"Steve, other side," Claire said, the instant the freight elevator began to move. Steve nodded. Claire reloaded and Steve clambered over two of the heavy crates, both Lugers raised. As if by silent agreement, neither of them spoke as the lift descended, both watching intently for what came next. He saved my life, Claire thought wonderingly, watch– ing grease-smeared wall tracks slide past, blood still screaming through her veins from when she'd realized she would die. And Steve Burnside, who she'd written off as a well-intentioned but troubled, barely competent blowhard, had kept that from happening.
Though he may only have delayed the inevitable…
She didn't know what Alfred had in mind now, but she wasn't looking forward to meeting any more of his "friends." Two skull-faced, rubber band-armed freaks had been more than enough. She'd been incredibly lucky to get off with a couple of bruises and a sore neck. Claire had expected the elevator to drop them into some sort of BOW holding area, but she was pleasantly disappointed. The massive lift simply came to a stop. There was only one exit that she could see, and although she harbored no illusions about how safe things would be on the other side of that door, it seemed they were out of danger for the moment.
"Hey, Claire, check it out!"
Steve climbed back over the boxes, holding what could only be some kind of a submachine gun, boxy, dark and deadly-looking with an extended magazine. "It was behind one of the crates," Steve said happily. He'd already stuck the gold Lugers in his belt. "Nine millimeter, just like the Lugers and the guard weapons. Oh, by the way, here."
He reached into one of the outside pockets on his camo pants and pulled out three clips for the M93R.
"I searched a couple of guards on my way back from the dock. I like the Lugers better, and now that I've got this…" He held up the new weapon, grinning, "I don't need the extra hardware. You can have the gun, too."
Claire gratefully accepted the clips and the weapon, not sure how to thank him for what he'd done, deter– mined to try, anyway.
"Steve… if you hadn't shown up when you did…" "Forget it," he said, shrugging. "We're even now." "Well, thanks all the same," Claire said, smiling warmly. He smiled back, and she saw a flicker of real interest in his gaze, a sincerity there that was quite different than his previous posturing. Not sure what to do about it, for him or for herself, she moved the conversation along. "I thought you were going to wait at the dock," she said. "It wasn't really a dock," Steve said, and told her what had happened since they'd separated. The seaplane was terrific news; having to deal with Umbrella's bizarre key fetish yet again wasn't so terrific.
"…and when I couldn't find them, I thought I'd wander over and see if you'd come across anything like that," he finished, shrugging again, working hard to look nonchalant. "That's when I heard the shots. How 'bout you, anything interesting? Besides meeting up with a couple of Umbrella's monsters, I mean." "I'll say. Do you know anything about Alfred Ash-ford?" "Only that him and his sister are total fruitcakes," Steve said promptly. "And that the guards are – were scared of him. I could tell, the way they avoided talking about him. He sent his own assistant to the infirmary, I heard. There was some whacked-out doctor working there, I guess, a lot of prisoners got taken to the infirmary and never came back. Doesn't take a genius, you know?" Claire nodded, fascinated in spite of herself. "What about the sister?" "I never heard much about her, except she's some kind of shut-in," Steve said. "No one even knows what she looks like. I think her name is Alexia… Alexandra, maybe, I don't remember. Why?"
She filled him in on her encounters with Alfred, fol– lowed by a brief synopsis of where she'd been and what she'd found. When she mentioned that she had the med– ication she'd been looking for, Steve scowled – and then blinked, his face clearly expressing a sudden change of heart.
"Maybe this Umbrella guy…" "Rodrigo," Claire interjected. "Okay, whatever," Steve said impatiently. "Maybe he knows something about these proof key things. Like where they are."Good idea. "It would beat searching the entire island,
wouldn't it?" Claire said. "You up for a trip back to the prison? Assuming we can get out of here, that is." "Oh, I'll clear us a path," Steve said, not a trace of doubt in his voice. "You just leave that part to me." Claire opened her mouth to comment on the pitfalls of overconfidence, particularly where Umbrella was concerned, then closed it again. Maybe it was his belief in himself that had carried him this far – that by not ac– cepting the possibility of defeat, he was assuring him-self a win. Fine in theory, dangerous in practice. She'd be there to cover him, at least. "We were on the first floor of the training facility," he continued. "Which means we're in the basement now. I know from my…"
Steve shook his head, flustered for some reason, but before she could ask about it, he continued on as if noth-ing had happened.
"There's a boiler room, and a sewer area… basi-cally, we go that way," he said, gesturing at the door. Claire decided not to point out that since it was the only door, she'd already come to that conclusion. "I'm right behind you." "Stay close," Steve said roughly, walking to the door and looking back over the shoulder, trying to look fierce, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Claire was torn between irritation and laughter, finally choosing to think of it as endearing. Then he was opening the door, and the reality of their situation came back to her, floating in on the smell of gangrenous tissue. She stopped worrying about the little things, concentrating on the need to sur-vive. What Steve knew about guns he could sum up in about five seconds, but he knew what he liked. And he decided immediately upon pulling the trigger of his newest find that it was the shit, hands down. He stepped out of the freight elevator ready to kick some rotten ass, and saw his opportunity less than ten feet away. There were five of them in all – well, five and a half, including the crawling mess on the floor over by the shelves – and all he had to do was tap the trigger, and then he was trying like hell to keep the weapon from flying out of his hand. Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam… He swept the kicking gun left to right, releasing the trigger as the last zombie's swiss-cheese brain parted company with its swiss-cheese head. It was all over in just a few seconds, so fast that it seemed unreal – like he'd coughed and a building had blown up or something. Claire had taken care of the floor pizza during his sweep, and when he turned around, triumphant, he was a little surprised to see that she wasn't smiling… until he thought about it for a second, and then he felt a little ashamed of himself. As far as he was concerned, they weren't really people anymore. He knew that if he were ever infected he'd want someone to plug him, to keep him from hurting anyone else – not to mention granting him a fast death, rather than letting him rot on the hoof.