THIRTEEN
THINGS FELL TO SHIT PRETTY FAST WHEN HE
finally reached the island.
Chris stood at the top of the cliff in the early night,
catching his breath and soundly cursing himself. Everything
had been in that bag - weapons and ammo, rappelling
equipment so they could get back down to the
boat, flashlight, a basic first-aid kit, everything.
Not everything. You 've still got three grenades on your
belt, his mind told him brightly. Terrific. Halfway up the
cliff he loses his grip and drops the bag into the deep
blue sea, but it appeared he still had his sense of humor.
Yeah, that'll go a long way toward saving Claire's
life. Barry was right. I should have brought backup.
Well. He could stand around all goddamn day wishing
things were different, or he could get moving; he
picked moving.
Chris hunched over and stepped into the low cave entrance
he'd chosen to start at, an isolated area but definitely
connected to the rest of the compound - there was
a radio antenna on the ledge outside, and when he
straightened up a few steps later, he was inside a large,
open room, the walls and ceiling organic but the floor
carefully leveled.
There was light somewhere ahead, and Chris started
for it, keeping his fingers crossed that he wasn't about to
walk into an Umbrella Military dinner. He doubted it.
From what he'd seen of the island, the attack Claire had
mentioned had been excessively brutal.
He was less than a dozen steps into the shadowy
chamber when a small tremor shook the cave, spilling
rock dust and pebbles over his head - and closing the
cave entrance he'd just walked through, collapsing rock
having a fairly distinctive sound. It seemed the island attack
had made things a bit unstable.
"Oh, wonderful," he muttered, but was suddenly a bit
happier about the grenades. Not that they would help
much here. Even if he could blow the mouth without
bringing all of it down, it was still too high to jump, and
the rope had been in the bag; unless she'd been taking
lessons, Claire wasn't a good enough rock climber to go
down unassisted...
"What?" someone rasped, and Chris dropped into a
defensive crouch, searching the shadows...
... and saw a man on the cave floor, slumped against
the wall. He wore a tattered white T-shirt with blood on
it, his pants and boots military - he was one of Umbrella's,
and not in very good shape. Nevertheless, Chris
stepped quickly to his side, ready to kick the shit out of
him if he so much as sneezed.
"I didn't know anyone was still around," the man said
weakly, and coughed a little. "Thought I was the last
one ... after the self-destruct."
He coughed again, obviously not far away from
death. His words sank in, creating a lead ball in Chris's
stomach. Self-destruct?
He crouched down, trying to keep his voice level.
"I'm here looking for a girl, her name is Claire Redfield.
Do you know where she is?"
At the sound of Claire's name, the man smiled, though
not at Chris. "An angel. She's gone, escaped. I helped
her ... let her go. She tried to save me, but it was too late."
Hope bloomed anew. "Are you sure she got away?"
The dying man nodded. "Heard the planes leave. Saw
a jet come out of the basement, under the..." a cough,
"... the tank. You should go, too. Nothing left here."
Chris could feel some of his stress and fear ebbing
away, tensions in his neck and back releasing. If she was
gone, she was safe.
"Thank you for helping her," he said sincerely.
"What's your name?"
"Raval. Rodrigo Raval."
"I'm Claire's brother, Chris," he said. "Let me help
you, Rodrigo, it's the least I can do and..."
Eeaaaaaaa!
A deafening animal cry filled the cave, and at the same
instant, another tremor struck, a bad one, the ground
shaking so hard that Chris was thrown off his feet...
... and earth erupted, what Chris thought was an explosion
at first, a fountain of dirt and rock spraying upward,
but it kept rising, and Chris could see thick, filth-coated
slime beneath it, could smell sulfur and decay, saw a huge
cylinder made of rubber still climbing -
- and then it shrieked again, the top of the cylinder
twisting around, wormy tentacles peeling back from a
yawning, howling throat, and Chris scrambled to his
feet, grabbing a grenade from his belt...
... and the giant, shrieking snake-worm came crashing
down, mouth open...
