Resident Evil – Code "Veronica"

      Ah, screw it, won't know 'til you try.
      Again, point taken. Steve climbed down the ladder, and when he stepped off, he triggered a pressure plate in the floor of the sub. Above him, the hatch closed. He quickly stepped on it again, and the hatch reopened. It was good to know he wouldn't suffocate, at least. The interior of the submarine was very plain, maybe as big as a large bathroom, bisected by the narrow lad– der. There was a small padded bench on one side, the rear of the sub, and a simple control console in front. "Let's see what we got here," Steve muttered, step– ping up to the controls. They were ridiculously simple, a single lever with two settings – the handle was currently next to the upper setting, marked "main." The lower set– ting was marked "transport," and Steve grinned, amazed that it could be this easy. Talk about user-friendly.
      He tapped the pressure plate again, sealing the hatch, wondering if Claire would be impressed by his discov– ery as he pulled the lever down. He heard a soft metallic fhunk and then the submarine was moving, descending. There was a single porthole, but it was too dark to see anything besides a few rising bubbles. The anticlimactic ride was over in about ten seconds. The sub seemed to stop moving, and he heard a sharper metallic sound coming from the hatch, like it was brush– ing against something – definitely not an underwater sound. Onward and upward. The hatch opened as he started to climb the ladder, gun firmly in hand… and he stepped out onto a metal platform walled in glass or plexi, surrounded by black water on either side. There were a few steps leading down to a well-lit hallway, where only the left-hand wall was made out of water. Yees. It was like the displays at some aquariums, where you could go through an underwater tunnel, look at the fish. He'd never liked those things, finding it way too easy to imagine the glass breaking just as a shark de– cided to cruise by… or something worse. Enough of that. Steve stepped down into the hall and followed it around two bends, deliberately staring straight ahead. It was the first time since the attack on the island that he'd felt really nervous – not so much claustrophobia as a kind of primal fear, that something would come flashing out of the dark water toward the glass, an animal or something else – a pale hand, per– haps, or maybe a dead, white face pressing against the window, smiling at him… He couldn't help it. He broke into a run, and when the corridor met a door that apparently led away from the water room, he called himself pussy but was vastly re– lieved, anyway. He pushed the door open – and saw two, three…… four zombies in all, and all of them suddenly quite eager for his company. Each of them turned and began to limp or stagger toward him, the rags of their clothing – Um– brella uniforms, no question – hanging from their out– stretched arms. There was a smell like dead fish. "Unnnh," one of them moaned, and the others chimed in, the wails strangely gentle in a way, kind of sad and lost-sounding. Considering what Umbrella had put him through, he didn't feel a whole lot of sympathy. None, in fact. The room was half-split by a wall, the three zombies on the left unable to see the lone ranger on the right… though maybe they could, he thought, peering closer. Each of the trio had eyes that seemed to glow, a strange dark red. They reminded him of a movie he'd seen once, about a man with super X-ray vision, who saw all kinds of shit. Guess we'll never know what they see. Steve took aim at the nearest, closed one eye, and bam, right through the ol' frontal lobe, a clean hole appearing in its gray– green forehead like magic. The creature's red eyes seemed to fade and go out as it dropped, first to its knees, then flat down on its face, sploosh. Gross. The zombie's comrades took no notice, kept coming. The lone ranger's progress had been stopped by a desk; he continued to walk anyway, apparently not noticing that he wasn't going anywhere. Steve took out the next in line same as the first, a one shot kill, but for some reason, he didn't feel all that great about it. Shooting them down like that. It hadn't both– ered him before, back at the prison – then it had felt good, powerful even; he'd been stuck in that hellhole for long enough to be pretty righteously pissed, and having some control again had been like Christmas, like a great, big, Christmas present that some little kid had been waiting for all year, like he used to wait… Shut up. Steve didn't want to think about it, it was bullshit. So he didn't feel like clapping every time he wasted another one of them, so what? All it meant was that he was getting bored. He hurriedly shot the last two, the shots seeming louder than before, practically deafening. A quick look around for anything useful – if paper clips and dirty old coffee mugs were useful, he was sitting pretty – and he was ready to move on. There were two doors on the back wall, one on either side of the room; he picked left on general principles. He'd read somewhere that when given a choice, most people picked right. After checking his ammo, he walked past a big, empty fish tank that dominated the left side of the room and cautiously pushed the door open, taking in as much as he could in a single glance. Dark, cavernous, smells of salt water and oil, nothing moving. He stepped inside, sweeping with the Luger…… and laughed out loud, a rash of pure joy washing through his system as his laugh echoed back at him. It was a seaplane hangar, and there was one big-ass sea-plane sitting right in front of him. Big to him, anyway, he'd mostly flown in a little twin-engine private plane. Thoroughly pleased, Steve walked toward the plane, which sat just below the mesh platform under his feet. He was an inexperienced pilot, but figured he probably knew enough not to crash the thing.
