Chapter Four
CHRIS REDFIELD AND BARRY BURTON WERE reloading rounds in the back room of the Paris safe house, silent and tense, neither of them speaking. It had been a bad ten days, not knowing what had happened to Claire, not knowing if Umbrella still had her alive. . . stop, his inner voice said firmly. She's alive, she has to be. To even entertain the alternative was unthinkable. He'd been telling himself that for ten days, and it was wearing thin. It had been bad enough hearing that she'd been in Raccoon City for the final meltdown, and that she'd gone there looking for him. Leon Kennedy, her young cop friend, had filled him in on the details at their first meeting. She'd survived Raccoon only to be hi - jacked by Trent on the way to Europe, she and Leon and the three renegade S. T. A. R. S. ; they'd ended up facing off with yet another group of Umbrella monsters, at a facility in Utah. Chris hadn't known about any of it, had ignorantly assumed that she was still safely studying away at the University. Hearing that she'd gotten tangled up in the fight against Umbrella was bad, all right - but knowing that Umbrella had captured her, that his little sister might al - ready be dead. . . it was killing him, eating him up in - side. It was all he could do not to barge into Umbrella's headquarters with a couple of machine guns and start de - manding answers, even knowing that it would be suicide. Barry pumped the shell loader while Chris scooped up the fresh rounds and boxed them, the acrid, familiar scent of gunpowder suffusing the air. He was relieved that his old friend seemed to understand his need for si - lence, the steady click-click of the loader the only sound in the small room. It was also a relief to have something to do after a full week of sitting still and praying, hoping that Trent might contact them with news, or to offer help. Chris had never met Trent, but the mysterious stranger had aided the
S. T. A. R. S. a few times in the past, passing along inside in - formation about Umbrella. Although his exact motivations were unknown, his objective seemed clear enough - to destroy the pharmaceutical company's secret bioweapons division. Unfortunately, waiting on Trent was a long shot; he'd only ever contacted them when it suited his needs, and since they had no way of reaching him, the prospect of his assistance was seeming less likely all the time. Click-click. Click-click. The repetitive sound was soothing somehow, a muted mechanical process in the quiet of the rented safe house. They all had specific jobs to do in their pledge to bring Umbrella down, tasks that changed from day to day as the need arose. Chris had been helping Barry out with the weapons for the past week and a half, but he usually ran HQ surveillance. They'd received a message from Jill a few weeks before, she was on her way to Paris, and Chris knew that her misspent youth would come in very handy for internal recon. Leon had turned out to be a half decent hacker, he was in the next room on the computer; he'd hardly slept since Claire's capture, most of his time spent trying to track Umbrella's recent movements. And the trio of
S. T. A. R. S. who'd come with Claire and Leon to Eu - rope - Rebecca, from the disbanded Raccoon squad, and the two S. T. A. R. S. from Maine, David and John, were currently off in London, meeting with an arms dealer. After all they'd been through together, the three of them worked well as a team.
There aren't many of us, but we've got the skills and the determination. Claire, though. . .
With both their parents dead, he and Claire had devel-oped a close relationship, and he thought he knew her pretty well; she was smart and tough and resourceful, al - ways had been. . . but she was also a college student, for Christ's sake. Unlike the rest of them, she didn't have any formal combat training. He couldn't help thinking that she'd been lucky so far, and when it came to Umbrella, luck just wasn't enough.
"Chris, get in here!"
Leon, and it sounded urgent. Chris and Barry looked at each other, Chris seeing his own worry mirrored in Barry's face, and they both stood up. His heart in his throat, Chris hurriedly led the way down the hall to where Leon was working, feeling eager and afraid at once. The young cop was standing next to the computer, his expression unreadable. "She's alive," Leon said simply. Chris hadn't even been aware of how bad things had been for him until those two words. It was like his heart had suddenly been released after being gripped hi a vise for ten days, the sense of relief as physical as it was emotional, his skin flushing with it.
