Chapter Two
CLAIRE SNAPPED THE LIGHTER CLOSED AT the base of the covered stairs and took a deep breath, try - ing to psych herself up for whatever came next. The chill of the dark corridor behind her pressed at her back like an icy hand, but still she hesitated, the knife haft sweaty be - neath her fingers as she slipped the warm lighter into her vest pocket. She wasn't particularly looking forward to ascending into the unknown, but she had nowhere else to go, not unless she meant to go back to the cell. She could smell oily smoke, and she guessed that the flickering shadows at the top of the wide cement steps meant fire.
But what's up there? This is an Umbrella facility. . .
What if it was like Raccoon City, what if the attack on the island had unleashed a virus, or some of the animal abominations that Umbrella kept creating? Or was Rockfort only a prison for their enemies? Maybe the prisoners had rioted, maybe things had only been bad from Rodrigo's point of view. . . . . . maybe you could walk up the goddamn stairs and find out instead of guessing all day, hmm?
Her pulse thumping, Claire forced herself to take the first step up, vaguely wondering why movies always made it seem so easy, to bravely throw oneself into proba - ble danger. After Raccoon, she knew better. Maybe she didn't have much of a choice about what she had to do, but that didn't mean she wasn't scared. Considering the circumstances, only a complete moron wouldn't be afraid. She climbed slowly, opening her senses as new adren - aline flushed her system, replaying the brief glimpse she'd had of the small graveyard when the guards had led her through. No help there, she'd only seen a few headstones, remembered them as bizarrely ornate for a prison cemetery. There was definitely a fire close to the top of the stairs, but apparently not a big one - there was no heat filtering down, only a cool and humid breeze that carried the pervasive smoke smell. It seemed quiet, and as she neared the top, she heard drops of rain hiss-ing as they met the flames, an oddly comforting sound. As she emerged from the stairwell, she saw the source of the fire, only meters away. A helicopter had crashed, a large portion of it merrily burning amid a thick, smoking haze. To her left was a wall, another just past the flaming wreck; to her right, the open space of the cemetery, gloomy and shrouded by the increasing rain and the oncoming night. Claire squinted into the rainy dusk and made out a number of dark shapes, though none of them seemed to be moving; more headstones, she thought. A whisper of relief edged through her anxiety; whatever had hap - pened seemed to be over. Amazing, she thought, that she could possibly be re - lieved to be alone in a cemetery at night. Even six months ago, her imagination would have conjured up all sorts of horrible things. It appeared that ghosts and cursed souls just didn't cut it on the scary meter any - more, not after her run-ins with Umbrella. She took a right on the U-shaped path, moving slowly, remembering how she'd been led through the graveyard before being pushed to the stairs. She thought she could make out what looked like a gate past the line of graves in the center of the yard, or at least an open space in the far wall. . . . . . and suddenly she was flying, the sound of an ex - plosion behind her assaulting her ears, WHUMP, a wave of broiling heat throwing her into the mud. The wet twi - light was suddenly brighter, the reek of burning chemi - cals stinging her nose and eyes. She landed without grace but managed not to stab herself with the combat knife, all of it happening so fast that she barely had time to register confusion.
. . . don't think I'm hurt. . . helicopter's fuel tank must
have blown. . .
"Unnnh. . . "
Claire was on her feet instantly, the soft, pitiful, un - mistakable moan inspiring a near panic of action, the sound joined by another, and another. She spun around and saw the first one stumbling toward her from what was left of the burning helicopter, a man, his clothes and hair on fire, the skin of his face blistering and black. She turned again and saw two more of them crawling up from the mud, their faces a sickening gray-white, their skeletal fingers grasping in her direction, clutching air as they reeled toward her. Shit! Just as in Raccoon, Umbrella's viral synthesis had effectively turned them into zombies, stealing their humanity and their lives. She didn't have time for disbelief or dismay, not with three of them closing in, not when she realized that there were others farther along the path. They staggered out from the shadows, slack, brutalized faces all turning slowly toward her, mouths hanging open, their gazes blank and unchanging. Some wore shreds of uniforms, camo or plain gray, guards and prisoners. There had been a spill, after all.
"Uhhhh. . . " "Ohhh. . . "
The overlapping cries epitomized great longing, each plaintive wail that of a starving man looking at a feast. Goddamn Umbrella for what they'd done! It was be - yond tragic, the transformation from human into mind - less, dying creatures, decaying as they walked. The inevitable fate of each virus carrier was death, but she couldn't let herself mourn for them, not now, her pity limited by the need to survive.
Go go go NOW!
Her assessment and analysis lasted less than a second and then she was moving, no plan except to get away. With the path blocked in both directions, she leaped for the center of the graveyard, clambering over the marble slabs that marked the resting places of the true dead. Her wet, muddy jeans clung to her legs, hampering her, her boots slipping against the smooth headstones, but she managed to climb up and balance her weight between two of them, out of reach for the moment. For the second! You gotta get out of here, fast. The knife was no good, she didn't dare get close enough to use it - a single healthy bite from one of those things and she'd end up joining their ranks, if they didn't eat her first. The one with the blackened face was nearest, his hair melted away, part of his shirt still smoldering. He was close enough for her to smell the greasy, nauseating smell of burnt flesh, overlaid by the stench of the fuel that had cooked it. She had ten, fifteen seconds at most before he'd be close enough to grab for her. She shot a glance at the southeast corner of the yard, her arms out for balance. There were only two of them between her and the exit, but that was two too many, she'd never make it past both of them. She knew from Raccoon that they were slow, and that their reasoning skills were zip - they saw prey, they moved toward it in a straight line, regardless of what was in the way. If she could just bait them away from the gate. . .
