Code Veronica
( Resident Evil - 6 )
Стефани Данелл Перри
Resident Evil - Code Veronica
Code Veronica
PROLOGUE
Faced with his immediate death, surrounded by the diseased and dying as pieces of flaming helicopter rained down from the skies, all Rodrigo Juan Raval could think about was the girl. That, and getting the hell out of the way.
She'll die too
-move! He dove for cover behind an unmarked tombstone as the small cemetery rumbled and shook. With a shattering metal sound of high impact, a massive chunk of smoking 'copter crashed into the far corner of the yard, spraying the nearest rotting prisoners and soldiers with burning fuel. Bright, oily streamers of it spattered across the ground like sticky lava
– and when Rodrigo hit the dirt, he felt a tremendous bolt of pain in his gut, two of his ribs cracking against a weed-buried slab of dark marble. The pain was sudden and terrible, paralyzing, but he somehow managed not to pass out. He couldn't afford to. A rotor blade knifed into the dirt barely two feet from him, spraying sandy earth into the evening sky. He heard a new chorus of wordless moans, the virus carriers protesting the rain of fire. An infected guard shambled by, his hair blazing like a torch, his eyes sightless and searching. They don't feel it, don't feel a thing, Rodrigo desperately reminded himself, concentrating on his breathing, afraid to move as the pain edged from shrieking to mere shouting. Not human anymore. The air was thick with dizzying fumes and the smells of rapid decay and burning meat. He heard a few gunshots somewhere else in the prison compound, but only a few; the battle was over, and they had all lost. Rodrigo closed his eyes for as long as he dared, fairly certain that he would never see another sunrise. Talk about having a crappy day. It had all started only ten days before, in Paris. The Redfield girl had infiltrated HQ Admin, and had put up one hell of a vicious fight before Rodrigo himself had gotten the draw on her. The truth was, he'd been lucky she'd pulled her piece and come up empty. Yeah, real lucky, he thought bitterly. If he'd known what the immediate future was going to hold, he might have reloaded for her. The reward for catching her alive, a chance to take his elite security unit through their paces with real, living viral carriers out at the Rockfort facility, the compound on a remote island in the Southern Atlantic. The girl would end up a new test subject for the scientists, or maybe bait for her troublesome brother and his hayseed
S.T.A.R.S. rebellion Rodrigo kept hearing rumors about. Seventeen people had been seriously injured by Redfield's dance through HQ Admin, five more dead. Most of them were sleazy suits, Rodrigo hadn't given a half shit about any of them, but catching the girl meant he could look forward to a serious pay hike. Umbrella could turn her into a giant neon cockroach for all he cared, they'd certainly done worse. Lucky again, it seemed. He had ten days to ready his troops, ten days while the HQ interrogators unsuccessfully questioned the girl. The journey from Paris to Capetown to Rockfort had been cake the pilots were all top-notch and the girl had wisely kept her trap shut. All of his men had been psyched for the opportunity, the mood high as they touched down and started to prep for the first drills. And then, less than eight hours after reaching the island only the second time he'd ever been there the compound had been brutally attacked by persons unknown, a precision air strike from out of the blue. Corporate financing, definitely, razor technology and seemingly unlimited supplies of ammo the 'copters and planes had rolled overhead like a thundering black nightmare, the attack well-planned and merciless. As far as he could tell, everything was hit the prison, the labs, the training facility… He thought the Ashford house might have been spared, but he wouldn't bet on it. The strike was devastating enough, but it was almost immediately trumped by what came next the destroyed hot zone lab leaked out a half dozen variations on the T-virus, and a number of experimental BOWs, bio-organics, had escaped. The T series turned humans into brain-fried cannibals, an unfortunate side effect, but it hadn't been created for people. Through the questionable miracles of modern science, most of the new weapon subjects weren't even remotely human, and the virus turned them into killing machines. Chaos had ensued. The base commander, that creepy maniac Alfred Ashford, hadn't done a damned thing to organize, so it had been up to the ranking soldiers to lead. The prisoners were obviously useless but there had been enough grunts on the ground to launch a tremendously unsuccessful defense and counterattack; his own boys had fallen as quickly as the rest of them, wiped out on their way to the heliport by a trio of OR1s, the current T-virus breed of choice. All that training lost in just a minute or two. The OR1s were particularly nasty, violently aggressive and extremely powerful. Fortunately, only a few of those had escaped … but then, a few was all it took. Bandersnatches, the grunts called them, because of the long reach. Funny, that his team had been so careful to avoid infection, donning custom filter masks even as the first bombs hit and yet they were taken out by a form of the virus, anyway.