Alive, she's alive. . . Barry clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "Of course she is, she's a Redfield. "
Chris grinned, turned his attention back to Leon and felt his smile slipping at the cop's carefully neutral expression. There was something else. Before he could ask, Leon motioned at the screen, taking a deep breath. "They've got her on an island, Chris. . . and there's been an accident. "
Chris was leaning over the computer in a single stride. He read the brief message twice, the reality of it slow to sink in.
Infection trouble approximately 37S, 12W following attack, perps unknown. No bad guys left, I think, but stuck at the moment. Watch your back, bro, they know the city if not the street. Will try to be home soon.
Chris stood up, silently locking gazes with Leon as Barry read the message. Leon smiled, but it looked
forced. "You didn't see her in Raccoon," he said. "She knows how to handle herself, Chris. And she managed to get to a computer, right?" Barry straightened up, took his cue from Leon. "That means she's not locked down," he said seriously. "And if Umbrella's got its hands full with another viral spill, they're not going to be paying attention to anything else. The important thing is that she's alive. "
Chris nodded absently, mind already working on what he would need for the trip. The coordinates she'd listed put her in an incredibly isolated spot, deep in the South Atlantic, but he had an old Air Force buddy who owed him, could jet him down to Buenos Aires, maybe Capetown; he could rent a boat from there, survival gear, rope, medkit, an assload of firepower. . . "I'm going with you," Barry said, accurately reading his expression. They'd been friends a long time. "Me, too," Leon said. Chris shook his head. "No, absolutely not. " Both men started to protest, and Chris raised his voice, talking over them.
"You saw what she said, about Umbrella homing in on me, on us," he said firmly. "That means we have to relo-cate, maybe one of the estates outside the city - some-one has to stay here, wait for Rebecca's team to get back, and someone else needs to scout out a new base of oper-ations. And don't forget, Jill will be here any day now. "
Barry frowned, scratched at his beard, his mouth set in a thin, tight line. "I don't like it. Going in alone is a bad idea. . . " "We're at a crucial phase right now, and you know it," Chris said. "Somebody's got to mind the shop, Barry, and you're the man. You've got the experience, you know all the contacts. " "Fine, but at least take the kid," Barry said, gesturing toward Leon. For once, Leon didn't protest the label, only nodded, drawing himself up, shoulders back and head high.
"If you won't do it for yourself, think about Claire,"Barry continued. "What happens to her if you get your - self killed? You need a backup, somebody to pick up the ball if you fumble. "Chris shook his head, immovable. "You know better, Barry, this has to be as quiet as possible. Umbrella may have already sent in a cleanup crew. One person, in and out before anyone even realizes I'm there. "
Barry was still frowning, but he didn't push it. Nei - ther did Leon, although Chris could see that he was working up to it; the cop and Claire had obviously got - ten pretty close.
"I'll bring her back," Chris said, softening his tone, looking at Leon. Leon hesitated, then nodded, high color burning in his cheeks, making Chris wonder ex - actly how close Leon and his sister had become.
Later. I can worry about his intentions if we make it back alive. . . when we make it back alive, he quickly amended. If was not an option. "It's settled, then," Chris said. "Leon, find me a good map of the area, geographical, political, everything, you never know what might help. Also post back to Claire, just in case she gets another chance to check for mes - sages - tell her I'm on my way. Barry, I want to be pack - ing major influence, but lightwei
ght, something I can hike in without too much trouble, maybe a Glock. . . you're the expert, you decide. "
Both men nodded, turned away to get started, and Chris closed his eyes for just a second, quickly offering up a silent prayer.
Please, please stay safe until I get there, Claire.
It wasn't much - but then, Chris had the feeling he would be praying a lot more in the long hours to come.
