Resident Evil – Code "Veronica"

      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

      IN THE COOL DARKNESS, RODRIGO HAD BEEN resting uneasily. Now he heard a noise out in the corri– dor, and forced himself to open his eyes, to get ready. He lifted his weapon, bracing his wrist on the desk when he realized he hadn't the strength to hold it up. I'll kill anyone who messes with me, he thought, more by habit than anything else, glad he had the gun even if he was already a dead man. A zombie guard had fallen down the stairs and crawled into the cell room sometime after the girl had left, but Rodrigo had killed it with a boot to the head and taken its weapon, still holstered on its broken hip. He waited, wishing that he could go back to sleep, trying to stay alert. The gun eased his mind, took away a lot of his fear. He was going to die soon, it was in-evitable… but he didn't want to become one of them, no matter what. Suicide was supposed to be a particu– larly awful sin, but he also knew that if he couldn't man– age to wipe out an approaching virus carrier, he'd eat a bullet before he let it touch him. He was probably going to hell, anyway. Footsteps, and someone was walking into the room, too fast. A zombie? His senses weren't working right, he couldn't tell if things were speeding up or he was slow– ing down, but he knew he had to shoot soon or he'd miss his chance. Suddenly, a light, small but penetrating – and there she was, standing in front of him like some dream. The Redfield girl, alive, holding a lighter up in the air. She left it burning, set it on the desk like a tiny lantern. "What're you doing here?" Rodrigo mumbled, but she was rummaging through a pack at her waist, not looking at him. He let the heavy gun drop from his fingers, closing his eyes for a second or a moment. When he opened them again, she was reaching for his arm, a syringe in one hand. "It's hemostatic medicine," she said, her hands and voice soft, the prick of the needle small and quick.
      "Don't worry, you won't OD or anything, somebody wrote dosage numbers on the back of the bottle. It says it'll slow down any internal bleeding, so you should be okay until help comes. I'll leave the lighter here… my brother gave it to me. It's good luck."
      As she spoke, Rodrigo concentrated on waking up, on overcoming the apathy that had taken him over. What she was telling him didn't make sense, because he'd let her go, she was gone. Why would she come back to help him? Because I let her go. The realization touched him, flooded him with feelings of shame and gratitude. "I… you're very kind," he whispered, wishing there was something he could do for her, something he could say that would repay her for her compassion. He searched his memories, rumors and facts about the is– land, maybe she can escape… "The guillotine," he said, blinking up at her, trying not to slur his words too badly. "Infirmary's behind it, key's in my pocket… supposed to be secrets there. He knows things, puzzle pieces… you know where's the guillotine?"
      Claire nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Rodrigo, that helps me a lot. You rest now, okay?"
      She reached out and stroked his hair back from his forehead, a simple gesture, but so sweet, so nice, he wanted to weep. "Rest," she said again, and he closed his eyes, calmer, more at peace than he'd ever felt in his life. His last thought before he drifted off was that if she could forgive him after the things he'd done, show him such mercy as if he deserved it, maybe he wouldn't go to hell, after all. Rodrigo had been right about secrets. Claire stood at the end of the hidden basement corridor, steeling herself to open the unmarked door in front of her. The infirmary itself was small and unpleasant, not at all what she would have expected for an Umbrella clinic – no medical equipment to be seen, nothing mod– ern at all. There was only a single examination table in the front room, the splintery wooden floor around it stained with blood, a tray of medieval-looking tools nearby. The adjoining room had been burned beyond recognition; she couldn't tell what purpose it had served, but it looked like a cross between a recovery room and a crematorium. Smelled like one, too. There was a tiny, cluttered office just off the first room, a lone body sprawled in front of it, a man in a stained lab coat who had died with a look of horror on his narrow, ashen face. He didn't appear to have been in-fected, and since there were no virus carriers in the room and no obvious wounds, she guessed that he'd had a heart attack, or something like it. The contorted expression on his pinched features, bulging eyes and gaping, down– turned mouth, suggested to her that he'd died of fright. Claire carefully stepped over him, and found the first secret in the small office almost by accident. Her boot had nudged something when she walked in, a marble or stone that had rolled across the floor – which had turned out to be a most unusual key. It was a glass eye, one that belonged in the grotesque plastic face of the office's anatomical dummy, propped leering in the corner. Considering what Steve had said, about no one com-ing back from the infirmary, and considering what she already knew about the kind of insanity that Umbrella seemed to attract, Claire wasn't surprised to find a hid– den passage behind the office wall. A worn set of stone steps were revealed when she'd placed the eye back where it belonged, which hadn't really surprised her, ei– ther. It was a secret, a trick, and Umbrella was all about secrets and tricks.
