ELEVEN
THEY PUSHED OUT INTO THE DARK, STEVE
ahead of Claire, leaving the office door open. There was
just enough light to see where the hall branched right,
which was all the light they needed.
- right, walk, door on the right, walk, steps to the left -
It looped through his mind, the directions simple but
he didn't want to make even a tiny mistake. The image of
what Claire had pulled off his back was still fresh in his
mind, and they didn't know what else the moths could do.
Two strides forward and the first moth came at them,
a whitish, silent blur, and Steve opened up.
Bam-bam-bam! Three shots and the flapping thing
disintegrated, soft plop sounds as the pieces hit the
floor, and here came the rest, fluttering out from the corridor
he and Claire wanted. They flew on a dusty wave
of rot smell, shadowy, flopping shapes ... and what was
that, the thick, hanging, man-size thing webbed against
the ceiling?
- don't think about it, now, go now -
"Now!" Steve said, and Claire ran out from behind
him, darting to the right and down the hall as he opened
fire again, two- and three-round bursts.
Feathery pieces of wing and warm, repulsive goo
rained down as he fired into the whirling dark shapes
overhead, splashing him, making him gag, the moths
dying as silently as they attacked. He felt one of them in
his hair, felt something warm and wet touch his scalp,
and frantically brushed at the top of his head, firing,
knocking a sticky egg case away.
"Open!" Claire shouted, much closer than he expected,
and though he'd planned to back down the hall, firing as
he went, the feel of that crap in his hair was the last straw.
He ducked, covered his head with one arm, and sprinted.
He saw her silhouette in a doorway on the right and
plunged ahead, running directly into her outstretched
arm. Claire grabbed a handful of his shirt and jerked him
inside, slamming the door closed behind them - and then
turned and started firing, blocking his body with hers.
"Hey, what's..."
Bam! Bam! The room was huge, the shots echoing
from faraway corners.
There was a trace of light coming from somewhere,
but Steve heard them before he saw them. Zombies,
moaning and gasping, three or four of them closing in
on their position. He could only make out their outlines,
staggering and weaving forward, saw two of them go
down but two more moving in to take their place.
"I'm okay!" he called out between rounds, and Claire
stepped aside, shouting for him to take the right flank.
Steve targeted and fired, blinking and squinting
against the dark, trying to get head shots. He took down
three of them, then a fourth, so close that he felt blood
splashing his hand. He immediately wiped it against his
pants, praying that he didn't have any open cuts, that he
wouldn't run out of ammo, but there was another zombie,
and another...
... and then Claire was pulling him again and he
stopped firing, let her lead him through the dark toward
where the mining room was supposed to be. Behind them,
zombies shuffled and wailed, giving slow motion chase.
He tripped over a warm body and stepped on another,
feeling something crunch underfoot, but as helpless and
afraid as he felt, it was nothing to suddenly hearing Claire
cry out in pain, to feel her fingers leave his arm.
"Claire!" Terrified, Steve reached out for her, felt
only air...
"Watch your step, I stubbed my goddamn toe," Claire
said irritably, no more than two feet away, and he felt his
knees go weak. He could also feel a cold metal railing
against his right shoulder - the steps to the mining
room. They'd made it.
Together, they climbed the few steps, Claire still in
front and when she opened the door, real light spilled
out in shafts, piercing the blackness.
"Praise Jesus," Steve muttered, holding the door from
behind as Claire stepped inside...
... and before he could follow, he heard that disturbed,
girlish giggling that he'd come to know and hate, and
Claire had slipped one hand behind her back and was
motioning him to freeze. He let go of the door and she
didn't move, letting it settle on her hip as Alfred said
something and she slowly raised both her hands.
It seemed Alfred had gotten the drop on Claire...
... but not on me, Steve thought, unaware that he was
wearing a tight, grim smile. Alfred had a lot to answer
for, but Steve was pretty certain that in another minute
or two, he wasn't going to be saying much of anything,
ever again.
He had her. As he'd surmised, they - well, she had
come to see about the tunnel, the one exit from the terminal
that didn't require a key. She wasn't a stupid girl,
by no means, but he was superior, in intellect and strategy.
Among other things.
Still standing in the doorway, Claire raised her
hands, her expression annoyingly blank. Why wasn't
she afraid?
"Drop your weapon," Alfred snapped, his finger on
the rifle's trigger. His voice, naturally amplified by the
mining pit that took up most of the floor, emanated
throughout the icy chamber, sounding authoritative and
a bit cruel. He liked the strong sound of it, and knew it
was effective when she let the handgun drop from her
fingers without hesitating.
