EIGHT
OH, WOW. THIS IS ... WOW, CLAIRE THOUGHT.
"Wow," Steve whispered, and she nodded, feeling entirely
out of her depth as she took in their new environment.
Had she said serial killer crazy? More like a serial
killer convention.
There'd been another puzzle after the Lugers had
opened the wall, having to do with numbers and a
blocked passage, but they'd ignored it completely
with both of them pushing, the passage wasn't blocked
for long. Outside once again, they could see the private
house, perched on a low hill like some brooding vulture
in the pouring rain. It was a mansion, really, but nothing
like the one they'd just left - it was much, much older,
darker, surrounded by the decrepit ruins of what had
once been some kind of a sculpture garden. Stone
cherubs with blind eyes and broken fingers watched
them wend their way toward the house, gargoyles with
eroding wings, shattered pieces of marble underfoot.
Creepy, definitely ... but this is so far beyond creepy,
it's not even in the same category.
They stood in the foyer, unlit but for a few strategically
placed candles. There was a smell of must in the
air, an old smell like dust and crumbling parchment. The
floor was plushly carpeted, what they could see of it, but
so ancient that it had been worn threadbare in many
places; it was hard to make out any color beyond "dark."
What had once been a grand staircase was directly in
front of them, sweeping up to second and third floor balconies;
there was still a kind of shabby elegance to its
time-blackened banisters and sagging steps, as there
was in the dusty library to their right, in the faded, ornately
framed oil paintings hanging from flocked walls.
The word haunted would have described it perfectly
... except for the dolls.
Tiny faces stared out at them from every comer. China
dolls of fragile porcelain, many of them chipped or discolored,
dressed for high tea in water-stained taffeta.
Plastic children with roll-open plastic eyes and pursed
pink mouths. Rag dolls with strange button faces, bits of
stuffing poking out of withered limbs. There were jumbled
piles of them, stacks of them, even a few featureless
cloth babies impaled on sticks. There was no sane order
to their placement that Claire could see.
Steve nudged her, pointing up. For just a second,
Claire thought she was looking at Alexia, hanging from
the eaves - but of course it was another doll, life-size,
this one dressed for her bizarre lynching in a simple
party dress, flowered hem floating around her slender
synthetic ankles.
"Maybe we should..." Claire started ... and froze, listening.
The sound of someone talking filtered down to
them from upstairs, a woman's voice. She sounded irate,
the cadence of her speech rapid and harsh.
Alexia.
The angry voice was followed by a kind of pleading,
whining tone which Claire immediately recognized as
Alfred's.
"Let's drop in for a chat," Steve whispered, and without
waiting for a response, he headed for the stairs.
Claire hurried after him, not at all sure it was a good
idea, but not wanting to let him go it alone, either.
The dolls watched them ascend in silence, staring
after them with lifeless eyes, keeping their vigil and
their peace as they had for many years.
Alfred never felt closer to Alexia than when they
were together in their private rooms, where they'd
laughed and played as children. He felt close to her now,
too, but was also deeply distraught by her anger, wanting
desperately to make her happy again. It was his
fault, after all, that she was upset.
"...and I simply don't understand why this Claire
person and her friend are proving to be such a trial for
you," Alexia said, and in spite of his shame, he couldn't
stop watching her with adoring eyes, as she gracefully
swept across the room in her silken gown. His twin was
breathtakingly refined in her displeasure.
"I won't fail you again, Alexia, I promise..."
"That's right, you won't," she said sharply. "Because
I intend to take care of this matter myself."
Alfred was aghast. "No! You mustn't risk yourself,
darling, I ... I won't allow it!"
Alexia glared at him for a moment - then sighed,
shaking her head. She stepped toward him, her gaze soft
and loving once more.
"You worry too much, brother," she said. "You must remember
yourself, remember to always embrace difficulty
with pride and vigor. We are Ashfords, after all. We..."
Alexia's eyes widened, her face paling. She turned toward
the window overlooking the corridor outside, slender
fingers rising anxiously to the choker at her throat.
"There's someone in the hall."
