He'd been trying to protect her, and it had cost him his life. For a second, she couldn't move or breathe, couldn't feel the cold, didn't care about the monster. But only for a second. She looked at the stumbling, tortured animal stagger– ing toward her, knew without doubt that the fury they'd heard came from long, hard years of abuse, of experi– mentation, and felt nothing. Her heart had sealed itself up, her mind suddenly colder than her body. She straightened, jacking a round into the chamber of the rifle, appraising the situation with a clear eye. Obviously, she could outrun it, leave it on the plat– form and be a mile away before it found its way back down – but that wasn't an option, not anymore. Its death would be a mercy, but that didn't figure in to her calcu– lations, either. It killed Steve, and now I'm going to kill it, she thought coolly, and walked to the northwest corner of the plat– form, the farthest from the stairs. Its appendages flailing over its head, the monster wove around in a painfully slow half circle, its blind face finally turned in her direction. It let out another deep, gasping, mindless sound and its body vomited out more of that smoking liquid, some kind of acid or poison, probably. She wondered who had created such a thing, and how – this was no T-virus zombie, and from its abused and tormented state, it wasn't a BOW, either. She supposed she'd never know. Claire raised the rifle and looked through the scope, focusing in on the pulsating tissue in the center of its chest, then raising to target its blank gray face. She didn't know about the tissue mass at its heart, but she was sure it wouldn't survive a head shot by a 30.06. She didn't want to waste time stalking it, or inflicting unnec– essary pain; she just wanted it dead. She aimed at the center of its forehead. It had a strong jaw and fine, straight nose beneath the puckered flesh, as though it had once been handsome, even aristocratic. Maybe it's another Ashford, she thought mockingly, and fired. The monster's head split apart, almost seemed to shatter as the round found its mark. Shards of bone and brain matter flew, all of it as gray as the gray sky, steam rising up from the broken bowl of its skull as it fell -
– first to its knees, the mutant arms spasming in the snowy air, then onto its ruined face. Claire felt nothing, no pleasure, no dismay, not even pity. It was dead, that was all, and it was time for her to go. She still didn't feel the cold, but her body was shak– ing violently, her teeth rattling, and she knew she had to get warm…
"Claire?"
The voice was weak and shuddering and unmistak– ably Steve's, coming from the platform's east edge. Claire stared at the empty space for a split second, en– tirely dumbfounded – and then ran, dropping to her hands and knees beneath the soft patter of snow, leaning out to see him awkwardly wrapped around a support post, clinging to the frozen metal with both arms and one leg. His face was almost blue with cold, but when he saw her, his eyes lit up, a look of incredible relief crossing his pale features. "You're alive," he said. "That's my line," she answered, dropping the rifle and bracing herself against the edge, leaning down to grab his arm. It was a struggle, but in another moment, Steve was back on the platform, and then they were on their knees, embracing, too cold to do anything but hang on. "I'm so sorry, Claire," he said miserably, his face buried in her shoulder. "I couldn't stop it." Her heart had unsealed when she'd seen him alive, and now tightened painfully. He was all of seventeen years old, his whole life ripped apart by Umbrella, and he'd just very nearly died trying to save her life. Again. And he was sorry. "Don't worry, I got it this time," she said, determined not to cry. "You get the next one, okay?" Steve nodded, sitting back on his heels to look at her. "I will," he said, so vehemently that she had to smile. "Cool," she said, and crawled to her feet, reaching down to help him up. "That'll save me some work. Now let's go catch a 'cat, yes?"
Supporting each other and staying close for warmth, they made their way to the stairs, neither of them willing to let go.