... and swallowed Rodrigo whole before slamming
into the sandy soil where he'd been sitting. It dove into
the ground like a swimmer into water, its impossibly
long body arching over, following through.
Jesus!
Chris stumbled away as the ground continued to
quake, the burrowing creature kicking up rock and dirt
and sand all around him, and he realized that he had to
kill it or get away fast, that it could easily come up beneath
him for another quick snack.
He ran to the outer wall of the cave, making a split
second plan as the snake-worm burst up through the
ground behind him, its insane mouth peeling open as it
hesitated at the top of its arch, ready to plunge down
over him, rocks falling all around -
- and Chris pulled the safety ring off the grenade,
stripping the tape and pin away, and ran, straight for the
creature's lower body where it emerged from the ground.
Crazy, this is crazy...
He ducked just before hitting the filthy, muscular
body and set the grenade on the ground in front of it, on
the run, as careful as he could be not to set it off - and
then dived for cover behind the snake-worm's twisting
body, tucking into a shoulder roll, covering his head as
the animal started downward, shrieking...
... and BOOM, the explosion shook the ground even
harder than the animal had, the shriek cut off, the
grenade blast muffled by a half ton of worm guts that
shot out in all directions, stinking and warm, painting
the walls of the cave hi viscous bucket loads.
Chris rolled on his back, drenched, watched the front
half of the animal convulse and writhe, already dead - and
as its muscles and reflexes clenched and released for the
last time, the snake-worm expelled a gush of stomach acid
and rock from its gaping maw, vomiting out its last meal.
Rodrigo!
Before the massive corpse had completely settled to
the ground, Chris was at Rodrigo's side, horrified and
helpless, the man seizing in shock and pain. He was
coated in yellow bile, and Chris could see places where
it had already burned through his skin.
Rodrigo let out a soft cry, too weak to scream in what
had to be incredible pain, and Chris tore his own jacket
off, wiping his face clean of the sticky, acidic fluid.
"You're going to be okay, just relax, don't try to talk,"
Chris said, fully aware that Rodrigo would be dead in
minutes, perhaps seconds. He kept talking, kept his tone
soothing in spite of his own dismay.
Rodrigo opened his eyes, and though they were full
of suffering, they also had the wet, glassy, faraway look
of someone leaving it all behind, someone about to be
free of pain and fear.
"Right ... pocket..." Rodrigo whispered. "The angel
... gave ... for luck."
Rodrigo took a slow, deep breath, and let it out just as
slowly, an exhalation that seemed to go on forever, and
then he was gone.
Chris automatically closed his half-open eyes, simultaneously
sad and relieved at Rodrigo's passing, the end
of a life but also an end to dying.
Rest, friend.
Sighing, Chris reached into Rodrigo's pocket, felt
skin-warmed metal - and pulled out the scuffed, heavy
old lighter that he'd given to Claire himself, a long time
ago. For luck.
Chris held it to his chest, suddenly overwhelmed by a
rush of love for his sister. She'd carried the lighter with
her everywhere for years, but had given it up to ease the
mind of a dying man, possibly one of the men responsible
for her capture.
He slipped it into his pocket and stood, glad that he'd
be able to give it back to her - and to tell her that she'd
made a difference in Rodrigo's last hours, that he'd
smiled upon hearing her name. Even though Claire
didn't need to be rescued, Chris's trip to the island had
already turned out to be worthwhile.
The stink of the splattered cave was getting to him,
and now that he knew his sister was safe, all that was
left was to get himself home. His entrance had been
caved in, and he didn't have a decent weapon, but if
someone had triggered Umbrella's self-destruct system
- it seemed that all their illegal facilities were built
with such failsafes in place, a fine way to destroy evidence
if anything went wrong - then he shouldn't run
into too much trouble looking for the tank that Rodrigo
had mentioned, see if there was another jet to be had.
"No going back," he said softly, and with a final silent
prayer for Rodrigo to find peace, he went to see what he
could find.