No!
Alexia had to be kept safe, no one must touch her, no
one! It was Claire Redfield, of course, finally here to
fulfill her assignment, to assassinate his beloved. Frantic
to protect her, Alfred spun around, searching - there, the
rifle was leaning against Alexia's dressing table, where
he'd left it before opening the attic room passage. He
strode toward it, feeling her fear as his own, their anxiety
shared as if they were one.
Alfred reached for the weapon - and hesitated, confused.
Alexia had insisted on handling the situation, she
might be angry again if he interfered ... but if something
happened to her, if he lost her...
The handle to the door rattled suddenly, just as Alexia
stepped forward, snatching up the rifle herself. She
barely had time to lift it before the door burst open with
a crash. It was the first time in almost fifteen years that
their inner sanctum had been breached, and Alexia was
so shocked by the intrusion that she didn't fire right
away, not wanting Alfred to be hurt, not wanting to die.
The two prisoners had guns, had them pointed directly
at her.
Alexia collected herself, refusing to be terrorized by
two children - who were both staring at her strangely,
their peasant faces expressing confusion and surprise.
Apparently they weren't used to audiences with their
betters.
Use it to your advantage. Keep them off their guard.
"Ms. Redfield, and Mr. Burnside," Alexia said, her
chin held high, her tone as dignified as the Ashford
name required, "we meet at last. My brother tells me
that you've caused quite a lot of trouble."
Claire stepped toward her, the barrel of her gun lowering
slightly as she searched Alexia's face. Alexia
stepped back involuntarily, repelled by her dripping
clothes and forward manner, but kept her eye on Claire's
weapon. The girl was too intent on her study, as was the
young man, who had crowded in behind Claire.
Alexia moved back another step. She was cornered,
trapped between her dressing table and the foot of her
bed, but again, it was to her advantage. When they've
been lulled into thinking I'm not a danger...
"You're Alexia Ashford?" The boy asked, amazed or
awed, his mouth open.
"I am." She wouldn't be able to tolerate such rudeness
for much longer, not from one so far beneath her.
Claire nodded slowly, still looking into her eyes boldly,
impertinently. "Alexia ... where's your brother?"
Alexia turned to look at Alfred - and startled, because
he was nowhere in the room. He'd left her to confront
these people by herself.
No, it can't be, he'd never desert me like this...
Movement to her right, but she realized as she
turned to look that it was only the mirror, and...
and...
Alfred was looking back at her. It was her face, lips
painted and lashes curled, but his hair, his jacket. She
raised her right hand to her mouth, shocked, and Alfred
did the same, watching her. Feeling her astonishment.
As if they were one.
Alexia screamed, dropping the rifle, forgetting all
about the two trespassers as she pushed past them, not
caring if they shot her or not. She ran for the door that
connected her room to Alfred's, screaming again as she
spotted the long, blond wig on the floor, the beautiful
gown crumpled next to it.
Weeping, she pushed through the door, a revolving
panel, fleeing across Alfred's room -
- my room -
- not sure where she was going as she stumbled
through the corridor, running for the stairs. It was over,
it was all over, everything ruined, everything a lie.
Alexia had gone away and never come back, and he
had ... she was...
The twins suddenly knew what had to be done, the
answer shining through the spinning blackness of their
mind, showing them the way. They reached the stairs
and headed down with plans forming, understanding
that it was time, that they truly would be together now
because it was finally time.
But first, they'd destroy it all.
"Holy shit," Steve said, and when he couldn't think of
anything else to say, he repeated it.
"So Alexia was never here," Claire said, wearing the
same dumbfounded expression that he suspected was on
his own face. She walked over and picked up the wig,
shaking her head. "Do you think she ever existed at all?"
"Maybe as a kid," Steve said. "There was this older
guard at the prison who said he'd seen her once, like
twenty years ago. Back when Alexander Ashford ran
things."
For a few seconds, they just stared around the room,
Steve thinking about how Alfred had looked when he'd
seen himself in the mirror. It had been so pathetic, he'd
almost felt bad for the guy.