"Kick it toward me," he commanded, and she did so,
the weapon clattering across the concrete. He didn't
pick it up, instead kicking it beneath the rail to his left,
both of them listening to her only hope bounce away
over frozen rocks, lost to the depths of the icy pit.
How wonderful, to exert such control!
"What happened to your traveling companion?" he
asked, sneering. "Has he met with an accident? Oh, and
step away from the door, if you don't mind. And keep
your hands when I can see them."
Claire edged forward, the door mostly closing behind
her, and he saw a flash of some unhappy emotion cross
her face, knew immediately that he'd scored a point.
Less of a hot meal for father, it seemed, but he doubted
the monstrosity would complain.
"He's dead," she said simply. "What happened to
Alexia? Or am I speaking to Alexia - you know, you
two look so much alike..."
"Shut your mouth, little girl," Alfred snarled. "You
don't deserve to say her name. You already know that
it's time for her return, that's why your people attacked
Rockfort, to lure her out - or were you hoping to kill her
outright, to cut short her first breath?"
Claire acted confused, determined to keep up her pretense,
it seemed, but Alfred didn't want to hear any
more of her lies. The game was losing interest for him.
In the face of Alexia's imminent triumph, everything
had paled by comparison.
"I already know it all," he snapped, "so don't bother.
Now, if you'll come with me..."
Claire suddenly looked up and right, to the raised
platform where the tunnel began.
"Look out!" she shrieked, collapsing as Alfred spun
around, seeing only the massive ice digger machine, the
tunnel's dark entrance...
... and the door had crashed open behind Claire, the
boy diving in and landing on his side, pointing a weapon
at him, at him.
Furious, Alfred swung the rifle and pulled the trigger,
three, four times, but he hadn't had enough time to target
properly, the explosive shots going wide...
... and it was as though a giant hand suddenly shoved
Alfred backward, taking his breath away, the boy firing
and then clicking on empty, out of bullets.
Alfred stumbled back another step and opened his
mouth to laugh, ready to kill them both and, and the rifle
wasn't in his hands anymore, he'd dropped it for some
reason, and his laugh was only a wet, painful cough -
- and something gave way behind his back, and then
he was falling into the mining pit. He landed on a thick
crust of ice and started to get up, but there was a great,
searing pain in his chest. Was it possible that he'd been
shot?
With barely a sound, the ice gave way all around him
and he screamed, falling, he had to see her once more,
had to touch her but he could hear his father screaming,
too, coming for him, and then everything was lost in
pain and dark.
The sound of the terrible, monstrous howl that had
risen up to meet Alfred's got them moving, Claire pausing
just long enough to grab the Remington before
climbing after Steve to the high platform. With Steve on
empty and her own gun kicked into the pit, it was their
only weapon.
They clambered into the cab of the huge yellow machine
parked in front of the slanted, rising tunnel, Steve
taking the wheel - and again, they heard that deep, insane
scream, and it was definitely closer, the monster
prisoner loose somewhere inside.
Steve flipped a bunch of switches, nodding and mumbling
to himself as he went. Claire listened as she
checked the rifle - only six rounds - gathering that the
machine's digging device, an enormous screw-looking
thing, actually heated up to melt the ice. She didn't care
what it did, as long as it got them out before the monster
came looking for them.
With the heavy machine humming to life, Steve explained
that the tunnel was probably unfinished because
the workers would have had to go slowly and without
using the heating element, to avoid flooding half the facility,
"But we don't," he said, grinning. "What do you say
we make a lake?"
"Go for it," she said, grinning back at him, wishing she
felt a little more enthusiastic. God, they were getting out,
and with Alfred Ashford finally dead, there was no one
standing in their way. So why was she still so uncertain?
It's that shit he was babbling about his sister...
Crazy, yeah, but it had brought up the one question she still didn't
have an answer for - why had Rockfort been attacked?
Steve jammed on the throttle and the machine lurched
forward. There weren't seat belts, so Claire put one
hand on the roof, the digger bouncing almost as much as
their plane had right before it crashed. Their view was
mostly blocked by the giant twisting screw-thing, but it
was obvious when they hit the end of the tunnel, bigtime.
The noise was incredible, deafening, like rocks in a
blender times a hundred. There was a burning steam
smell, and as they inched forward through total blackness,
she could hear the thaw even over the digging, as
torrents of water rushed past the cab.
The grinding, waterfall noises seemed to go on forever
as they continued to climb - and then the machine
stuttered, jerking, and the treads were straining - and
sudden light flooded into the cab, gray and shadowy and
beautiful.
The digger crawled out of its brand-new hole near a
standing tower, Claire recognizing it as a helipad even
as Steve pointed out the snow-cats parked near the base.
