"Perfect…"
The presumably empty bottle clattered across the cement floor, rolling to a stop just outside the cell. He glanced in her direction tiredly, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Go on. Get out of here." Claire took a step toward the open cell door and hesitated, wondering if it was some kind of trick being shot trying to "escape" crossed her mind, and didn't seem all that far-fetched, considering who he worked for. She still clearly remembered the look in his eyes when he'd shoved that gun in her face, the cold sneer
that had twisted his mouth. She cleared her throat nervously, deciding to probe for an explanation. "What are you telling me, exactly?" "You're free," he said, muttering to himself again as he sank deeper into the chair, chin lowering to his chest.
"I don't know, might have been some kind of special forces team, troops were all wiped out … no chance of escape." He closed his eyes. Her instincts told her that he really meant to let her go, but she wasn't going to take any chances. She stepped out of the cell and picked up the bottle he'd thrown, moving very slowly, watching him carefully as she approached. She didn't think his wounded act was a fake; he looked like hell, an ashy-white pallor over his dark skin, like a transparent mask. He wasn't breathing all that evenly, either, and his clothes smelled like sweat and chemical smoke. She glanced at the bottle, an empty syringe vial with an unpronounceable name on the label, catching the word hemostatic in the fine print. Hemo was blood … some kind of bleeding stabilizer? Maybe an internal injury… She wanted to ask him why he was releasing her, what the situation was outside, where she should go, but she could see that he was on the verge of passing out, his eyelids fluttering.
I can't just walk out, not without trying to help him –
– screw that! Go, go now! He might die… You might die! Run for it! The internal dispute was brief, but her conscience triumphed over reason, as usual. He obviously hadn't set her loose because of some personal affinity, but whatever the reason, she was grateful. He didn't have to let her go, and he'd done it anyway. "What about you?" She asked, wondering if there was anything she could do for him. She certainly couldn't carry him out, and she was no medic. "Don't worry about me," he said, raising his head to glare at her for a second, sounding irritated that she'd even brought it up. Before she could ask him what had happened outside, he lost consciousness, his shoulders slumping, his body growing still. He was breathing, but without a doctor, she wouldn't want to bet on how long. The lighter was getting hot, but she endured the heat long enough to search the small room, starting with the desk. There was a combat knife thrown casually on the blotter, a number of loose papers… She saw her own name on one of them and scanned the document while fixing the knife sheath to her waistband. Claire Redfield, prisoner number WKD4496, date of transfer, blah blah blah … escorted by Rodrigo Juan
Raval, 3rd Security Unit CO, Umbrella Medical, Paris.
Rodrigo. The man who'd caught her and set her free, and now appeared to be dying right in front of her. She couldn't do anything about it, either, not unless she could find help. Which I can't do down here, she thought, snapping the overheated lighter closed after she finished the rest of her search. Nothing but junk, mostly, a trunk of musty prisoner uniforms, endless stacks of paperwork stuffed into the desk. She'd found the pair of fingerless gloves they'd taken from her, her old riding gloves, and put them on, grateful for the minor warmth they provided. All she had to defend herself with was the combat knife, a deadly weapon in the right hands … which, unfortunately, hers weren't.
It's a gift horse, don't complain. Five minutes ago you were unarmed and locked up, at least now you have a chance. You should just be happy that Rodrigo didn 't come down here to put you out of your misery.
Still, she pretty much sucked at knifeplay. After a brief hesitation, she quickly patted Rodrigo down, but he wasn't carrying. She did find a set of keys but didn't take them, not wanting to carry anything that might draw someone's attention by jangling at the wrong moment. If she needed them, she could come back.
Time to blow this Popsicle stand, see what there is to see out there. "Let's do it," she said softly, as much to get herself moving as anything else, aware that she was basically terrified of what she might find … and also that she didn't have a choice in the matter. As long as she was on the island, Umbrella still had her and until she assessed the circumstances, she couldn't make plans to escape. Holding the knife tightly, Claire stepped out of the cellar room, wondering if Umbrella's madness would ever end.
Alone, Alfred Ashford sat on the wide, sweeping stairs of his home, half blind with rage. The destruction had finally ceased raining down from the skies, but his home had been damaged, their home. It had been built for his grandfather's great-grandmother the brilliant and beautiful Veronica, God rest her soul on the isolated oasis that she had named Rockfort, where she had made a magical life for herself and her progeny over the generations … and now, in the blink of an eye, some horrible fanatic group had dared to try and destroy it. Most of the second floor architecture had been warped and twisted, doors crushed shut, only their private rooms left whole.
Uncouth, uncultured miscreants. They can't even
fathom the measure of their own ignorance.
Alexia was weeping upstairs, her delicate rose of a heart surely aching with the loss. The mere thought of his sister's needless pain fueled his rage to greater intensity, making him want to strike out, but there was no one to submit to his anger, all the commanding officers and chief scientists dead, even his own personal staff. He'd watched it happen from the safety of the private mansion's secret monitor room, each tiny screen telling a different story of brutal suffering and pathetic incompetence. Almost everyone had died, and the rest had run like frightened rabbits; most of the island's planes were already gone. His personal cook had been the only survivor in the common receiving mansion, but she'd screamed so much that he himself had been forced to shoot her.