      First things first, board her and check fuel, general condition, learn the controls…
      He stopped at the edge of the platform and looked down, frowning. He was at least ten feet above the front hatch, which looked to be locked down tight. There was a bank of machinery to his left, a few pan– els lit up. Steve walked over and looked at them, smiling when he saw a control to power up the boarding lift. The system should also open the plane door, according to the tiny diagram. "Presto," he said, flipping the switch. A loud and grat-ing mechanical noise bellowed through the giant hangar, making him wince, but it stopped after a few seconds, as a two-man lift slid to a halt at the platform's edge. He stepped onto the lift, studied the standing control panel – and started to curse, every bad word he could think of, twice. Next to a trio of hexagonally shaped spaces were the words, "insert proof keys here." No keys, no power.
      They could be anywhere on the whole goddamn is-land! And what are the chances that all goddamn three of them will be goddamn together?
      He took a deep breath, made himself calm down a lit– tle, and spent the next few minutes figuring out how the plane's controls were hooked up to the rest of the sys– tem, looking for a way to bypass the keys. And after a careful, thoughtful deliberation, he started cursing again. When he finally got tired of that, he resigned himself to the inevitable. Steve turned around and started to search the area, peering into every dark crevice, formulating theories about where the proof keys might be as he ran his hands over the greasy, dust-slimed machinery cabinets – and he decided that he was definitely going to dance all over the bones of the next Umbrella employee he gunned down, just for working at such an unnecessarily compli– cated place. Keys and emblems and proofs and sub– marines; it was a wonder they ever got shit done.
      The virus carrier was wearing a lab coat and its lower jaw had fallen off somewhere, or been broken off; it gur– gled and spluttered horribly, its wormy tongue flopping limply across its neck. Claire couldn't tell if it had been a man or woman, although she supposed it didn't really matter. As pitiful as it was revolting, she put it out of its misery with a single shot to the temple and then searched the area – working laboratory office, small in– ventory room – before stepping back into the hall, dis– couraged at her overwhelming lack of success. The entrance she'd walked back to from the mansion had opened up into a reasonably big courtyard, hard packed dirt and totally utilitarian – more like the prison than the palace, although even after searching a few rooms, she still couldn't figure out where she was, ex– actly; some kind of testing facility, maybe, or a training ground for guards or soldiers. Maybe just a building designed to destroy hope, she thought blackly, looking toward the front door. She'd walked in maybe ten minutes ago, hoping that Rodrigo wasn't already dead, that Steve had found a boat, that Mr. Psycho Ashford and his sister weren't planning to blow up the island – and in just ten minutes, those hopes had been thoroughly stomped on. All she really wanted now was a goddamn bottle of medicine, because then she'd be one step closer to leaving. She'd tried the upstairs first, undergoing an exciting lit– tle adventure that had shaved a few years off her age. All she'd found up there was a small, locked lab with a lot of broken glass on the floor, from what appeared to be rup– tured holding tanks. She'd seen the damage through an observation window, and had been about to leave when some poor, bloody guy in an environmental suit threw himself at the glass. It had been his dying act; the suit ob– viously hadn't done him much good, his head had practi– cally exploded, coating the inside of his helmet with gore. It hadn't done her heart much good, either, scaring her half to death, and the whole upstairs experience had been topped off by an emergency shutter lockdown, apparently triggered by the suit guy. She'd practically had to hurl herself down the stairs to avoid being trapped.
      Whee.
