Which means maybe they're useful for something be– sides shooting. Yeah, they were gilded and cool-looking and probably expensive, but the Ashfords obviously weren't hurting for money… and if the guns had some kind of sentimental value, why were they being used as part of a trap? He decided that he wanted to go back and take a closer look at where they'd been hanging, see if putting them back did anything. It was a two-minute walk back to the mansion, tops, he could be there and back in five; Claire would wait for him if she got back first. And if I stay here, I'll just keep crying. He wanted, needed something to do. Steve stood up, feeling shaky and kind of hollow as he brushed dirt off his pants, unable to avoid looking over at where his father had died. He felt a rush of relief when he saw that Claire had covered him up with a piece of tarp. She was a great girl… though for some reason, he suddenly felt kind of weird about her, about telling her all that stuff. He wasn't sure how he felt. He stepped outside, and was vaguely surprised to see that he wasn't in the front yard of the training facility. He was also vaguely surprised that in the small, high– walled square he had walked into was what appeared to be a WWII Sherman tank. Giant, mud-crusted treads, revolving turret with huge gun, the whole deal. He might have been interested earlier, or at least more than just a little surprised – there was no reason at all for there to be a tank at the Rockfort facility – but now all he wanted to do was check out the Luger trap, see if he could at least contribute something toward getting them off the island. He felt kind of bad that Claire had been stuck with questioning the wounded Umbrella guy by herself, since it was his idea and all. On the other side of the tank was a door that did open into the training yard. At least his sense of direction wasn't totally blown. It seemed darker than it had ear– lier; Steve looked up and saw that the sky had gone cloudy again, blocking the moon and stars. He was about halfway across the yard when he heard thunder, loud enough that the very ground seemed to quake a lit– tle beneath his feet. By the time he reached the other side, it had started to rain again. Steve stepped up the pace, hanging a right at the exit and jogging for the mansion. The rain was heavy and cold, but he welcomed it, opening his mouth and turning his face to the sky, letting it wash over him. He was soaked in just a few seconds.
"Steve!" Claire.
He felt his stomach knot up a little, turning to watch her approach. She caught up to him outside the door to the mansion's grounds, wearing a concerned expression. "Are you all right?" she asked, studying him uncer– tainly, blinking rain out of her eyes. Steve wanted to tell her that he was aces, that he'd shaken off the worst of it and was ready to get back to the zombie smackdown, but when he opened his mouth, none of that came out. "I don't know. I think so," he said truthfully. He man– aged a half smile, not wanting her to worry too much but not wanting to talk about it, either. She seemed to understand, swiftly changing the topic.
"I found out that the Ashford twins have a private house hidden behind the mansion," she said. "And I'm not a hundred percent sure, but the keys we're looking for might be there. I think there's a good chance." "You found all that out from the, uh, Rodrigo?"
Steve asked doubtfully. It was hard to imagine that an Umbrella employee would give that up to the enemy. Claire hesitated, then nodded. "In a roundabout way," she said, and he suddenly had the impression that there was something she didn't want to talk about. He didn't push it, just waited. "The problem is getting to the house," she continued. "I'm sure it's locked up tight. I was thinking we might poke around the mansion a little more, see if we can find a map or a passage…"
She pushed her dripping bangs out of her eyes, smil– ing. "… and, you know, get out of the rain before we
get wet."
Steve agreed. They went through the entrance to the manicured grounds, stepping over a few corpses along the way. He filled her in on his idea about the Lugers, which she thought they should definitely pursue – al– though she also pointed out that with the Ashford familyrunning the island, Umbrella's cute little puzzles didn't necessarily need to be logical. They stopped at the front door to do what they could about their clothes, which turned out to be not much. Both of them were drenched, though they did their best to squeeze out the excess. Fortunately for both of them, their feet had stayed dry; wet clothes were a pain in the ass, but trying to get around in squelching boots seri– ously sucked the root. Weapons up, Steve pushed the door open. Shivering, they stepped inside…… and heard a door close, upstairs and to the right. "Alfred," Steve said, keeping his voice low, "betcha money. What say we put a few holes in his sorry ass?"
