Code: Veronica

by S. D. Perry

Chapter Seven

 

  IN THE COOL DARKNESS, RODRIGO HAD BEEN resting uneasily. Now he heard a noise out in the corri - dor, and forced himself to open his eyes, to get ready. He lifted his weapon, bracing his wrist on the desk when he realized he hadn't the strength to hold it up. I'll kill anyone who messes with me, he thought, more by habit than anything else, glad he had the gun even if he was already a dead man. A zombie guard had fallen down the stairs and crawled into the cell room sometime after the girl had left, but Rodrigo had killed it with a boot to the head and taken its weapon, still holstered on its broken hip. He waited, wishing that he could go back to sleep, trying to stay alert. The gun eased his mind, took away a lot of his fear. He was going to die soon, it was in-evitable. . . but he didn't want to become one of them, no matter what. Suicide was supposed to be a particu - larly awful sin, but he also knew that if he couldn't man - age to wipe out an approaching virus carrier, he'd eat a bullet before he let it touch him. He was probably going to hell, anyway. Footsteps, and someone was walking into the room, too fast. A zombie? His senses weren't working right, he couldn't tell if things were speeding up or he was slow - ing down, but he knew he had to shoot soon or he'd miss his chance. Suddenly, a light, small but penetrating - and there she was, standing in front of him like some dream. The Redfield girl, alive, holding a lighter up in the air. She left it burning, set it on the desk like a tiny lantern. "What're you doing here?" Rodrigo mumbled, but she was rummaging through a pack at her waist, not looking at him. He let the heavy gun drop from his fingers, closing his eyes for a second or a moment. When he opened them again, she was reaching for his arm, a syringe in one hand. "It's hemostatic medicine," she said, her hands and voice soft, the prick of the needle small and quick.

  "Don't worry, you won't OD or anything, somebody wrote dosage numbers on the back of the bottle. It says it'll slow down any internal bleeding, so you should be okay until help comes. I'll leave the lighter here. . . my brother gave it to me. It's good luck. "

  As she spoke, Rodrigo concentrated on waking up, on overcoming the apathy that had taken him over. What she was telling him didn't make sense, because he'd let her go, she was gone. Why would she come back to help him? Because I let her go. The realization touched him, flooded him with feelings of shame and gratitude. "I. . . you're very kind," he whispered, wishing there was something he could do for her, something he could say that would repay her for her compassion. He searched his memories, rumors and facts about the is - land, maybe she can escape. . . "The guillotine," he said, blinking up at her, trying not to slur his words too badly. "Infirmary's behind it, key's in my pocket. . . supposed to be secrets there. He knows things, puzzle pieces. . . you know where's the guillotine?"

  Claire nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Rodrigo, that helps me a lot. You rest now, okay?"

  She reached out and stroked his hair back from his forehead, a simple gesture, but so sweet, so nice, he wanted to weep. "Rest," she said again, and he closed his eyes, calmer, more at peace than he'd ever felt in his life. His last thought before he drifted off was that if she could forgive him after the things he'd done, show him such mercy as if he deserved it, maybe he wouldn't go to hell, after all. Rodrigo had been right about secrets. Claire stood at the end of the hidden basement corridor, steeling herself to open the unmarked door in front of her. The infirmary itself was small and unpleasant, not at all what she would have expected for an Umbrella clinic - no medical equipment to be seen, nothing mod - ern at all. There was only a single examination table in the front room, the splintery wooden floor around it stained with blood, a tray of medieval-looking tools nearby. The adjoining room had been burned beyond recognition; she couldn't tell what purpose it had served, but it looked like a cross between a recovery room and a crematorium. Smelled like one, too. There was a tiny, cluttered office just off the first room, a lone body sprawled in front of it, a man in a stained lab coat who had died with a look of horror on his narrow, ashen face. He didn't appear to have been in-fected, and since there were no virus carriers in the room and no obvious wounds, she guessed that he'd had a heart attack, or something like it. The contorted expression on his pinched features, bulging eyes and gaping, down - turned mouth, suggested to her that he'd died of fright. Claire carefully stepped over him, and found the first secret in the small office almost by accident. Her boot had nudged something when she walked in, a marble or stone that had rolled across the floor - which had turned out to be a most unusual key. It was a glass eye, one that belonged in the grotesque plastic face of the office's anatomical dummy, propped leering in the corner. Considering what Steve had said, about no one com-ing back from the infirmary, and considering what she already knew about the kind of insanity that Umbrella seemed to attract, Claire wasn't surprised to find a hid - den passage behind the office wall. A worn set of stone steps were revealed when she'd placed the eye back where it belonged, which hadn't really surprised her, ei - ther. It was a secret, a trick, and Umbrella was all about secrets and tricks.