It was snowing, fat wet flakes spinning down from a
slate sky, the humid cold seeping into the cab before
they'd been on the surface a minute. There was a wind
blowing, the snow angled slightly - not a big wind, but
steady.
" 'Copter or 'cat?" Steve asked lightly, but she could
see that he was starting to shiver. So was she.
"Your call, fly boy," she said. A helicopter would be
faster, but staying on the ground seemed safer. "Can we
even take off in this?"
"As long as it doesn't get any worse," he said, looking
up at the tower, but he didn't seem sure. She was about
to recommend one of the 'cats when he shrugged, pushing
his door open and sliding out, calling back over his
shoulder.
"I say we hit the tower, fly girl," he said. "We can at
least see if there's actually a choice."
She got out, too, craning her neck back, but she
couldn't see the top of the tower, either. And it was cold,
frostbite cold.
"Whatever, let's just hurry," Claire said, slinging the
rifle over her shoulder.
Steve jogged for the stairs, Claire following, freezing
but exhilarated, suddenly totally high on being free to
choose, to decide what they wanted to do, how they
wanted to do it. And either way, they'd be at the Australian
station in an hour or so, wrapped in blankets and
drinking something hot and telling their story.
Well, at least the more believable parts, she thought,
climbing the recently sanded stairs after him. Even the
most open-minded people in the world wouldn't believe
half of what they'd been through.
Her happiness was wearing thin as they neared the
top, three stories later, her teeth chattering it away - and
when Steve turned around, frowning, she no longer
cared about much of anything beyond getting warm.
"There's no helicopter," he said, snow starting to stick
to his hair. "I guess we'll..."
He saw something behind her and his face suddenly
contorted with horror and surprise. He reached out to
pull her up but she was already moving.
"Go!" she said, and he turned and bolted up the stairs,
Claire barely a half step behind him. She didn't know
what he'd seen -
- yes you do -
- but from the look on his face, she knew she didn't
want it behind her.
It's the thing, the monster, it was loose and now it's
coming for you, her fear helpfully provided, and then
Steve was grabbing her arm and jerking her up the last
few steps. She stumbled onto a giant, empty, square
platform, the landing lines mostly obscured by fresh
snow, a gray haze of anomalous fog making it hard to
see clearly.
"Give me the rifle," he breathed, and she ignored
him, turned to see if it was true, if she would recognize
the awful pain of the thing that had screamed so horribly
- and as it gained the platform, she saw that it was
true, and she recognized it with no trouble at all. She unslung
the rifle and backed away, motioning for Steve to
stay behind her.
Alfred woke up in a world of pain. He could barely
breathe, and there was blood on his face and in his nose
and mouth, and when he tried to move, the agony was
instant and overwhelming. Every inch of bone was broken,
cut or smashed or punctured, and he knew he was
going to die. All that was left was his surrender to the
dark. He was very afraid, but he ached so badly that perhaps
sleep would be best...
... Alexia...
He couldn't give up, not when he'd been so close,
not when he was still so close. He forced his eyes to
open, and saw through a thin red haze that he was on
one of the lower level platforms that jutted out into the
mining pit. He'd fallen at least three levels, perhaps as
many as five.
"Aa...lexi...iaa," he whispered, and felt blood bubbling
up from his chest, felt bones grinding as he shifted, felt
afraid of the pain he'd have to endure - but he would go
to her, because she was his heart, his great love, and he
would be sustained by his name on her lips.
"Give me the rifle," Steve said again, watching the
thing take its first stumbling step in their direction, but
Claire wasn't listening. She had her eye to the scope,
was seeing what he saw but under magnification - and
what he saw was an abomination.
Blindfolded, its hands tied behind its back, wearing
only a shapeless and stained cut of leather knotted
around its waist, the thing had suffered horribly, that
much was clear; he could see the raised scars, the ancient
welts, bloody shackle marks around its ankles. It
looked almost human, but for its oversized body and
strange flesh - gray and mottled, sitting over lean muscles
that had ruptured through in places, exposing raw
tissue. Its torso was bare, and he could see a kind of
pulsing redness in the center of its chest, a clear target,
and for a few seconds, Steve thought they were safe
after all, it doesn 't have any weapons...
... and there was a splintering, cracking sound, and
four asymmetrical appendages, like the jointed legs of
an insect, unfolded from its back and upper body, the
longest easily ten feet, curling from its right shoulder
like a scorpion's tail. It reeled forward another step
and some dark liquid was spraying from its body, from
its chest or back. As the droplets struck the frozen cement,
a thick, purplish-green gas began to hiss upward
from where they landed, blown by the snowy wind first
one direction, then another.
It rumbled out some heavy, wordless sound and
took another step toward them, the new arms whipping
around its hairless head, making it weave from
side to side. It could barely keep its balance, and as
the thought occurred to him, Steve was already running.
