SIX
EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT.
The cameras were set so that he could watch from
four different angles, all in full color, the "battle arena"
well lit, his chair comfortable. He only regretted that he
hadn't had time to return to their private residence, to
watch the entertainment with Alexia by his side - although
that had turned out to be advantageous, as well, a
silver lining. The training facility's control room had
cameras that could be re-angled with the touch of a button,
ensuring the clearest possible view.
Alfred smiled, watching as Claire hesitated at the
door, quite pleased with how his plan had come to
fruition. She'd chased him as he'd hoped, stepped into
his trap with hardly a struggle. He hadn't expected her
to actually fire at him, but that was easily overlooked in
retrospect. And truly, it made the anticipation for her upcoming
death all the sweeter, the addition of a personal
revenge aspect into the mix.
The OR1, a highly developed BOW specifically created
for field combat, was one of Alfred's all-time favorites.
The An3 Sandworm was impressive, to be sure,
the standard Hunter 121s lethal and fast, but the ORls
were special - the human skeletal structure showed
through, particularly in the face and torso, giving them the
look of classic Death. Thek skull faces leered out beneath
corded ropes of real and synthetic tendon, like a neo grim
reaper. They weren't just dangerous; the way they looked
was terror inspiring, at the most basic level of instinct.
The island employees called them Bandersnatches, a
nonsense word from some poem that was strangely fitting,
considering thek unique design and function.
There were thirty of them at Rockfort, half of those in
stasis, though Alfred had only been able to account for
eight of them since the attack...
... oh! Claire was opening the door.
Elated, Alfred focused his full attention on the girl,
his left hand on the camera controls, his right hovering
over the lock functions for the storage areas.
Claire stepped onto the balcony of the large, open,
two-story bay with gun in hand, trying to look everywhere
at once. Alfred zoomed in on her face, wanting to
fully appreciate her fear, but was disappointed by her
lack of expression. After surmising that she was in no
immediate danger, she seemed watchful, no more.
But when I push this button...
Alfred snickered, unable to contain his excitement,
lightly stroking his right forefinger across the switches
for the bay's two shuttered storage closets, one on the
balcony, one bordering the freight elevator on the lower
floor. At his whim, Claire Redfield would die. True, she
wasn't important, her death as meaningless as her life
had surely been, but it was the control that mattered,
his control.
And the pain, the exquisite torture, the look in her
eyes when she realizes that her existence is at its end...
Alfred controlled his body as tightly as he controlled
his life, and prided himself on his ability to dominate his
sexual desires, to feel nothing unless he chose to, but
just thinking of Claire's death inspired in him a passion
that was beyond physical lust, beyond words, even beyond
the simple scope of man's awareness.
Alexia knows, Alfred thought, certain that his beautiful
sister was watching, too, that she understood what could
not be explained. In Claire's death, they would be as
close as two people could ever be; it was the wonder of
their relationship, the culmination of the Ashford legacy.
He couldn't contain himself another moment. As
Claire took another cautious step into the center of the
room, he first locked the door she'd come through, sealing
off her escape - and then pressed the button for the
second story shutter release.
Instantly, the narrow metal shutter not ten feet from
where she stood slid open and as Claire stumbled backward,
trying to distance herself from the unknown threat, a
fully matured Bandersnatch stepped out, ready to engage.
It was beautiful, the creature. Between seven and
eight feet tall, its face was that of a grinning skeleton, its
head set low and menacing. The disproportionately
huge upper body supported its primary weapon - the
right arm, as thick as one of its tree-trunk legs, longer
than half its full body length at rest, the hand span big
enough to cover an ordinary man's entire chest. Its left
arm was withered, tiny and misshapen, but a Bandersnatch
only needed the one.
Alfred had hoped for some exclamation from her, a
curse or a scream, but she was silent as she retreated to
what she believed to be a safe distance. She opened fire
almost immediately.
The Bandersnatch roared, a rough guttural scream,
and then performed its trick. Alfred had seen it a dozen
times, but never tired of watching.
The massive right arm snapped toward Claire, probably
fifteen feet away, the engineered muscles hyperextending,
the elastic tendons and ligaments stretching...
... and it slapped Claire to the ground with scarcely
any effort, the girl knocked sprawling before the Bandersnatch's
arm snapped back into place.