The hidden monitor room was behind a wall of books in the Ashfords' private residence. Upon his return to their home, secreted behind the "official" receiving man - sion, Alfred slung his rifle and immediately walked to the wall, touching the spines of three books in quick succes-sion. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes observing him from the front hall shadows, and though he had long since grown used to Alexia's scattered collection of dolls, he often wished that they wouldn't always watch him so in - tently. There were times that he expected some privacy. As the wall pivoted open, he heard the whistling chitter of bats hiding in the eaves and frowned, pursing his lips. It seemed that the attic had been breached during the attack. No mind, no mind. Concerns for another day. He had more important business that demanded his attention. Alexia had apparently retreated to her rooms once more, which was just as well; Alfred didn't want her upset any further, and news of a possible assassin at Rockfort would certainly achieve that. He stepped in - side the hidden room and pushed the carefully balanced wall closed behind him. There were usually seventy-five different camera shots that he could choose from, to watch on any of the ten small monitors in the small room, but much of the equipment around the compound had been damaged or destroyed, leaving him with only thirty-one usable im - ages. Knowing Claire's foul objectives, to steal informa - tion and search for Alexia, Alfred decided to focus on her approach from the prison compound. He had no doubt that she would appear shortly; one such as her would not have the good manners to die in the attack or its aftermath. . . though as his expectations built, his in - terest in the game growing, he began to feel anxious that she might, in fact, have expired. Thankfully, his initial assumption had been correct. Another of the prisoners came through the main gate first, but he was followed shortly by the Redfield girl. Amused at their halting progress, Alfred watched as Claire tried to catch up to the young man, prisoner 267 according to the back of his uniform, who seemingly had no idea that he was being pursued. As the young man topped the stairs that led up from the prison area, stood uncertainly looking between the palace grounds and the training facility, Alfred entered 267 into the keypad beneath his left hand and found a name, Steven Burnside. It meant nothing to him, and as the boy hesitated indecisively, Alfred found his attention moving back to his quarry, curious about the young woman who was soon to be his short-term playmate. Claire was walking across the damaged chasm bridge only a moment or two behind Burnside, walking high on the balls of her feet like an athlete. She seemed quite self-possessed, cautious but unapologetic about her right to cross the span. . . but she was also careful not to look down into the mist-filled darkness, the massive crevice walls extending down hundreds of feet, nor did she linger. In the warm security of his home, Alfred smiled, imagining her delicious fear. . . and found him-self remembering the trick that he and Alexia had once played on a guard. They'd been six or seven years old, and Francois Celaux had been a shift commander, one of their father's favorites. He'd been a fawning sycophant, a bootlick, but only to Alexander Ashford. Behind their father's back he had dared to laugh cruelly at Alexia one afternoon when she had tripped in a pouring rain, splashing her new blue dress with mud. Such an offense was not to be withstood.
Oh, how we planned, talking late into the night about a suitable punishment for his unforgivable behavior, our child minds alive and whirling with all the possibilities. . .
The final plan had been simple, and they'd executed it perfectly only two days later, when Francois had duty as guard of the main gate. Alfred had sweetly begged the cook to let him bring Francois his morning espresso, a chore he'd often performed for favored employ - ees. . . and on the way to the chasm bridge, Alexia had added a special twist to the strong, bitter brew, just a few drops of a curare-like substance she'd synthesized her - self. The drug paralyzed flesh but allowed the nervous system to continue working, so that the recipient couldn't move or speak, but could feel and understand what was happening to him. Alfred had approached the prison gates slowly, so slowly that the impatient Francois had stalked out to meet him. Smiling, aware that Alexia had returned to the residence, was watching and listening from the monitor room - Alfred had been wearing a small microphone -
- he'd stepped close to the railing before apologetically offering the demitasse cup to Francois. Both twins had watched in secret delight as the guard swilled it down, and in seconds, he was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the bridge rail. To anyone watching, it appeared only that the man and boy were looking out across the chasm. . . except for Alexia, of course, who later told him that she'd applauded his performance of innocence.
I looked up at him, at the frozen expression of fear on his unrefined features, and explained what we had done. And what we were going to do.
