Though he may only have delayed the inevitable…
      She didn't know what Alfred had in mind now, but she wasn't looking forward to meeting any more of his "friends." Two skull-faced, rubber band-armed freaks had been more than enough. She'd been incredibly lucky to get off with a couple of bruises and a sore neck. Claire had expected the elevator to drop them into some sort of BOW holding area, but she was pleasantly disappointed. The massive lift simply came to a stop. There was only one exit that she could see, and although she harbored no illusions about how safe things would be on the other side of that door, it seemed they were out of danger for the moment.
      "Hey, Claire, check it out!"
      Steve climbed back over the boxes, holding what could only be some kind of a submachine gun, boxy, dark and deadly-looking with an extended magazine. "It was behind one of the crates," Steve said happily. He'd already stuck the gold Lugers in his belt. "Nine millimeter, just like the Lugers and the guard weapons. Oh, by the way, here."
      He reached into one of the outside pockets on his camo pants and pulled out three clips for the M93R.
      "I searched a couple of guards on my way back from the dock. I like the Lugers better, and now that I've got this…" He held up the new weapon, grinning, "I don't need the extra hardware. You can have the gun, too."
      Claire gratefully accepted the clips and the weapon, not sure how to thank him for what he'd done, deter– mined to try, anyway.
      "Steve… if you hadn't shown up when you did…" "Forget it," he said, shrugging. "We're even now." "Well, thanks all the same," Claire said, smiling warmly. He smiled back, and she saw a flicker of real interest in his gaze, a sincerity there that was quite different than his previous posturing. Not sure what to do about it, for him or for herself, she moved the conversation along. "I thought you were going to wait at the dock," she said. "It wasn't really a dock," Steve said, and told her what had happened since they'd separated. The seaplane was terrific news; having to deal with Umbrella's bizarre key fetish yet again wasn't so terrific.
      "…and when I couldn't find them, I thought I'd wander over and see if you'd come across anything like that," he finished, shrugging again, working hard to look nonchalant. "That's when I heard the shots. How 'bout you, anything interesting? Besides meeting up with a couple of Umbrella's monsters, I mean." "I'll say. Do you know anything about Alfred Ash-ford?" "Only that him and his sister are total fruitcakes," Steve said promptly. "And that the guards are – were scared of him. I could tell, the way they avoided talking about him. He sent his own assistant to the infirmary, I heard. There was some whacked-out doctor working there, I guess, a lot of prisoners got taken to the infirmary and never came back. Doesn't take a genius, you know?" Claire nodded, fascinated in spite of herself. "What about the sister?" "I never heard much about her, except she's some kind of shut-in," Steve said. "No one even knows what she looks like. I think her name is Alexia… Alexandra, maybe, I don't remember. Why?"
      She filled him in on her encounters with Alfred, fol– lowed by a brief synopsis of where she'd been and what she'd found. When she mentioned that she had the med– ication she'd been looking for, Steve scowled – and then blinked, his face clearly expressing a sudden change of heart.
      "Maybe this Umbrella guy…" "Rodrigo," Claire interjected. "Okay, whatever," Steve said impatiently. "Maybe he knows something about these proof key things. Like where they are."Good idea. "It would beat searching the entire island,
      wouldn't it?" Claire said. "You up for a trip back to the prison? Assuming we can get out of here, that is." "Oh, I'll clear us a path," Steve said, not a trace of doubt in his voice. "You just leave that part to me." Claire opened her mouth to comment on the pitfalls of overconfidence, particularly where Umbrella was concerned, then closed it again. Maybe it was his belief in himself that had carried him this far – that by not ac– cepting the possibility of defeat, he was assuring him-self a win. Fine in theory, dangerous in practice. She'd be there to cover him, at least. "We were on the first floor of the training facility," he continued. "Which means we're in the basement now. I know from my…"
      Steve shook his head, flustered for some reason, but before she could ask about it, he continued on as if noth-ing had happened.