      Nine zombies she'd had to put down so far, three of them in lab coats or scrubs, and not even a cotton swab to show for it. Nothing in the locker room – and she'd looked through practically every damned one of the lockers, turning up jockstraps and porn, but little else, nothing in the odd little shower room, zip and zilch. She'd have thought that a pharmaceutical company might actually have a few Pharmaceuticals lying around, but it was looking more doubtful by the mo– ment. Claire walked back to the long hall that branched off from the building's first floor, that opened into an out– door courtyard. She'd hoped to find something for Rod– rigo without having to leave the building proper, but there was no help for it.
      If I get lost, I can just follow the trail of corpses back,
      she thought, walking quickly down the nondescript cor– ridor. Not funny, but she wasn't feeling all that politi– cally correct at the moment. She was starting to run low on ammo, too, which made her even less inclined to a positive frame of mind. She stepped from the relative warmth of the hall into the mist-cloaked courtyard, smells of the ocean perme– ating the cold gray night. A small fire burned against one wall. The whole Rockfort facility was strangely laid out, she thought, an unlike mix of new and old. Ineffi– cient, but interesting; the little courtyard was actually cobblestoned, definitely not a recent addition… Claire froze. The narrow red beam of a laser scope sliced through the mist in front of her, swept toward her from somewhere above. A low balcony to her right, the stairs for it set against the east wall.
      Stairs, cover!
      It was all she had time to think before the little red dot was stuttering across her chest. She threw herself out of the way as the first shot blasted through the cold air, burying itself in a miniature fountain of stone chips. She rolled to her feet and sprinted for the stairs, the red light jerking back and forth, trying to find her. Bam, a second shot, it missed but was close enough that she could actually hear it cutting through the air, a high– pitched buzzing sound. She caught a glimpse of the shooter just before ducking behind the low stone balustrade, not surprised at all to see slicked-back blond hair and a red jacket trimmed in gold. She was more angry than scared, that after all she'd been through, she hadn't been more careful – and that she'd almost been taken out by such a weird little elitist creep. That stops right now. Claire raised her handgun over the stone railing and fired off two rounds in Alfred's general direction. She was immediately rewarded with a cry of shocked outrage. Not so much fun when the peas-ants fire back, is it?
      Ready to capitalize on his surprise, Claire scrambled up three steps and risked a look over the rail – just in time to see him run through a door on the west wall, slamming it behind him. She leaped up the stairs and took off after him, bang– ing through the door and down a moonlit hall, shafts of cool light gently piercing the shadows. It wasn't a con– scious decision to pursue him, she just did it, not want– ing to stumble into any more of his ambushes. She could see what looked like a soda machine at the end of hall, could still hear his running footsteps…… and heard a door slam just before she reached the corridor's end, a small room with two decrepit vending machines and two doors to choose between. Claire hesitated, looking at either door – and then put her hands on her knees to catch her breath, giving up the chase. For all she knew, he was standing on the other side of one of those doors, just waiting for her to walk through. Score one for the nutcase. Not a big victory, anyway. With any luck, she'd be off the island soon, Alfred Ash– ford just another bad memory.
      After a moment she straightened, walking over to check out the vending machines – one for snacks, the other, beverages. She suddenly realized she was ravenous, and incredibly thirsty. When was the last time she ate? The machines were both broken, but a couple of good, solid kicks circumvented the problem nicely; most of it was crap, but there were several bags of mixed nuts and a few cans of orange juice. Not exactly a steak dinner, but considering the circumstances, a boun– tiful harvest anyway. She ate quickly, stuffing a few un– opened bags in her vest pockets for later, feeling more focused almost immediately.
      So… door number one, or door number two? Eeny-meeny-miney-mo… The gray door, to the right of the corridor. She doubted that Alfred had the patience to still be waiting, but edged up to the door carefully just in case, pushing it open with the barrel of the 9mm. Claire relaxed. A small, cozy room, couple of couches, an antique typewriter on a table, a large, dusty trunk in one corner. It seemed safe enough; Alfred must have gone through door number one. She stepped inside to search it, drawn toward a small heap of miscellaneous objects on one of the couches – and her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening.
      Thank you, Alfred!
