Chapter Thirteen
THINGS FELL TO SHIT PRETTY FAST WHEN HE finally reached the island. Chris stood at the top of the cliff in the early night, catching his breath and soundly cursing himself. Every-thing had been in that bag - weapons and ammo, rap - pelling equipment so they could get back down to the boat, flashlight, a basic first-aid kit, everything.
Not everything. You 've still got three grenades on your belt, his mind told him brightly. Terrific. Halfway up the cliff he loses his grip and drops the bag into the deep blue sea, but it appeared he still had his sense of humor.
Yeah, that'll go a long way toward saving Claire's life. Barry was right. I should have brought backup.
Well. He could stand around all goddamn day wish - ing things were different, or he could get moving; he picked moving. Chris hunched over and stepped into the low cave en-trance he'd chosen to start at, an isolated area but defi-nitely connected to the rest of the compound - there was a radio antenna on the ledge outside, and when he straightened up a few steps later, he was inside a large, open room, the walls and ceiling organic but the floor
carefully leveled. There was light somewhere ahead, and Chris started for it, keeping his fingers crossed that he wasn't about to walk into an Umbrella Military dinner. He doubted it. From what he'd seen of the island, the attack Claire had mentioned had been excessively brutal. He was less than a dozen steps into the shadowychamber when a small tremor shook the cave, spilling rock dust and pebbles over his head - and closing the cave entrance he'd just walked through, collapsing rock having a fairly distinctive sound. It seemed the island at - tack had made things a bit unstable. "Oh, wonderful," he muttered, but was suddenly a bit happier about the grenades. Not that they would help much here. Even if he could blow the mouth without bringing all of it down, it was still too high to jump, and the rope had been in the bag; unless she'd been taking lessons, Claire wasn't a good enough rock climber to go down unassisted. . . "What?" someone rasped, and Chris dropped into a defensive crouch, searching the shadows. . . . . . and saw a man on the cave floor, slumped against the wall. He wore a tattered white T-shirt with blood on it, his pants and boots military - he was one of Um - brella's, and not in very good shape. Nevertheless, Chris stepped quickly to his side, ready to kick the shit out of him if he so much as sneezed. "I didn't know anyone was still around," the man said weakly, and coughed a little. "Thought I was the last one. . . after the self-destruct. "
He coughed again, obviously not far away fromdeath. His words sank in, creating a lead ball in Chris's stomach. Self-destruct?He crouched down, trying to keep his voice level.
"I'm here looking for a girl, her name is Claire Redfield.
Do you know where she is?"
At the sound of Claire's name, the man smiled, though not at Chris. "An angel. She's gone, escaped. I helped her. . . let her go. She tried to save me, but it was too late. "Hope bloomed anew. "Are you sure she got away?"The dying man nodded. "Heard the planes leave. Saw a jet come out of the basement, under the. . . " a cough, ". . . the tank. You should go, too. Nothing left here. "
Chris could feel some of his stress and fear ebbing away, tensions in his neck and back releasing. If she was gone, she was safe. "Thank you for helping her," he said sincerely. "What's your name?" "Raval. Rodrigo Raval. " "I'm Claire's brother, Chris," he said. "Let me help you, Rodrigo, it's the least I can do and. . . "
Eeaaaaaaa!
A deafening animal cry filled the cave, and at the same instant, another tremor struck, a bad one, the ground shaking so hard that Chris was thrown off his feet. . . . . . and earth erupted, what Chris thought was an explo-sion at first, a fountain of dirt and rock spraying upward, but it kept rising, and Chris could see thick, filth-coated slime beneath it, could smell sulfur and decay, saw a huge cylinder made of rubber still climbing -
- and then it shrieked again, the top of the cylinder twisting around, wormy tentacles peeling back from a yawning, howling throat, and Chris scrambled to his feet, grabbing a grenade from his belt. . . . . . and the giant, shrieking snake-worm came crash - ing down, mouth open. . . . . . and swallowed Rodrigo whole before slamming into the sandy soil where he'd been sitting. It dove into the ground like a swimmer into water, its impossibly long body arching over, following through.