Francois had actually managed a soft squealing noise through his clenched jaw when he'd finally understood, that he was helpless to defend himself against a child. For almost five minutes, Alfred had cheerfully cursed Francois as the spawn of pigs, as a mannerless peasant, and had jabbed him in the meat of his thigh with a sewing needle too many times to count. Paralyzed, Francois Celaux could only endure the pain and humiliation, surely regretting his beastly con - duct toward Alexia as he suffered in silence. And when Alfred had tired of their game, he'd kicked the guard's dirty bootheels a few times, describing his every sensa - tion to Alexia as Francois slid helplessly beneath the rail and plummeted to his death.
And then I screamed, and pretended to cry as others came rushing across the bridge, trying desperately to console their young master as they asked one another how such a terrible thing could happen. And later, much later, Alexia came into my room and kissed my cheek, her lips warm and soft, her silken tresses tickling my throat. . .
The monitors tore his attention away from his sweet memories, Claire now standing at the same spot where Burnside had hesitated. Quite put out with himself for his lack of care, Alfred spent an uncertain moment searching for the young hoodlum, switching between cameras, finally spotting him on the very steps of the re - ceiving mansion. Quickly, Alfred checked his console's control panels to be sure that all of the mansion's doors were unlocked, suspecting that the boy would probably hang himself easily enough. . . . . . and crowed with delight when he saw that Claire was following, having chosen the same path as her young friend.
How much more exquisite her terror will be, when she pleads for her life kneeling in Mr. Burnside's cooling blood. . .
If he meant to greet them properly, he needed to leave right away. Alfred stood and opened the wall once more, his excitement rising as he closed it behind him and stepped out into the great hall. He very much wanted to tell Alexia his plans before leaving, to share a few of his ideas, but was concerned that time was a factor. "I'll be watching, my dear," she said. Startled, Alfred looked up to see her at the top of the stairs, not far from the life-size child doll that hung from the uppermost balcony, one of Alexia's favorite toys. He started to ask her how she knew, but realized how silly a question it was. Of course she knew, because she knew his heart; it was the same that beat within her own snowy white breast. "Go now, Alfred," she said, gracing him with her smile. "Enjoy them for both of us. " "I will, sister," he said, smiling in turn, thankful anew that he was brother to such a miracle of creation, lucky that she so understood his needs and desires.
It was like some bizarre reality twist, Claire decided, closing the mansion doors behind her. From the ram-shackle, death-filled cold of the dark prison yards to where she stood now. . . it was hard to believe, and yet so like Umbrella that she had no choice.
Bu
t goddamn. I mean, seriously.
The grand, beautifully designed sunken lobby spread out in front of her was marred only by a few sets of muddy footprints across the hand-tiled floor, a few splotches of blood painted across the delicate eggshell walls. There were also a number of large cracks near the ceiling, and a single maroon handprint drying on one of the thick decorative columns that lined the west wall, thin rivulets of red streaking down from the base of the palm.
So the prisoners weren't the only ones to suffer a shitty afternoon. It was classist and petty of her, she knew, but it made her feel a little better to know that the Umbrella higher-ups had taken an ass-kicking along with everybody else. She stood where she was for a moment, relieved to be out of the cold and still mildly shocked by the different faces of the Rockfort facility as she took hi the layout. Behind one of the columns to her left was a blue door, a second door in the northwest corner of the spacious room. Straight ahead was a polished mahogany recep - tion desk, abutting an open flight of stairs along the right wall that led up to a second floor balcony, richly hung with a strangely damaged portrait. The face of the por - trait's subject had been scratched out for some reason. Claire stepped down into the lobby, crouched and ran a finger through one of the muddy footprints; still wet, and more tracks leading to the corner door. She couldn't be certain they were Steve's, but thought the odds were pretty good. He'd left a trail, from the open prison gate to a couple of dropped shell casings just outside the mansion, along with two more dead dogs. For such an obviously troubled young man, he was a surprisingly accurate shot. . . . . . so why am I going through so much trouble to help him out? She thought sourly, standing. He doesn't want my assistance, doesn't seem to need it, and it's not like 1 don't have anything better to do.