We're still here, though, safe from the unwashed hands of the world. The Ashfords will survive and prosper, to dance on the graves of our adversaries, to drink champagne from the skulls of their children.
He imagined dancing with Alexia, holding her close, waltzing to the dynamic music of their enemies' tortured screams… It would be nothing short of bliss, his twin's gaze locked to his, sharing the awareness of their superiority over the common man, over the stupidity of those who sought to destroy them. The question was, who had been responsible for the attack? Umbrella had many enemies, from legitimate rival pharmaceutical companies to private shareholders the loss of Raccoon City had been disastrous for the market to the few closet competitors of White Umbrella, their covert bioweapons research department. Umbrella Pharmaceutical, the brainchild of Lord Oswell Spencer and Alfred's own grandfather, Edward Ashford, was extremely lucrative, an industrial empire … but the real power lay with Umbrella's clandestine activities, the operations of which had become too vast to remain entirely unnoticed. And there were spies everywhere. Alfred clenched his fists, frustrated, his entire body a live wire of furious tension and was suddenly aware of Alexia's presence behind him, a trace of gardenia in the air. He'd been so intent on his emotional chaos that he hadn't even heard her approach. "You mustn't let yourself despair, my brother," she said gently, and stepped down to sit beside him. "We will prevail; we always have."
She knew him so well. When she'd been away from Rockfort all those years ago, he'd been so lonely, so afraid that they might lose some of their special connection … but if anything, they were closer now than ever
before. They never spoke about their separation, about the things that had happened after the experiments at the Antarctic facility, both of them just so happy to be together that they would say nothing to spoil it. She felt the same way, he was certain. He gazed at her for long seconds, soothed by her graceful presence, astounded as always by the depths of her beauty. If he hadn't heard her weeping in her bedroom, he wouldn't have known that she'd shed a tear. Her porcelain skin was radiant,
her sky-blue eyes clear and shining. Even today, this darkest of days, the very sight of her gave him such pleasure… "What would I do without you?" Alfred asked softly, knowing that the answer was too painful to consider. He'd gone half-mad with loneliness when she'd been away, and sometimes still had strange episodes, nightmares that he was alone, that Alexia had left him. It was one of the reasons he encouraged her never to leave their heavily secured private residence, located behind the visitor mansion. She didn't mind; she had her studies, and was aware that she was too important, too exquisite to be admired by just anyone, quite content to be sustained by her brother's affections, trusting him to be her sole contact with the outside world.
If only I could stay with her all the time, just the two of us, hidden away… But no, he was an Ashford, responsible for the Ashford's stake in Umbrella, accountable for the entire Rockfort compound. When their basically incompetent father, Alexander Ashford, had gone missing some fifteen years before, the young Alfred had stepped up to take his place. The key players behind Umbrella's bioweapons research had tried to keep him out of the loop, but only because he intimidated them, cowed them by the natural supremacy of his family name. Now they sent him regular reports, respectfully explaining the decisions they made on his behalf, making it clear that they would get in touch with him immediately if the need arose.
I suppose I should contact them, tell them what's happened… He'd always left those matters to his personal secretary, Robert Dorson, but Robert had left his service some weeks before to join the other prisoners, after expressing a bit too much curiosity about Alexia. She was smiling at him now, her face glowing with understanding and adoration. Yes, she was so much better to him since her return to Rockfort, truly as devoted to him as he'd always been to her. "You'll protect me, won't you," she said, not a question. "You'll find out who did this to us, and then show them what one gets for trying to destroy a legacy as powerful as ours."
Overcome with love, Alfred reached out to touch her
but stopped short, all too aware that she didn't like physical contact. He nodded instead, some of his rage returning as he thought of someone trying to harm his beloved Alexia. Never, not as long as he lived, would he allow that to happen. "Yes, Alexia," he said passionately. "I'll make them suffer, I swear it."
He could see in her eyes that she believed in him, and his heart filled with pride, just as his thoughts turned to the discovery of their enemy. An absolute hatred for Rockfort's assailants was growing inside of him, for the stain of weakness they had tried to paint on the Ashford name.
I'll teach them regret, Alexia, and they'll never forget the lesson.
His sister relied on him. Alfred would die before letting her down.
TWO
Claire snapped the lighter closed AT the base of the covered stairs and took a deep breath, trying to psych herself up for whatever came next. The chill of the dark corridor behind her pressed at her back like an icy hand, but still she hesitated, the knife haft sweaty beneath her fingers as she slipped the warm lighter into her vest pocket. She wasn't particularly looking forward to ascending into the unknown, but she had nowhere else to go, not unless she meant to go back to the cell. She could smell oily smoke, and she guessed that the flickering shadows at the top of the wide cement steps meant fire.