TWELVE
ALEXIA ASHFORD WATCHED HER TWIN DIE AT her feet, bleeding and in great pain, reaching out to touch the stasis tank with adoration in his dying eyes. He'd never been particularly bright or competent, but she had loved him, very much. His death was a great sadness… but also the sign she'd been waiting for. It was time to come out. She'd known for some months that the end would be soon – or rather the beginning, the emergence of a new life on Earth. Her stasis had remained stable for most of the fifteen years she'd needed, her mind and body un– aware of life – unaware that she was suspended in freez-ing amniotic fluid, her cells slowly changing and adapting to T-Veronica. In the past year, however, that had changed. She had hypothesized that given enough time, T-Veronica would raise consciousness to new levels, expanding areas of the mind that would surpass simplistic human senses, and she had been correct. For the last ten months, she had begun experiencing herself in spite of stasis, testing her awareness… and she had been able to see through her human eyes, when she wished. Alexia reached out with her mind and turned off the support machines. The tank began to drain, and she stared out at her dear brother, most unhappy that he had died. She could choose not to employ her emotions, but she had been human with him; it seemed appropriate. When the tank was empty, Alexia opened it, stepping out into her new world. There was power everywhere, hers for the taking, but now she sat down in front of the tank and laid Alfred's bloody head in her lap, experienc– ing the sadness. She began to sing, a child's song that her brother had liked, stroking his hair back from his drawn face. There was sadness in the lines around his eyes and mouth, and she wondered what his life had been like. She wondered if he'd stayed at Rockfort, stayed at Veronica's home, the home of their ancestors. Still singing, Alexia reached out to her father – and was surprised to find him missing, either dead or beyond her range of perception. She had touched his mind only recently, studying what was left of it. In a way, he was re– sponsible for what she had become; the T-Veronica had turned his mind to sludge, had driven him insane… as it would have to her, if she hadn't tested it on him, first. She stretched her awareness, finding sickness and death in the upper levels of the terminal. A pity. She had been looking forward to beginning her experiments again, immediately; without test subjects, she had no reason to stay. She found two people not far from the Umbrella facil– ity and decided to flex her control over substance, to see how much effort it took – and found that it was hardly an effort at all. She concentrated for just a few seconds, saw a male and female inside of a snow machine, and wished for them to be brought back to the facility. Instantly, lines of organic matter tore through the ice, ripping toward the vehicle. Amused, Alexia watched with her senses as a giant tentacle of new-formed sub– stance rose up and curled around the machine, lifting it effortlessly into the air – and then threw it back at the facility. The machine tumbled end over end, its engine bursting into flame, and came to rest against one of the Umbrella buildings. Both were still alive, she thought, and was well pleased. She could use one of them in an experiment she'd been thinking about for weeks, and would surely find a good use for the other in due time. Alexia continued to sing to her dead brother, in-trigued by the changes she could see coming, looking forward to gaining a fuller mastery of her new powers. She stroked his hair, dreaming.
THIRTEEN
THINGS FELL TO SHIT PRETTY FAST WHEN HE finally reached the island. Chris stood at the top of the cliff in the early night, catching his breath and soundly cursing himself. Every-thing had been in that bag – weapons and ammo, rap– pelling equipment so they could get back down to the boat, flashlight, a basic first-aid kit, everything.
Not everything. You 've still got three grenades on your belt, his mind told him brightly. Terrific. Halfway up the cliff he loses his grip and drops the bag into the deep blue sea, but it appeared he still had his sense of humor.
Yeah, that'll go a long way toward saving Claire's life. Barry was right. I should have brought backup.
Well. He could stand around all goddamn day wish– ing things were different, or he could get moving; he picked moving. Chris hunched over and stepped into the low cave en-trance he'd chosen to start at, an isolated area but defi-nitely connected to the rest of the compound – there was a radio antenna on the ledge outside, and when he straightened up a few steps later, he was inside a large, open room, the walls and ceiling organic but the floor
carefully leveled. There was light somewhere ahead, and Chris started for it, keeping his fingers crossed that he wasn't about to walk into an Umbrella Military dinner. He doubted it. From what he'd seen of the island, the attack Claire had mentioned had been excessively brutal. He was less than a dozen steps into the shadowychamber when a small tremor shook the cave, spilling rock dust and pebbles over his head – and closing the cave entrance he'd just walked through, collapsing rock having a fairly distinctive sound. It seemed the island at– tack had made things a bit unstable. "Oh, wonderful," he muttered, but was suddenly a bit happier about the grenades. Not that they would help much here. Even if he could blow the mouth without bringing all of it down, it was still too high to jump, and the rope had been in the bag; unless she'd been taking lessons, Claire wasn't a good enough rock climber to go down unassisted… "What?" someone rasped, and Chris dropped into a defensive crouch, searching the shadows…… and saw a man on the cave floor, slumped against the wall. He wore a tattered white T-shirt with blood on it, his pants and boots military – he was one of Um– brella's, and not in very good shape. Nevertheless, Chris stepped quickly to his side, ready to kick the shit out of him if he so much as sneezed. "I didn't know anyone was still around," the man said weakly, and coughed a little. "Thought I was the last one… after the self-destruct."