He started for the stairs, the question rhetorical. That loony craphound needed to be dead, for more reasons than Steve could count. Claire caught up to him, put a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen, some of the stuff I found back at the prison… he's not just crazy, he's seriously deranged. Like serial killer deranged."Yeah, I got that," Steve said. "All the more reason to take him out ASAP." "Just… let's just be careful, okay?"
Claire seemed worried, and Steve felt protective all of a sudden, big time. Oh, yeah, he's going down, he thought grimly, but nodded for Claire's sake. "You got it." They moved quickly up the stairs, stopping outside the door they'd heard close. Steve stepped ahead of Claire, who cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. "On three," he whispered, turning the knob very slowly, relieved that it was unlocked. "One-two-three!" He shouldered the door, hard, bursting into the room and sweeping with the machine pistol, ready to shoot the first thing that moved, but nothing did. The room, a softly lit office lined with bookshelves, was empty. Claire had gone in and turned left, past a couch and cof-fee table on the north wall. Disappointed, Steve stepped after her, expecting another door to another hall, so sick of the stupid mazes all over the place that he could just shit… He stopped and stared, exactly what Claire was doing. Perhaps ten feet away was a wall, a dead end with two empty spaces set in a plaque at about chest level, indentations shaped like Lugers.
Steve felt a flush of adrenaline, of victory. He had no rational reason to believe that they'd just found the way to the Ashford's private residence, but he believed they had, anyway. So, it seemed, had Claire. "I think we've got it," she said softly, "betcha money."
EIGHT
OH, WOW. THIS IS… WOW, CLAIRE THOUGHT. "Wow," Steve whispered, and she nodded, feeling en-tirely out of her depth as she took in their new environ– ment. Had she said serial killer crazy? More like a serial killer convention.
There'd been another puzzle after the Lugers had opened the wall, having to do with numbers and a blocked passage, but they'd ignored it completely with both of them pushing, the passage wasn't blocked for long. Outside once again, they could see the private house, perched on a low hill like some brooding vulture in the pouring rain. It was a mansion, really, but nothing like the one they'd just left – it was much, much older, darker, surrounded by the decrepit ruins of what had once been some kind of a sculpture garden. Stone cherubs with blind eyes and broken fingers watched them wend their way toward the house, gargoyles with eroding wings, shattered pieces of marble underfoot.
Creepy, definitely… but this is so far beyond creepy, it's not even in the same category.
They stood in the foyer, unlit but for a few strategi– cally placed candles. There was a smell of must in the air, an old smell like dust and crumbling parchment. The floor was plushly carpeted, what they could see of it, but so ancient that it had been worn threadbare in many places; it was hard to make out any color beyond "dark." What had once been a grand staircase was directly in front of them, sweeping up to second and third floor bal– conies; there was still a kind of shabby elegance to its time-blackened banisters and sagging steps, as there was in the dusty library to their right, in the faded, or– nately framed oil paintings hanging from flocked walls. The word haunted would have described it per-fectly… except for the dolls. Tiny faces stared out at them from every comer. China dolls of fragile porcelain, many of them chipped or dis– colored, dressed for high tea in water-stained taffeta. Plastic children with roll-open plastic eyes and pursed pink mouths. Rag dolls with strange button faces, bits of stuffing poking out of withered limbs. There were jum-bled piles of them, stacks of them, even a few featureless cloth babies impaled on sticks. There was no sane order to their placement that Claire could see.
Steve nudged her, pointing up. For just a second, Claire thought she was looking at Alexia, hanging fromthe eaves – but of course it was another doll, life-size, this one dressed for her bizarre lynching in a simple party dress, flowered hem floating around her slender synthetic ankles. "Maybe we should…" Claire started… and froze, lis-tening. The sound of someone talking filtered down to them from upstairs, a woman's voice. She sounded irate, the cadence of her speech rapid and harsh.
Alexia.
The angry voice was followed by a kind of pleading, whining tone which Claire immediately recognized as Alfred's. "Let's drop in for a chat," Steve whispered, and with-out waiting for a response, he headed for the stairs. Claire hurried after him, not at all sure it was a good idea, but not wanting to let him go it alone, either. The dolls watched them ascend in silence, staring after them with lifeless eyes, keeping their vigil and their peace as they had for many years.