Thinking all this time that his sister lived here - probably
the only person in the world who didn't think he was a
total prick - and it turns out he doesn 't even have that...
Claire shook herself like she'd had a sudden chill and
got them back on track. "We'd better look for those keys
before one of the twins comes back."
She nodded toward the narrow ladder at the head of
the bed. It led up to an open square in the ceiling. "I'm
going to look up there, you check around here."
Steve nodded, and as Claire disappeared through the
opening in the ceiling, he started to open drawers and
rifle through them.
"You wouldn't believe what's up here," Claire called
down, just as Steve discovered a drawer full of silky lingerie,
panties and bras and a bunch of other stuff he
couldn't begin to guess at.
"Ditto," he called back, wondering what lengths Alfred
had gone to in order to play Alexia. He decided he
didn't really want to know.
He heard Claire thumping around overhead as he
went to the dressing table and started to dig. A lot of
makeup and perfume and jewelry, but no proofs or emblems,
not even a house key.
"Nothing yet, but ... hey, there's another ladder!"
Claire shouted.
Good thing, Steve thought, finding a box of stationery
with little white flowers on the paper. He was getting more
nervous about Alfred coming back, and wanted to get out
of his freaky room of sister psychosis as soon as possible.
There was a tiny white card on top of the stationery
envelopes. Steve picked it up, noting the strong, feminine
hand.
Dearest Alfred - you are the brave, brilliant soldier,
ever fighting to reinstate the Ashford name to its former
glory. My thoughts are with you always, beloved. Alexia.
Ick. Steve dropped the card, making a face. Was it just
him, or had Alfred created a seriously unnatural relationship
with his imagined sister?
Yeah, but it wasn't real, it wasn't like they could do
anything ... physical. Double ick. Again, Steve decided
he'd rather not know...
"Steve! Steve, I think I found them! I'm coming
down!"
Overwhelmed by an instant rash of hope and optimism,
Steve grinned, turning toward the ladder, the
words music to his ears. "No shit?"
Claire's shapely legs appeared, her voice much clearer,
and he could hear the same excitement in her response as
she quickly descended. "No shit. There was this little
merry-go-round up there, and an attic room above that -
- oh, and you gotta check out this dragonfly key..."
An alarm suddenly started blaring, echoing through
the giant house, loud and insistent. Claire jumped off the
bed, holding three proof keys and a slender metal object
in her hand. They locked gazes, exchanging a look of
confused fear, and Steve realized he could hear the alarm
outside, too, with the hollow, metallic sound of an announcement
being made over a cheap sound system. It
sounded like it was being broadcast over the entire island.
Before either of them could say a word, a calm voice
began speaking through the bleating sirens, cool and female,
the voice of a recorded loop.
"The self-destruct system has been activated. All personnel
evacuate immediately. The self-destruct system
has been activated. All personnel..."
"That bastard," Claire spat, and Steve was right there
with her, silently cursing the pompous little freak, but
only for about two seconds. They had to get to that plane.
"Go," Steve said, scooping up Alfred's rifle and
putting his hand on Claire's back, urging her toward the
door. Umbrella's Rockfort Training Facility and Detainment
Center - the place where Steve had grieved his
mother and lost his father, where the last descendant of
the Ashford line had quietly gone mad and Umbrella's
enemies had unleashed the beginning of the end - was
about to go bye-bye, and he didn't particularly want to
be around when it did.
Claire didn't need any advice on the matter. Together,
they hustled through the door and ran, leaving the sad
remnants of Alfred's twisted fantasy behind.
After triggering the destruct sequence at the common
mansion, Alfred and Alexia hurried to the main control
room, Alexia taking over to work the complicated console.
All around them, lights flashed and the computer
droned instructions over the sirens. It was all quite the
ado, annoying to her but surely terrifying to the assassins.
Alexia had an escape plan, a key to the underground
room where the VTOL jets were kept, but she had to
know that the peasant children would be left behind.
Until she was certain that they would die, she and Alfred
couldn't leave.