  So open the door, already. Get it over with.

  Right. She didn't have all day. She didn't want to leave Steve alone for too long, either, she was worried about him. He'd had to kill his own father; she couldn't imagine the kind of psychological damage that would do to someone. . . Claire shook her head, irritated with her own dawdling. It didn't matter that she was in a barren, frightening place where lots of people had apparently died, where she could feel the pervasive atmosphere of terror emanating from the cold walls, trying to wrap around her like a burial shroud. . . "Doesn't matter," she said, and opened the door. Immediately, three stumbling virus carriers started for her, drawing her attention, keeping her from really seeing the details of the large room they'd been trapped in. All three were badly disfigured, missing limbs and long, ragged strips of skin, their putrefying flesh flayed and raw. They moved slowly, painfully dragging themselves to - ward her, and she could see older scars on the exposed rot-ting tissue. Even as she targeted the first, the knot of dread in her stomach was expanding, making her feel sick. It was over quickly, at least - but the terrible suspicion that had been growing in her mind, that she'd been hoping was false, was confirmed with a single good look around.

  Oh, Jesus.

  The room was strangely elegant, the muted lighting coming from a hanging chandelier. The floor was tiled, with a runner of finely woven carpet leading from the door to a kind of sitting area on the other side of the room. There was an overstuffed velvet chair and cherry wood end table there, the chair facing out so that someone sitting there would be able to see the entire room. . . which was worse than she could have imag - ined, worse than the mad Chief Irons's dungeon, hidden beneath the streets of Raccoon. There were two custom-built water wells, one with a pillory built into its rail, a steel cage suspended over the other. Chains hung from the walls, some with well-used manacles attached, some with leather collars, some with hooks. There were a few elaborate devices that she didn't look at too closely, things with gears and metal spikes. Swallowing back bile, Claire focused on the sitting area. The elegance of the furnishings and of the room it - self made things worse somehow, adding a touch of warped ego to the obvious psychosis of its creator. Like it wasn't enough to enjoy torturing people, he -or she -

  - wanted to observe it in luxury, like some mad aristocrat. She saw a book on the end table and walked over to retrieve it, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. Virus zombies and monsters and useless death were all horri - ble things, tragic or frightening or both - but the kind of sickness represented by the chains and devices all around her was appalling to her very soul, because it

  made her want to give up her faith in humanity. The book was actually a journal, leather bound with thick, high quality paper. The inner cover proclaimed that it was the property of a Dr. Enoch Stoker, no title or inscription otherwise. "He knows things, puzzle pieces. . . " Claire didn't want to touch the thing let alone read it, but Rodrigo had seemed to think it might help. She
flipped through a few pages, saw that nothing was dated, and started scanning the narrow, spidery writing for a familiar word or name, something about puzzles, maybe. . . there, an entry that made several references to Alfred Ashford. She took a deep breath and started at the top.

  We finally talked today about the details of my preferences and pleasures. Mr. Ashford wouldn't share his own, but he was most encouraging to me, as he's been since my arrival six weeks ago. He was informed at the beginning that my needs are uncon-ventional, but now he knows everything, even the small things. I was uncomfortable at first, but Mr. Ashford - Alfred, he insists I call him Alfred - proved to be an eager audience. He said that he and his sister both strongly approve of research in the boundaries of experience. He told me that I should think of them as kindred spirits, and that here, I am free. It was strange, describing aloud my feelings, sen-sations and thoughts that I've never shared. I told him about how it all started, when I was still a boy. About the animals I experimented with early on and later, the other children. I didn't know then that I was capable of killing, but I knew that the sight of blood excited me, that causing pain filled an empty, lonely space inside with profound feelings of power and control. I think he understands about the screaming, about how important the screaming is to me and. . .

  Enough. This wasn't what she was looking for, and it was making her want to vomit. She turned a few pages, found another entry about Alfred and his sister, scanned over something about a private home and went back, frowning.