He coughed again, obviously not far away fromdeath. His words sank in, creating a lead ball in Chris's stomach. Self-destruct?He crouched down, trying to keep his voice level.
"I'm here looking for a girl, her name is Claire Redfield.
Do you know where she is?"
At the sound of Claire's name, the man smiled, though not at Chris. "An angel. She's gone, escaped. I helped her… let her go. She tried to save me, but it was too late."Hope bloomed anew. "Are you sure she got away?"The dying man nodded. "Heard the planes leave. Saw a jet come out of the basement, under the…" a cough, "… the tank. You should go, too. Nothing left here."
Chris could feel some of his stress and fear ebbing away, tensions in his neck and back releasing. If she was gone, she was safe. "Thank you for helping her," he said sincerely."What's your name?" "Raval. Rodrigo Raval." "I'm Claire's brother, Chris," he said. "Let me help you, Rodrigo, it's the least I can do and…"
Eeaaaaaaa!
A deafening animal cry filled the cave, and at the same instant, another tremor struck, a bad one, the ground shaking so hard that Chris was thrown off his feet…… and earth erupted, what Chris thought was an explo-sion at first, a fountain of dirt and rock spraying upward, but it kept rising, and Chris could see thick, filth-coated slime beneath it, could smell sulfur and decay, saw a huge cylinder made of rubber still climbing -
– and then it shrieked again, the top of the cylinder twisting around, wormy tentacles peeling back from a yawning, howling throat, and Chris scrambled to his feet, grabbing a grenade from his belt…… and the giant, shrieking snake-worm came crash– ing down, mouth open…… and swallowed Rodrigo whole before slamming into the sandy soil where he'd been sitting. It dove into the ground like a swimmer into water, its impossibly long body arching over, following through.
Jesus!
Chris stumbled away as the ground continued to quake, the burrowing creature kicking up rock and dirt and sand all around him, and he realized that he had to kill it or get away fast, that it could easily come up be– neath him for another quick snack. He ran to the outer wall of the cave, making a split second plan as the snake-worm burst up through the ground behind him, its insane mouth peeling open as it hesitated at the top of its arch, ready to plunge down over him, rocks falling all around -
– and Chris pulled the safety ring off the grenade, stripping the tape and pin away, and ran, straight for the creature's lower body where it emerged from the ground.
Crazy, this is crazy…
He ducked just before hitting the filthy, muscular body and set the grenade on the ground in front of it, on the run, as careful as he could be not to set it off – and then dived for cover behind the snake-worm's twisting body, tucking into a shoulder roll, covering his head as the animal started downward, shrieking…… and BOOM, the explosion shook the ground even harder than the animal had, the shriek cut off, the grenade blast muffled by a half ton of worm guts that shot out in all directions, stinking and warm, painting the walls of the cave hi viscous bucket loads. Chris rolled on his back, drenched, watched the front half of the animal convulse and writhe, already dead – and as its muscles and reflexes clenched and released for the last time, the snake-worm expelled a gush of stomach acid and rock from its gaping maw, vomiting out its last meal.
Rodrigo!
Before the massive corpse had completely settled to the ground, Chris was at Rodrigo's side, horrified and helpless, the man seizing in shock and pain. He was coated in yellow bile, and Chris could see places where it had already burned through his skin. Rodrigo let out a soft cry, too weak to scream in what had to be incredible pain, and Chris tore his own jacket off, wiping his face clean of the sticky, acidic fluid.
"You're going to be okay, just relax, don't try to talk,"
Chris said, fully aware that Rodrigo would be dead in minutes, perhaps seconds. He kept talking, kept his tone soothing in spite of his own dismay. Rodrigo opened his eyes, and though they were full of suffering, they also had the wet, glassy, faraway look of someone leaving it all behind, someone about to be free of pain and fear. "Right… pocket…" Rodrigo whispered. "The an-gel… gave… for luck."
Rodrigo took a slow, deep breath, and let it out just as slowly, an exhalation that seemed to go on forever, and then he was gone. Chris automatically closed his half-open eyes, simul– taneously sad and relieved at Rodrigo's passing, the end of a life but also an end to dying.