At least it was over fast, before they even knew how much trouble they were in, he thought, envying them their hope, He hurt, he was exhausted, and he'd seen things that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life, however long that might turn out to be. They were the lucky ones.
Rockfort had become a hell on Earth. The man-made virus was a short-lived airborne and had dispersed quickly, only infecting about half the island's population … but the new carriers had promptly chomped down on most of the other half, spreading the disease. Some had escaped early on, but between the infected and the freed BOWs, getting out had become a bleak option. The entire island was overrun.
Maybe that's the way it should be. Maybe we all got what we deserved.
Rodrigo knew he wasn't an evil man, but he didn't kid himself, he wasn't exactly one of the good guys, either. He'd turned a blind eye to some very bad shit in exchange for some very good pay, and as much as he'd like to shift the blame around, he couldn't deny his own small part in the apocalypse that now surrounded him. Umbrella had been playing with foe … but even after Raccoon City had gone down, even after the disasters at Caliban Cove and the underground facility, he'd never really considered that something might happen to him or his team. Another walking corpse wandered past his temporary shelter, a reasonably fresh shotgun blast where his jaw should have been. Rodrigo instinctively ducked lower and again had to struggle not to pass out, the fresh pain shockingly intense. He'd broken ribs before; this was something else, something internal. Liver laceration, maybe, a sure killer if he didn't get help. Assuming his amazingly bad luck streak held up, he'd bleed out internally before something ate him … His thoughts were wandering, the pain had gone deep and as much as he wanted to rest, there was the girl, he couldn't forget about her. He was close now, so close. One of the guards had knocked her unconscious before she got her physical exam or prison issue, and that had been just before the attack. She should still be in the isolation cell, the underground entrance just past the flaming helicopter debris.
Almost finished now, then I can rest.
Most of the barely-human virus carriers had moved away from the fiery crash, following some primal instinct, perhaps. He'd lost his weapon somewhere along the way, but if he ran behind the standing headstones at
the west wall… Rodrigo eased himself into a sitting position, the pain getting worse, making him feel nauseous and weak. There should be a bottle of hemostatic liquid in the holding area's first aid kit, which would at least slow any internal hemorrhaging although he thought he was prepared to accept death, as much as anyone could be prepared.
But not until I get to the girl. I captured her, I brought her here. My fault, and if I die, she dies, too.
In spite of all the horror he'd witnessed that
day, the comrades he'd lost and the constant, gnawing terror of suffering a truly ghastly death, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Claire Redfield had blood on her hands, true, but not on purpose, not like Umbrella. Not like him. She hadn't killed for greed, she hadn't made him disregard his own conscience for all those years … and having watched his elite team turned into spaghetti by honest to God monsters, having spent the afternoon fighting for his life, it had become clear that trying to bring Umbrella to justice was what good guys did. The girl deserved something for that, even if only not to die alone and in the dark. And it just so happened that he had a set of keys taken from the dead warden's belt loop, one of which would surely fit her cell door. Sparks flurried up into the darkening sky from the flaming wreckage, tiny bright insects bursting into nothing, occasionally falling on one of the closer zombies and sizzling into their gray flesh before dying out. They didn't care. Rodrigo gritted his teeth and stumbled to his feet, aware that the young Claire probably wouldn't last ten minutes on her own, knowing that he meant to give her the chance. It wasn't the least he could do; it was simply the only thing left.