      So open the door, already. Get it over with.
      Right. She didn't have all day. She didn't want to leave Steve alone for too long, either, she was worried about him. He'd had to kill his own father; she couldn't imagine the kind of psychological damage that would do to someone… Claire shook her head, irritated with her own dawdling. It didn't matter that she was in a barren, frightening place where lots of people had apparently died, where she could feel the pervasive atmosphere of terror emanating from the cold walls, trying to wrap around her like a burial shroud… "Doesn't matter," she said, and opened the door. Immediately, three stumbling virus carriers started for her, drawing her attention, keeping her from really seeing the details of the large room they'd been trapped in. All three were badly disfigured, missing limbs and long, ragged strips of skin, their putrefying flesh flayed and raw. They moved slowly, painfully dragging themselves to– ward her, and she could see older scars on the exposed rot-ting tissue. Even as she targeted the first, the knot of dread in her stomach was expanding, making her feel sick. It was over quickly, at least – but the terrible suspicion that had been growing in her mind, that she'd been hoping was false, was confirmed with a single good look around.
      Oh, Jesus.
      The room was strangely elegant, the muted lighting coming from a hanging chandelier. The floor was tiled, with a runner of finely woven carpet leading from the door to a kind of sitting area on the other side of the room. There was an overstuffed velvet chair and cherry wood end table there, the chair facing out so that someone sitting there would be able to see the entire room… which was worse than she could have imag– ined, worse than the mad Chief Irons's dungeon, hidden beneath the streets of Raccoon. There were two custom-built water wells, one with a pillory built into its rail, a steel cage suspended over the other. Chains hung from the walls, some with well-used manacles attached, some with leather collars, some with hooks. There were a few elaborate devices that she didn't look at too closely, things with gears and metal spikes. Swallowing back bile, Claire focused on the sitting area. The elegance of the furnishings and of the room it– self made things worse somehow, adding a touch of warped ego to the obvious psychosis of its creator. Like it wasn't enough to enjoy torturing people, he -or she -
      – wanted to observe it in luxury, like some mad aristocrat. She saw a book on the end table and walked over to retrieve it, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. Virus zombies and monsters and useless death were all horri– ble things, tragic or frightening or both – but the kind of sickness represented by the chains and devices all around her was appalling to her very soul, because it
      made her want to give up her faith in humanity. The book was actually a journal, leather bound with thick, high quality paper. The inner cover proclaimed that it was the property of a Dr. Enoch Stoker, no title or inscription otherwise. "He knows things, puzzle pieces…" Claire didn't want to touch the thing let alone read it, but Rodrigo had seemed to think it might help. She flipped through a few pages, saw that nothing was dated, and started scanning the narrow, spidery writing for a familiar word or name, something about puzzles, maybe… there, an entry that made several references to Alfred Ashford. She took a deep breath and started at the top.
