alfred had cheerfully cursed
Francois as the spawn of pigs, as a mannerless peasant,
and had jabbed him in the meat of his thigh with a
sewing needle too many times to count.
Paralyzed, Francois Celaux could only endure the
pain and humiliation, surely regretting his beastly conduct
toward Alexia as he suffered in silence. And when
Alfred had tired of their game, he'd kicked the guard's
dirty bootheels a few times, describing his every sensation
to Alexia as Francois slid helplessly beneath the rail
and plummeted to his death.
And then I screamed, and pretended to cry as others
came rushing across the bridge, trying desperately to
console their young master as they asked one another
how such a terrible thing could happen. And later, much
later, Alexia came into my room and kissed my cheek,
her lips warm and soft, her silken tresses tickling my
throat...
The monitors tore his attention away from his sweet
memories, Claire now standing at the same spot where
Burnside had hesitated. Quite put out with himself for
his lack of care, Alfred spent an uncertain moment
searching for the young hoodlum, switching between
cameras, finally spotting him on the very steps of the receiving
mansion. Quickly, Alfred checked his console's
control panels to be sure that all of the mansion's doors
were unlocked, suspecting that the boy would probably
hang himself easily enough...
... and crowed with delight when he saw that Claire
was following, having chosen the same path as her
young friend.
How much more exquisite her terror will be, when she
pleads for her life kneeling in Mr. Burnside's cooling
blood...
If he meant to greet them properly, he needed to leave
right away. Alfred stood and opened the wall once more,
his excitement rising as he closed it behind him and
stepped out into the great hall. He very much wanted to
tell Alexia his plans before leaving, to share a few of his
ideas, but was concerned that time was a factor.
"I'll be watching, my dear," she said.
Startled, Alfred looked up to see her at the top of the
stairs, not far from the life-size child doll that hung from
the uppermost balcony, one of Alexia's favorite toys. He
started to ask her how she knew, but realized how silly a
question it was. Of course she knew, because she knew
his heart; it was the same that beat within her own
snowy white breast.
"Go now, Alfred," she said, gracing him with her
smile. "Enjoy them for both of us."
"I will, sister," he said, smiling in turn, thankful anew
that he was brother to such a miracle of creation, lucky
that she so understood his needs and desires.
It was like some bizarre reality twist, Claire decided,
closing the mansion doors behind her. From the ramshackle,
death-filled cold of the dark prison yards to
where she stood now ... it was hard to believe, and yet
so like Umbrella that she had no choice.
But goddamn. I mean, seriously.
The grand, beautifully designed sunken lobby spread
out in front of her was marred only by a few sets of
muddy footprints across the hand-tiled floor, a few
splotches of blood painted across the delicate eggshell
walls. There were also a number of large cracks near the
ceiling, and a single maroon handprint drying on one of
the thick decorative columns that lined the west wall,
thin rivulets of red streaking down from the base of the
palm.
So the prisoners weren't the only ones to suffer a
shitty afternoon. It was classist and petty of her, she
knew, but it made her feel a little better to know that the
Umbrella higher-ups had taken an ass-kicking along
with everybody else.
She stood where she was for a moment, relieved to be
out of the cold and still mildly shocked by the different
faces of the Rockfort facility as she took hi the layout.
Behind one of the columns to her left was a blue door, a
second door in the northwest corner of the spacious
room. Straight ahead was a polished mahogany reception
desk, abutting an open flight of stairs along the right
wall that led up to a second floor balcony, richly hung
with a strangely damaged portrait. The face of the portrait's
subject had been scratched out for some reason.
Claire stepped down into the lobby, crouched and ran
a finger through one of the muddy footprints; still wet,
and more tracks leading to the corner door. She couldn't
be certain they were Steve's, but thought the odds were
pretty good. He'd left a trail, from the open prison gate
to a couple of dropped shell casings just outside the
mansion, along with two more dead dogs. For such an
obviously troubled young man, he was a surprisingly
accurate shot...
... so why am I going through so much trouble to
help him out? She thought sourly, standing. He doesn't
want my assistance, doesn't seem to need it, and it's not
like 1 don't have anything better to do.
