It was as if a puzzle was falling into place. Of course, of course she had. Clever girl, she'd played her part well. Whether or not Umbrella had unwittingly encour– aged the attack didn't matter, not now, he would deal with them later; what mattered was that the Redfield witch had brought the enemy to Rockfort, and she might still be alive, stealing information, spying, perhaps even planning to, to hurt his Alexia… "No," he breathed, the fear immediately transforming into fury. Obviously that had been her plan all along, to do as much damage to Umbrella as possible and Alexia was undoubtedly the brightest scientific mind working in bioweapons research, perhaps the brightest in any field. Claire wouldn't get away with it. He'd find her… or, better yet, wait for her to come to him, as she surely would. He could watch for her, lay in wait like a hunter, the girl his prey.
And why kill her immediately, when you could have so much fun with her first? It was Alexia's voice in his thoughts, reminding him of their childhood games, the pleasure they'd shared in their own experiments, creat– ing environments of pain, watching things suffer and die. It had forged the bond between them in steel, to share such intimate things…… I can keep her alive, let Alexia play with her… or better, I could invent a maze for her, see how she fares against some of our pets… There were many possibilities. With few exceptions, Alfred could unlock all the doors on the island by computer; he could easily lead her wherever he wanted, and kill her at his discre-
tion. Claire Redfield had underestimated him, they all had, but no more… and if things worked out the way Alfred was starting to hope, the day would end on a much hap– pier note than the dismal discord which had marked its beginning.
If there were infected dogs roaming the grounds, theywere hiding. The open yard Claire stepped into was lit– tered with corpses, their flesh a sickly gray beneath the pale moonlight except for where the countless splashes of blood had fallen; no dogs, nothing moving except the low clouds scudding across the thickening night sky. Claire stood for a moment, watching the shadows, want– ing to make sure of her surroundings before leaving the exit behind. "Steve," she whispered harshly, afraid to shout for fear of what might be lurking. Unfortunately, Steve Burnside was as scarce as the howling dog she'd heard; he hadn't just wandered away, it seemed, he'd taken off at a sprint. Why? Why would he choose to be alone? Maybe she was wrong, but Steve's bit about not wanting to be slowed down just didn't ring true. When she'd unknow– ingly stumbled into the Raccoon nightmare, running into Leon had made all the difference in the world; theyhadn't stuck together the entire time, but just knowing that there was someone else as shocked and scared as she was… instead of feeling helpless and isolated, she'd been able to form clear objectives, goals beyond mere survival – finding transportation out of the city, looking for Chris, taking care of Sherry Birkin.
And simply from a safety standpoint, having someone to watch your back is a hell of a lot better than going it solo, no question.
Whatever his reason, she was going to do her damnedest to talk him out of it, assuming she could find him. The yard in front of her was much bigger than the one she'd just stepped out of, a long, one-story cabin to her right, a wall without doors to her left, the back of a larger building, perhaps. A low fire was burning in one of the wall's broken windows, and there was plenty of debris strewn among the dead, evidence of the force– ful attack. To her immediate right was a locked gate, a moonlit dirt path on the other side, and a closed door… which meant that Steve was either in the cabin or had gone around it, using the trail at the far end of the yard that also headed to the right. She decided to try the cabin first… and as she hopped the few steps up to the railed porch that ran most of the length of the building, she found herself wonder-ing who had attacked Rockfort, and why. Rodrigo had said something about a special forces team, but if that was true, whose orders were they following? It seemed that Umbrella had its share of enemies, which was defi– nitely good news – but the island attack was a tragedy nonetheless. Prisoners had died along with employees, and the T-virus – perhaps the G-virus, too, and God only knows how many others – didn't differentiate between the guilty and the innocent. She had reached the plain wooden door of the cabin, and holding the 9mm at the ready, she gently pushed it open and immediately closed it, her course decided by the two virus carriers she'd seen inside, both stumbling around a table. A second later there was a thump at the door, a low, pitiful moan filtering out. The trail it is, then. She doubted that the cocksure Steve would have left anyone standing if he had gone into the cabin, and she probably would have heard the shots…
… unless they got him first.
Claire didn't like it, but the grim reality of her situation was mat she couldn't afford to waste the ammo to find out. She'd follow the path, see where that led and if she couldn't find him then, he was on his own. She wanted to do the right thing, but she also felt pretty strongly about saving her own ass; she had to get back to Paris, to Chris and the others, which she certainly couldn't do if she blew her ammo and ended up being someone's lunch. She moved back along the porch, all of her senses on high as she neared the end of the building. She hadn't forgotten about the zombie dog or dogs, and listened for the patter of claws against dirt, for the heavy panting that she remembered from her previous experience in Raccoon. The damp, chill night was quiet, a shivering breeze sweeping lightly through the yard, the only breathing she heard her own. A quick glance around the corner of the cabin; noth-ing, only a man's body lying half in and half out of the building's crawl space, some five meters away. Another ten past that and the path turned right again, much to Claire's relief – she'd seen that leg of the trail through the locked gate, and it had been empty then.
So he must have gone through that door, the one on the west wall… It was also a relief to know something, to know anything certain when it came to Umbrella. She started down the path, thinking about what it would take to convince the macho teen to stay with her. Maybe if she told him about Raccoon, explained that she'd had some practice with Umbrella disasters… Claire was just about to step over the lone corpse's upper body when it moved. She jumped back, her semi pointed at the man's bloody head, her heart hammering – and she realized that he was dead, that someone or something in the shadows of the crawl space was pulling him inside by his legs, a strong and steady series of jerks…
… like a dog backing up with something heavy in its jaws.
She didn't think anything after that, instinctively leap– ing over the dead man and sprinting away, aware that the dog – if that's what it was – wouldn't be preoccupied for– ever. The realization that it had been less than a meter away lent her speed as she took the corner, her boots slap– ping against the wet, hard packed earth, her arms pump– ing. Zombies were slow, uncoordinated; the dogs that both she and Leon had run across were vicious and lightning quick. Even armed, she wasn't interested in facing off with one of them, a single bite and she'd be infected, too. Arrroooooo! The gurgling howl came from farther away than the crawl space, from somewhere back in the front part of the yard. Shit, how many… Didn't matter, she was almost there, her salvation ahead on the left. Not daring to look back, she didn't slow down a step until she reached the door, grabbed the handle and shoved. It opened easily, and since she didn't see anything with teeth directly in front of her, she jumped in and slammed the door be– hind her…… only to hear the multiple wails of zombies, to smell the feverish rot of the dying virus carriers even as some– thing crashed into the door at her back and began to claw at it, growling like some feral monster. How many dogs, how many zombies? The thought flashed through her panicked mind, the need to conserve ammo deeply ingrained after Raccoon, and what if I'm about to hit a dead end? She almost turned back in spite of the risk, until she saw where the zombies were. The passage she'd entered was thick with gloom, but she could see several stumbling men locked in a caged area to her left, all of them pretty far gone. One of them was beating on the mesh door, its nearly skeletal hands hanging with ribbons of damaged tissue, oblivious to the pain of its disintegrating body.