Code: Veronica

Chapter Ten

 

  CLAIRE'S HEAD HURT. AGAIN. Something was on fire, she could smell smoke and she was incredibly cold, and she suddenly remembered what had happened - the snow, the building, the crash. Alfred. She opened her eyes and lifted her head, the action awk - ward and difficult because she was still strapped into her chair, now tilted forward at about a 45 degree angle and there was Steve in his chair, not moving.

  "Steve! Steve, wake up!"

  Steve groaned and mumbled something, and Claire breathed easier. After a few tries she managed to get her belt off and slid into a crouch, her feet on what had been the instrument panel. She couldn't see much out of the windshield with the angle they were at, but it appeared that they were inside some big building. There was gray metal siding some fifty or sixty feet in front of them, and through the gaping hole on her side of the plane, she could see a bit of walkway with a railing maybe eight or nine feet below. So where is everybody? Where is anybody? If it was an Umbrella facility, why weren't there a dozen soldiers dragging them out of the wreckage? Or at least a few pissed off janitors. . . Steve was coming around, though she could see a nasty bump at the edge of his hairline. She reached up and found that she had a matching bump just above her right temple, about an inch higher than the one she'd woken up with. . . yesterday? The day before?

  My, how time flies when you keep getting knocked un-conscious. "What's burning?" Steve asked, opening bleary eyes. "I don't know," Claire said. There was just a trace of smoke in the cabin, she figured it was coming from some other part of the plane. In any case, she didn't want to stick around, see if anything blew up. "But we should get out of here. Do you think you can walk?" "These boots were made for walking," Steve mum - bled, and Claire grinned, helping him with his belt. They salvaged what they could from the weaponry that was piled at their feet, Steve's machine pistol and her 9mm. Unfortunately, they were low on ammo, and a couple of clips had gone missing. She had twenty-seven rounds, he had fifteen. They split them up, and with nothing else to keep them aboard, Steve lowered himself out over the walkway, dropping the last few feet. "What's out there?" Claire asked, sitting on the edge of the hole and tucking her gun in her belt. It was cold enough for her to see her breath, but she thought she could manage for a little while. "Not a whole hell of a lot," Steve called back, looking around. "We're in a big round building - I think it's built around a mine shaft or something, there's a straight drop through the middle. There's nobody here. " He looked up at her and raised his arms. "Come on down, I gotcha. "

  Claire doubted it. He was in good shape but had a runner's physique, not overly muscular. On the other hand, she couldn't stay in the plane all day, and she hated jumping off things higher than a few feet, she def - initely wanted a helping hand. . . "Coming down," she said, and pushed herself off the hole's edge, holding on as long she could -

  - and then she was dropping, and Steve emitted an oof sound, and then they were both on the ground, Steve on his back with his arms around her, Claire on top of him. "Nice catch," she said. "Aw, 'twas nothin'," Steve said, smiling. He was warm. And attractive, and sweet, and obvi - ously interested, and for a few seconds, neither of them moved, Claire content to be held. . . and Steve wanting more, she could see it in the way he searched her face.

  For Christ's sake, you're not on a vacation! Move! "We should probably. . . " ". . . figure out where we are," Steve finished, and though she could see a flash of disappointment in his eyes, he did his best to hide it, sighing melodramatically as he dropped his arms in pretend surrender. Reluc - tantly, she got to her feet and helped him to his. It did seem to be a mine shaft, sixty feet across give or take, the walkway they were on running about half way around, in steps - there were a couple of ladders, and she could see at least two doors from where they were, all down and to their left. There was only one door on their level, to the right, but Steve checked and it was locked. "So where do you think everybody is?" he asked, keeping his voice low. There was a definite echo effect probability, as massive and empty as the chamber was. Claire shook her head. "Making snow angels?" "Ha ha," Steve said. "Shouldn't Alfred be jumping out right about now with a flame thrower or something?" "Yeah, probably," Claire said. She'd been thinking that herself. "Maybe he isn't here yet, or he didn't expect us to crash, so he's in one of the other buildings where we were supposed to land. . . which means we should book. If we

  can get to one of those other planes before he finds us. . . " "Let's do it," Steve said. "Do you want to split up? We could cover more ground that way, hurry things along. " "With Alfred running around somewhere? I vote no,"

  Claire said, and Steve nodded, looking relieved. "So. . . thataway," Claire said, and started for the first ladder, Steve right behind. A short climb later and they were at the next door to try, actually double doors set in a little ways from the walkway. Also locked. Steve offered to try and kick it in, but she suggested they try the others first. She was feel - ing more and more uneasy about how quiet things were, and didn't want the echoing thunder of a door being bro - ken down to announce their presence, though they'd have to be comatose not to have heard or felt the crash. . .