Alfred never felt closer to Alexia than when theywere together in their private rooms, where they'd laughed and played as children. He felt close to her now, too, but was also deeply distraught by her anger, want– ing desperately to make her happy again. It was his fault, after all, that she was upset.
"…and I simply don't understand why this Claire person and her friend are proving to be such a trial for you," Alexia said, and in spite of his shame, he couldn't stop watching her with adoring eyes, as she gracefullyswept across the room in her silken gown. His twin was breathtakingly refined in her displeasure.
"I won't fail you again, Alexia, I promise…" "That's right, you won't," she said sharply. "Because I intend to take care of this matter myself."Alfred was aghast. "No! You mustn't risk yourself, darling, I… I won't allow it!"
Alexia glared at him for a moment – then sighed, shaking her head. She stepped toward him, her gaze soft and loving once more. "You worry too much, brother," she said. "You must re-member yourself, remember to always embrace difficulty with pride and vigor. We are Ashfords, after all. We…"
Alexia's eyes widened, her face paling. She turned to– ward the window overlooking the corridor outside, slen-der fingers rising anxiously to the choker at her throat.
"There's someone in the hall." No!Alexia had to be kept safe, no one must touch her, no
one! It was Claire Redfield, of course, finally here to fulfill her assignment, to assassinate his beloved. Frantic to protect her, Alfred spun around, searching – there, the rifle was leaning against Alexia's dressing table, where he'd left it before opening the attic room passage. He strode toward it, feeling her fear as his own, their anxi-ety shared as if they were one. Alfred reached for the weapon – and hesitated, con-fused. Alexia had insisted on handling the situation, she might be angry again if he interfered… but if some– thing happened to her, if he lost her… The handle to the door rattled suddenly, just as Alexia stepped forward, snatching up the rifle herself. She barely had time to lift it before the door burst open with a crash. It was the first time in almost fifteen years that their inner sanctum had been breached, and Alexia was so shocked by the intrusion that she didn't fire right away, not wanting Alfred to be hurt, not wanting to die. The two prisoners had guns, had them pointed directly at her. Alexia collected herself, refusing to be terrorized by two children – who were both staring at her strangely, their peasant faces expressing confusion and surprise. Apparently they weren't used to audiences with their betters.
Use it to your advantage. Keep them off their guard. "Ms. Redfield, and Mr. Burnside," Alexia said, her chin held high, her tone as dignified as the Ashford name required, "we meet at last. My brother tells me that you've caused quite a lot of trouble."
Claire stepped toward her, the barrel of her gun low-ering slightly as she searched Alexia's face. Alexia stepped back involuntarily, repelled by her dripping clothes and forward manner, but kept her eye on Claire's weapon. The girl was too intent on her study, as was the young man, who had crowded in behind Claire. Alexia moved back another step. She was cornered, trapped between her dressing table and the foot of her bed, but again, it was to her advantage. When they've been lulled into thinking I'm not a danger… "You're Alexia Ashford?" The boy asked, amazed or awed, his mouth open. "I am." She wouldn't be able to tolerate such rude– ness for much longer, not from one so far beneath her. Claire nodded slowly, still looking into her eyes boldly, impertinently. "Alexia… where's your brother?" Alexia turned to look at Alfred – and startled, because he was nowhere in the room. He'd left her to confront these people by herself. No, it can't be, he'd never desert me like this… Movement to her right, but she realized as she turned to look that it was only the mirror, and… and… Alfred was looking back at her. It was her face, lips painted and lashes curled, but his hair, his jacket. She raised her right hand to her mouth, shocked, and Al– fred did the same, watching her. Feeling her astonish– ment. As if they were one. Alexia screamed, dropping the rifle, forgetting all about the two trespassers as she pushed past them, not caring if they shot her or not. She ran for the door that connected her room to Alfred's, screaming again as she spotted the long, blond wig on the floor, the beautiful gown crumpled next to it. Weeping, she pushed through the door, a revolving panel, fleeing across Alfred's room -
– my room
– not sure where she was going as she stumbled through the corridor, running for the stairs. It was over, it was all over, everything ruined, everything a lie. Alexia had gone away and never come back, and he had… she was… The twins suddenly knew what had to be done, the answer shining through the spinning blackness of their mind, showing them the way. They reached the stairs and headed down with plans forming, understanding that it was time, that they truly would be together now because it was finally time. But first, they'd destroy it all. "Holy shit," Steve said, and when he couldn't think of anything else to say, he repeated it. "So Alexia was never here," Claire said, wearing the same dumbfounded expression that he suspected was on his own face. She walked over and picked up the wig, shaking her head. "Do you think she ever existed at all?" "Maybe as a kid," Steve said. "There was this older guard at the prison who said he'd seen her once, like twenty years ago. Back when Alexander Ashford ran things."