Yes, oh, yes!
Claire crabbed backward as fast as she could, stopping
only when her back hit the wall. Alfred zoomed in
to see that a fine sheen of sweat had broken out across
her face, but she still wore no expression beyond a kind
of intense watchfulness. She pulled herself to her feet
and sidestepped along the wall, moving fast, obviously
not wanting to be knocked off the balcony by the creature's
next blow.
Alfred grinned, ignoring the disappointment that her
apparent lack of terror had brought about. She'd be out
of wall in another few seconds, backed into a corner...
... and then a series of blows, beating her to death
against the wall ... or a simple neck snap, a grasp of
her head and a single, solid shake ... or will it toy with
her, tossing her around like one of Alexia's ragdolls?
Alfred leaned in eagerly, changing the angle for one
of the cameras, watching as the doomed girl raised her
weapon, taking careful aim in spite of her hopeless position...
... bam!
The Bandersnatch shrieked even louder than the gunshot,
shaking its head wildly, dark fluids rushing from
its moving face. It sprayed the balcony walls with
ichorous liquid, blood and other things, trying desperately
to bring its arm up, to protect or comfort its wound.
It all happened so fast, so violently, it was like watching
a fountain geyser suddenly explode from a still lake.
The eyes. She went for its eyes.
Bam!
Claire shot again, and then again, and the Bandersnatch
cried out in fury and new pain, still trying to
grasp its own injured head as it stumbled around in a
weaving circle ... and then, to Alfred's shock, it collapsed
to the floor, its writhings becoming less and less
urgent, its scream becoming a hoarse, dying protest.
Stunned with disbelief, Alfred could finally see an
emotion on Claire's face - pity. She moved to stand over
the creature and shot once more, stilling it completely.
Then she turned and walked toward the stairs, as casually
as if she was walking away from a ladies' luncheon.
No-no-no-no!
This was wrong, all wrong, but it wasn't over, not yet.
Furious, he stabbed at the other switch, releasing the
second creature from its enclosure, the shutter sliding
open behind a stack of storage containers on the elevator
level.
You won't be so fortunate this time, he thought desperately,
still barely able to credit what he'd just seen. Claire
had heard the second door open, but the stack of containers
obscured her point of view, hiding the new menace.
She was stopped at the foot of the stairs, holding herself
very still, scanning for the exact source of the noise.
The second Bandersnatch stepped out of its closet
and casually reached up, grasping a large metal crate at
the top of a ten foot stack of them. It pulled itself up,
seemingly without effort - and without Claire noticing,
her attention too intently fixed on the shadowy corner
opposite the stairs.
The Bandersnatch reached down for her. Claire saw it
coming at the last instant, too late to get out of its way. The
creature wrapped its muscular fingers around her head and
lifted her up, studying her as a cat studied a mouse.
Or a rat, Alfred thought, some of his previous joy returning
at the sight of the girl dropping her weapon and
struggling to free herself, grasping at the OK1's steel
grip with panicked hands -
- and Alfred's focus was broken at the sound of shattering
glass somewhere off screen, and someone was
shooting, the sudden flurry of noise and activity making
the Bandersnatch shriek, making it drop Claire.
What's...?
The window, Alfred answered himself, watching in
horror as the young prisoner, Burnside, threw himself
into the camera shot, firing two handguns at once, blasting
at the startled creature - startled, then screaming in
agony as Claire scooped up her weapon and joined the
fray. The Bandersnatch tried to attack, its arm whipping
out toward the new assailant, but it was driven back by
the sheer number of rounds being pumped into its body,
finally slumping against a storage container. Dead.
Without consciously deciding to do it, Alfred reached
for the freight elevator controls, a part of him remembering
that there was at least one more OR1 below, as well as
a number of virus carriers. The two youths stumbled as the
floor beneath their feet began to go down, taking them to
the basement of the training facility. There were no working
cameras there, but enjoying their deaths was no longer
Alfred's primary concern - not so long as they died.
Can't be, this can't be happening. The OR1s should
have dispatched Claire and her meddlesome friend effortlessly,
but they were alive and his pets had suffered
and died. He tried to convince himself that the two
would soon perish in the basement, which had been
locked down and isolated since the first viral leak, but
suddenly, nothing seemed certain anymore.