Jesus!
Chris stumbled away as the ground continued to quake, the burrowing creature kicking up rock and dirt and sand all around him, and he realized that he had to kill it or get away fast, that it could easily come up be - neath him for another quick snack. He ran to the outer wall of the cave, making a split second plan as the snake-worm burst up through the ground behind him, its insane mouth peeling open as it hesitated at the top of its arch, ready to plunge down over him, rocks falling all around -
- and Chris pulled the safety ring off the grenade, stripping the tape and pin away, and ran, straight for the creature's lower body where it emerged from the ground.
Crazy, this is crazy. . .
He ducked just before hitting the filthy, muscular body and set the grenade on the ground in front of it, on the run, as careful as he could be not to set it off - and then dived for cover behind the snake-worm's twisting body, tucking into a shoulder roll, covering his head as the animal started downward, shrieking. . . . . . and BOOM, the explosion shook the ground even harder than the animal had, the shriek cut off, the grenade blast muffled by a half ton of worm guts that shot out in all directions, stinking and warm, painting the walls of the cave hi viscous bucket loads. Chris rolled on his back, drenched, watched the front half of the animal convulse and writhe, already dead - and as its muscles and reflexes clenched and released for the last time, the snake-worm expelled a gush of stomach acid and rock from its gaping maw, vomiting out its last meal.
Rodrigo!
Before the massive corpse had completely settled to the ground, Chris was at Rodrigo's side, horrified and helpless, the man seizing in shock and pain. He was coated in yellow bile, and Chris could see places where it had already burned through his skin. Rodrigo let out a soft cry, too weak to scream in what had to be incredible pain, and Chris tore his own jacket off, wiping his face clean of the sticky, acidic fluid.
"You're going to be okay, just relax, don't try to talk,"
Chris said, fully aware that Rodrigo would be dead in minutes, perhaps seconds. He kept talking, kept his tone soothing in spite of his own dismay. Rodrigo opened his eyes, and though they were full of suffering, they also had the wet, glassy, faraway look of someone leaving it all behind, someone about to be free of pain and fear. "Right. . . pocket. . . " Rodrigo whispered. "The an-gel. . . gave. . . for luck. "
Rodrigo took a slow, deep breath, and let it out just as slowly, an exhalation that seemed to go on forever, and then he was gone. Chris automatically closed his half-open eyes, simul - taneously sad and relieved at Rodrigo's passing, the end of a life but also an end to dying.
Rest, friend.
Sighing, Chris reached into Rodrigo's pocket, felt skin-warmed metal - and pulled out the scuffed, heavy old lighter that he'd given to Claire himself, a long time ago. For luck. Chris held it to his chest, suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of love for his sister. She'd carried the lighter with her everywhere for years, but had given it up to ease the mind of a dying man, possibly one of the men responsi - ble for her capture. He slipped it into his pocket and stood, glad that he'd be able to give it back to her - and to tell her that she'd made a difference in Rodrigo's last hours, that he'd smiled upon hearing her name. Even though Claire didn't need to be rescued, Chris's trip to the island had already turned out to be worthwhile. The stink of the splattered cave was getting to him, and now that he knew his sister was safe, all that was left was to get himself home. His entrance had been caved in, and he didn't have a decent weapon, but if someone had triggered Umbrella's self-destruct sys - tem - it seemed that all their illegal facilities were built with such failsafes in place, a fine way to destroy evi - dence if
anything went wrong - then he shouldn't run into too much trouble looking for the tank that Rodrigo had mentioned, see if there was another jet to be had. "No going back," he said softly, and with a final silent prayer for Rodrigo to find peace, he went to see what he could find.