For a few seconds, they just stared around the room, Steve thinking about how Alfred had looked when he'd seen himself in the mirror. It had been so pathetic, he'd almost felt bad for the guy.
Thinking all this time that his sister lived here – proba-bly the only person in the world who didn't think he was a total prick – and it turns out he doesn 't even have that…
Claire shook herself like she'd had a sudden chill and got them back on track. "We'd better look for those keys before one of the twins comes back."
She nodded toward the narrow ladder at the head of the bed. It led up to an open square in the ceiling. "I'm
going to look up there, you check around here."
Steve nodded, and as Claire disappeared through the opening in the ceiling, he started to open drawers and rifle through them. "You wouldn't believe what's up here," Claire called down, just as Steve discovered a drawer full of silky lin– gerie, panties and bras and a bunch of other stuff he couldn't begin to guess at. "Ditto," he called back, wondering what lengths Al-fred had gone to in order to play Alexia. He decided he didn't really want to know. He heard Claire thumping around overhead as he went to the dressing table and started to dig. A lot of makeup and perfume and jewelry, but no proofs or em– blems, not even a house key.
"Nothing yet, but… hey, there's another ladder!"
Claire shouted. Good thing, Steve thought, finding a box of stationery with little white flowers on the paper. He was getting more nervous about Alfred coming back, and wanted to get out of his freaky room of sister psychosis as soon as possible. There was a tiny white card on top of the stationery envelopes. Steve picked it up, noting the strong, femi– nine hand.
Dearest Alfred – you are the brave, brilliant soldier, ever fighting to reinstate the Ashford name to its former glory. My thoughts are with you always, beloved. Alexia.
Ick. Steve dropped the card, making a face. Was it just him, or had Alfred created a seriously unnatural rela– tionship with his imagined sister?
Yeah, but it wasn't real, it wasn't like they could do anything… physical. Double ick. Again, Steve decided he'd rather not know…
"Steve! Steve, I think I found them! I'm coming down!"
Overwhelmed by an instant rash of hope and opti– mism, Steve grinned, turning toward the ladder, the words music to his ears. "No shit?" Claire's shapely legs appeared, her voice much clearer, and he could hear the same excitement in her response as she quickly descended. "No shit. There was this little merry-go-round up there, and an attic room above that – oh, and you gotta check out this dragonfly key…"
An alarm suddenly started blaring, echoing through the giant house, loud and insistent. Claire jumped off the bed, holding three proof keys and a slender metal object in her hand. They locked gazes, exchanging a look of confused fear, and Steve realized he could hear the alarm outside, too, with the hollow, metallic sound of an an– nouncement being made over a cheap sound system. It sounded like it was being broadcast over the entire island.
Before either of them could say a word, a calm voice began speaking through the bleating sirens, cool and fe– male, the voice of a recorded loop.
