"Well, much as I'd like to hang around, I've got a plane to catch," he said, sighing melodramatically. "As-suming I can find one. I'll look for you before I take off. Be careful, this place is dangerous."
He started toward a door next to the guard tower, di-rectly opposite from the one she'd come through.
"Catch you later."
She was so surprised that she almost couldn't find her voice in time. Was he nuts, or just stupid? He was at the door before she spoke up, jogging after him.
"Steve, wait! We should stick together…"
He turned and shook his head, his expression in-credibly condescending. "I don't want you follow-ing me, okay? No offense, but you'll just slow me down."
He smiled winningly again, working the eye contact as hard as he could. "And you'd definitely be a distrac-tion. Look, just keep your eyes and ears open, you'll be fine."
He was through the door and gone before she could say anything. Dumbfounded and thoroughly annoyed, she watched the door settle closed, wondering how he had survived so far. His attitude suggested that he thought this was just one big video game, where he couldn't possibly get hurt or killed. It appeared that sheer bravado counted for something… the one thing teenaged boys seemed to have in abundance.
That and testosterone.
If being perceived as cool was his main concern, he wasn't going to make it very far. She had to go after him, she couldn't leave him to die…
Arroooooooo…
The terrible, lonely, ferocious sound that suddenly shattered the still night was one she'd heard before, in Raccoon City, and it was coming from behind the door that Steve had just gone through. There was no mistak– ing it for anything else. A dog, infected by the T-virus, turned from a domestic animal into a ruthless killer. After a fast search of the dead guards in the court-yard, she had two more full clips and part of a third. As ready as she was going to get, Claire took a few deep breaths and then slowly pushed the door open with the 9mm's barrel, hoping that Steve Burnside would stay lucky until she found him… and that by meeting him, her own luck hadn't just taken a serious turn for the worse.
THREE
AS TERRIBLE AND DISHEARTENING AS THE DE-struction to Rockfort, Alfred couldn't deny that he en– joyed putting down a few of his subordinates on the way to the training facility's main control room. He'd had no idea how gratifying it could be to see them sick and dying, reaching for him in hunger – the same men who'd sneered at him behind his back, who'd called him abnor– mal, who had pretended allegiance with their fingers crossed – and then expiring by his hand. There were lis– tening devices and hidden cameras throughout the com-pound, installed by his own paranoid father, a hidden monitor room in the private residence; Alfred had known all along that he wasn't liked, that the Umbrella employ– ees feared but didn't respect him as he deserved.
And now…
Now it didn't matter, he thought, smiling, stepping out of the elevator to see John Barton at the other end of the hall, staggering toward him with outstretched arms. Barton had been responsible for training Umbrella's growing militia in small arms, at least at the Rockfort compound, and had been a loud, vulgar barbarian swaggering around with his cheap cigars, flexing his ridiculously bloated muscles, always sweating, always laughing. The pale, blood-drenched creature stumbling toward him bore little resemblance, but was undoubt– edly the same man. "You're not laughing anymore, Mr. Barton," Alfred said rightly, raising his.22 rifle, using the sight to put a tiny red dot over the trainer's bloodshot left eye. The drooling, moaning Barton didn't notice…
Bam!
… although he surely would have appreciated Al– fred's excellent aim and choice of ammunition. The.22 was loaded with safety slugs, rounds designed to spread out on impact – designated "safe" because the bullet wouldn't go through the target and injure anyone else. Alfred's shot obliterated Barton's eye and certainly a goodly part of his brain, rendering him harmless and quite dead. The large man crumpled to the floor, a pud– dle of blood spreading out beneath him. Some of the BOWs were unnerving to him, and he was relieved that most had either been locked down in various parts of the training facility or had been killed outright – he certainly wouldn't be wandering around if there were more than a few on the loose, but he didn't find the virus carriers to be particularly frightening. Al– fred had seen many men – and a number of women, as Well – turned into these zombie-like creatures by way of the T-virus, experiments that he'd witnessed throughout his childhood, that he'd directed himself as an adult. In fact, there were never more than fifty or sixty prisoners living at Rockfort at a time; between Dr. Stoker, the anatomist and researcher who'd worked at the "infir– mary," and the constant need for training targets and spare parts, no one incarcerated at the compound en– joyed Umbrella's hospitality for more than six months.