  On to the next, the only other door before an opening in the wall with a flight of stairs going down. Claire jig-gled the handle and it turned easily; she and Steve read - ied their weapons just in case - and at a nod from Steve, Claire pushed the door open -

  - and felt her mouth drop open, totally shocked.

  What are the odds on that?

  It was a bunk room, dark and reeking, and at the sound of the door opening, three, four zombies turned and started for them, all of them freshly infected, most of their skin still attached. At least one of them was starting to go gangrenous, the noxious smell of hot, rot - ting tissue heavy in the cold air. Steve had gone pale, and as she slammed the door closed, he swallowed, hard, looking and sounding kind of sick. "One of those guys worked at Rockfort. He was a cook. "

  Of course! She'd thought for a second that there'd been a spill here, too, but that really was too giant of a coincidence. At least one of those planes outside had come from the island, probably a bunch of panicked em - ployees - presumably not scientists - who hadn't real - ized they were carrying the infection with them.

  More sick and dying viral cannibals. . . and what else? Claire shuddered, trying to imagine the kind of soldier Umbrella would be trying to invent for an arctic environment. . . and what natural animals might have been infected before their arrival. "We definitely gotta get out of here," Steve said. Well, maybe Alfred got eaten, anyway, Claire thought. Wishful thinking, though they certainly deserved a lucky break. "Let's go. " The last place to check, a set of winding stairs, marked the end of the walkway, descending into a near total dark - ness. Remembering the matches she'd found at Rockfort, Claire handed Steve her gun and fished them out of her pack, giving him half before taking her weapon back. He took the lead, striking two of the matches about halfway down the stairs and holding them up. They didn't give off much light, but they were better than nothing. They reached the bottom and started to edge forward down a tight hall, Claire on high alert as the darkness closed around them. Something smelled bad, like rot - ting grain, and though she couldn't hear anything mov - ing, it didn't feel like they were alone. She was generally big on trusting her instincts, but it was so still and silent, not even a whisper of sound or movement. . . Nerves, she thought hopefully. They could only see about three feet in front of them, but they moved as quickly as possible, the feeling of being totally exposed and vulnerable pushing them forward. A few steps more and she could see that the corridor branched, they could keep going straight or turn left. "What do you think?" Claire whispered - and the hall suddenly exploded with movement, wings flapping, the rotten smell gusting over them. Steve cursed as the matches suddenly went out, completing the darkness. Something brushed past Claire's face, feathery and light and soundless, and she reflexively flailed at it in loathing, skin crawling, not sure where or wha
t to shoot. "Come on!" Steve shouted, grabbing her upper arm and yanking her forward. She stumbled after him breathlessly, and again, something fluttering touched her face, dry and dusty. . . . . . and then Steve was pulling her through a doorway and slamming it closed behind them, both of them sag - ging against it, Claire shuddering, totally disgusted. "Moths," Steve said, "Jesus, they were huge, did you see them? Big as birds, like hawks. . . " She could hear him spit, like he was trying to clear his mouth out. Claire didn't answer, fumbling for a match. The room was pitch dark and she wanted to make sure there weren't more of them flapping around, moths, eeww! They somehow seemed worse than any zombie, that they could brush right up against you, flutter up against your face - she shuddered again, and struck her match. Steve had pulled them into an office, one apparently free of giant moths and any other Umbrella unpleasant - ness. She saw a pair of candlesticks on a trunk to her right and immediately grabbed them up, lighting the half burned tapers and handing one of them to Steve be - fore looking around, the soft candlelight illuminating their sanctuary in flickering shadows. Wood desk, shelves, a couple of framed paintings - the room was surprisingly nice, considering the utilitarian feel of the rest of the place. It wasn't as cold, either. They quickly checked around for weapons or ammo, but came up empty.