There was a fight about to happen on one of the monitors
in what was left of the control room, and Albert
Wesker, frustrated by a day of fruitless searching and
not looking forward to yet another long flight, pulled up
a crate and sat down to watch. He'd already sent the
boys back to the world, he was alone - except it appeared
that he'd missed somebody, and said somebody
was still wandering around the island...
... but not for much longer, he thought happily, wishing
the reception was better; thanks to that lonesome
loser, Alfred Ashford, the self-destruct system had
screwed everything up ... and finally, something interesting
was actually going to happen.
Christ, he's unarmed!
Crazy or stupid or totally ignorant of what the island
was, no question. Wesker grinned. The unarmed man
was walking through the training facility just one floor
below, and he was about to meet up with one of Umbrella's
newer bio-organics, one that had been trapped
down in the sewers until Wesker had shown up and set it
free. They were one hallway apart; when the dumbass
turned the next corner, he was dead.
Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, pleasantly diverted
from his own troubles. Sweepers, Umbrella was calling
the new monsters, but they were basically Hunters with
poison claws - huge, primarily amphibious, violent as
hell. In Wesker's opinion, the Hunters, the 121 series,
were perfectly badass without the extra poison touch.
But isn't that just like Umbrella, always wasting resources,
playing games when they could be winning wars.
Yes, it was, but there was about to be bloodshed.
Wesker set aside his distaste for the company and leaned
in to watch.
The weaponless idiot - a tall guy with reddish-brown
hair, that was about all the static would allow - was two
steps from disaster, the Sweeper waiting just around the
corner ... when he stopped and backed up a step, pressing
himself against the damaged wall.
Wesker frowned. The man started to back up, slowly
and carefully, still hugging the wall. Okay, maybe not a
complete idiot.
He'd made it halfway back down the corridor he'd
come through when the Sweeper finally got impatient,
deciding to take action. There was no sound system left,
but the creature had thrown back its head and was screaming,
that weird, trilling screech floating up to Wesker
through the ruined building just a split second later.
"Get him," Wesker breathed eagerly, looking back at
the poor, doomed dumbass ... just in time to see him
throwing something, something small and dark, the
Sweeper leaping out from behind the corner, still
screaming, the object landing at its feet...
... and the building was shaking, the screens going
white and then black, the deep thunder of explosives
rumbling through the floor.
Wesker was astounded. And then furious. That creature
had been a miracle of science, a warrior created for
battle - who was this dick who'd just rambled in and
blown it to shit?
A dead dick, Wesker thought darkly, pushing the crate
away and heading for the stairs. He took them two at a
time, carefully bypassing a few still burning fires, aware
that he was channeling all his frustrations and upsets toward
the unknown soldier and not particularly caring.
Alexia wasn't at Rockfort, which meant he had to get
his ass to the Antarctic of all places, to the only other facility
she might be at; why else would Alfred have gone
there? And if Wesker didn't get to her before she woke
up, he might have to go home empty handed ... all of
which added up to failure, and if there was one thing
Wesker hated, it was losing.
He marched through the crumbling leftovers of the
training facility, reaching the hall he wanted, silencing
his steps as he edged farther along. There was still
smoke in the air when he reached the corner where the
conflict had taken place, but little left of the Sweeper.
Most of it was stuck to the walls and ceiling.
There, ahead and to the left; he could smell the intruder,
could smell sweat and anxiety emanating from
the small working lab to which he'd retreated.
This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, he
thought, his mood lifting somewhat at the thought of a
little personal interaction.
Not wanting to get blown up, Wesker didn't hesitate,
didn't give the guy a chance to get paranoid. He strode
into the room, saw the soon-to-be corpse standing with
his back turned, and moved. Moved the way only he
could move - one second, he was walking through the
door, the next, he was spinning the intruder around, lifting
him by his throat...
... and then looking into the startled face of Chris
Redfield.
Oh, my.
Chris, who'd been on the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., who'd
been led - under Wesker's command - to the Spencer estate,
where he'd proceeded to thoroughly screw up Wesker's
plans. Chris Redfield had cost him money, had almost
cost him his life - but worst of all, he had been primarily
responsible for the biggest failure in Wesker's career.