Oh, they'll die, she thought, smiling, hoping that they
weren't caught in any of the direct explosions. Better that
they should be wounded by flying debris, that they should
lie in torment as their lives slowly ebbed away... or perhaps
the island's surviving predators would stalk and kill
them, swallowing them down in great bloody chunks.
Alexia pulled up the security system cameras for the
common mansion and grounds, eager to see Claire and
her little knight cowering in fear, or screaming in panic.
She saw neither; the mansion was empty, the lights and
sounds of the imminent disaster carrying on uselessly,
alerting bare corridors and closed rooms.
They might still be in our home, too afraid to leave,
desperately hoping that the destruction will bypass them
there... It wouldn't, of course, there was nowhere on
the island that wouldn't be affected...
Alexia saw them then and felt her good humor disappear,
her hatred boiling back into rage. The screen
showed them at the submarine dock, the boy spinning
the wheel. The sky was starting to lighten, shading from
black to deep blue, the setting moon's pale light defining
their sly and furtive scheming.
No. There was no chance for them. True, the empty
cargo plane was still docked, the bridge raised, but Alfred
had thrown the proofs into the sea after the air strike.
They couldn't possibly believe that they had a chance...
... except they were in my private rooms.
"No!" Alexia shrieked, pounding her fist on the console,
furious. She would not have it, would not! She'd
kill them herself, claw their eyes out, tear them up!
There's the Tyrant, Alfred whispered in her ear.
Alexia's rage turned to passion, to exhilaration. Yes!
Yes, there was the Tyrant, still in stasis! And it was intelligent
enough to follow directions, provided they
were simple, provided one pointed it the right way.
"You won't escape!" Alexia shouted, laughing, twirling
around in joy and victory ... and after a moment,
Alfred joined in, unable to deny how deeply, wonderfully
satisfying it was going to be, as the computer
changed its tune and began the final countdown.
Their run to the plane was a blur - a mad dash out of
the Ashfords' terrible home and down the rain-slick hill,
to the mansion and down stairs, down more stairs to a
tiny dock where Steve called up the submarine. Every
step of the way, the alarms drove them faster, the continuous
vocal loop reminding them of the obvious.
Just as they were climbing out of the sub, the bland
female voice stopped repeating itself and began a new
message - and though the words weren't exactly the
same, Claire had a sudden vivid memory of Raccoon, of
standing on a subway platform as another self-destruct
loop had announced that the end was near.
"The self-destruct sequence is now active. There are
five minutes until initial detonation."
"Well, that blows," Steve said, the first thing he'd said
since they'd left the private mansion. And in spite of her
fear that they wouldn't make it in time, in spite of her
exhaustion and the horrible memories she knew she'd be
taking away with her, Steve's deadpan utterance struck
her as hilarious.
It does blow, doesn't it?
Claire started laughing, and though she tried to put an
immediate stop to it, she couldn't quite manage. It
seemed that even imminent death couldn't stop the giggles.
That, or hysteria had turned out to be a lot funnier
than she would have expected ... and the look on
Steve's face wasn't helping.
Hysterical or not, she knew they had to move. "Go,"
she choked, motioning him forward.
Still looking at her as though she'd lost her mind, Steve
grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him. After a
few stumbling steps - and the realization that her laughing
fit might kill them both - Claire got hold of herself.
"I'm okay," she said, breathing deep, and Steve let her
go, a look of relief crossing his pale face.
They ran down some stairs and through a kind of underwater
tunnel, and as they reached the door at its end,
the computer informed them that another minute had
passed, that they had only four left. If there'd been any
chance that she might start laughing again, that killed it.
Steve pushed the door open and jogged left, both of
them leap-frogging over a trio of dead bodies, all virus
carriers, all in Umbrella uniforms. Claire thought of
Rodrigo suddenly, and her heart twisted. She hoped that
he'd be safe where he was, or that he was well enough
to get away from the compound ... but she couldn't kid
herself about his chances. She silently wished him luck
and then let it go, following Steve through another door.
