No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain -
–concentrate. Do it, now.
Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked, Steve would die.
There's no door. There's a console with boxes.
Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out an– other terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes, focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife, a gun, an airplane… They weren't all different, there were two guns, a semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches la– beled "C" and "E." Nothing else matched, and her first thought was that it was like one of those grade-school tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her rea-soning, Claire reached out and flipped the two switches, the two boxes lighting up -
– and to her right, a display case slid out from the wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, bak– ing heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers.
Guess I picked the right boxes.
She leaned over him, trying to remember what the signs of heatstroke were – dizziness and nausea, she thought. "Are you okay?" Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then he grinned, and the illusion was lost. "What took you so long?" he cracked, pushing him-self to his feet. Claire straightened, scowling. "You're welcome."
His grin softened and he ducked his head, pushing thick bangs away from his forehead. "Sorry… and I'm sorry about before, too. Thanks, seriously."
Claire sighed. Just when she'd decided he was a total asshole, he decided to be nice. "And look what I got," he said, snapping both hand-guns up and aiming at one of the display cases. "They were hanging on a wall back there, fully loaded and everything. Cool, huh?"
She had to resist a sudden urge to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. He had nerve, she'd give him that, and he obviously had at least a few sur– vival skills… but did he not understand that he would have died, if she hadn't heard him calling for help?
This place is probably full of booby traps, too; how do I keep him from running off again?
She watched him pretend-shoot a bookshelf, won– dered absently if the whole macho tiling was just his way of dealing with fear – and a different approach sud– denly occurred to her, one that she thought might actu– ally work.
He wants to play Mr. Tough Guy, let him. Appeal to his ego. "Steve, I understand that you're not looking for a partner, but I am," she said, doing her best to look sin-cere. "I… I don't want to be alone out there." She could actually see his chest puff out, and felt a huge sense of relief, knowing that it had worked before he said a word. She also felt a little guilty for manipulat– ing him, but only a little; this was for the best.
Besides, it's not lying, exactly. I really don't want to be alone out there. "I guess you could tag along," he said expansively. "I mean, if you're scared."
She only smiled, teeth gritted, aware that if she opened her mouth to thank him, she didn't know what would come out. "And anyway, I know how to get us out of here," he added, his bluff manner slipping, his youthful enthusi– asm spilling out. "There's a little map under the counter at the front desk. According to that, there's a dock just west of here, and an airstrip somewhere past that. Which means we have a choice, but my piloting skills are a little iffy, so I vote cruise. We can go right now."Maybe she had underestimated him a bit. "Really? Great, that's…" Claire trailed off. Rodrigo, she couldn't forget about Rodrigo, between the two of us we could probably get him to the dock…"Would you come with me back to the prison, first?" She asked. "The guy who let me out of my cell is back there, he's pretty badly wounded…"
"One of the prisoners?" Steve asked, perking up. Uh-oh. She could lie, but he'd know the truth soon enough. "Urn, I don't think so… but he did let me go, and I kinda feel like I owe him…" Steve was frowning, and she quickly added, "… and it seems like the, uh, honorable thing to do, to at least get him a first-aid kit, you know?" He wasn't buying. "Forget it. If he's not a prisoner, he works for Umbrella, he deserves dick. Besides, they'll be sending troops in soon enough; it's their problem, let them deal with it. Now, are you coming or not?"
Claire met his gaze squarely, reading anger and hurt in his dark eyes, surely caused by Umbrella. She couldn't blame him for how he felt, but she didn't agree with him, either, not in Rodrigo's case. And there was no question in her mind that he would die before Um– brella showed if he didn't get help. "I guess not," she said. Steve turned away, took a few steps toward the door and then stopped, sighing heavily. He turned back, clearly exasperated. "There's no way I'm risking my neck to save an Umbrella employee, and no offense, but I think you're totally batshit for wanting to… but I'll wait for you, okay? Go give the guy a Band-Aid or whatever and then meet me at the dock."
Surprised, Claire nodded. Less than she'd hoped for but more than she'd expected, particularly after his weird people-will-let-you-down rant -
– oh!
For the first time, it occurred to her why Steve might have said those things, why he was denying the trauma of what had happened, what was still happening. He was here by himself, after all… how could he not have abandonment issues? Claire smiled warmly at him, remembering how angry she'd felt as a child when her father had died. Being snatched away from one's family couldn't be much better. "It'll be nice to go home," she said gently. "I bet your parents will be glad…"
Steve's sneering interruption was immediate and ex– treme. "Look, come to the dock or not, but I'm not going to wait all day, got it?"
Startled, Claire nodded mutely, but Steve was already striding out of the room. She wished she hadn't said anything, but it was too late… and at least now she knew what not to say. Poor kid, he probably missed his parents like crazy. She'd have to try to be a little more understanding. With a last look around the strange little den, Claire started back toward the front door, wondering what to do about Rodrigo. Steve was right, Umbrella might al– ready have a team on the way, they could tend to him, but she meant to get him stabilized before she left. She needed to find a vial of that hemostatic liquid; she didn't know much about triage herself, but he had seemed to think it would help. She opened both of the other doors in the hallway on her way back to the lobby, stopping briefly at the first to gaze in at a number of portraits, some kind of pictorial history room for a family called Ashford. There was a shattered urn on the floor, but nothing else of interest. Behind the second door was an empty conference room, only a few scattered papers and si– lence. Claire stepped back into the front hall, deciding that she should probably try the upstairs before retracing her steps; just above the bridge to the prison – and wasn't she looking forward to crossing that creaking nightmare again – there'd been a door she'd bypassed in order to keep up with Steve's trail… A tiny red light on the floor caught her attention, like one of those laser pointer things, her geometry prof had used one. The small light jerked toward her and Claire looked up, followed a pencil-thin beam to… Gah! She dove for cover as the first shot bit into the tiles mere inches from where she'd stood, ceramic shards flying. She crashed behind one of the ornamental pillars as the second shot thundered through the lobby, shattering more tile. She scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself as tiny as possible, wondering if she'd actually seen what she'd thought she'd seen – a thin blond man with a rifle and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uni-form jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child's idea of what noble authority should wear. "My name is Alfred Ashford," a pinched, snobby voice called out. "I am the commander of this base and I demand that you tell me who you're working for!" What? Claire wished she had something brilliant to say, some snappy comeback, but she couldn't get any further than that. "What?" she asked loudly. "Oh, there's no point in your feigned ignorance," he continued, his jeering voice moving a little, as though he were descending the stairs. "Miss Claire Redfield. I know what you've been planning, I've known from the start, but you're not dealing with just anyone, Claire. Not when you're dealing with an Ashford."