When he'd taken off running, she hadn't followed immediately,
wanting to get a message to Leon ASAP;
she'd also felt obliged to run a quick search of the office
for medical supplies, something to help Rodrigo, but
she hadn't found anything useful...
"Help! Help meee!" A muffled shout, from somewhere
in the building.
Steve?
"Let me out! Hey, somebody, help!"
Claire was already running for the comer door,
weapon up. She slammed into the heavy wood, the door
crashing open into a long hallway. Steve shouted again,
from the far end of the corridor. Claire hesitated just
long enough to see that the three bodies sprawled on the
tiled floor weren't going to get up and then ran, fixing
the door straight ahead as the one.
"Help!"
Jesus, what's happening to him? He sounded panicstricken,
his voice breaking with it.
Reaching the end of the hall, Claire shoved at the door,
ran in sweeping with the handgun - and saw nothing, a
room with display cases and stuffed chairs. An alarm was
buzzing somewhere, but she didn't see its source.
Movement to the left. Claire spun, desperate for a target
- and saw that a piece of film was being projected
on a small wall screen, silent and flickering. Two attractive
blond children, a boy and girl, staring intently into
each other's eyes. The boy was holding something,
something wriggling -
- a dragonfly, and he's -
Claire looked away involuntarily, disgusted. The boy
was pulling the wings off of the struggling insect, smiling,
both of them smiling.
"Steve!" Why wasn't he shouting anymore, where
was he? She had the wrong room, must be...
"Claire? Claire, in here! Open the door!"
His voice was coming from behind the projection
screen. Claire dashed across the room, searching the
wall, absently aware that the towheaded children had
dropped the tortured dragonfly into a container full of
ants, were watching the crippled bug being stung to
death.
"What door, where?" Claire shouted, running anxious
hands over the wall, pushing at a glass display case,
pulling at the screen -
- and the screen raised up, disappearing into a slot.
Behind it was a console, a keyboard, and six picture
boxes in two rows of three, a switch beneath each one.
"Claire, do something, I'm burning up!"
"What do I do, how did you get in there? Steve!"
No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation
in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain -
- concentrate. Do it, now.
Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear
voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked,
Steve would die.
There's no door. There's a console with boxes.
Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out another
terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes,
focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife,
a gun, an airplane...
They weren't all different, there were two guns, a
semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches labeled
"C" and "E." Nothing else matched, and her first
thought was that it was like one of those grade-school
tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her reasoning,
Claire reached out and flipped the two switches,
the two boxes lighting up -
- and to her right, a display case slid out from the
wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, baking
heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A
half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his
knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair
of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers.
Guess I picked the right boxes.
She leaned over him, trying to remember what the
signs of heatstroke were - dizziness and nausea, she
thought. "Are you okay?"
Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and
vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing
so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then
he grinned, and the illusion was lost.
"What took you so long?" he cracked, pushing himself
to his feet.
Claire straightened, scowling. "You're welcome."
His grin softened and he ducked his head, pushing
thick bangs away from his forehead. "Sorry ... and I'm
sorry about before, too. Thanks, seriously."
Claire sighed. Just when she'd decided he was a total
asshole, he decided to be nice.
"And look what I got," he said, snapping both handguns
up and aiming at one of the display cases. "They
were hanging on a wall back there, fully loaded and
everything. Cool, huh?"
She had to resist a sudden urge to grab his shoulders
and shake some sense into him. He had nerve, she'd
give him that, and he obviously had at least a few survival
skills ... but did he not understand that he would
have died, if she hadn't heard him calling for help?
This place is probably full of booby traps, too; how
do I keep him from running off again?
She watched him pretend-shoot a bookshelf, wondered
absently if the whole macho tiling was just his
way of dealing with fear - and a different approach suddenly
occurred to her, one that she thought might actually
work.
He wants to play Mr. Tough Guy, let him. Appeal to
his ego.
"Steve, I understand that you're not looking for a
partner, but I am," she said, doing her best to look sincere.
"I ... I don't want to be alone out there."
She could actually see his chest puff out, and felt a
huge sense of relief, knowing that it had worked before
he said a word. She also felt a little guilty for manipulating
him, but only a little; this was for the best.
