They might still be in our home, too afraid to leave, desperately hoping that the destruction will bypass them there… It wouldn't, of course, there was nowhere on the island that wouldn't be affected… Alexia saw them then and felt her good humor disap– pear, her hatred boiling back into rage. The screen showed them at the submarine dock, the boy spinning the wheel. The sky was starting to lighten, shading from black to deep blue, the setting moon's pale light defin– ing their sly and furtive scheming. No. There was no chance for them. True, the empty cargo plane was still docked, the bridge raised, but Al-fred had thrown the proofs into the sea after the air strike. They couldn't possibly believe that they had a chance…… except they were in my private rooms. "No!" Alexia shrieked, pounding her fist on the con-sole, furious. She would not have it, would not! She'd kill them herself, claw their eyes out, tear them up! There's the Tyrant, Alfred whispered in her ear. Alexia's rage turned to passion, to exhilaration. Yes! Yes, there was the Tyrant, still in stasis! And it was in– telligent enough to follow directions, provided they were simple, provided one pointed it the right way. "You won't escape!" Alexia shouted, laughing, twirl-ing around in joy and victory… and after a moment, Alfred joined in, unable to deny how deeply, wonder– fully satisfying it was going to be, as the computer changed its tune and began the final countdown. Their run to the plane was a blur – a mad dash out of the Ashfords' terrible home and down the rain-slick hill, to the mansion and down stairs, down more stairs to a tiny dock where Steve called up the submarine. Every step of the way, the alarms drove them faster, the contin– uous vocal loop reminding them of the obvious. Just as they were climbing out of the sub, the bland female voice stopped repeating itself and began a new message – and though the words weren't exactly the same, Claire had a sudden vivid memory of Raccoon, of standing on a subway platform as another self-destruct loop had announced that the end was near.
"The self-destruct sequence is now active. There are five minutes until initial detonation." "Well, that blows," Steve said, the first thing he'd said since they'd left the private mansion. And in spite of her fear that they wouldn't make it in time, in spite of her exhaustion and the horrible memories she knew she'd be taking away with her, Steve's deadpan utterance struck her as hilarious.
It does blow, doesn't it?
Claire started laughing, and though she tried to put an immediate stop to it, she couldn't quite manage. It seemed that even imminent death couldn't stop the gig– gles. That, or hysteria had turned out to be a lot funnier than she would have expected… and the look on Steve's face wasn't helping. Hysterical or not, she knew they had to move. "Go," she choked, motioning him forward. Still looking at her as though she'd lost her mind, Steve grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him. After a few stumbling steps – and the realization that her laugh– ing fit might kill them both – Claire got hold of herself. "I'm okay," she said, breathing deep, and Steve let her go, a look of relief crossing his pale face. They ran down some stairs and through a kind of un– derwater tunnel, and as they reached the door at its end, the computer informed them that another minute had passed, that they had only four left. If there'd been any chance that she might start laughing again, that killed it. Steve pushed the door open and jogged left, both of them leap-frogging over a trio of dead bodies, all virus carriers, all in Umbrella uniforms. Claire thought of Rodrigo suddenly, and her heart twisted. She hoped that he'd be safe where he was, or that he was well enough to get away from the compound… but she couldn't kid herself about his chances. She silently wished him luck and then let it go, following Steve through another door. Their journey had ended in a huge, dark, metal-lined cavern, a hanger for seaplanes, and their hope of escape was sitting right in front of them – a smallish cargo plane floating just beneath the grid platform they were on. Not far to the right, blue predawn light defined the giant gateway that opened into the sea. "Over here," Steve said, and hurried toward a small lift at the edge of the platform, one with a standing con– trol board. Claire joined him, fumbling the three em– blem proofs out of her pack.
"The self-destruct sequence is now active. There are three minutes until initial detonation."
The control board had a panel on top with three inset hexagonal spaces. Steve grabbed two of the proofs and together, they pressed all three of them home.
Oh, man, please please please…
There was an audible click and the panel's switches lit up, a deep hum coming from the body of the standing machinery. Steve laughed, and Claire realized she'd been holding her breath when she was suddenly able to breathe again. "Hang on," Steve said, and swiped his hand over the panel, flipping them all over. With a small jerk, the lift began to lower at an angle, as the plane's rounded side door opened, folding down to create a stepladder. Claire felt like it was all happen-ing in slow motion, a kind of unreality to it as the lift met the base of the steps, jerking again to a stop; it was hard to believe that it was finally happening, that they were actually going to make it off Umbrella's cursed island.
To hell with believing it, just go!
They boarded the plane, Steve running forward to get it flight ready while Claire quickly checked out the rest of it – a large, mostly empty cargo area constituted the bulk of the plane, sealed off from the cockpit by a soundproof metal hatch. There weren't any creature comforts beyond a closet with a port-o-john behind the pilot's seat, but there was a footlocker at the rear of the cockpit that contained two plastic gallon jugs of water, much to Claire's relief. Though muffled, they could still hear the recording resonating through the hanger as Steve found the controls for the door, the hatch lifting and sealing as the count-down went to two minutes. Claire hurried to his side, her heart really starting to pound; two minutes was nothing. She wanted to help, to ask what she could do, but Steve's full concentration was on the instrument panel. She remembered what he'd said about "iffy" flying skills, but since she didn't have any at all, she wasn't complaining. The seconds ticked past and she had to force herself not to start babbling nervously, not to do anything that might distract him. The plane's engines had been rumbling, the sound getting steadily louder and higher-pitched, Claire's nerves tightening to match – and when the dreaded computer female spoke up again, Claire found herself gripping the back of Steve's chair, her knuckles white.