"The self-destruct system has been activated. All per-sonnel evacuate immediately. The self-destruct system has been activated. All personnel…" "That bastard," Claire spat, and Steve was right there with her, silently cursing the pompous little freak, but only for about two seconds. They had to get to that plane. "Go," Steve said, scooping up Alfred's rifle and putting his hand on Claire's back, urging her toward the door. Umbrella's Rockfort Training Facility and Detain– ment Center – the place where Steve had grieved his mother and lost his father, where the last descendant of the Ashford line had quietly gone mad and Umbrella's enemies had unleashed the beginning of the end – was about to go bye-bye, and he didn't particularly want to be around when it did. Claire didn't need any advice on the matter. Together, they hustled through the door and ran, leaving the sad remnants of Alfred's twisted fantasy behind. After triggering the destruct sequence at the common mansion, Alfred and Alexia hurried to the main control room, Alexia taking over to work the complicated con– sole. All around them, lights flashed and the computer droned instructions over the sirens. It was all quite the ado, annoying to her but surely terrifying to the assassins. Alexia had an escape plan, a key to the underground room where the VTOL jets were kept, but she had to know that the peasant children would be left behind. Until she was certain that they would die, she and Alfred couldn't leave. Oh, they'll die, she thought, smiling, hoping that they weren't caught in any of the direct explosions. Better that they should be wounded by flying debris, that they should lie in torment as their lives slowly ebbed away… or per– haps the island's surviving predators would stalk and kill them, swallowing them down in great bloody chunks. Alexia pulled up the security system cameras for the common mansion and grounds, eager to see Claire and her little knight cowering in fear, or screaming in panic. She saw neither; the mansion was empty, the lights and sounds of the imminent disaster carrying on uselessly, alerting bare corridors and closed rooms.
They might still be in our home, too afraid to leave, desperately hoping that the destruction will bypass them there… It wouldn't, of course, there was nowhere on the island that wouldn't be affected… Alexia saw them then and felt her good humor disap– pear, her hatred boiling back into rage. The screen showed them at the submarine dock, the boy spinning the wheel. The sky was starting to lighten, shading from black to deep blue, the setting moon's pale light defin– ing their sly and furtive scheming. No. There was no chance for them. True, the empty cargo plane was still docked, the bridge raised, but Al-fred had thrown the proofs into the sea after the air strike. They couldn't possibly believe that they had a chance…… except they were in my private rooms. "No!" Alexia shrieked, pounding her fist on the con-sole, furious. She would not have it, would not! She'd kill them herself, claw their eyes out, tear them up! There's the Tyrant, Alfred whispered in her ear. Alexia's rage turned to passion, to exhilaration. Yes! Yes, there was the Tyrant, still in stasis! And it was in– telligent enough to follow directions, provided they were simple, provided one pointed it the right way. "You won't escape!" Alexia shouted, laughing, twirl-ing around in joy and victory… and after a moment, Alfred joined in, unable to deny how deeply, wonder– fully satisfying it was going to be, as the computer changed its tune and began the final countdown. Their run to the plane was a blur – a mad dash out of the Ashfords' terrible home and down the rain-slick hill, to the mansion and down stairs, down more stairs to a tiny dock where Steve called up the submarine. Every step of the way, the alarms drove them faster, the contin– uous vocal loop reminding them of the obvious. Just as they were climbing out of the sub, the bland female voice stopped repeating itself and began a new message – and though the words weren't exactly the same, Claire had a sudden vivid memory of Raccoon, of standing on a subway platform as another self-destruct loop had announced that the end was near.
"The self-destruct sequence is now active. There are five minutes until initial detonation." "Well, that blows," Steve said, the first thing he'd said since they'd left the private mansion. And in spite of her fear that they wouldn't make it in time, in spite of her exhaustion and the horrible memories she knew she'd be taking away with her, Steve's deadpan utterance struck her as hilarious.
It does blow, doesn't it?
Claire started laughing, and though she tried to put an immediate stop to it, she couldn't quite manage. It seemed that even imminent death couldn't stop the gig– gles. That, or hysteria had turned out to be a lot funnier than she would have expected… and the look on Steve's face wasn't helping. Hysterical or not, she knew they had to move. "Go," she choked, motioning him forward. Still looking at her as though she'd lost her mind, Steve grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him. After a few stumbling steps – and the realization that her laugh– ing fit might kill them both – Claire got hold of herself. "I'm okay," she said, breathing deep, and Steve let her go, a look of relief crossing his pale face. They ran down some stairs and through a kind of un– derwater tunnel, and as they reached the door at its end, the computer informed them that another minute had passed, that they had only four left. If there'd been any chance that she might start laughing again, that killed it. Steve pushed the door open and jogged left, both of them leap-frogging over a trio of dead bodies, all virus carriers, all in Umbrella uniforms. Claire thought of Rodrigo suddenly, and her heart twisted. She hoped that he'd be safe where he was, or that he was well enough to get away from the compound… but she couldn't kid herself about his chances. She silently wished him luck and then let it go, following Steve through another door. Their journey had ended in a huge, dark, metal-lined cavern, a hanger for seaplanes, and their hope of escape was sitting right in front of them – a smallish cargo plane floating just beneath the grid platform they were on. Not far to the right, blue predawn light defined the giant gateway that opened into the sea. "Over here," Steve said, and hurried toward a small lift at the edge of the platform, one with a standing con– trol board. Claire joined him, fumbling the three em– blem proofs out of her pack.