      "There's a boiler room, and a sewer area… basi-cally, we go that way," he said, gesturing at the door. Claire decided not to point out that since it was the only door, she'd already come to that conclusion. "I'm right behind you." "Stay close," Steve said roughly, walking to the door and looking back over the shoulder, trying to look fierce, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Claire was torn between irritation and laughter, finally choosing to think of it as endearing. Then he was opening the door, and the reality of their situation came back to her, floating in on the smell of gangrenous tissue. She stopped worrying about the little things, concentrating on the need to sur-vive. What Steve knew about guns he could sum up in about five seconds, but he knew what he liked. And he decided immediately upon pulling the trigger of his newest find that it was the shit, hands down. He stepped out of the freight elevator ready to kick some rotten ass, and saw his opportunity less than ten feet away. There were five of them in all – well, five and a half, including the crawling mess on the floor over by the shelves – and all he had to do was tap the trigger, and then he was trying like hell to keep the weapon from flying out of his hand. Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam… He swept the kicking gun left to right, releasing the trigger as the last zombie's swiss-cheese brain parted company with its swiss-cheese head. It was all over in just a few seconds, so fast that it seemed unreal – like he'd coughed and a building had blown up or something. Claire had taken care of the floor pizza during his sweep, and when he turned around, triumphant, he was a little surprised to see that she wasn't smiling… until he thought about it for a second, and then he felt a little ashamed of himself. As far as he was concerned, they weren't really people anymore. He knew that if he were ever infected he'd want someone to plug him, to keep him from hurting anyone else – not to mention granting him a fast death, rather than letting him rot on the hoof.
      But they were human, once. What happened to them was entirely shitty and unfair, no question.
      True, and maybe he should be more respectful, but on the other hand, the gun was extremely cool, and they were zombies. It was a touchy subject, not one that he was pre– pared to mess around with, but he decided he could at least not laugh about it in front of Claire. He didn't want her to think he was some bloodthirsty asshole. He pointed at the door ahead and to the right, fairly sure that they were heading in the right direction, at least roughly. The way he figured it, they'd come out at least close to the front yard of the training facility. Claire nodded, and Steve led the way once again, push– ing the door open and stepping through. They were stand– ing at the top of a half flight of open stairs, leading down into the boiler room. A room full of big, battered-looking, hissing machinery, anyway, Steve didn't actually know what a boiler looked like. There were four zombies milling around between them and the steps leading up and out, on the other side of the cold, hissing room. Steve raised the machine gun and was about to fire when Claire tapped his arm, moving to stand beside him. "Watch," she said, and pointed her 9mm at the zom-bie group – not quite, he saw, she was aiming low at something just past them…… and pow, BOOM, three of the creatures went down, blackened and smoking. Behind them, what was left of a small, obviously combustible container, only jagged curls of splayed metal surrounded by a smudge of toxic smoke. The fourth zombie had been hit, but not as hard. Claire took it out with a single head shot before speaking again. "Saves ammo," she said simply, and brushed past him to walk down the steps. Steve followed, slightly awed by her, but playing it detached, like he'd already thought of that. If there was one thing he knew about chicks, it was that they didn't like guys who mooned all over them, acting all goofy. Not that I give a shit what she thinks about me, he told himself firmly. She's just… kind of cool, is all. Claire reached the next door first, and waited until he caught up, nodded that he was ready. As soon as she opened it they both relaxed, he could see her shoulders loosen and felt his own heart beating again. A dark stone walkway, totally empty, open on one side. There was water running somewhere below, and some kind of a narrow gate straight ahead, like an old-fashioned eleva-tor door. "This is starting to seem a little too easy," Claire said softly. "Yeah," Steve whispered back. So much for Alfie– boy's evil playground shtick. They were about halfway across when they heard it, echoing up from somewhere in the black running waters below – a strangely high, piercing trill, inhuman but not like an animal, either. Whatever it was, it sounded ex– tremely pissed – and from the splashing noises, it was coming closer. Steve was ready to start shooting but Claire grabbed his arm and took off running, practically jerking him off his feet. They were at the lift in about two seconds, Claire ripping the gate aside and shoving him into a tiny elevator cab, jumping in after him and slamming the gate closed. "Okay, jeez, you don't have to push," Steve said, rub-bing his arm indignantly. "Sorry," she said, pushing an errant strand of hair be-hind one ear, looking as rattled as he'd seen her get. "It's just… I've heard that sound before. Hunters, I think they're called, extremely bad news. There were a bunch of them loose in Raccoon."
      She smiled shakily, which suddenly made him want to put his arm around her, or hold her hand or some– thing. He didn't. "Brings up some bad memories, you know?" she said. Raccoon… that was the place that had been blown up a few months ago, if he remembered right, right be– fore he'd come to Rockfort. The town's own police chief had done it. "Did Umbrella have something to do with Raccoon?"
      Claire seemed surprised, but then smiled a little eas– ier, turning her attention to the elevator controls.