Rest, friend.
Sighing, Chris reached into Rodrigo's pocket, felt skin-warmed metal – and pulled out the scuffed, heavy old lighter that he'd given to Claire himself, a long time ago. For luck. Chris held it to his chest, suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of love for his sister. She'd carried the lighter with her everywhere for years, but had given it up to ease the mind of a dying man, possibly one of the men responsi– ble for her capture. He slipped it into his pocket and stood, glad that he'd be able to give it back to her – and to tell her that she'd made a difference in Rodrigo's last hours, that he'd smiled upon hearing her name. Even though Claire didn't need to be rescued, Chris's trip to the island had already turned out to be worthwhile. The stink of the splattered cave was getting to him, and now that he knew his sister was safe, all that was left was to get himself home. His entrance had been caved in, and he didn't have a decent weapon, but if someone had triggered Umbrella's self-destruct sys– tem – it seemed that all their illegal facilities were built with such failsafes in place, a fine way to destroy evi– dence if anything went wrong – then he shouldn't run into too much trouble looking for the tank that Rodrigo had mentioned, see if there was another jet to be had. "No going back," he said softly, and with a final silent prayer for Rodrigo to find peace, he went to see what he could find.
There was a fight about to happen on one of the mon– itors in what was left of the control room, and Albert Wesker, frustrated by a day of fruitless searching and not looking forward to yet another long flight, pulled up a crate and sat down to watch. He'd already sent the boys back to the world, he was alone – except it ap– peared that he'd missed somebody, and said somebody was still wandering around the island…… but not for much longer, he thought happily, wish– ing the reception was better; thanks to that lonesome loser, Alfred Ashford, the self-destruct system had screwed everything up… and finally, something inter– esting was actually going to happen.
Christ, he's unarmed!
Crazy or stupid or totally ignorant of what the island was, no question. Wesker grinned. The unarmed man was walking through the training facility just one floor below, and he was about to meet up with one of Um– brella's newer bio-organics, one that had been trapped down in the sewers until Wesker had shown up and set it free. They were one hallway apart; when the dumbass turned the next corner, he was dead. Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, pleasantly diverted from his own troubles. Sweepers, Umbrella was calling the new monsters, but they were basically Hunters with poison claws – huge, primarily amphibious, violent as hell. In Wesker's opinion, the Hunters, the 121 series, were perfectly badass without the extra poison touch.
But isn't that just like Umbrella, always wasting re-sources, playing games when they could be winning wars.
Yes, it was, but there was about to be bloodshed. Wesker set aside his distaste for the company and leaned in to watch. The weaponless idiot – a tall guy with reddish-brown hair, that was about all the static would allow – was two steps from disaster, the Sweeper waiting just around the corner… when he stopped and backed up a step, press-ing himself against the damaged wall. Wesker frowned. The man started to back up, slowly and carefully, still hugging the wall. Okay, maybe not a complete idiot. He'd made it halfway back down the corridor he'd come through when the Sweeper finally got impatient, deciding to take action. There was no sound system left, but the creature had thrown back its head and was scream– ing, that weird, trilling screech floating up to Wesker through the ruined building just a split second later. "Get him," Wesker breathed eagerly, looking back at the poor, doomed dumbass… just in time to see him throwing something, something small and dark, the Sweeper leaping out from behind the corner, still screaming, the object landing at its feet…… and the building was shaking, the screens going white and then black, the deep thunder of explosives rumbling through the floor. Wesker was astounded. And then furious. That crea-ture had been a miracle of science, a warrior created for battle – who was this dick who'd just rambled in and blown it to shit? A dead dick, Wesker thought darkly, pushing the crate away and heading for the stairs. He took them two at a time, carefully bypassing a few still burning fires, aware that he was channeling all his frustrations and upsets to-ward the unknown soldier and not particularly caring. Alexia wasn't at Rockfort, which meant he had to get his ass to the Antarctic of all places, to the only other fa– cility she might be at; why else would Alfred have gone there? And if Wesker didn't get to her before she woke up, he might have to go home empty handed… all of which added up to failure, and if there was one thing Wesker hated, it was losing. He marched through the crumbling leftovers of the training facility, reaching the hall he wanted, silencing his steps as he edged farther along. There was still smoke in the air when he reached the corner where the conflict had taken place, but little left of the Sweeper. Most of it was stuck to the walls and ceiling. There, ahead and to the left; he could smell the in– truder, could smell sweat and anxiety emanating from the small working lab to which he'd retreated. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, he thought, his mood lifting somewhat at the thought of a little personal interaction. Not wanting to get blown up, Wesker didn't hesitate, didn't give the guy a chance to get paranoid. He strode into the room, saw the soon-to-be corpse standing with his back turned, and moved. Moved the way only he could move – one second, he was walking through the door, the next, he was spinning the intruder around, lift-ing him by his throat…… and then looking into the startled face of Chris Redfield.