Besides, it's not lying, exactly. I really don't want to
be alone out there.
"I guess you could tag along," he said expansively. "I
mean, if you're scared."
She only smiled, teeth gritted, aware that if she
opened her mouth to thank him, she didn't know what
would come out.
"And anyway, I know how to get us out of here," he
added, his bluff manner slipping, his youthful enthusiasm
spilling out. "There's a little map under the counter
at the front desk. According to that, there's a dock just
west of here, and an airstrip somewhere past that.
Which means we have a choice, but my piloting skills
are a little iffy, so I vote cruise. We can go right now."
Maybe she had underestimated him a bit. "Really?
Great, that's..." Claire trailed off. Rodrigo, she
couldn't forget about Rodrigo, between the two of us we
could probably get him to the dock...
"Would you come with me back to the prison, first?"
She asked. "The guy who let me out of my cell is back
there, he's pretty badly wounded..."
"One of the prisoners?" Steve asked, perking up.
Uh-oh. She could lie, but he'd know the truth soon
enough. "Urn, I don't think so ... but he did let me go,
and I kinda feel like I owe him..."
Steve was frowning, and she quickly added, "... and it
seems like the, uh, honorable thing to do, to at least get
him a first-aid kit, you know?"
He wasn't buying. "Forget it. If he's not a prisoner, he
works for Umbrella, he deserves dick. Besides, they'll
be sending troops in soon enough; it's their problem, let
them deal with it. Now, are you coming or not?"
Claire met his gaze squarely, reading anger and hurt
in his dark eyes, surely caused by Umbrella. She
couldn't blame him for how he felt, but she didn't agree
with him, either, not in Rodrigo's case. And there was
no question in her mind that he would die before Umbrella
showed if he didn't get help.
"I guess not," she said.
Steve turned away, took a few steps toward the door
and then stopped, sighing heavily. He turned back,
clearly exasperated. "There's no way I'm risking my
neck to save an Umbrella employee, and no offense, but
I think you're totally batshit for wanting to ... but I'll
wait for you, okay? Go give the guy a Band-Aid or
whatever and then meet me at the dock."
Surprised, Claire nodded. Less than she'd hoped for
but more than she'd expected, particularly after his
weird people-will-let-you-down rant -
- oh!
For the first time, it occurred to her why Steve might
have said those things, why he was denying the trauma
of what had happened, what was still happening. He
was here by himself, after all ... how could he not have
abandonment issues?
Claire smiled warmly at him, remembering how
angry she'd felt as a child when her father had died.
Being snatched away from one's family couldn't be
much better. "It'll be nice to go home," she said gently.
"I bet your parents will be glad..."
Steve's sneering interruption was immediate and extreme.
"Look, come to the dock or not, but I'm not
going to wait all day, got it?"
Startled, Claire nodded mutely, but Steve was already
striding out of the room. She wished she hadn't said
anything, but it was too late ... and at least now she
knew what not to say. Poor kid, he probably missed his
parents like crazy. She'd have to try to be a little more
understanding.
With a last look around the strange little den, Claire
started back toward the front door, wondering what to
do about Rodrigo. Steve was right, Umbrella might already
have a team on the way, they could tend to him,
but she meant to get him stabilized before she left. She
needed to find a vial of that hemostatic liquid; she didn't
know much about triage herself, but he had seemed to
think it would help.
She opened both of the other doors in the hallway
on her way back to the lobby, stopping briefly at the
first to gaze in at a number of portraits, some kind of
pictorial history room for a family called Ashford.
There was a shattered urn on the floor, but nothing
else of interest. Behind the second door was an empty
conference room, only a few scattered papers and silence.
Claire stepped back into the front hall, deciding that
she should probably try the upstairs before retracing her
steps; just above the bridge to the prison - and wasn't
she looking forward to crossing that creaking nightmare
again - there'd been a door she'd bypassed in order to
keep up with Steve's trail...
A tiny red light on the floor caught her attention, like
one of those laser pointer things, her geometry prof had
used one. The small light jerked toward her and Claire
looked up, followed a pencil-thin beam to...