But what's up there? This is an Umbrella facility…
What if it was like Raccoon City, what if the attack on the island had unleashed a virus, or some of the animal abominations that Umbrella kept creating? Or was Rockfort only a prison for their enemies? Maybe the prisoners had rioted, maybe things had only been bad from Rodrigo's point of view… … maybe you could walk up the goddamn stairs and find out instead of guessing all day, hmm?
Her pulse thumping, Claire forced herself to take the first step up, vaguely wondering why movies always made it seem so easy, to bravely throw oneself into probable danger. After Raccoon, she knew better. Maybe she didn't have much of a choice about what she had to do, but that didn't mean she wasn't scared. Considering the circumstances, only a complete moron wouldn't be afraid. She climbed slowly, opening her senses as new adrenaline flushed her system, replaying the brief glimpse she'd had of the small graveyard when the guards had led her through. No help there, she'd only seen a few
headstones, remembered them as bizarrely ornate for a prison cemetery. There was definitely a fire close to the top of the stairs, but apparently not a big one there was no heat filtering down, only a cool and humid breeze that carried the pervasive smoke smell. It seemed quiet, and as she neared the top, she heard drops of rain hissing as they met the flames, an oddly comforting sound. As she emerged from the stairwell, she saw the source of the fire, only meters away. A helicopter had crashed, a large portion of it merrily burning amid a thick, smoking haze. To her left was a wall, another just past the flaming wreck; to her right, the open space of the cemetery, gloomy and shrouded by the increasing rain and the oncoming night. Claire squinted into the rainy dusk and made out a number of dark shapes, though none of them seemed to be moving; more headstones, she thought. A whisper of relief edged through her anxiety; whatever had happened seemed to be over. Amazing, she thought, that she could possibly be relieved to be alone in a cemetery at night. Even six months ago, her imagination would have conjured up all sorts of horrible things. It appeared that ghosts and cursed souls just didn't cut it on the scary meter anymore, not after her run-ins with Umbrella. She took a right on the U-shaped path, moving slowly, remembering how she'd been led through the graveyard before being pushed to the stairs. She thought she could make out what looked like a gate past the line of graves in the center of the yard, or at least an open space in the far wall… … and suddenly she was flying, the sound of an explosion behind her assaulting her ears, WHUMP, a wave of broiling heat throwing her into the mud. The wet twilight was suddenly brighter, the reek of burning chemicals stinging her nose and eyes. She landed without grace but managed not to stab herself with the combat knife, all of it happening so fast that she barely had time to register confusion.
… don't think I'm hurt … helicopter's fuel tank must have blown… "Unnnh…"
Claire was on her feet instantly, the soft, pitiful, unmistakable moan inspiring a near panic of action, the sound joined by another, and another. She spun around and saw the first one stumbling toward her from what was left of the burning helicopter, a man, his clothes and hair on fire, the skin of his face blistering and black. She turned again and saw two more of them crawling up from the mud, their faces a sickening gray-white,
their skeletal fingers grasping in her direction, clutching air as they reeled toward her. Shit! Just as in Raccoon, Umbrella's viral synthesis had effectively turned them into zombies, stealing their humanity and their lives. She didn't have time for disbelief or dismay, not with three of them closing in, not when she realized that there were others farther along the path. They staggered out from the shadows, slack, brutalized faces all turning slowly toward her, mouths hanging open, their gazes blank and unchanging. Some wore shreds of uniforms, camo or plain gray, guards and prisoners. There had been a spill, after all.
"Uhhhh…" "Ohhh…"
The overlapping cries epitomized great longing, each plaintive wail that of a starving man looking at a feast. Goddamn Umbrella for what they'd done! It was beyond tragic, the transformation from human into mindless, dying creatures, decaying as they walked. The inevitable fate of each virus carrier was death, but she couldn't let herself mourn for them, not now, her pity limited by the need to survive.
Go go go NOW!
Her assessment and analysis lasted less than a second and then she was moving, no plan except to get away. With the path blocked in both directions, she leaped for the center of the graveyard, clambering over the marble slabs that marked the resting places of the true dead. Her wet, muddy jeans clung to her legs, hampering her, her boots slipping against the smooth headstones, but she managed to climb up and balance her weight between two of them, out of reach for
the moment. For the second! You gotta get out of here, fast. The knife was no good, she didn't dare get close enough to use it a single healthy bite from one of those things and she'd end up joining their ranks, if they didn't eat her first. The one with the blackened face was nearest, his hair melted away, part of his shirt still smoldering. He was close enough for her to smell the greasy, nauseating smell of burnt flesh, overlaid by the stench of the fuel that had cooked it. She had ten, fifteen seconds at most before he'd be close enough to grab for her. She shot a glance at the southeast corner of the yard, her arms out for balance. There were only two of them between her and the exit, but that was two too many, she'd never make it past both of them. She knew from Raccoon that they were slow, and that their reasoning skills were zip they saw prey, they moved toward it in a straight line, regardless of what was in the way. If she could just bait them away from the gate…
Good idea, except there were too many on the ground, six or seven of them, she'd end up surrounded…
Code Veronica re-6 Page 2