There was a fight about to happen on one of the mon - itors in what was left of the control room, and Albert Wesker, frustrated by a day of fruitless searching and not looking forward to yet another long flight, pulled up a crate and sat down to watch. He'd already sent the boys back to the world, he was alone - except it ap - peared that he'd missed somebody, and said somebody was still wandering around the island. . . . . . but not for much longer, he thought happily, wish - ing the reception was better; thanks to that lonesome loser, Alfred Ashford, the self-destruct system had screwed everything up. . . and finally, something inter - esting was actually going to happen.
Christ, he's unarmed!
Crazy or stupid or totally ignorant of what the island was, no question. Wesker grinned. The unarmed man was walking through the training facility just one floor below, and he was about to meet up with one of Um - brella's newer bio-organics, one that had been trapped down in the sewers until Wesker had shown up and set it free. They were one hallway apart; when the dumbass turned the next corner, he was dead. Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, pleasantly diverted from his own troubles. Sweepers, Umbrella was calling the new monsters, but they were basically Hunters with poison claws - huge, primarily amphibious, violent as hell. In Wesker's opinion, the Hunters, the 121 series, were perfectly badass without the extra poison touch.
But isn't that just like Umbrella, always wasting re-sources, playing games when they could be winning wars.
Yes, it was, but there was about to be bloodshed. Wesker set aside his distaste for the company and leaned in to watch. The weaponless idiot - a tall guy with reddish-brown hair, that was about all the static would allow - was two steps from disaster, the Sweeper waiting just around the corner. . . when he stopped and backed up a step, press-ing himself against the damaged wall. Wesker frowned. The man started to back up, slowly and carefully, still hugging the wall. Okay, maybe not a complete idiot. He'd made it halfway back down the corridor he'd come through when the Sweeper finally got impatient, deciding to take action. There was no sound system left, but the creature had thrown back its head and was scream - ing, that weird, trilling screech floating up to Wesker through the ruined building just a split second later. "Get him," Wesker breathed eagerly, looking back at the poor, doomed dumbass. . . just in time to see him throwing something, something small and dark, the Sweeper leaping out from behind the corner, still screaming, the object landing at its feet. . . . . . and the building was shaking, the screens going white and then black, the deep thunder of explosives rumbling through the floor. Wesker was astounded. And then furious. That crea-ture had been a miracle of science, a warrior created for battle - who was this dick who'd just rambled in and blown it to shit? A dead dick, Wesker thought darkly, pushing the crate away and heading for the stairs. He took them two at a time, carefully bypassing a few still burning fires, aware that he was channeling all his frustrations and upsets to-ward the unknown soldier and not particularly caring. Alexia wasn't at Rockfort, which meant he had to get his ass to the Antarctic of all places, to the only other fa - cility she might be at; why else would Alfred have gone there? And if Wesker didn't get to her before she woke up, he might have to go home empty handed. . . all of which added up to failure, and if there was one thing Wesker hated, it was losing. He marched through the crumbling leftovers of the training facility, reaching the hall he wanted, silencing his steps as he edged farther along. There was still smoke in the air when he reached the corner where the conflict had taken place, but little left of the Sweeper. Most of it was stuck to the walls and ceiling. There, ahead and to the left; he could smell the in - truder, could smell sweat and anxiety emanating from the small working lab to which he'd retreated. This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, he thought, his mood lifting somewhat at the thought of a little personal interaction. Not wanting to get blown up, Wesker didn't hesitate, didn't give the guy a chance to get paranoid. He strode into the room, saw the soon-to-be corpse standing with his back turned, and moved. Moved the way only he could move - one second, he was walking through the door, the next, he was spinning the intruder around, lift-ing him by his throat. . . . . . and then looking into the startled face of Chris Redfield.
Oh, my.
Chris, who'd been on the Raccoon S. T. A. R. S. , who'd been led - under Wesker's command - to the Spencer es - tate, where he'd proceeded to thoroughly screw up Wesk - er's plans. Chris Redfield had cost him money, had almost cost him his life - but worst of all, he had been primarily responsible for the biggest failure in Wesker's career.