  Alfred attended one of my live autopsies today, and told me afterward that Alexia has asked after me, that she wants to know if I have everything I need. Alfred worships Alexia, will let no one near her, I haven't asked to meet her yet, and have no plans to do so; Alfred wants their private home to remain pri-vate, and to keep her all to himself. It's behind the common mansion, he told me, most people don't even know it exists. Alfred tells me things that no one else knows. I think he appreciates having an ac-quaintance with common interests. He said that Rockfort has many places that require unusual keys - much like the eye he gave me - some new, some very old. Edward Ashford, Alfred's grand-father, was apparently obsessed with secrecy, an ob-session shared by Umbrella's other founder, according to Alfred. He and Alexia are the only people alive who know all the hidden places at Rockfort, he said. Al-fred had full sets of keys made for both of them when he took over his father's position. I joked that it's good to have a spare in case he ever locks himself out, and he laughed. He said that Alexia would always let him in. I believe that twins often have a much deeper bond than other sets of siblings - that in a figurative sense, if you cut one, the other will bleed. I'd like very much to test this theory in a more literal way, regard-ing pain levels. I've found that filling a fresh wound with cut glass and sewing it closed again is a. . .

  Sickened, Claire tossed the book aside and wiped her hands on her jeans, deciding that she had enough infor-mation to go on. She hoped quite sincerely that the corpse upstairs was Dr. Stoker's, that his black heart had failed him and it was the thought of going to hell that had frozen his face into a mask of terror - and she abruptly realized that she'd had more than enough of his atmos - phere, that if she had to be in the infirmary for one more minute, she really was going to throw up. She turned and walked quickly to the door, was full on running by the time she reached the stairs. She took them two at a time, and sprinted through the upstairs room, not looking at the body, not thinking about anything but the need to get out. When she hit the outside path that led back to the guillotine door, she collapsed against one wall and breathed in huge lungfuls of air, concentrating on keep-ing her gorge down. It took a couple of minutes before she was out of the danger zone. When she felt ready, Claire plugged a fresh clip in her semi and started back toward the training facility. She realized that she'd lost the second weapon Steve gave her somewhere between the torture chamber and the front door, but there was nothing on Earth that would persuade her to step foot back inside. She was going to get Steve, and they would find those goddamn keys, and then they were getting the fuck away from the asylum that Umbrella had created at Rockfort.

  Steve cried for a while, and rocked himself back and forth for a while, dully aware that he'd just done a very Big Thing - as far as lifetime experiences went, there was the small shit and then big and then capital B Big.

  There were some things that just changed people forever, and this was one of them. He'd had to kill his own father. Both his parents, good people who meant no harm, were dead. That meant there was no one in the world who loved him now, and it was that thought that kept repeat - ing itself, making him cry and rock back and forth. It was thinking about the Lugers that finally snapped him out of the private emotional hell he was in, that made him remember where he was and what was happening. He still felt entirely terrible, aching inside and out, but he started to tune back in to his environment, wishing that Claire was with him, wishing for a glass of water. The Lugers. Steve rubbed at his swollen eyes and then pulled both of them from under his belt, staring down at them. It was stupid, unimportant, but some - where in the back of his mind, he'd finally connected that when he'd taken the matched handguns off the wall, that was when he'd been locked in and the heat had gone on. It had been a trap. . . and as far as he could figure, the only purpose of a trap like that was to keep someone from taking the weapons.

  Which means maybe they're useful for something be - sides shooting. Yeah, they were gilded and cool-looking and probably expensive, but the Ashfords obviously weren't hurting for money. . . and if the guns had some kind of sentimental value, why were they being used as part of a trap? He decided that he wanted to go back and take a closer look at where they'd been hanging, see if putting them back did anything. It was a two-minute walk back to the mansion, tops, he could be there and back in five; Claire would wait for him if she got back first. And if I stay here, I'll just keep crying. He wanted, needed something to do. Steve stood up, feeling shaky and kind of hollow as he brushed dirt off his pants, unable to avoid looking over at where his father had died. He felt a rush of relief when he saw that Claire had covered him up with a piece of tarp. She was a great girl. . . though for some reason, he suddenly felt kind of weird about her, about telling her all that stuff. He wasn't sure how he felt. He stepped outside, and was vaguely surprised to see that he wasn't in the front yard of the training facility. He was also vaguely surprised that in the small, high - walled square he had walked into was what appeared to be a WWII Sherman tank. Giant, mud-crusted treads, revolving turret with huge gun, the whole deal. He might have been interested earlier, or at least more than just a little surprised - there was no reason at all for there to be a tank at the Rockfort facility - but now all he wanted to do was check out the Luger trap, see if he could at least contribute something toward getting them off the island. He felt kind of bad that Claire had been stuck with questioning the wounded Umbrella guy by herself, since it was his idea and all. On the other side of the tank was a door that did open into the training yard. At least his sense of direction wasn't totally blown. It seemed darker than it had ear - lier; Steve looked up and saw that the sky had gone cloudy again, blocking the moon and stars. He was about halfway across the yard when he heard thunder, loud enough that the very ground seemed to quake a lit - tle beneath his feet. By the time he reached the other side, it had started to rain again. Steve stepped up the pace, hanging a right at the exit and jogging for the mansion. The rain was heavy and cold, but he welcomed it, opening his mouth and turning his face to the sky, letting it wash over him. He was soaked in just a few seconds.