Their journey had ended in a huge, dark, metal-lined
cavern, a hanger for seaplanes, and their hope of escape
was sitting right in front of them - a smallish cargo
plane floating just beneath the grid platform they were
on. Not far to the right, blue predawn light defined the
giant gateway that opened into the sea.
"Over here," Steve said, and hurried toward a small
lift at the edge of the platform, one with a standing control
board. Claire joined him, fumbling the three emblem
proofs out of her pack.
"The self-destruct sequence is now active. There are
three minutes until initial detonation."
The control board had a panel on top with three inset
hexagonal spaces. Steve grabbed two of the proofs and
together, they pressed all three of them home.
Oh, man, please please please...
There was an audible click and the panel's switches
lit up, a deep hum coming from the body of the standing
machinery. Steve laughed, and Claire realized she'd
been holding her breath when she was suddenly able to
breathe again.
"Hang on," Steve said, and swiped his hand over the
panel, flipping them all over.
With a small jerk, the lift began to lower at an angle,
as the plane's rounded side door opened, folding down
to create a stepladder. Claire felt like it was all happening
in slow motion, a kind of unreality to it as the lift met
the base of the steps, jerking again to a stop; it was hard
to believe that it was finally happening, that they were
actually going to make it off Umbrella's cursed island.
To hell with believing it, just go!
They boarded the plane, Steve running forward to get
it flight ready while Claire quickly checked out the rest
of it - a large, mostly empty cargo area constituted the
bulk of the plane, sealed off from the cockpit by a
soundproof metal hatch. There weren't any creature
comforts beyond a closet with a port-o-john behind the
pilot's seat, but there was a footlocker at the rear of the
cockpit that contained two plastic gallon jugs of water,
much to Claire's relief.
Though muffled, they could still hear the recording
resonating through the hanger as Steve found the controls
for the door, the hatch lifting and sealing as the countdown
went to two minutes. Claire hurried to his side, her
heart really starting to pound; two minutes was nothing.
She wanted to help, to ask what she could do, but
Steve's full concentration was on the instrument panel.
She remembered what he'd said about "iffy" flying
skills, but since she didn't have any at all, she wasn't
complaining. The seconds ticked past and she had to
force herself not to start babbling nervously, not to do
anything that might distract him.
The plane's engines had been rumbling, the sound
getting steadily louder and higher-pitched, Claire's
nerves tightening to match - and when the dreaded
computer female spoke up again, Claire found herself
gripping the back of Steve's chair, her knuckles white.
"There is now one minute until initial detonation.
59 ... 58 ... 57 ..."
What if it's too complicated, what if he can't do it?
Claire thought, fairly certain she was about to explode.
"44... 43..."
Steve straightened abruptly, grabbing a gear shift-looking
thing to his right and nudging it forward before placing
his hands on the yoke. The engine sounds got much
louder, and slowly, very slowly, the plane started to move.
"You ready yet?" he asked, a grin in his voice, and
Claire nearly collapsed with relief, her knees weak
with it.
"30 ... 29 ... 28 ..."
The plane edged forward beneath a low metal bridge,
close enough to the door now that she could see small
waves breaking against the metal siding. There was a loud
thump overhead, as though the bridge had scraped the top
of the plane, but they kept moving, slow and steady.
"17 ... 16..."
As Steve steered into the open water, the countdown
reached ten ... and then was too far away to be heard,
as the engines got impossibly louder and they picked up
speed, the smooth ride turning bumpy as they started to
run over the waves. There was just enough light in the
sky now for Claire to see the island's shore off to their
right, rocky and treacherous. There were low cliffs bordering
much of Rockfort, rising up out of the water like
rough fortress walls.
Right before Steve started to pull back on die yoke, to
lift the speeding plane up and away, Claire saw the first
explosions, the sounds hitting a second later - a series
of deep, thundering booms that quickly grew distant,
dropping off as Steve gently raised them up.
As the cargo plane took to the air, giant billows of
black smoke rose into the early dawn, casting shadows
over the disintegrating compound. Flames were catching
everywhere, and though she didn't know the exact
layout of what she was looking at, she thought she saw
the Ashfords' private home being gutted by fire, an immense
orange light rising up behind what was left of the
mansion. There were still structures standing, but immense
pieces of them were suddenly missing, blown
into rubble and dust.
