Must be the kennel…
Claire took a few steps farther in, focusing worriedly on the simple and somewhat flimsy lock holding the door closed – and saw the three uncaged zombies just as the first was reaching for her, its gaping mouth dripping with saliva and some other dark fluid, its bony fingers stretching out to touch her. She'd been so intent on the caged creatures, she hadn't realized that there were more of them. She reflexively dropped her weight and snapped her left leg into its chest, a solid and effective side kick that knocked the creature back. She could feel her boot sink into its deteriorating flesh but didn't have time for dis– gust, already bringing the 9mm up…… and with a thin metallic crash, the kennel door banged open, and suddenly she was facing seven instead of three. They crowded toward her, clumsily maneuver– ing past a Dumpster, a few barrels, the bodies of their fallen brethren. Bam! She shot the closest one without thinking, a neat hole punching through its right temple, understand– ing that she was doomed as it crumpled and hit the dirt. Too many, too tightly grouped, she'd never make it -
–the barrels! One of them was marked flammable, same trick I used in Paris…
Claire dove for cover behind the Dumpster, switching the gun to her left hand as she landed. The target marked in her mind's eye, she came up shooting, only her arm curling around the Dumpster as the confused zombies teetered and searched, moaning hungrily…
Bam! Bam! B…… KA-BLAM!
The Dumpster slammed into her right shoulder, knocking her over backward. She curled into a ball on her side, ears ringing, as jagged, burning shreds of metal rained down from above, clattering atop the Dumpster, a few of them landing on her left leg. She slapped them off, scarcely able to believe that it had worked, that she was still alive. She sat up, pushing herself into a crouch, looking out at what remained of her assailants. Only one of them was still whole, leaning heavily on the kennel, its clothes and hair on fire; the upper body of a second was trying to crawl toward her, its black and bubbling skin sloughing off as it inched forward. The rest were in pieces, the burning earth licking up to claim the pathetic remains as its own. Claire quickly dispatched the two left alive, her heart aching a little at the dismal end these people had come to. Ever since Raccoon City, her dreams were haunted by zombies, by the stinking, dripping creatures that sought live flesh as sustenance. Umbrella had uninten– tionally created these particular monsters, like night– marish walking corpses straight out of the movies, and it was kill or be killed, there was no choice.
Except they were people not so long ago. People with families and lives, who hadn't deserved to die in such terrible ways, no matter what evils they may have com-mitted. She looked down at the poor burned bodies, feeling almost sick with pity and a low but insistent fever of hatred for Umbrella.
Claire shook her head and did her best to let it go, aware that allowing herself to carry all that pain might make her hesitate at some crucial moment. Like a soldier at war, she couldn't afford to humanize the enemy… al– though she had no doubts as to who the real enemy was, and she hoped fervently that Umbrella's leaders would all burn in hell for what they'd done. Not wanting to be surprised again, she carefully and thoroughly checked the passage's shadows in her evalu– ation of next-step choices. In the back of the kennel was an actual guillotine, stained with what appeared to be real blood. Just looking at it made her shudder, remind– ing her of RPD's Chief Irons, and his hidden dungeon; Irons had been living proof that Umbrella didn't run psych tests on their undercover employees. Behind the nasty execution device was a door, but Steve obviously hadn't gone that way, not with the zombies locked in. Next to the kennel was a kind of metal sliding shutter, but it wouldn't open… and next to that, the only door he could have gone through, because the passage was a dead end just past it. Claire walked to the door, suddenly feeling very tired and very old, her emotions spent. She checked the hand– gun and then reached for the handle, absently wonder– ing if she would ever see her brother again. Sometimes holding on to her hope was a tremendous burden, made all the heavier because she couldn't set it aside, not even for a moment.
Steve jumped when he heard the explosion outside, reflexively looking around at the small, cluttered office as though expecting the walls to crumble. After a few beats he relaxed, figuring it was probably just another heat blast, nothing to worry about. Ever since the attack, the unchecked fires burning throughout the prison com-pound occasionally rolled over something combustible, a canister of oxygen or kerosene or whatever, and then ker-blooey, another explosion. It was just such a blast that had kept him alive, actu– ally – he'd been knocked out by a flying chunk of wall when an oil barrel had blown up, the debris covering him completely, hiding him. When he'd finally come to, the big zombie chow-down was pretty much over, most of the prison guards and prisoners already dead… Bad train of thought. He shook it off and returned his attention to the computer screen, to the file directory he'd stumbled across while trying to find a map of the island. Some dumbass had written the pass code number on a sticky note and slapped it on the hard drive, giving him easy access to some obviously secret stuff. Too bad most of it was dull as dishwater – prison budgeting, names and dates he didn't recognize, information about some kind of special alloy that metal detectors couldn't pick up… that one was kind of interesting, considering he'd had to walk through a two-way lockdown metal de– tector to get to the office, but three or four well-placed bullets to the mechanism had taken care of that. Good thing, too; he'd found one of the main gate emblem keys tucked in a desk drawer, which would definitely have triggered a lockdown on his way back through.
All I need is a goddamn map to the nearest boat or plane and I'm history. He'd pick up the chick after he cleared a path, too, play the knight in shining armor…… and she'd undoubtedly be appreciative, maybe even enough to want to… A name on the file directory caught his eye. Steve frowned, peering closer at the screen. There was a folder labeled Redfield, C… as in Claire Redfield? He tapped it up, curious, and was still reading, totally ab– sorbed, when he heard a noise behind him. He scooped his gun off the counter and spun around, mentally kicking himself for not paying better atten– tion and there was Claire, her own weapon pointing at the floor, a slightly irritated look on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked casually, as if she hadn't just scared the crap out of him. "And how did you get past the zombies outside?" "I ran," he answered, annoyed by the question. Did she think he was helpless or something? "And I'm looking for a map… hey, are you related to a Christopher Redfield?" Claire frowned. "Chris is my brother. Why?" Siblings. That explains it. Steve motioned toward the computer, vaguely wondering if the entire Redfield clan kicked ass. Her brother sure as hell did, ex-Air Force pilot and S.T.A.R.S. team member, a competition marksman and a serious thorn in Umbrella's side. No way he would have admitted it out loud, but Steve was kind of impressed.
"You might want to tell him that Umbrella's got him under surveillance," he said, stepping back so she could read what was on the screen. Apparently Redfield was in Paris, though Umbrella hadn't managed to locate his exact whereabouts. Steve was glad that he'd run across a file that meant something to her; a little gratitude from a pretty girl was always a good thing. Claire scanned the info and then tapped a few keys, glancing back at him with a look of relief. "Thank God for private satellites. I can get through to Leon, he's a friend, he should have hooked up with Chris by now…"
She'd already started typing, absently explaining her– self as her fingers moved across the keys. "… there's a