Oh, my.
Chris, who'd been on the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., who'd been led – under Wesker's command – to the Spencer es– tate, where he'd proceeded to thoroughly screw up Wesk– er's plans. Chris Redfield had cost him money, had almost cost him his life – but worst of all, he had been primarily responsible for the biggest failure in Wesker's career.
Wesker recovered himself quickly, a dark, wonderful joy spreading through his entire body. "Chris Redfield, as I live and breathe – what brings you to Rockfort, if you don't mind me…"
Wesker trailed off, still gazing up into Redfield's in– creasingly red face as he uselessly pried at Wesker's fin– gers. The girl, of course! He hadn't even known that Chris had a sister, but the deranged letter that Alfred Ashford had so thoughtfully left behind explained everything… including his plans for the young Claire Redfield. "She's not here," Wesker said, grinning. With his free hand, he straightened his sunglasses. "You… you're dead," Chris gasped, and Wesker grinned wider, not bothering to respond to such a stupid statement.
"Don't change the subject, Chris. Don't you want to know where Claire is, hmmm? Did you know that her plane took a little unplanned detour to the Antarctic?"
Chris was slowly choking to death, but Wesker could see that the news of his sister was hitting him harder than his own imminent demise. Wonderful! "There are experiments being performed there,"
Wesker mock-whispered, as if telling him a secret.
"I plan on going myself, see if I can get an experiment or two of my own going… tell me, is your sister good-looking? Do you think she might be interested in get-ting some action, because I've got a hard-on like you wouldn't believe…"
Chris flailed at Wesker, the helpless fury in his eyes absolutely gorgeous. He hit Wesker in the face, knock– ing his sunglasses to the ground… and Wesker laughed, blinking up at him slowly, letting him see. He still wasn't used to it himself, the gold-red cat's eyes oc– casionally surprising him when he looked in a mirror and they had exactly the effect he'd hoped for. "What… are you?" Chris rasped out. "I'm better, that's what," Wesker said. "New employ-ers, you know. After the Spencer estate, I needed a little help getting back on my feet, which they were perfectly willing to provide. You think Claire will like it?" "Monster," Chris spat. I'll show you monster, you shit.
Wesker started to close his hand, slowly, watching Chris's eyes bulging, a vein on his forehead popping out…… and was stopped by the sound of laughter. Cool, fe– male laughter, filling the room, surrounding them. "Don't you want to play with me?" a voice said, the same woman, low and sexy and dangerous, and then she began to laugh again, an unmerciful, beautiful sound that finally trailed away to nothing.
Alexia!
God, she was awake… and the kind of power it would take for her to look in on him here, to project her– self so far… Wesker threw Chris to one side, barely hearing the plaster wall crack beneath his useless skull, his thoughts full of Alexia. He had to go to her immediately. He had to have her, and not just for the sample… though he'd take what he could get. "I'm coming," he said, scooping up his sunglasses and then moving, speeding through the broken facility to where his private plane waited. Chris Redfield was his past; Alexia Ashford meant his future. Chris crawled to his feet soon after Wesker left, aching in about a dozen places, his throat horribly sore. He didn't know what had happened, exactly, didn't know who the woman was or why Wesker had seemed so eager to get to her – but he understood now who had attacked Rockfort, and suspected the reason. Albert Wesker should have died when the Spencer mansion had burned, but it seemed he'd sold his soul to someone new at the price of his life, someone obviously as nasty and amoral as Umbrella – someone who was perfectly willing to kill for whatever it was they wanted, for something that Umbrella had. Chris didn't care. At the moment, all he cared about was Claire, and getting himself to this Antarctica facil– ity. He knew that Umbrella had a legitimate base there… it had to be the same one, and if it wasn't, somebody there would know where the experiments were taking place. He had one grenade left. If he could find the under-ground airport, he'd have no trouble getting inside, and he could fly anything with wings. He'd radio on the way for a read on the Umbrella base, and if he couldn't find a weapon to get her out, he'd use his bare hands. All that mattered was Claire. And he was on his way.