      Someone had dumped the contents of a fanny pack on the couch, the pack itself crumpled next to the pile, which included two sterile needles and a syringe, a pack of waterproof matches, half a box of 9mm rounds – and a small, half-filled bottle of the same hemostatic stuff Rodrigo had been out of, exactly what she'd been looking for. There were a few other odds and ends in the makeshift survival kit, a pen, a small flat screwdriver, a foil-wrapped condom… at the last, she rolled her eyes, grinning. Inter– esting, what some people considered absolute necessities. Her grin faded when she noticed the blood stains on the pack, but she still felt better than she had in days. She reloaded the pack and strapped it low around her hips, transferring a few things over from her own woe– fully tight pockets. She could hardly believe her luck. The medicine was what she'd been most worried about, but it was also an incredible relief to find more ammo. Even a single clip's worth was a godsend. A search of the rest of the room yielded up nothing more, not that she minded. She felt like the end was in sight, an end to this terrible and horrific night.
      Get back to the prison, give the drugs to Rodrigo, then see if Steve's had any luck wrangling us a ride home, she thought happily, stepping out of the room. It had been a hard ride, but compared to Raccoon, this was a picnic…
      The heavy rattle of the closing shutter whipped her around, the moment of happiness blown as the corridor, her exit, was blocked off with a thundering crash. No! Claire ran to the metal shutter, banged it once with her fist, already knowing that there was no chance. She was sealed in, the only possibility of escape now the one door she hadn't yet tried. The one Alfred had fled through. "Welcome, Claire," a voice called out, as snotty and pretentious as she remembered, with the same snide un– dertone as before. There was an intercom box above one of the vending machines, in the upper corner of the room. Howdy, Alfred, she thought dismally, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her anger or fear. The whole compound was probably wired up for sound, she'd been stupid not to think of it, and just because she didn't see a camera, that didn't mean there wasn't one.
      "You're about to enter a special playground, of sorts," Alfred continued, "and there's a friend of mine I'd like very much for you to meet; I think you'll play well to– gether."Fantastic, can't wait."Don't die too soon, Claire. I want to enjoy this."
      He laughed, that insane, annoying, distinctly unnat– ural giggle of his, and then he was gone. Claire stared blankly at the door she was supposed to go through, considering her options. It was probably the best thing Chris had ever taught her, that there were al-ways options; they might all totally suck, but there was always a choice, regardless, and thinking over her alter– natives now had a calming effect.
      I can hide in the safe room, live on snack food and pop while I wait for Umbrella to show up. I can sit here and pray that some friendly party will miraculously come to my rescue. I can try to get through the steel shutter, or through one of the walls… with that screwdriver and some elbow grease, I can probably break out in about 10,000 years. I can kill myself. Or I can walk through Al-fred'splay ground door, see what there is to see.
      There were a number of variations, but she thought that basically summed things up… and only one of them made any sense. Technically, none of them makes sense! Part of her howled. I should be in my dorm room, eating cold pizza and cramming for some test! Objection noted, she thought dryly, reaching into her new pack for a full clip, tucking another in her bra for fast access. Time to see what Alfred and his underlings had been up to out here, see if Umbrella had finally come up with a formula for the perfect bio-organic war– rior. Claire stepped up to the door and paused, wondering if she should go into battle with some profound thought about her life, or love, wondering if she was ready to die… and decided that she could worry about all that stuff later. If there wasn't a later, she wouldn't have to worry about it, would she? "Boy, am I smart," she murmured, and pushed the door open before she could lose her nerve.