Wesker recovered himself quickly, a dark, wonderful
joy spreading through his entire body. "Chris Redfield,
as I live and breathe - what brings you to Rockfort, if
you don't mind me..."
Wesker trailed off, still gazing up into Redfield's increasingly
red face as he uselessly pried at Wesker's fingers.
The girl, of course! He hadn't even known that Chris
had a sister, but the deranged letter that Alfred Ashford
had so thoughtfully left behind explained everything...
including his plans for the young Claire Redfield.
"She's not here," Wesker said, grinning. With his free
hand, he straightened his sunglasses.
"You ... you're dead," Chris gasped, and Wesker
grinned wider, not bothering to respond to such a stupid
statement.
"Don't change the subject, Chris. Don't you want to
know where Claire is, hmmm? Did you know that her
plane took a little unplanned detour to the Antarctic?"
Chris was slowly choking to death, but Wesker could
see that the news of his sister was hitting him harder
than his own imminent demise. Wonderful!
"There are experiments being performed there,"
Wesker mock-whispered, as if telling him a secret.
"I plan on going myself, see if I can get an experiment or
two of my own going ... tell me, is your sister goodlooking?
Do you think she might be interested in getting
some action, because I've got a hard-on like you
wouldn't believe..."
Chris flailed at Wesker, the helpless fury in his eyes
absolutely gorgeous. He hit Wesker in the face, knocking
his sunglasses to the ground ... and Wesker
laughed, blinking up at him slowly, letting him see. He
still wasn't used to it himself, the gold-red cat's eyes occasionally
surprising him when he looked in a mirror
and they had exactly the effect he'd hoped for.
"What ... are you?" Chris rasped out.
"I'm better, that's what," Wesker said. "New employers,
you know. After the Spencer estate, I needed a little
help getting back on my feet, which they were perfectly
willing to provide. You think Claire will like it?"
"Monster," Chris spat.
I'll show you monster, you shit.
Wesker started to close his hand, slowly, watching
Chris's eyes bulging, a vein on his forehead popping
out...
... and was stopped by the sound of laughter. Cool, female
laughter, filling the room, surrounding them.
"Don't you want to play with me?" a voice said, the
same woman, low and sexy and dangerous, and then she
began to laugh again, an unmerciful, beautiful sound
that finally trailed away to nothing.
Alexia!
God, she was awake ... and the kind of power it
would take for her to look in on him here, to project herself
so far...
Wesker threw Chris to one side, barely hearing the
plaster wall crack beneath his useless skull, his thoughts
full of Alexia. He had to go to her immediately. He had
to have her, and not just for the sample ... though he'd
take what he could get.
"I'm coming," he said, scooping up his sunglasses
and then moving, speeding through the broken facility to
where his private plane waited. Chris Redfield was his
past; Alexia Ashford meant his future.
Chris crawled to his feet soon after Wesker left,
aching in about a dozen places, his throat horribly sore.
He didn't know what had happened, exactly, didn't
know who the woman was or why Wesker had seemed
so eager to get to her - but he understood now who had
attacked Rockfort, and suspected the reason. Albert
Wesker should have died when the Spencer mansion
had burned, but it seemed he'd sold his soul to someone
new at the price of his life, someone obviously as nasty
and amoral as Umbrella - someone who was perfectly
willing to kill for whatever it was they wanted, for
something that Umbrella had.
Chris didn't care. At the moment, all he cared about
was Claire, and getting himself to this Antarctica facility.
He knew that Umbrella had a legitimate base
there ... it had to be the same one, and if it wasn't,
somebody there would know where the experiments
were taking place.
He had one grenade left. If he could find the underground
airport, he'd have no trouble getting inside, and
he could fly anything with wings. He'd radio on the way
for a read on the Umbrella base, and if he couldn't find
a weapon to get her out, he'd use his bare hands.
All that mattered was Claire. And he was on his way.
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