duced 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.
TWELVE
Alexia Ashford watched her twin die at her feet, bleeding and in great pain, reaching out to touch the stasis tank with adoration in his dying eyes. He'd never been particularly bright or competent, but she had loved him, very much. His death was a great sadness … but also the sign she'd been waiting for. It was time to come out. She'd known for some months that the end would be soon or rather the beginning, the emergence of a new life on Earth. Her stasis had remained stable for most of the fifteen years she'd needed, her mind and body unaware of life unaware that she was suspended in freezing amniotic fluid, her cells slowly changing and adapting to T-Veronica. In the past year, however, that had changed. She had hypothesized that given enough time, T-Veronica would raise consciousness to new levels, expanding areas of the mind that would surpass simplistic human senses, and she had been correct. For the last ten months, she had begun experiencing herself in spite of stasis, testing her awareness … and she had been able to see through her human eyes, when she wished. Alexia reached out with her mind and turned off the support machines. The tank began to drain, and she stared out at her dear brother, most unhappy that he had died. She could choose not to employ her emotions, but she had been human with him; it seemed appropriate. When the tank was empty, Alexia opened it, stepping out into her new world. There was power everywhere, hers for the taking, but now she sat down in front of the tank and laid Alfred's bloody head in her lap, experiencing the sadness. She began to sing, a child's song that her brother had liked, stroking his hair back from his drawn face. There was sadness in the lines around his eyes and mouth, and she wondered what his life had been like. She wondered if he'd stayed at Rockfort, stayed at Veronica's home, the home of their ancestors. Still singing, Alexia reached out to her father and was surprised to find him missing, either dead or beyond her range of perception. She had touched his mind only recently, studying what was left of it. In a way, he was responsible for what she had become; the T-Veronica had turned his mind to sludge, had driven him insane … as it would have to her, if she hadn't tested it on him, first. She stretched her awareness, finding sickness and
death in the upper levels of the terminal. A pity. She had been looking forward to beginning her experiments again, immediately; without test subjects, she had no reason to stay. She found two people not far from the Umbrella facility and decided to flex her control over substance, to see how much effort it took and found that it was hardly an effort at all. She concentrated for just a few seconds, saw a male and female inside of a snow machine, and wished for them to be brought back to the facility. Instantly, lines of organic matter tore through the ice, ripping toward the vehicle. Amused, Alexia watched with her senses as a giant tentacle of new-formed substance rose up and curled around the machine, lifting it effortlessly into the air and then threw it back at the facility. The machine tumbled end over end, its engine bursting into flame, and came to rest against one of the Umbrella buildings. Both were still alive, she thought, and was well pleased. She could use one of them in an experiment she'd been thinking about for weeks, and would surely find a good use for the other in due time. Alexia continued to sing to her dead brother, intrigued by the changes she could see coming, looking forward to gaining a fuller mastery of her new powers. She stroked his hair, dreaming.
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
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