Gah! She dove for cover as the first shot bit into the
tiles mere inches from where she'd stood, ceramic
shards flying. She crashed behind one of the ornamental
pillars as the second shot thundered through the lobby,
shattering more tile.
She scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself as
tiny as possible, wondering if she'd actually seen what
she'd thought she'd seen - a thin blond man with a rifle
and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uniform
jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with
puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child's idea of
what noble authority should wear.
"My name is Alfred Ashford," a pinched, snobby
voice called out. "I am the commander of this base
and I demand that you tell me who you're working for!"
What? Claire wished she had something brilliant to
say, some snappy comeback, but she couldn't get any
further than that.
"What?" she asked loudly.
"Oh, there's no point in your feigned ignorance," he
continued, his jeering voice moving a little, as though he
were descending the stairs. "Miss Claire Redfield. I
know what you've been planning, I've known from the
start, but you're not dealing with just anyone, Claire.
Not when you're dealing with an Ashford."
He actually tittered, a high, girlish giggle, and Claire
was suddenly absolutely positive that he was a whacko,
she was talking to a whacko.
Yeah, and keep hint talking, you don't want to lose his
position. She could see the tiny red light flicker on the
wall behind her, as he worked to keep the pillar in his
sights.
"Okay, ah, Alfred. What is it that I'm planning?" She
jacked the action on her semi as quietly as possible,
making sure there was a round in the chamber.
It was as though she hadn't spoken. "Our legacy of
profundity, supremacy, and innovation is beyond question,"
Alfred said haughtily. "We can trace our heritage
to European royalty, my sister and I, and to some of the
greatest minds in history. But then I don't suppose your
masters told you that, did they?"
My masters? "I don't have any idea what you're talking
about," Claire called out, watching the flickering red
dot, deciding that she could dart a glance out from behind
the pillar's other side, maybe get off a shot before
he could target her. The longer Alfred talked, the more
strongly she felt that meeting him face-to-face would be
a bad idea. Dangerously mentally ill people were unpredictable
at best.
He'd mentioned a sister ... the children in that
movie, with the dragonfly? She didn't have proof, but
her instincts shouted a resounding yes. It seemed he'd
stayed the course, from creepy kid to creep.
"Of course, if you were willing to surrender yourself
to me now," Alfred purred, "I might be persuaded to
spare you your life. Providing that you confess to treason
against your superiors..."
Now!
Claire ducked her head around the pillar, gun up -
- and bam, wood and plaster exploded next to her
face, the shot splintering the pillar's molding as she pulled
back. She leaned heavily against the pillar, her breathing
fast and gulping. If he'd been a hair more accurate...
"Aren't you the fast little rabbit," Alfred said, his
amusement unmistakable. "Or should I say rat? That's
what you are, Claire, a rat. Just a rat in a cage."
Again, that insane, unnatural giggle ... but it was receding,
following him back up the stairs. Footsteps, and
then a door closed, and he was gone.
Well, doesn't that round out things nicely? What's a
biohazardous disaster without a crazy or two? It'd almost
be funny, if she wasn't so totally weirded out. Alfred
was a fruit loop.
Claire waited a moment to be sure he was gone, then
exhaled heavily, relieved but not relaxed. She wouldn't,
couldn't relax until she was well away from Rockfort,
leaving Umbrella and monsters and insanity far behind.
God, but she was tired of this shit. She was a second
year lit major, she liked dancing and motorcycles and a
good latte on a rainy day. She wanted Chris, and she
wanted to go home... and since neither of those
seemed likely at the moment, she decided she'd settle
for a good, solid nervous breakdown, complete with
screams and floor-pounding hysterics.
It was almost tempting, but that would have to wait,
too. She sighed inwardly. Alfred had gone upstairs, so
she thought she'd better check out that other door she'd
passed back near the bridge, see if she could find something
for Rodrigo there.
At least things probably won't get any worse, she
thought dismally, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as
she opened the front door. It felt so much like Raccoon
City ... but that had been a serious catastrophe, rather
than an isolated disaster.
Big, fat difference. All of it bites.
Claire had no way of knowing that compared to what
lay ahead, things hadn't even started to get bad.
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