And where will we all be six months from now, I wonder?
Alfred stepped over Barton's swollen corpse, walking toward the control room to call his Umbrella HQ con– tacts. Would Umbrella choose to rebuild at Rockfort? Would he agree to it? He and Alexia had been perfectly safe from the virus during its "hot" stage, both pathways between the rest of the facility and their private home locked down throughout most of the air attack, but knowing that Umbrella's nameless enemy was willing to resort to such extreme measures, did he really want to risk refitting a laboratory so near their home? The Ash– fords feared nothing, but neither were they reckless.
Alexia would never agree to closing the facility, not now, not when she's so close to her goal…
Alfred stopped in his tracks, staring at the banks of radio and video equipment, at the blank computer screens that stared back at him with wide dead eyes. He stared but didn't see, a strange emptiness opening up inside of him, confusing him. Where was Alexia? What goal?
Gone. She's gone.
It was true, he could feel it in his bones – but how could she leave him, how could she when she knew that she was his heart, that he would die without her?
The monstrosity, screaming and blind, a failure and it was cold, so cold, the queen ant naked, suspended in the sea and he couldn 't touch her, could only feel the cold unyielding glass beneath his longing fingers…
Alfred gasped, the nightmare imagery so real, so hor– rid that he didn't know where he was, didn't know what he was doing. Distantly, he felt his hands clenching tighter and tighter around something, the muscles of his arms shaking…… and there was a burst of static from the console in front of him, loud and crackling, and Alfred realized that somebody was speaking.
"… please, if anyone can hear me – this is Doctor Mario Tica, in the second floor lab," the voice was say– ing, breaking with fear. "I'm locked in, and all the tanks have gone down, they're waking up… please, you have to help me, I'm not infected, I'm in a suit, swear to God, you gotta get me out of here…"
Dr. Tica, locked in the embryo tank room. Tica, who had long been sending private reports to Umbrella about his progress with the Albinoid project, secret reports that were different than the ones he showed Alfred. Alexia had suggested that Tica be sent to Dr. Stoker some months ago… wouldn't she be amused, to hear him now? Alfred reached over and turned off Tica's babbling plea, suddenly feeling much better. Alexia had warned him time and again about his peculiar episodes, the flashes of intense loneliness and confusion – stress, she insisted, telling him that he was not to take them seri– ously, that she would never leave him voluntarily. She loved him too much for that. Thinking of her, thinking of all the trouble and pain that Umbrella's incompetent defenses had brought about for them both, Alfred abruptly decided not to place his uplink call. HQ had certainly heard about the attack by now, and would be sending a cleanup crew soon enough; really, there was no need to speak with them… and be– sides, they didn't deserve to hear his observations of the situation, to have foreknowledge of the dangers they'd be facing. He was no employee, no ignorant lackey who had to report to his superiors. The Ashfords had created Umbrella; they should be reporting to him.
And I did speak to Jackson only a week ago, about the Redfield girl…
Alfred felt his eyes widen, his mind working madly. Claire Redfield, sister to Chris Redfield, he of the meddle– some S.T.A.R.S. holdouts, had arrived mere hours before the attack. She had been caught in Paris, inside Umbrella's HQ Administration building, claiming to be searching for her brother – and they'd sent her to him, to keep her locked up while they decided what to do with her. But… what if the plan had been to lure her brother out into the open, to crush his ridiculous insurrection once and for all, a plan they'd conveniently forgotten to tell him? And what if she'd been followed to Rockfort by Redfield and his comrades, her very presence a sig– nal for them to attack…… or perhaps even allowed herself to be captured in the first place?