ONE
Claire's head hurt. She'd been half-dreaming, remembering things, until the faraway sound of thunder crowded through the dark, pulling her closer to wakefulness. She'd dreamed about the insanity that had become her life over the past few months, and even though an almost conscious part of her knew it was reality, it still seemed too incredible to be true. Flashes of what had happened in post-viral Raccoon City kept rising up, images of the inhuman creature that had stalked her and the little girl through the devastation, memories of the Birkin family, of meeting Leon, of praying that Chris was all right. Thunder again, louder, and she realized that something was wrong but couldn't seem to wake up, to stop
remembering. Chris. Her brother had gone underground in Europe, and they had followed, and now she was cold and her head hurt but she didn't know why. What happened? She concentrated, but it would only come in pieces, pictures and thoughts from the weeks since Raccoon City. She couldn't seem to control the memories. It was like watching a movie in a dream, and still, she couldn't wake up. Images of Trent on the plane, and a desert, finding a disk of codes that had ultimately proved useless to her brother's cause. The long flight to London, the hop to France –
-a telephone call, "Chris is here, he's fine." Barry Burton's voice, deep and friendly. Laughing, the incredible relief filling her up, feeling Leon's hand on her shoulder. It was a start, and it led her to the next clear recollection a meeting had been set up, one of the surveillance posts for the HQ Admin wing, on Umbrella grounds. Leon and the others were waiting in the van, checking my watch, heart pounding with excitement, where is he, where's Chris? Claire didn't know she was screwed until the first bullets ripped past, chasing her onto the spotlight-riddled grounds, into a building –
-running through the corridors, deafened by the rattle of automatic weapons and the helicopter outside, running, bullets chipping by close enough to send sharpened slivers of floor tile into the meat of her calves… … and an explosion, armed soldiers writhing in the blast's fury, and … and I got caught. They'd held her for over a week, trying everything they could to make her talk. She'd talked, too, about going fishing with Chris, political ideology, her favorite bands … When it came down to it, she didn't know anything vital; she was looking for her brother, that was all, and she somehow managed to convince them that she didn't know anything important about Umbrella. It probably helped that she was nineteen, and looked about as deadly as a Girl Scout. What little she actually did know, things about the Umbrella insider, Trent, or the whereabouts of Sherry Birken, the scientist's daughter, she buried deep and left there. When they'd realized she was useless as an informant, she'd been taken away. Cuffed, scared, two private planes and a helicopter later, the island. She didn't even see it, they'd put a hood over her face, the stifling blackness only adding to her fear. Rockfort Island, wasn't that what the pilot called it? It was a long way from Paris, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Thunder, there was a sound of thunder. She remembered being pushed
through a muddy prison cemetery in the gray morning, catching a glimpse through her stifling hood of the graves, marked with elaborate headstones. Down some stairs, welcome to your new home and BOOM. The ground was shaking, rumbling. Claire opened her eyes just in time to see the one overhead light go out, the thick metal bars of her cell suddenly imprinted in negative and floating off to her left in the pitch dark. She lay on her side on a clammy, dirty floor. Not good, nope, you better get up. Steeling herself against the pounding of her skull she crawled to her knees, her muscles stiff and sore. The blackness of the cold, dank room was very still, except for the sound of water dripping, a slow and lonely sound; it appeared she was alone. Not for long. Oh, man, I'm in it deep now. Umbrella had her, and considering the havoc she'd created back in Paris, it was unlikely that they were going to treat her to ice cream and send her on her way. The renewed awareness of her situation knotted her stomach, but she did her best to put the fear aside. She needed to think straight, to figure out her options, and she needed to be ready to act. She wouldn't have survived Raccoon City if she'd given in to panic…
… except you 're on an island run by Umbrella. Even if you get past the guards, where can you possibly go?