      We finally talked today about the details of my preferences and pleasures. Mr. Ashford wouldn't share his own, but he was most encouraging to me, as he's been since my arrival six weeks ago. He was informed at the beginning that my needs are uncon-ventional, but now he knows everything, even the small things. I was uncomfortable at first, but Mr. Ashford – Alfred, he insists I call him Alfred – proved to be an eager audience. He said that he and his sister both strongly approve of research in the boundaries of experience. He told me that I should think of them as kindred spirits, and that here, I am free. It was strange, describing aloud my feelings, sen-sations and thoughts that I've never shared. I told him about how it all started, when I was still a boy. About the animals I experimented with early on and later, the other children. I didn't know then that I was capable of killing, but I knew that the sight of blood excited me, that causing pain filled an empty, lonely space inside with profound feelings of power and control. I think he understands about the screaming, about how important the screaming is to me and…
      Enough. This wasn't what she was looking for, and it was making her want to vomit. She turned a few pages, found another entry about Alfred and his sister, scanned over something about a private home and went back, frowning.
      Alfred attended one of my live autopsies today, and told me afterward that Alexia has asked after me, that she wants to know if I have everything I need. Alfred worships Alexia, will let no one near her, I haven't asked to meet her yet, and have no plans to do so; Alfred wants their private home to remain pri-vate, and to keep her all to himself. It's behind the common mansion, he told me, most people don't even know it exists. Alfred tells me things that no one else knows. I think he appreciates having an ac-quaintance with common interests. He said that Rockfort has many places that require unusual keys – much like the eye he gave me – some new, some very old. Edward Ashford, Alfred's grand-father, was apparently obsessed with secrecy, an ob-session shared by Umbrella's other founder, according to Alfred. He and Alexia are the only people alive who know all the hidden places at Rockfort, he said. Al-fred had full sets of keys made for both of them when he took over his father's position. I joked that it's good to have a spare in case he ever locks himself out, and he laughed. He said that Alexia would always let him in. I believe that twins often have a much deeper bond than other sets of siblings – that in a figurative sense, if you cut one, the other will bleed. I'd like very much to test this theory in a more literal way, regard-ing pain levels. I've found that filling a fresh wound with cut glass and sewing it closed again is a…
      Sickened, Claire tossed the book aside and wiped her hands on her jeans, deciding that she had enough infor-mation to go on. She hoped quite sincerely that the corpse upstairs was Dr. Stoker's, that his black heart had failed him and it was the thought of going to hell that had frozen his face into a mask of terror – and she abruptly realized that she'd had more than enough of his atmos– phere, that if she had to be in the infirmary for one more minute, she really was going to throw up. She turned and walked quickly to the door, was full on running by the time she reached the stairs. She took them two at a time, and sprinted through the upstairs room, not looking at the body, not thinking about anything but the need to get out. When she hit the outside path that led back to the guillotine door, she collapsed against one wall and breathed in huge lungfuls of air, concentrating on keep-ing her gorge down. It took a couple of minutes before she was out of the danger zone. When she felt ready, Claire plugged a fresh clip in her semi and started back toward the training facility. She realized that she'd lost the second weapon Steve gave her somewhere between the torture chamber and the front door, but there was nothing on Earth that would persuade her to step foot back inside. She was going to get Steve, and they would find those goddamn keys, and then they were getting the fuck away from the asylum that Umbrella had created at Rockfort.
      Steve cried for a while, and rocked himself back and forth for a while, dully aware that he'd just done a very Big Thing – as far as lifetime experiences went, there was the small shit and then big and then capital B Big.
      There were some things that just changed people forever, and this was one of them. He'd had to kill his own father. Both his parents, good people who meant no harm, were dead. That meant there was no one in the world who loved him now, and it was that thought that kept repeat– ing itself, making him cry and rock back and forth. It was thinking about the Lugers that finally snapped him out of the private emotional hell he was in, that made him remember where he was and what was happening. He still felt entirely terrible, aching inside and out, but he started to tune back in to his environment, wishing that Claire was with him, wishing for a glass of water. The Lugers. Steve rubbed at his swollen eyes and then pulled both of them from under his belt, staring down at them. It was stupid, unimportant, but some– where in the back of his mind, he'd finally connected that when he'd taken the matched handguns off the wall, that was when he'd been locked in and the heat had gone on. It had been a trap… and as far as he could figure, the only purpose of a trap like that was to keep someone from taking the weapons.