Claire doubted it. He was in good shape but had a runner's physique, not overly muscular. On the other hand, she couldn't stay in the plane all day, and she hated jumping off things higher than a few feet, she def– initely wanted a helping hand… "Coming down," she said, and pushed herself off the hole's edge, holding on as long she could -
– and then she was dropping, and Steve emitted an oof sound, and then they were both on the ground, Steve on his back with his arms around her, Claire on top of him. "Nice catch," she said. "Aw, 'twas nothin'," Steve said, smiling. He was warm. And attractive, and sweet, and obvi– ously interested, and for a few seconds, neither of them moved, Claire content to be held… and Steve wanting more, she could see it in the way he searched her face.
For Christ's sake, you're not on a vacation! Move! "We should probably…" "… figure out where we are," Steve finished, and though she could see a flash of disappointment in his eyes, he did his best to hide it, sighing melodramatically as he dropped his arms in pretend surrender. Reluc– tantly, she got to her feet and helped him to his. It did seem to be a mine shaft, sixty feet across give or take, the walkway they were on running about half way around, in steps – there were a couple of ladders, and she could see at least two doors from where they were, all down and to their left. There was only one door on their level, to the right, but Steve checked and it was locked. "So where do you think everybody is?" he asked, keeping his voice low. There was a definite echo effect probability, as massive and empty as the chamber was. Claire shook her head. "Making snow angels?" "Ha ha," Steve said. "Shouldn't Alfred be jumping out right about now with a flame thrower or something?" "Yeah, probably," Claire said. She'd been thinking that herself. "Maybe he isn't here yet, or he didn't expect us to crash, so he's in one of the other buildings where we were supposed to land… which means we should book. If we
can get to one of those other planes before he finds us…" "Let's do it," Steve said. "Do you want to split up? We could cover more ground that way, hurry things along." "With Alfred running around somewhere? I vote no,"
Claire said, and Steve nodded, looking relieved. "So… thataway," Claire said, and started for the first ladder, Steve right behind. A short climb later and they were at the next door to try, actually double doors set in a little ways from the walkway. Also locked. Steve offered to try and kick it in, but she suggested they try the others first. She was feel– ing more and more uneasy about how quiet things were, and didn't want the echoing thunder of a door being bro– ken down to announce their presence, though they'd have to be comatose not to have heard or felt the crash…
On to the next, the only other door before an opening in the wall with a flight of stairs going down. Claire jig-gled the handle and it turned easily; she and Steve read– ied their weapons just in case – and at a nod from Steve, Claire pushed the door open -
– and felt her mouth drop open, totally shocked.
What are the odds on that?
It was a bunk room, dark and reeking, and at the sound of the door opening, three, four zombies turned and started for them, all of them freshly infected, most of their skin still attached. At least one of them was starting to go gangrenous, the noxious smell of hot, rot– ting tissue heavy in the cold air. Steve had gone pale, and as she slammed the door closed, he swallowed, hard, looking and sounding kind of sick. "One of those guys worked at Rockfort. He was a cook."
Of course! She'd thought for a second that there'd been a spill here, too, but that really was too giant of a coincidence. At least one of those planes outside had come from the island, probably a bunch of panicked em– ployees – presumably not scientists – who hadn't real– ized they were carrying the infection with them.
More sick and dying viral cannibals… and what else? Claire shuddered, trying to imagine the kind of soldier Umbrella would be trying to invent for an arctic environment… and what natural animals might have been infected before their arrival. "We definitely gotta get out of here," Steve said. Well, maybe Alfred got eaten, anyway, Claire thought. Wishful thinking, though they certainly deserved a lucky break. "Let's go." The last place to check, a set of winding stairs, marked the end of the walkway, descending into a near total dark– ness. Remembering the matches she'd found at Rockfort, Claire handed Steve her gun and fished them out of her pack, giving him half before taking her weapon back. He took the lead, striking two of the matches about halfway down the stairs and holding them up. They didn't give off much light, but they were better than nothing. They reached the bottom and started to edge forward down a tight hall, Claire on high alert as the darkness closed around them. Something smelled bad, like rot– ting grain, and though she couldn't hear anything mov– ing, it didn't feel like they were alone. She was generally big on trusting her instincts, but it was so still and silent, not even a whisper of sound or movement… Nerves, she thought hopefully. They could only see about three feet in front of them, but they moved as quickly as possible, the feeling of being totally exposed and vulnerable pushing them forward. A few steps more and she could see that the corridor branched, they could keep going straight or turn left. "What do you think?" Claire whispered – and the hall suddenly exploded with movement, wings flapping, the rotten smell gusting over them. Steve cursed as the matches suddenly went out, completing the darkness. Something brushed past Claire's face, feathery and light and soundless, and she reflexively flailed at it in loathing, skin crawling, not sure where or what to shoot. "Come on!" Steve shouted, grabbing her upper arm and yanking her forward. She stumbled after him breathlessly, and again, something fluttering touched her face, dry and dusty…… and then Steve was pulling her through a doorway and slamming it closed behind them, both of them sag– ging against it, Claire shuddering, totally disgusted. "Moths," Steve said, "Jesus, they were huge, did you see them? Big as birds, like hawks…" She could hear him spit, like he was trying to clear his mouth out. Claire didn't answer, fumbling for a match. The room was pitch dark and she wanted to make sure there weren't more of them flapping around, moths, eeww! They somehow seemed worse than any zombie, that they could brush right up against you, flutter up against your face – she shuddered again, and struck her match. Steve had pulled them into an office, one apparently free of giant moths and any other Umbrella unpleasant– ness. She saw a pair of candlesticks on a trunk to her right and immediately grabbed them up, lighting the half burned tapers and handing one of them to Steve be– fore looking around, the soft candlelight illuminating their sanctuary in flickering shadows. Wood desk, shelves, a couple of framed paintings – the room was surprisingly nice, considering the utilitarian feel of the rest of the place. It wasn't as cold, either. They quickly checked around for weapons or ammo, but came up empty.
"Hey, maybe there's something we can use in these,"
Steve said, moving to the desk. There were a number of papers, and what appeared to be a collection of maps strewn across its top, but Claire was suddenly more in– terested in the whitish lump stuck on the back of his right shoulder. "Hold still," she said, stepping up behind him. There was some thick, web-like gunk holding the thing on, the lump itself about six inches long and kind of misshapen, like a chicken egg that had been stretched out. "What is it? Get it off," Steve said tensely, and Claire held the candle closer, saw that the white form wasn't entirely opaque. She could see inside, a little…… to where a fat white grub was squirming around, encased in translucent jelly. It was an egg case, the moth had laid an egg case on him. Claire wanted to vomit but held it together, looking around for something to grab it with. There was some crumpled paper in a wastebasket next to the trunk, and she snatched up a piece. "Hang on a sec," she said, amazed at how casual she sounded as she pulled the case off his shoulder. It didn't want to come, the wet webbing tenaciously holding on, but she got it, instantly dropping it to the floor. "It's off." Steve turned and crouched next to the paper, holding his candle out – and stood up abruptly, looking as sick– ened as she felt. He brought his boot down on it, hard, and clear jelly squirted from beneath the sole. "Oh, man," he said, his mouth turned down. "Remind me to blow chunks later, after we've eaten. And next time we go through there, no matches."