When he'd taken off running, she hadn't followed im - mediately, wanting to get a message to Leon ASAP; she'd also felt obliged to run a quick search of the office for medical supplies, something to help Rodrigo, but she hadn't found anything useful. . . "Help! Help meee!" A muffled shout, from some - where in the building.
Steve?
"Let me out! Hey, somebody, help!"
Claire was already running for the comer door, weapon up. She slammed into the heavy wood, the door crashing open into a long hallway. Steve shouted again, from the far end of the corridor. Claire hesitated just long enough to see that the three bodies sprawled on the tiled floor weren't going to get up and then ran, fixing the door straight ahead as the one.
"Help!" Jesus, what's happening to him? He sounded panic-stricken, his voice breaking with it. Reaching the end of the hall, Claire shoved at the door, ran in sweeping with the handgun - and saw nothing, a room with display cases and stuffed chairs. An alarm was buzzing somewhere, but she didn't see its source. Movement to the left. Claire spun, desperate for a tar - get - and saw that a piece of film was being projected on a small wall screen, silent and flickering. Two attrac - tive blond children, a boy and girl, staring intently into each other's eyes. The boy was holding something, something wriggling -
- a dragonfly, and he's
Claire looked away involuntarily, disgusted. The boy was pulling the wings off of the struggling insect, smil - ing, both of them smiling. "Steve!" Why wasn't he shouting anymore, where was he? She had the wrong room, must be. . .
"Claire? Claire, in here! Open the door!"
His voice was coming from behind the projection screen. Claire dashed across the room, searching the wall, absently aware that the towheaded children had dropped the tortured dragonfly into a container full of ants, were watching the crippled bug being stung to death. "What door, where?" Claire shouted, running anxious hands over the wall, pushing at a glass display case, pulling at the screen -
- and the screen raised up, disappearing into a slot. Behind it was a console, a keyboard, and six picture boxes in two rows of three, a switch beneath each one.
"Claire, do something, I'm burning up!"
"What do I do, how did you get in there? Steve!"
No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain -
- concentrate. Do it, now.
Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked, Steve would die.
There's no door. There's a console with boxes.
Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out an - other terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes, focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife, a gun, an airplane. . . They weren't all different, there were two guns, a semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches la - beled "C" and "E. " Nothing else matched, and her first thought was that it was like one of those grade-school tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her rea-soning, Claire reached out and flipped the two switches, the two boxes lighting up -
- and to her right, a display case slid out from the wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, bak - ing heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers.
Guess I picked the right boxes.
She leaned over him, trying to remember what the signs of heatstroke were - dizziness and nausea, she thought. "Are you okay?" Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then he grinned, and the illusion was lost. "What took you so long?" he cracked, pushing him-self to his feet. Claire straightened, scowling. "You're welcome. "
His grin softened and he ducked his head, pushing thick bangs away from his forehead. "Sorry. . . and I'm sorry about before, too. Thanks, seriously. "
Claire sighed. Just when she'd decided he was a total asshole, he decided to be nice. "And look what I got," he said, snapping both hand-guns up and aiming at one of the display cases. "They were hanging on a wall back there, fully loaded and everything. Cool, huh?"
She had to resist a sudden urge to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. He had nerve, she'd give him that, and he obviously had at least a few sur - vival skills. . . but did he not understand that he would have died, if she hadn't heard him calling for help?
This place is probably full of booby traps, too; how do I keep him from running off again?
She watched him pretend-shoot a bookshelf, won - dered absently if the whole macho tiling was just his way of dealing with fear - and a different approach sud - denly occurred to her, one that she thought might actu - ally work.
He wants to play Mr. Tough Guy, let him. Appeal to his ego. "Steve, I understand that you're not looking for a partner, but I am," she said, doing her best to look sin-cere. "I. . . I don't want to be alone out there. " She could actually see his chest puff out, and felt a huge sense of relief, knowing that it had worked before he said a word. She also felt a little guilty for manipulat - ing him, but only a little; this was for the best.