FOURTEEN
THEY WERE MERE HOURS AWAY. Two men connected by history, one her enemy, the other… Alexia didn't know about the other, not yet, but knew that he meant to reclaim the girl she'd taken from the snow machine. Probably the boy, as well. None of them would be leaving, of course… but she was looking forward to the petty intrigues and overblown, self-impor– tant dramas that their humanity would bring to her home. She would enjoy the chance to observe their natural ten– dencies and instincts before forever altering their lives. She stood in the great hall considering things: possi-ble futures, her next transformation, the structural and psychological changes her new synthesis would create in humans, how she should welcome her new guests…… and it occurred to her that her home, deep beneath the ice and snow, might be difficult for them to achieve. She immediately wished for the doors to be opened, for ob– stacles to be removed… and she heard and saw and felt the result in the same instant, existing in a hundred places at once as locks were broken and walls were taken down, as debris was pushed aside and apertures were widened. She was prepared. Things would move quickly now… and what happened in the next hours would, to a degree, define her choices for some time to come. It was all still so new, the templates of her new life written only in sand… Smiling at her own poetic notions, Alexia went to see about the first series of injections for the boy.
FIFTEEN
Something was very, very wrong in Umbrella's Antarc– tica facility, but Chris didn't know what it was. On the fifth basement level of the dark and deserted compound, hundreds of feet beneath the snow, Chris stood in front of what appeared to be a full-blown man– sion made of white brick. There was a fountain behind him, potted plants, even a decorative merry-go-round. He'd been led there, presumably because someone wanted him to go inside, but he didn't know who or why. His instincts were telling him to get the hell out, but he ignored them. He had to, not knowing if he was a lamb being led to slaughter or if he was being taken to Claire. Since landing the jet in the roof hangar, he'd been guided every step of the way – walking into halls and having doors lock behind him, others opening up in front of him… twice, he'd found jewels on the cold ce– ment floors, pointing him in a particular direction, and once, after taking a wrong turn, all of the lights had gone out. They'd come back on when he'd groped his way back to where he'd gone "wrong." It had been strange enough just getting to the facility, passing over me endless miles of gray ice and snow… and then seeing it for the first time, rising up from the blank plains like an illusion…
But to be herded someplace like an animal, shuffled along without knowing the reason…
Chris was scared, more scared than he wanted to admit. He'd tried to stop, to look around for weapons or clues, but everything had been shut off, every door he tried locked – except for the ones he was supposed to go through, of course. The cameras that had to be watching his every move were so well hidden that he hadn't seen even one of them… but it almost seemed that his shep– herd knew his mind, knew what signals to give him, knew how to keep him going. He'd thought initially that it was Wesker, that it was all some setup to trap him, but why bother? He could have strangled Chris at the is– land if he'd wanted to. No, he was being guided for some other reason, and it seemed he had no choice but to follow along… not if he wanted to find Claire. He took a deep breath and opened the front door of the mansion, stepping inside. It was beautiful, as extravagant as the front of the building had suggested, grand staircase, arched pil-lars – and strangely familiar, though it took him a mo– ment to see how, the colors and decorations different. It was the layout – the same basic layout as the front hall of the Spencer mansion. It was surreal, but so perfectly harmonious with all the other weirdness that he didn't bat an eye. Chris stood for a moment, waiting, looking around for another signal – and then he heard what sounded like a laugh coming from behind the stairs. It was the same laugh that he'd heard at the Rockfort facility, that woman.
What had she said? Something about wanting to play?
It definitely felt like a game, like he was a character being moved around for someone else's enjoyment and it was starting to piss him off. That he was afraid only made him angrier. Chris stalked toward the back wall, ready to confront this woman, to demand some answers, but when he stepped around one of the decorative pillars, he saw that there was no one there. "What the hell is this," he muttered, turning -