SIX

      EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT. The cameras were set so that he could watch from four different angles, all in full color, the "battle arena" well lit, his chair comfortable. He only regretted that he hadn't had time to return to their private residence, to watch the entertainment with Alexia by his side – al– though that had turned out to be advantageous, as well, a silver lining. The training facility's control room had cameras that could be re-angled with the touch of a but– ton, ensuring the clearest possible view. Alfred smiled, watching as Claire hesitated at the door, quite pleased with how his plan had come to fruition. She'd chased him as he'd hoped, stepped into his trap with hardly a struggle. He hadn't expected her to actually fire at him, but that was easily overlooked in retrospect. And truly, it made the anticipation for her up– coming death all the sweeter, the addition of a personal revenge aspect into the mix. The OR1, a highly developed BOW specifically cre– ated for field combat, was one of Alfred's all-time fa– vorites. The An3 Sandworm was impressive, to be sure, the standard Hunter 121s lethal and fast, but the ORls were special – the human skeletal structure showed through, particularly in the face and torso, giving them the look of classic Death. Thek skull faces leered out beneath corded ropes of real and synthetic tendon, like a neo grim reaper. They weren't just dangerous; the way they looked was terror inspiring, at the most basic level of instinct. The island employees called them Bandersnatches, a nonsense word from some poem that was strangely fit– ting, considering thek unique design and function. There were thirty of them at Rockfort, half of those in stasis, though Alfred had only been able to account for eight of them since the attack…… oh! Claire was opening the door. Elated, Alfred focused his full attention on the girl, his left hand on the camera controls, his right hovering over the lock functions for the storage areas. Claire stepped onto the balcony of the large, open, two-story bay with gun in hand, trying to look every-where at once. Alfred zoomed in on her face, wanting to fully appreciate her fear, but was disappointed by her lack of expression. After surmising that she was in no immediate danger, she seemed watchful, no more.
      But when I push this button…
      Alfred snickered, unable to contain his excitement, lightly stroking his right forefinger across the switches for the bay's two shuttered storage closets, one on the balcony, one bordering the freight elevator on the lower floor. At his whim, Claire Redfield would die. True, she wasn't important, her death as meaningless as her life had surely been, but it was the control that mattered, his control.
      And the pain, the exquisite torture, the look in her eyes when she realizes that her existence is at its end…
      Alfred controlled his body as tightly as he controlled his life, and prided himself on his ability to dominate his sexual desires, to feel nothing unless he chose to, but just thinking of Claire's death inspired in him a passion that was beyond physical lust, beyond words, even be– yond the simple scope of man's awareness. Alexia knows, Alfred thought, certain that his beautiful sister was watching, too, that she understood what could not be explained. In Claire's death, they would be as close as two people could ever be; it was the wonder of their relationship, the culmination of the Ashford legacy. He couldn't contain himself another moment. As Claire took another cautious step into the center of the room, he first locked the door she'd come through, seal– ing off her escape – and then pressed the button for the second story shutter release. Instantly, the narrow metal shutter not ten feet from where she stood slid open and as Claire stumbled back– ward, trying to distance herself from the unknown threat, a fully matured Bandersnatch stepped out, ready to engage. It was beautiful, the creature. Between seven and eight feet tall, its face was that of a grinning skeleton, its head set low and menacing. The disproportionately huge upper body supported its primary weapon – the right arm, as thick as one of its tree-trunk legs, longer than half its full body length at rest, the hand span big enough to cover an ordinary man's entire chest. Its left arm was withered, tiny and misshapen, but a Bander– snatch only needed the one. Alfred had hoped for some exclamation from her, a curse or a scream, but she was silent as she retreated to what she believed to be a safe distance. She opened fire almost immediately. The Bandersnatch roared, a rough guttural scream, and then performed its trick. Alfred had seen it a dozen times, but never tired of watching. The massive right arm snapped toward Claire, proba– bly fifteen feet away, the engineered muscles hyperex– tending, the elastic tendons and ligaments stretching…… and it slapped Claire to the ground with scarcely any effort, the girl knocked sprawling before the Ban– dersnatch's arm snapped back into place.
      Yes, oh, yes!
      Claire crabbed backward as fast as she could, stop-ping only when her back hit the wall. Alfred zoomed in to see that a fine sheen of sweat had broken out across her face, but she still wore no expression beyond a kind of intense watchfulness. She pulled herself to her feet and sidestepped along the wall, moving fast, obviously not wanting to be knocked off the balcony by the crea– ture's next blow. Alfred grinned, ignoring the disappointment that her apparent lack of terror had brought about. She'd be out of wall in another few seconds, backed into a corner…
      … and then a series of blows, beating her to death against the wall… or a simple neck snap, a grasp of her head and a single, solid shake… or will it toy with her, tossing her around like one of Alexia's ragdolls?
      Alfred leaned in eagerly, changing the angle for one of the cameras, watching as the doomed girl raised her weapon, taking careful aim in spite of her hopeless posi– tion…
      … bam!