"The self-destruct sequence is now active. There are three minutes until initial detonation."
The control board had a panel on top with three inset hexagonal spaces. Steve grabbed two of the proofs and together, they pressed all three of them home.
Oh, man, please please please…
There was an audible click and the panel's switches lit up, a deep hum coming from the body of the standing machinery. Steve laughed, and Claire realized she'd been holding her breath when she was suddenly able to breathe again. "Hang on," Steve said, and swiped his hand over the panel, flipping them all over. With a small jerk, the lift began to lower at an angle, as the plane's rounded side door opened, folding down to create a stepladder. Claire felt like it was all happen-ing in slow motion, a kind of unreality to it as the lift met the base of the steps, jerking again to a stop; it was hard to believe that it was finally happening, that they were actually going to make it off Umbrella's cursed island.
To hell with believing it, just go!
They boarded the plane, Steve running forward to get it flight ready while Claire quickly checked out the rest of it – a large, mostly empty cargo area constituted the bulk of the plane, sealed off from the cockpit by a soundproof metal hatch. There weren't any creature comforts beyond a closet with a port-o-john behind the pilot's seat, but there was a footlocker at the rear of the cockpit that contained two plastic gallon jugs of water, much to Claire's relief. Though muffled, they could still hear the recording resonating through the hanger as Steve found the controls for the door, the hatch lifting and sealing as the count-down went to two minutes. Claire hurried to his side, her heart really starting to pound; two minutes was nothing. She wanted to help, to ask what she could do, but Steve's full concentration was on the instrument panel. She remembered what he'd said about "iffy" flying skills, but since she didn't have any at all, she wasn't complaining. The seconds ticked past and she had to force herself not to start babbling nervously, not to do anything that might distract him. The plane's engines had been rumbling, the sound getting steadily louder and higher-pitched, Claire's nerves tightening to match – and when the dreaded computer female spoke up again, Claire found herself gripping the back of Steve's chair, her knuckles white.
"There is now one minute until initial detonation.
59… 58… 57…"
What if it's too complicated, what if he can't do it?
Claire thought, fairly certain she was about to explode.
"44… 43…"
Steve straightened abruptly, grabbing a gear shift-look– ing thing to his right and nudging it forward before plac-ing his hands on the yoke. The engine sounds got much louder, and slowly, very slowly, the plane started to move. "You ready yet?" he asked, a grin in his voice, and Claire nearly collapsed with relief, her knees weak with it.
"30… 29… 28…"
The plane edged forward beneath a low metal bridge, close enough to the door now that she could see small waves breaking against the metal siding. There was a loud thump overhead, as though the bridge had scraped the top of the plane, but they kept moving, slow and steady.
"17… 16…"
As Steve steered into the open water, the countdown reached ten… and then was too far away to be heard, as the engines got impossibly louder and they picked up speed, the smooth ride turning bumpy as they started to run over the waves. There was just enough light in the sky now for Claire to see the island's shore off to their right, rocky and treacherous. There were low cliffs bor– dering much of Rockfort, rising up out of the water like rough fortress walls. Right before Steve started to pull back on die yoke, to lift the speeding plane up and away, Claire saw the first explosions, the sounds hitting a second later – a series of deep, thundering booms that quickly grew distant, dropping off as Steve gently raised them up. As the cargo plane took to the air, giant billows of black smoke rose into the early dawn, casting shadows over the disintegrating compound. Flames were catch– ing everywhere, and though she didn't know the exact layout of what she was looking at, she thought she saw the Ashfords' private home being gutted by fire, an im– mense orange light rising up behind what was left of the mansion.