"Alexia," Alfred whispered, feeling the blood drain
from his face, feeling his very being flush with shame.
He had to make her see that it wasn't his fault, that his
trap had worked perfectly, that the impossible had occurred
... and he'd have to accept the subsequent coolness
in her gaze, the undertone of disappointment in her
sweet voice as she reassured him that she understood.
The only thing that surpassed his shame was a newfound
hatred for Claire Redfield, burning brighter than a
thousand burning stars. No sacrifice was too great to secure
her torment, hers and that of her shining knight.
Until both had offered penitence in flesh and blood,
Alfred would not rest. He swore it.
"Steve, other side," Claire said, the instant the freight
elevator began to move. Steve nodded. Claire reloaded
and Steve clambered over two of the heavy crates, both
Lugers raised. As if by silent agreement, neither of them
spoke as the lift descended, both watching intently for
what came next.
He saved my life, Claire thought wonderingly, watching
grease-smeared wall tracks slide past, blood still
screaming through her veins from when she'd realized
she would die. And Steve Burnside, who she'd written
off as a well-intentioned but troubled, barely competent
blowhard, had kept that from happening.
Though he may only have delayed the inevitable...
She didn't know what Alfred had in mind now, but
she wasn't looking forward to meeting any more of his
"friends." Two skull-faced, rubber band-armed freaks
had been more than enough. She'd been incredibly
lucky to get off with a couple of bruises and a sore neck.
Claire had expected the elevator to drop them into
some sort of BOW holding area, but she was pleasantly
disappointed. The massive lift simply came to a stop.
There was only one exit that she could see, and although
she harbored no illusions about how safe things would
be on the other side of that door, it seemed they were out
of danger for the moment.
"Hey, Claire, check it out!"
Steve climbed back over the boxes, holding what
could only be some kind of a submachine gun, boxy,
dark and deadly-looking with an extended magazine.
"It was behind one of the crates," Steve said happily.
He'd already stuck the gold Lugers in his belt. "Nine
millimeter, just like the Lugers and the guard weapons.
Oh, by the way, here."
He reached into one of the outside pockets on his
camo pants and pulled out three clips for the M93R.
"I searched a couple of guards on my way back from the
dock. I like the Lugers better, and now that I've got
this..." He held up the new weapon, grinning, "I don't
need the extra hardware. You can have the gun, too."
Claire gratefully accepted the clips and the weapon,
not sure how to thank him for what he'd done, determined
to try, anyway.
"Steve ... if you hadn't shown up when you did..."
"Forget it," he said, shrugging. "We're even now."
"Well, thanks all the same," Claire said, smiling
warmly.
He smiled back, and she saw a flicker of real interest
in his gaze, a sincerity there that was quite different than
his previous posturing. Not sure what to do about it, for
him or for herself, she moved the conversation along.
"I thought you were going to wait at the dock," she
said.
"It wasn't really a dock," Steve said, and told her
what had happened since they'd separated. The seaplane
was terrific news; having to deal with Umbrella's
bizarre key fetish yet again wasn't so terrific.
"...and when I couldn't find them, I thought I'd
wander over and see if you'd come across anything like
that," he finished, shrugging again, working hard to look
nonchalant. "That's when I heard the shots. How 'bout
you, anything interesting? Besides meeting up with a
couple of Umbrella's monsters, I mean."
"I'll say. Do you know anything about Alfred Ashford?"
"Only that him and his sister are total fruitcakes,"
Steve said promptly. "And that the guards are - were
scared of him. I could tell, the way they avoided talking
about him. He sent his own assistant to the infirmary, I
heard. There was some whacked-out doctor working
there, I guess, a lot of prisoners got taken to the infirmary
and never came back. Doesn't take a genius, you know?"
Claire nodded, fascinated in spite of herself. "What
about the sister?"
"I never heard much about her, except she's some
kind of shut-in," Steve said. "No one even knows what
she looks like. I think her name is Alexia ... Alexandra,
maybe, I don't remember. Why?"
She filled him in on her encounters with Alfred, followed
by a brief synopsis of where she'd been and what
she'd found. When she mentioned that she had the medication
she'd been looking for, Steve scowled - and then
blinked, his face clearly expressing a sudden change of
heart.
"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, overlooking
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 empty 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.
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