  "Hey, maybe there's something we can use in these,"

  Steve said, moving to the desk. There were a number of papers, and what appeared to be a collection of maps strewn across its top, but Claire was suddenly more in - terested in the whitish lump stuck on the back of his right shoulder. "Hold still," she said, stepping up behind him. There was some thick, web-like gunk holding the thing on, the lump itself about six inches long and kind of misshapen, like a chicken egg that had been stretched out. "What is it? Get it off," Steve said tensely, and Claire held the candle closer, saw that the white form wasn't entirely opaque. She could see inside, a little. . . . . . to where a fat white grub was squirming around, encased in translucent jelly. It was an egg case, the moth had laid an egg case on him. Claire wanted to vomit but held it together, looking around for something to grab it with. There was some crumpled paper in a wastebasket next to the trunk, and she snatched up a piece. "Hang on a sec," she said, amazed at how casual she sounded as she pulled the case off his shoulder. It didn't want to come, the wet webbing tenaciously holding on, but she got it, instantly dropping it to the floor. "It's off. " Steve turned and crouched next to the paper, holding his candle out - and stood up abruptly, looking as sick - ened as she felt. He brought his boot down on it, hard, and clear jelly squirted from beneath the sole. "Oh, man," he said, his mouth turned down. "Remind me to blow chunks later, after we've eaten. And next time we go through there, no matches. "

  He checked her back - clean, thank God - and then they split up the papers on the desk, Steve taking the maps and sitting on the floor, Claire looking through the rest of it at the desk. Inventory list, bill, bill, list. . . Claire hoped Steve was having better luck. From what she could gather, they were in what Umbrella was calling a "transport ter - minal," whatever that was, and it had been built around an abandoned mine - she wasn't clear on what had been mined, exactly, but there were a number of receipts for some newer spendy equipment and a shitload of con - struction materials. Almost enough to build a small city. She found a series of memos between two extremely boring gentlemen, discussing Umbrella's budget allot - ments for the coming year. It was all the more boring be - cause everything appeared to be perfectly legal. The office they were in belonged to one of them, a Tomoko Oda, and it was from Oda that she finally ran across something that caught her eye, a postscript on one of his lengthy account - ing reports dated from only a week before.

  PS - by the way, remember the story you told me when I first got here, about the "monster" prisoner? Don't laugh, but I finally heard him myself, two nights ago, in this very office. It was just as frighten-ing as the stories say, a kind of angry, moaning scream that echoed up from the lower levels. My fore-man tells me that workers have been hearing it for something like 15 years, almost always late at night - the most popular rumor has it that he screams like that because someone missed his feeding time. I've also heard that he's a ghost, a hoax, a scientific experiment gone wrong, even a demon. I haven't formed an opinion myself, and since none of us are allowed down there, I suppose it will continue to be a mystery. I have to tell you, though, after hearing that horrible, insane howling, I have no interest in going below B2. Let me know about that stem bolt shipment. Regards, Tom.

  It seemed that the workers upstairs didn't know much about what was going on downstairs. Probably better for them, Claire thought. . . although considering the cur - rent situation, maybe not. Steve laughed suddenly, a short bark of victory, and stood up, grinning widely. He slapped an Antarctica po - litical map across the desk. "We're here," Steve said, pointing to a red spot that someone had penciled in, "about halfway in between this Japanese outpost, Dome Fuji, and the Pole itself, in the Australian territory. And right here is an Australian research station - we're looking at ten or fifteen miles, tops. " Claire felt her heart skip a beat. "That's great! Hell, we could probably hike it if we could find some good gear. . . ". . . and if we can get out of this basement, she thought, some of her enthusiasm dying down. Steve unfolded a second map, spreading it out. "Wait, that's not the good part. Check this out. "

  A photocopy of a blueprint. Claire studied the hand - drawn diagrams, side and top views of a tall building and three of its floors, the levels and rooms neatly la - Beled and stood up herself, too elated to stay still. It was a comprehensive map of the building they were in, not tall but deep. "This is where we are at now," Steve said, pointing to a small square labeled "manager's office," on level B2. He traced his finger down and left and down again, stopping at an oddly shaped area at the bottom of the diagram, like a big quotation mark lying on its side. The tiny black letters read "mining room," and there was a lightly penciled tunnel extending out of it with "to surface/unfinished" written next to it, also in pen-cil. "And there's where we need to go," Claire finished, shaking her head in disbelief. The map Steve had found would probably save them hours of wandering around, and with as little ammo as they had, it might also save their lives.

  "Yeah. If we run into any locked doors, we break 'em down, or shoot the locks, maybe," Steve said happily. "And it's like a one-minute walk from here. We'll be fly - ing the friendly skies in no time. "It says the tunnel is unfinished. . . " Claire started, but Steve cut her off.