      "Long story. I'll tell you about it when we get out of here. So, first floor?" "Yeah," Steve said, then changed his mind. "Actually, maybe we should go up to the second. That way we can look out over the yard, see what we'll be up against." "You know, you're smarter than you look," Claire said teasingly, punching the button. Steve was still try-ing to think of a witty comeback when the elevator came to a stop, and Claire opened the door. There was a shuttered lockdown door to their right, so they went left, the short hallway empty. There was only one door in that direction, too, but they were in luck, the knob turned when Claire tried it. Again, there were no surprises. The door opened up to a cramped wooden balcony thick with dust, overlook– ing a big room full of junk – a rusted military Jeep, stacks of grungy old oil drums, broken boxes and the like. It seemed more like a storage shed than anything else, and though it was well lit, there were enough piles of crap that it was impossible to see if anyone was down there. There was, though, Steve could hear shuffling noises. He took a few steps to the left, trying to see the corner beneath the balcony, and Claire followed. The boards creaked and shifted beneath their steps. "Doesn't seem too sturdy…" Claire started, and was cut off by a giant, splintering craaack, pieces of the bal– cony floor flying up as both of them went down.
      Shit.
      Steve didn't even have time to tense for the impact, it was over so quick. He landed on his left side, jarring his shoulder, his left knee cracking against a random bit of wood. Almost immediately, a pyramid of empty barrels fell over behind him, clattering hollowly to the ground and Steve heard a zombie's hungry wail. "Claire?" Steve called, crawling to his feet and turn-ing, looking for her and the zombie. There she was amid the barrels, still down, rubbing one ankle. Her handgun was about ten feet away. Steve saw her eyes go wide and followed her gaze, a lone zombie teetering toward her…… and all he could do was stare at it, his body sud– denly a million miles away. Claire said something but he couldn't hear her, too intent on the virus carrier. It had been a big man, leaning toward fat, but someone had blasted off part of his gut. The open, sticky, belly wounds were seeping, the dark shirt made even darker by the almost uniform layer of blood that had soaked the cloth. It was gray-faced and hollow-eyed, like all of them, and had either bitten through its tongue or had been eating – his, its mouth was smeared with blood. Claire said something else, but Steve was remember– ing something, a sudden, vivid flash of memory so real that it was almost like reliving the experience. He'd been four or five years old when his parents had taken him to his first parade, a Thanksgiving parade. He was sitting on his father's shoulder, watching the clowns go by, sur– rounded by loud, shouting people, and he'd started to cry. He couldn't remember why; what he remembered was his father looking up at him, his eyes concerned and full of love. When he'd asked what was wrong, his voice was so familiar and well-loved that Steve had wrapped his tiny arms around his father's neck and hidden his face, still crying but knowing he was safe, that no harm could come to him so long as his father held him…
      "Steve!"
      Claire, practically screaming his name and he saw that the zombie was almost on top of her, its gray fingers closing around her vest, pulling her up to its drooling, bloody mouth. Steve screamed, too, opening fire, the thunder of bul– lets ripping into his father's face and body, tearing him away from Claire. He kept firing, kept screaming until his father lay still and the thunder had stopped, only dry clicks coming from the gun, and then Claire was touch– ing his shoulder, turning him away as he called out for his father, weeping. They sat for a while. When he could speak, he told her about it, parts of it, his arms around his knees and head down. Told her about his father, who had worked for Umbrella as a truck driver, who had been caught try-ing to steal a formula from one of their labs. He told her about his mother, who had been gunned down by a trio of Umbrella soldiers in their own home, lay choking and bloody and dying on the living room floor when Steve came home from school. The men had taken them away, taken Steve and his father to Rockfort. "I thought he was killed in the air strike," Steve said, wiping at his eyes. "I wanted to feel bad about it, I did, but I just kept thinking about Mom, about how she looked… but I didn't want him to die, I didn't, I… I loved him, too."
      Saying it out loud made him start crying again. Claire's arm was around him but he barely felt it, so sad that he thought he might die. He knew he had to get up, he had to find the keys and go with Claire and fly the plane, but none of that seemed important anymore. Claire had been mostly quiet, only listening and hold– ing him, but she stood up now and told him to stay where he was, that she'd be back soon and then they could leave. That was okay, it was good, he wanted to be alone. And he was more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life, so tired and heavy that he didn't want to move. Claire went away, and Steve decided that he should go looking for the proof keys soon, very soon, as soon as he stopped shaking.

SEVEN