Besides, it's not lying, exactly. I really don't want to be alone out there. "I guess you could tag along," he said expansively. "I mean, if you're scared. "
She only smiled, teeth gritted, aware that if she opened her mouth to thank him, she didn't know what would come out. "And anyway, I know how to get us out of here," he added, his bluff manner slipping, his youthful enthusi - asm spilling out. "There's a little map under the counter at the front desk. According to that, there's a dock just west of here, and an airstrip somewhere past that. Which means we have a choice, but my piloting skills are a little iffy, so I vote cruise. We can go right now. "Maybe she had underestimated him a bit. "Really? Great, that's. . . " Claire trailed off. Rodrigo, she couldn't forget about Rodrigo, between the two of us we could probably get him to the dock. . . "Would you come with me back to the prison, first?" She asked. "The guy who let me out of my cell is back there, he's pretty badly wounded. . . "
&nbs
p; "One of the prisoners?" Steve asked, perking up. Uh-oh. She could lie, but he'd know the truth soon enough. "Urn, I don't think so. . . but he did let me go, and I kinda feel like I owe him. . . " Steve was frowning, and she quickly added, ". . . and it seems like the, uh, honorable thing to do, to at least get him a first-aid kit, you know?" He wasn't buying. "Forget it. If he's not a prisoner, he works for Umbrella, he deserves dick. Besides, they'll be sending troops in soon enough; it's their problem, let them deal with it. Now, are you coming or not?"
Claire met his gaze squarely, reading anger and hurt in his dark eyes, surely caused by Umbrella. She couldn't blame him for how he felt, but she didn't agree with him, either, not in Rodrigo's case. And there was no question in her mind that he would die before Um - brella showed if he didn't get help. "I guess not," she said. Steve turned away, took a few steps toward the door and then stopped, sighing heavily. He turned back, clearly exasperated. "There's no way I'm risking my neck to save an Umbrella employee, and no offense, but I think you're totally batshit for wanting to. . . but I'll wait for you, okay? Go give the guy a Band-Aid or whatever and then meet me at the dock. "
Surprised, Claire nodded. Less than she'd hoped for but more than she'd expected, particularly after his weird people-will-let-you-down rant -
- oh!
For the first time, it occurred to her why Steve might have said those things, why he was denying the trauma of what had happened, what was still happening. He was here by himself, after all. . . how could he not have abandonment issues? Claire smiled warmly at him, remembering how angry she'd felt as a child when her father had died. Being snatched away from one's family couldn't be much better. "It'll be nice to go home," she said gently. "I bet your parents will be glad. . . "
Steve's sneering interruption was immediate and ex - treme. "Look, come to the dock or not, but I'm not going to wait all day, got it?"
Startled, Claire nodded mutely, but Steve was already striding out of the room. She wished she hadn't said anything, but it was too late. . . and at least now she knew what not to say. Poor kid, he probably missed his parents like crazy. She'd have to try to be a little more understanding. With a last look around the strange little den, Claire started back toward the front door, wondering what to do about Rodrigo. Steve was right, Umbrella might al - ready have a team on the way, they could tend to him, but she meant to get him stabilized before she left. She needed to find a vial of that hemostatic liquid; she didn't know much about triage herself, but he had seemed to think it would help. She opened both of the other doors in the hallway on her way back to the lobby, stopping briefly at the first to gaze in at a number of portraits, some kind of pictorial history room for a family called Ashford. There was a shattered urn on the floor, but nothing else of interest. Behind the second door was an empty conference room, only a few scattered papers and si - lence. Claire stepped back into the front hall, deciding that she should probably try the upstairs before retracing her steps; just above the bridge to the prison - and wasn't she looking forward to crossing that creaking nightmare again - there'd been a door she'd bypassed in order to keep up with Steve's trail. . . A tiny red light on the floor caught her attention, like one of those laser pointer things, her geometry prof had used one. The small light jerked toward her and Claire looked up, followed a pencil-thin beam to. . . Gah! She dove for cover as the first shot bit into the tiles mere inches from where she'd stood, ceramic shards flying. She crashed behind one of the ornamental pillars as the second shot thundered through the lobby, shattering more tile. She scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself as tiny as possible, wondering if she'd actually seen what she'd thought she'd seen - a thin blond man with a rifle and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uni-form jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child's idea of what noble authority should wear. "My name is Alfred Ashford," a pinched, snobby voice called out. "I am the commander of this base and I demand that you tell me who you're working for!" What? Claire wished she had something brilliant to say, some snappy comeback, but she couldn't get any further than that. "What?" she asked loudly. "Oh, there's no point in your feigned ignorance," he continued, his jeering voice moving a little, as though he were descending the stairs. "Miss Claire Redfield. I know what you've been planning, I've known from the start, but you're not dealing with just anyone, Claire. Not when you're dealing with an Ashford. "
He actually tittered, a high, girlish giggle, and Claire was suddenly absolutely positive that he was a whacko, she was talking to a whacko.