  "Steve!" Claire.

  He felt his stomach knot up a little, turning to watch her approach. She caught up to him outside the door to the mansion's grounds, wearing a concerned expression. "Are you all right?" she asked, studying him uncer - tainly, blinking rain out of her eyes. Steve wanted to tell her that he was aces, that he'd shaken off the worst of it and was ready to get back to the zombie
smackdown, but when he opened his mouth, none of that came out. "I don't know. I think so," he said truthfully. He man - aged a half smile, not wanting her to worry too much but not wanting to talk about it, either. She seemed to understand, swiftly changing the topic.

  "I found out that the Ashford twins have a private house hidden behind the mansion," she said. "And I'm not a hundred percent sure, but the keys we're looking for might be there. I think there's a good chance. " "You found all that out from the, uh, Rodrigo?"

  Steve asked doubtfully. It was hard to imagine that an Umbrella employee would give that up to the enemy. Claire hesitated, then nodded. "In a roundabout way," she said, and he suddenly had the impression that there was something she didn't want to talk about. He didn't push it, just waited. "The problem is getting to the house," she continued. "I'm sure it's locked up tight. I was thinking we might poke around the mansion a little more, see if we can find a map or a passage. . . "

  She pushed her dripping bangs out of her eyes, smil - ing. ". . . and, you know, get out of the rain before we get wet. "

  Steve agreed. They went through the entrance to the manicured grounds, stepping over a few corpses along the way. He filled her in on his idea about the Lugers, which she thought they should definitely pursue - al - though she also pointed out that with the Ashford familyrunning the island, Umbrella's cute little puzzles didn't necessarily need to be logical. They stopped at the front door to do what they could about their clothes, which turned out to be not much. Both of them were drenched, though they did their best to squeeze out the excess. Fortunately for both of them, their feet had stayed dry; wet clothes were a pain in the ass, but trying to get around in squelching boots seri - ously sucked the root. Weapons up, Steve pushed the door open. Shivering, they stepped inside. . . . . . and heard a door close, upstairs and to the right. "Alfred," Steve said, keeping his voice low, "betcha money. What say we put a few holes in his sorry ass?"

  He started for the stairs, the question rhetorical. That loony craphound needed to be dead, for more reasons than Steve could count. Claire caught up to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Listen, some of the stuff I found back at the prison. . . he's not just crazy, he's seriously deranged. Like serial killer deranged. "Yeah, I got that," Steve said. "All the more reason to take him out ASAP. " "Just. . . let's just be careful, okay?"

  Claire seemed worried, and Steve felt protective all of a sudden, big time. Oh, yeah, he's going down, he thought grimly, but nodded for Claire's sake. "You got it. " They moved quickly up the stairs, stopping outside the door they'd heard close. Steve stepped ahead of Claire, who cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. "On three," he whispered, turning the knob very slowly, relieved that it was unlocked. "One-two-three!" He shouldered the door, hard, bursting into the room and sweeping with the machine pistol, ready to shoot the first thing that moved, but nothing did. The room, a softly lit office lined with bookshelves, was empty. Claire had gone in and turned left, past a couch and cof-fee table on the north wall. Disappointed, Steve stepped after her, expecting another door to another hall, so sick of the stupid mazes all over the place that he could just shit. . . He stopped and stared, exactly what Claire was doing. Perhaps ten feet away was a wall, a dead end with two empty spaces set in a plaque at about chest level, indentations shaped like Lugers.

  Steve felt a flush of adrenaline, of victory. He had no rational reason to believe that they'd just found the way to the Ashford's private residence, but he believed they had, anyway. So, it seemed, had Claire. "I think we've got it," she said softly, "betcha money. "