      The Bandersnatch shrieked even louder than the gun-shot, shaking its head wildly, dark fluids rushing from its moving face. It sprayed the balcony walls with ichorous liquid, blood and other things, trying desper– ately to bring its arm up, to protect or comfort its wound. It all happened so fast, so violently, it was like watching a fountain geyser suddenly explode from a still lake.
      The eyes. She went for its eyes. Bam!
      Claire shot again, and then again, and the Bander-snatch cried out in fury and new pain, still trying to grasp its own injured head as it stumbled around in a weaving circle… and then, to Alfred's shock, it col– lapsed to the floor, its writhings becoming less and less urgent, its scream becoming a hoarse, dying protest. Stunned with disbelief, Alfred could finally see an emotion on Claire's face – pity. She moved to stand over the creature and shot once more, stilling it completely. Then she turned and walked toward the stairs, as casu– ally as if she was walking away from a ladies' luncheon.
      No-no-no-no!
      This was wrong, all wrong, but it wasn't over, not yet. Furious, he stabbed at the other switch, releasing the second creature from its enclosure, the shutter sliding open behind a stack of storage containers on the elevator level. You won't be so fortunate this time, he thought desper-ately, still barely able to credit what he'd just seen. Claire had heard the second door open, but the stack of contain-ers obscured her point of view, hiding the new menace. She was stopped at the foot of the stairs, holding herself very still, scanning for the exact source of the noise. The second Bandersnatch stepped out of its closet and casually reached up, grasping a large metal crate at the top of a ten foot stack of them. It pulled itself up, seemingly without effort – and without Claire noticing, her attention too intently fixed on the shadowy corner opposite the stairs. The Bandersnatch reached down for her. Claire saw it coming at the last instant, too late to get out of its way. The creature wrapped its muscular fingers around her head and lifted her up, studying her as a cat studied a mouse. Or a rat, Alfred thought, some of his previous joy re– turning at the sight of the girl dropping her weapon and struggling to free herself, grasping at the OK1's steel grip with panicked hands -
      – and Alfred's focus was broken at the sound of shat– tering glass somewhere off screen, and someone was shooting, the sudden flurry of noise and activity making the Bandersnatch shriek, making it drop Claire.
      What's…?
      The window, Alfred answered himself, watching in horror as the young prisoner, Burnside, threw himself into the camera shot, firing two handguns at once, blast– ing at the startled creature – startled, then screaming in agony as Claire scooped up her weapon and joined the fray. The Bandersnatch tried to attack, its arm whipping out toward the new assailant, but it was driven back by the sheer number of rounds being pumped into its body, finally slumping against a storage container. Dead. Without consciously deciding to do it, Alfred reached for the freight elevator controls, a part of him remember– ing that there was at least one more OR1 below, as well as a number of virus carriers. The two youths stumbled as the floor beneath their feet began to go down, taking them to the basement of the training facility. There were no work– ing cameras there, but enjoying their deaths was no longer Alfred's primary concern – not so long as they died. Can't be, this can't be happening. The OR1s should have dispatched Claire and her meddlesome friend ef– fortlessly, but they were alive and his pets had suffered and died. He tried to convince himself that the two would soon perish in the basement, which had been locked down and isolated since the first viral leak, but suddenly, nothing seemed certain anymore. "Alexia," Alfred whispered, feeling the blood drain from his face, feeling his very being flush with shame. He had to make her see that it wasn't his fault, that his trap had worked perfectly, that the impossible had oc– curred… and he'd have to accept the subsequent cool– ness in her gaze, the undertone of disappointment in her sweet voice as she reassured him that she understood. The only thing that surpassed his shame was a new– found hatred for Claire Redfield, burning brighter than a thousand burning stars. No sacrifice was too great to se-cure her torment, hers and that of her shining knight. Until both had offered penitence in flesh and blood, Alfred would not rest. He swore it.
      "Steve, other side," Claire said, the instant the freight elevator began to move. Steve nodded. Claire reloaded and Steve clambered over two of the heavy crates, both Lugers raised. As if by silent agreement, neither of them spoke as the lift descended, both watching intently for what came next. He saved my life, Claire thought wonderingly, watch– ing grease-smeared wall tracks slide past, blood still screaming through her veins from when she'd realized she would die. And Steve Burnside, who she'd written off as a well-intentioned but troubled, barely competent blowhard, had kept that from happening.