Yeah, and keep hint talking, you don't want to lose his position. She could see the tiny red light flicker on the wall behind her, as he worked to keep the pillar in his sights. "Okay, ah, Alfred. What is it that I'm planning?" She jacked the action on her semi as quietly as possible, making sure there was a round in the chamber. It was as though she hadn't spoken. "Our legacy of profundity, supremacy, and innovation is beyond ques-tion," Alfred said haughtily. "We can trace our heritage to European royalty, my sister and I, and to some of the greatest minds in history. But then I don't suppose your masters told you that, did they?" My masters? "I don't have any idea what you're talk-ing about," Claire called out, watching the flickering red dot, deciding that she could dart a glance out from be - hind the pillar's other side, maybe get off a shot before he could target her. The longer Alfred talked, the more strongly she felt that meeting him face-to-face would be a bad idea. Dangerously mentally ill people were unpre - dictable at best. He'd mentioned a sister. . . the children in that movie, with the dragonfly? She didn't have proof, but her instincts shouted a resounding yes. It seemed he'd stayed the course, from creepy kid to creep.
"Of course, if you were willing to surrender yourself to me now," Alfred purred, "I might be persuaded to spare you your life. Providing that you confess to trea-son against your superiors. . . " Now!
Claire ducked her head around the pillar, gun up -
- and bam, wood and plaster exploded next to her face, the shot splintering the pillar's molding as she pulled back. She leaned heavily against the pillar, her breathing fast and gulping. If he'd been a hair more accurate. . . "Aren't you the fast little rabbit," Alfred said, his amusement unmistakable. "Or should I say rat? That's what you are, Claire, a rat. Just a rat in a cage. "
Again, that insane, unnatural giggle. . . but it was re-ceding, following him back up the stairs. Footsteps, and then a door closed, and he was gone.
Well, doesn't that round out things nicely? What's a biohazardous disaster without a crazy or two? It'd al - most be funny, if she wasn't so totally weirded out. Al - fred was a fruit loop. Claire waited a moment to be sure he was gone, then exhaled heavily, relieved but not relaxed. She wouldn't, couldn't relax until she was well away from Rockfort, leaving Umbrella and monsters and insanity far behind. God, but she was tired of this shit. She was a second year lit major, she liked dancing and motorcycles and a good latte on a rainy day. She wanted Chris, and she wanted to go home. . . and since neither of those seemed likely at the moment, she decided she'd settle for a good, solid nervous breakdown, complete with screams and floor-pounding hysterics. It was almost tempting, but that would have to wait, too. She sighed inwardly. Alfred had gone upstairs, so she thought she'd better check out that other door she'd passed back near the bridge, see if she could find some - thing for Rodrigo there. At least things probably won't get any worse, she thought dismally, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as she opened the front door. It felt so much like Raccoon City. . . but that had been a serious catastrophe, rather than an isolated disaster.
Big, fat difference. All of it bites.
Claire had no way of knowing that compared to what lay ahead, things hadn't even started to get bad.