  "So? If they're still working on it, there'll be some kind of equipment laying around," Steve said happily. "I mean, it says mining room, right?"

  She couldn't argue with his logic, and didn't want to. It was almost too good to be true, and she was more than ready for some good news. . . and though it did mean another run through mothville, this time, they'd be ready. "You win the prize," Claire said, giving in to her own enthusiasm. Steve raised his eyebrows innocently. "Oh, yeah? What's the prize?"

  She was about to answer that she was open to sugges-tions when an unexpected and alarming noise stopped her, coming into the office from nowhere and every-where. For a split second she thought it was some kind of an air raid siren, it was so loud and penetrating, but no siren started so deep and low, or kept rising like that, or conjured up such feelings of dread. There was fury in the sound, a blind rage so complete that it was incom-prehensible. Frozen, they listened as the incredible, grisly screamstretched out and finally died away, Claire wondering how long it had been since feeding time. She had no doubt that it was one of Umbrella's creations. No ghost could produce such a visceral sound, and no human soul could encompass such rage. "Let's go now," Claire said quietly, and Steve nodded, his eyes wide and anxious as he folded the maps and tucked them away. They readied their weapons, laid out a quick plan, and on the count of three, Steve shoved the door open. As the monstrosity's roar echoed away, Alfred smiled at it through the thick metal bars of its bare, dank cell, admiring his sister'
s handiwork. He'd helped, of course, but she was the genius who'd created the T-Veronica virus, and at only ten years of age. . . and though she had considered her first experiment a failure, Alfred thought not. The result was deeply gratifying on a per - sonal level. Things were so much clearer, had been since the very moment he'd left Rockfort. Memories had returned, things he'd buried or lost, feelings he'd forgotten he had. After fifteen years of gray area, of muddled confusion and unstable fantasy, Alfred felt that his world was fi - nally drawing to order - and he understood now why their home had been attacked, and how fortunate for him that it had been. "They knew that it was time, too, you see," Alfred said. "If not for the strike, I might have continued to be-lieve that she was with me. "

  He watched with some amusement as the monstrosity tilted its filthy head toward the door, listening. It was chained to its chair, blindfolded, hands bound behind its back. . . and though it had been incapable of anything like real thought for a decade and a half, it still re-sponded to the sound of words. Perhaps it even recog-nized his voice on some animal instinctual level. I should feed it, Alfred thought, not wanting it to die before Alexia awoke. . . but that would be soon, very soon - perhaps the process had already begun. The thought filled him with wonder, that he was to be pres - ent for her miraculous rebirth. "I missed her so," Alfred said, sighing. So much that he'd created a reflection of her, to share the lonely years of waiting. "But she's soon to emerge a reigning queen, with me as her faithful soldier, and we'll never be apart again. "

  Which reminded him of his final task, a last objective to be met before he could comfortably begin the final wait. His joy at discovering the crashed plane had been short-lived when he'd found it empty, but upon refresh - ing himself of the terminal's layout, he'd realized the peasant couple could only be in one or two places. He'd taken a sniper rifle from the armory at one of the other buildings, a 30. 06 bolt action Remington with a magni - fying scope, a delightful toy, and was determined to try it out. He couldn't have Claire and her little friend showing up at some inopportune moment, mangling the celebration. . . Suddenly, Alfred started to laugh, a gem of an idea occurring to him. The monstrosity had to eat. . . why not bring it the two commoners? Claire Redfield had brought destruction down upon Rockfort, had attempted to soil the Ashford name, just as the monstrosity had, in away.

  It will consume the enemy agents, an observance in honor of Alexia's return. . . and then we'll have a pri-vate family reunion, just the three of us.

  At the sound of his laughter, the monstrosity became agitated, pulling at its chains with such force that Alfred stopped laughing. It let out another tremendous, linger - ing roar, straining to be free, but Alfred thought the re-straints would hold a bit longer. "I'll be back soon," Alfred promised, hefting his rifle and walking away, wondering what Claire would think about meeting his and Alexia's father under such un - usual circumstances - namely, her own bloody death. The monstrosity was drawn to body heat and the smell of terror, Alfred liked to believe, very much looking for - ward to watching a helpless Claire stalked through the dark. As Alfred started up the stairs to the second basement level, Alexander Ashford screamed again, as he'd done fifteen years before when his own children had drugged him and stolen his life.