One predicament at a time. First thing, she should probably try to stand up. Except for the painful lump at her right temple from the asshole who'd knocked her out, she didn't think she'd been injured. There was another rumble, muffled and far away, and a bit of rock dust drifted down from above, she could feel it on the back of her neck. She had integrated the rumbling sounds into her half-conscious dreams as thunder, but it definitely sounded like heavy artillery had come to Rockfort. Or Godzilla. What the hell was going on out there? She crept to her feet, wincing at her rifle-butt headache as she brushed dust off her bare arms, stretching chilled muscles. The underground room was making her wish she'd worn something warmer than jeans and a cut-off vest for her meeting with Chris. .Chris! Oh, please be safe! In Paris, she'd deliberately led the Umbrella security team away from Leon and the others, Rebecca and the two Exeter S.T.A.R.S.; if Chris hadn't also been caught, Claire figured he'd have hooked up with the team by now. If she could get to a computer with an uplink, she should be able to send a message to Leon… … yeah, just bend those steel bars, find a couple of machine guns, and mow down the population of the island. Oh, then hack into a tightly secured relay system, assuming you can find an unmanned computer. All so you can tell Leon that you don't actually know where Rockfort is… A louder internal voice cut in … think positive, damnit, you can be sarcastic later, assuming you survive. What do you have to work with?
Good question. There was no guard, for one thing. It was also extremely dark, a bare hint of light coming from somewhere off to the right, which could be an advantage if… Claire patted her pockets suddenly, wildly hoping that no one had searched her when she'd been unconscious, sure that someone must have left inside vest pocket, there it was! "Idiots," she whispered, pulling out the old metal lighter that Chris had given her awhile back, the comforting weight of it warm in her hand. When they'd patted her down for weapons, a soldier reeking of tobacco had taken it out, but given it back to her when she'd said that she smoked. Claire put the lighter back in her pocket, not wanting to blind herself now that her eyes were getting used to the dark. There was enough ambient light for her to make out most of the small room a desk and a couple of cabinets directly across from her cell, an open door to the left the same door she'd entered by a chair and some miscellaneous crap stacked off to the right.
Okay, good, you know the environment. What else you got?
Thankfully, her inner voice was a lot calmer than she was. She quickly went through her other pockets, turning up a couple of ponytail elastics and two breath mints in a crumpled roll. Terrific. Unless she wanted to take on the enemy with a very small, refreshingly peppermint slingshot, she was shit out
of luck… Footsteps, in the corridor outside the cell room, coming closer. Her muscles tensed and her mouth went dry. She was unarmed and trapped, and the way a few of those guards had been looking at her on the transport… … bring it on. I'm unarmed, maybe, but not defenseless. If someone meant to assault her, sexually or otherwise, she'd make a point of doing some major damage in return. If she was going to die anyway, she didn't plan on going out alone. Thump. Thump. There was only one person out there, she decided, and whoever it was, he or she was hurting. The steps were erratic and slow, shuffling, almost like…
No, no way.
Claire held her breath as a lone male figure stepped haltingly into the room, his arms out in front of him. He moved like one of the virus zombies, like a drunk, reel-
ing and unsteady, and immediately staggered for the door to her cell. Reflexively, Claire backed away, terrified at the implications if there'd been some kind of viral outbreak on the island, at best she'd end up starving to death behind bars.
And Jesus, another spill? Thousands had died in Raccoon City. When would Umbrella learn, that their insane biological experiments weren't worth the cost?
She had to see. If it was a drunk guard, at least he was alone, she might be able to take him. And if it was a carrier, she was safe for the moment. Probably. They couldn't operate doors, or at least the ones in Raccoon hadn't been able to. She took out the lighter, flipped the top and thumbed the wheel. Claire recognized him instantly and gasped, taking another step back. Tall and well-built, Hispanic perhaps, a mustache and dark, merciless eyes. It was the man who'd caught her back in Paris, who'd escorted her to the island. Not a zombie, at least there's that. Not much of relief, but she'd take whatever she could get. She stood for a moment, frozen, not sure what to expect. He looked different, and it was more than his dirtsmeared face or the small bloodstains on his white T-shirt. It was as though there'd been some fundamental internal change, the way his expression was set. Before, he'd looked like a stone killer. Now … now she wasn't sure, and when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, she prayed that he'd changed for the better. Without a word, he pulled the cell door open and blankly met her gaze before jerking his head to one side the universal sign for "get out," if there was such a thing. Before she could act, he turned and staggered away, definitely injured from the way he held his gut with one shaking hand. There was a chair between the desk and the far wall; he sat down heavily and picked up a small bottle from the desktop with bloodstained fingers. He shook the bottle, about the size of a small spool of thread, before weakly throwing it across the room, muttering to himself.
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