Claire took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling
knotted muscles begin to unclench. It was all over. Another
Umbrella facility lost, because of the scientific integrity
they continued to violate, because of a moral
vacuum that seemed to be an elemental component of
the company's policies. She hoped the tortured, twisted
soul of Alfred Ashford had finally found some kind of
peace ... or whatever it was he truly deserved.
"So, where to?" Steve asked casually, and drawn back
from her wandering thoughts, Claire turned away from
the side window, grinning, ready to kiss the pilot.
Steve caught her gaze with his, also grinning - and as
they looked into each other's eyes, the seconds stretching,
it occurred to her for the first time that he wasn't
just a kid. No kid would look at her the way he was
looking at her now ... and in spite of her firm decision
not to encourage him, she didn't look away. He was a
good-looking guy, definitely, but she'd spent most of the
last twelve hours thinking of him as an obnoxious kid
brother - not exactly easy to get past, even if she wanted
to. On the other hand, after what they'd been through together,
she also felt very close to him in a way that was
solid, strong, an affection that seemed perfectly natural
and...
Claire broke the eye contact first, looking away. They'd
been free and safe for all of a minute and a half; she
wanted to digest that for a little while before moving on.
Steve returned his attention to the controls, looking a
little flushed and there was another thump on the roof,
like back in the hanger.
"What is that?" Claire asked, looking up as though she
actually expected to see something through the metal.
"No idea," Steve said, frowning. "There's nothing up
there, so..."
CRUUNCH!
The plane seemed to bob in the air and Steve hurried
to compensate, as Claire instinctively looked behind
them. The destructive sound had come from the hold.
"The main cargo hatch came open," Steve said, tapping
at a small flashing light on the console, punching
another button. "I can't get it to close."
"I'll check it out," Claire said, and at Steve's unhappy
expression, she smiled. "You just keep us in the air,
okay? I promise not to jump."
She turned toward the hold, and as soon as Steve looked
away, she casually grabbed the rifle hanging off the back
of the copilot's chair, the one Alfred had dropped. She still
had the semi, but the laser sight on the rifle meant pinpoint
accuracy and since she didn't want to shoot the plane
full of holes, the .22 was a better choice. There had been a
monster or two on the island, and maybe they'd ended up
with a stowaway, but she didn't want Steve to worry, or
get involved. They both needed him at the controls.
Whatever it is, I'll have to take care of it, she thought
grimly, reaching for the door handle. Really, she was
probably overreacting to some minor malfunction, a
loose roof panel and a broken hinge. She opened the
door...
... and leaped inside, slamming it behind her before
Steve could hear the noise, so much for minor...
The entire rear of the hold was gone, the hatch torn
away, clouds and sky whipping past at incredible speed.
Confused, Claire took a single step forward - and saw
what the problem was.
Mr. X, she thought wildly, remembering the monstrous
thing in Raccoon, the relentless pursuer in the
long, dark coat, but the hulking creature straddling the
hydraulic track wasn't the same. It was humanoid,
giant-sized and hairless like the X monster, its flesh
similar, an almost metallic dark gray - but it was also
taller and more muscular, built like an eight-foot-tall
bodybuilder, its shoulders impossibly broad, its abdomen
rippled with muscle. It was sexless, a rounded
hump at its groin, and the hands weren't human hands,
were far more lethal. Its left fist was a metal-spiked
mace bigger than her entire head, its right hand a hybrid
of flesh and curving knives, two of them at least a foot
long.
And it's not wearing a coat, she thought randomly, as
the monster turned its cataract-white eyes to look at her
before throwing its head back and roaring, an explosive
howl of bloodlust and fury.
Terrified but determined, Claire raised her suddenly
pathetic weapon as the creature started for her, and put
the red dot on its right unicolor eye. She squeezed the
trigger...
... and heard the dry click of an empty chamber, deafeningly
loud even over the raging winds that spun past
the damaged plane.
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