Wesker recovered himself quickly, a dark, wonderful joy spreading through his entire body. "Chris Redfield, as I live and breathe - what brings you to Rockfort, if you don't mind me. . . "
Wesker trailed off, still gazing up into Redfield's in - creasingly red face as he uselessly pried at Wesker's fin - gers. The girl, of course! He hadn't even known that Chris had a sister, but the deranged letter that Alfred Ashford had so thoughtfully left behind explained everything. . . including his plans for the young Claire Redfield. "She's not here," Wesker said, grinning. With his free hand, he straightened his sunglasses. "You. . . you're dead," Chris gasped, and Wesker grinned wider, not bothering to respond to such a stupid statement.
"Don't change the subject, Chris. Don't you want to know where Claire is, hmmm? Did you know that her plane took a little unplanned detour to the Antarctic?"
Chris was slowly choking to death, but Wesker could see that the news of his sister was hitting him harder than his own imminent demise. Wonderful! "There are experiments being performed there,"
Wesker mock-whispered, as if telling him a secret.
"I plan on going myself, see if I can get an experiment or two of my own going. . . tell me, is your sister good-looking? Do you think she might be interested in get-ting some action, because I've got a hard-on like you wouldn't believe. . . "
Chris flailed at Wesker, the helpless fury in his eyes absolutely gorgeous. He hit Wesker in the face, knock - ing his sunglasses to the ground. . . and Wesker laughed, blinking up at him slowly, letting him see. He still wasn't used to it himself, the gold-red cat's eyes oc - casionally surprising him when he looked in a mirror and they had exactly the effect he'd hoped for. "What. . . are you?" Chris rasped out. "I'm better, that's what," Wesker said. "New employ-ers, you know. After the Spencer estate, I needed a little help getting back on my feet, which they were perfectly willing to provide. You think Claire will like it?" "Monster," Chris spat. I'll show you monster, you shit.
Wesker started to close his hand, slowly, watching Chris's eyes bulging, a vein on his forehead popping out. . . . . . and was stopped by the sound of laughter. Cool, fe - male laughter, filling the room, surrounding them. "Don't you want to play with me?" a voice said, the same woman, low and sexy and dangerous, and then she began to laugh again, an unmerciful, beautiful sound that finally trailed away to nothing.
Alexia!
God, she was awake. . . and the kind of power it would take for her to look in on him here, to project her - self so far. . . Wesker threw Chris to one side, barely hearing the plaster wall crack beneath his useless skull, his thoughts full of Alexia. He had to go to her immediately. He had to have her, and not just for the sample. . . though he'd take what he could get. "I'm coming," he said, scooping up his sunglasses and then moving, speeding through the broken facility to where his private plane waited. Chris Redfield was his past; Alexia Ashford meant his future. Chris crawled to his feet soon after Wesker left, aching in about a dozen places, his throat horribly sore. He didn't know what had happened, exactly, didn't know who the woman was or why Wesker had seemed so eager to get to her - but he understood now who had attacked Rockfort, and suspected t
he reason. Albert Wesker should have died when the Spencer mansion had burned, but it seemed he'd sold his soul to someone new at the price of his life, someone obviously as nasty and amoral as Umbrella - someone who was perfectly willing to kill for whatever it was they wanted, for something that Umbrella had. Chris didn't care. At the moment, all he cared about was Claire, and getting himself to this Antarctica facil - ity. He knew that Umbrella had a legitimate base there. . . it had to be the same one, and if it wasn't, somebody there would know where the experiments were taking place. He had one grenade left. If he could find the under-ground airport, he'd have no trouble getting inside, and he could fly anything with wings. He'd radio on the way for a read on the Umbrella base, and if he couldn't find a weapon to get her out, he'd use his bare hands. All that mattered was Claire. And he was on his way.