Go in low, head down, knock it off while it's still at
the edge...
"Steve!" Claire screamed fearfully, but he was almost
there, close enough for the acrid tinge of its self-produced
gas to sear his nostrils, has to be poison, gotta
keep it away from her...
... and just before he rammed into it, something viciously
shoved him, slammed into his back and pushed,
sending him flying to the ground.
"Steve!" Claire screamed again, this time in absolute
horror, because he was skidding across the icy cement
on his side, and though he tried to stop himself, scrabbling
at the frozen platform with frozen fingers, there
was suddenly no platform left.
Steve was only a few feet from the monster when its
strange arm whipped down over them both, hitting
Steve in the back and hurtling him to the side.
"Steve!"
Steve skipped across the frozen platform like a flat
stone on water and disappeared over the edge.
Oh, my God, no!
Claire doubled over, the emotional pain hitting her
like a physical blow, sharp and hard in her gut. He'd
been trying to protect her, and it had cost him his life.
For a second, she couldn't move or breathe, couldn't
feel the cold, didn't care about the monster.
But only for a second.
She looked at the stumbling, tortured animal staggering
toward her, knew without doubt that the fury they'd
heard came from long, hard years of abuse, of experimentation,
and felt nothing. Her heart had sealed itself
up, her mind suddenly colder than her body. She
straightened, jacking a round into the chamber of the
rifle, appraising the situation with a clear eye.
Obviously, she could outrun it, leave it on the platform
and be a mile away before it found its way back
down - but that wasn't an option, not anymore. Its death
would be a mercy, but that didn't figure in to her calculations,
either.
It killed Steve, and now I'm going to kill it, she thought
coolly, and walked to the northwest corner of the platform,
the farthest from the stairs. Its appendages flailing
over its head, the monster wove around in a painfully slow
half circle, its blind face finally turned in her direction.
It let out another deep, gasping, mindless sound and
its body vomited out more of that smoking liquid, some
kind of acid or poison, probably. She wondered who had
created such a thing, and how - this was no T-virus
zombie, and from its abused and tormented state, it
wasn't a BOW, either. She supposed she'd never know.
Claire raised the rifle and looked through the scope,
focusing in on the pulsating tissue in the center of its
chest, then raising to target its blank gray face. She
didn't know about the tissue mass at its heart, but she
was sure it wouldn't survive a head shot by a 30.06. She
didn't want to waste time stalking it, or inflicting unnecessary
pain; she just wanted it dead.
She aimed at the center of its forehead. It had a strong
jaw and fine, straight nose beneath the puckered flesh,
as though it had once been handsome, even aristocratic.
Maybe it's another Ashford, she thought mockingly,
and fired.
The monster's head split apart, almost seemed to
shatter as the round found its mark. Shards of bone and
brain matter flew, all of it as gray as the gray sky, steam
rising up from the broken bowl of its skull as it fell -
- first to its knees, the mutant arms spasming in the snowy
air, then onto its ruined face.
Claire felt nothing, no pleasure, no dismay, not even
pity. It was dead, that was all, and it was time for her to
go. She still didn't feel the cold, but her body was shaking
violently, her teeth rattling, and she knew she had to
get warm...
"Claire?"
The voice was weak and shuddering and unmistakably
Steve's, coming from the platform's east edge.
Claire stared at the empty space for a split second, entirely
dumbfounded - and then ran, dropping to her
hands and knees beneath the soft patter of snow, leaning
out to see him awkwardly wrapped around a support
post, clinging to the frozen metal with both arms and
one leg.
His face was almost blue with cold, but when he saw
her, his eyes lit up, a look of incredible relief crossing
his pale features.
"You're alive," he said.
"That's my line," she answered, dropping the rifle
and bracing herself against the edge, leaning down to
grab his arm. It was a struggle, but in another moment,
Steve was back on the platform, and then they were on
their knees, embracing, too cold to do anything but
hang on.
"I'm so sorry, Claire," he said miserably, his face
buried in her shoulder. "I couldn't stop it."
Her heart had unsealed when she'd seen him alive,
and now tightened painfully. He was all of seventeen
years old, his whole life ripped apart by Umbrella, and
he'd just very nearly died trying to save her life. Again.
And he was sorry.
"Don't worry, I got it this time," she said, determined
not to cry. "You get the next one, okay?"
Steve nodded, sitting back on his heels to look at her.
"I will," he said, so vehemently that she had to smile.
"Cool," she said, and crawled to her feet, reaching
down to help him up. "That'll save me some work. Now
let's go catch a 'cat, yes?"
Supporting each other and staying close for warmth,
they made their way to the stairs, neither of them willing
to let go.
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