Good idea, except there were too many on the ground, six or seven of them, she'd end up surrounded. . .
. . . but not if you stay on the headstones.
There were multiple zombies to either side of the cen - ter row of graves, but only one standing at the end of the line, directly in front of her. . . and that one barely func - tional, an eye gouged out, an arm broken and hanging. It was a risky plan, one stumble and she was toast, but the burned man was already reaching for her ankle with his charred and shaking hands, rain sizzling on his up-turned face. Claire leaped, arms wheeling as she landed with both feet on the narrow top of the next stone slab in line. She started to pitch forward, jerking and swiveling her body to maintain her center of gravity, but it was no good, she was going to fall -
- and without thinking, she quickly jumped again, then again, using the uneven stones like rocks in a river, using her lack of balance to propel her forward. An ashen-faced virus carrier snatched at her lower legs, moaning in feverish hunger, but she was already past it, leaping to the next headstone. She didn't have time to consider how she was going to stop, which was just as well - because the unlikely path ran out one jump later and her next leap was into a sloppy shoulder roll against the muddy ground a meter below. Oof, a hard drop, but she followed through and came up on her feet, just barely, her legs sliding unsteadily in the muck. The one-eyed zombie lurched toward her, gurgling, within easy reach, but she quickly stumbled around it, keeping on its blind side, the knife ready. The creature attempted to turn, to find its meal once more, but she easily stayed out of its limited sight. She risked a glance away from her awkward, shuf - fling dance and saw the other zombies closing in. The rain intensified, sluicing the mud off of her. It's working,
just another few seconds. . . Frustrated by its lack of success, the half-blinded car - rier pawed at the air with its one good arm. The dirty, blackened nails scraped across her chest and the zombie moaned anxiously, scrabbling at the wet denim, but it couldn't get a solid grip.
God, it's touching me.
With a wordless cry of fear and disgust Claire slashed out with the knife, deep, nearly bloodless cuts opening up across its wrist. The zombie continued to clutch at her, oblivious to the damage she was doing as it stag - gered closer, and Claire decided that it was time to leave. She pulled her arms back, hands fisted, and then drove them forward into the creature's chest, pushing as hard as she could. She turned again to the center line of graves as the creature fell backward, the others much closer now. How she managed to climb back up so quickly she didn't know; one second she was on the ground, the next she was on top of beveled granite. She saw that the exit was clear, the zombies now loosely grouped near the west wall. Her hopping second journey along the headstones was only slightly more controlled than the first, each leap like a leap of faith, that she wouldn't slip and seri-ously injure herself. The rain was tapering off, and she could hear the wet, sucking sounds of their plodding, slow-motion chase clearly; unless one of them suddenly remembered how to jog, they were too far away to catch up to her.
Now I just have to pray that the door isn't secured,
she thought dizzily, jumping down from the last head - stone. The gate was standing open, but the door just past it wasn't; if it turned out to be locked, she was probably doomed. Three giant strides from where she landed, she was through the gate and reaching for the handle of a dented metal door, the exit set into the stone wall. It clicked open smoothly and she held the knife ready, hoping that if there were more carriers on the other side, at least the odds might be better. Behind her, the chemical cannibals lamented their loss, moaning loudly as she stepped through. Some kind of courtyard, piled with pieces of random wreckage, overlooked by a low guard tower. There was an overturned transport vehicle to her left, a low fire burning inside. The night was coming on quickly but the moon was also rising, either full or close to it, and as she secured the door behind her, she could see there was no immediate danger - no zombies headed toward her, anyway. There were several bodies strewn about, none of them moving, and she mentally crossed her fingers that at least one of them had a gun and some ammo. A brilliant light suddenly snapped on, a spotlight on the guard tower, the force of it instantly blinding her and as she instinctively looked away, the whining chatter of automatic fire broke out, bullets splashing in the mud at her feet. Blind and panicked, Claire dove for cover, the random thought that she might have been bet - ter off in that cell repeating itself through her terror.
The fighting had been over for some time, the last gunshots maybe an hour past, but Steve Burnside thought he might stay where he was for a while, just in case. Besides, it was still raining a little, a bitter ocean wind picking up. The guard tower was safe and dry, no dead people and no zombies wandering around, and he'd be able to see anyone coming in plenty of time to head them off. . . with a little help from the machine gun mounted on the window ledge, of course, a seri - ously kick-ass weapon. He'd mowed down all the courtyard zombies without breaking a sweat. He had a handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he'd taken off one of the past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not quite as much.
So, hang here another hour or so, assuming it doesn 't start pouring again, then go find a way off this rock.
He thought he could handle a plane, he'd seen his. . . he'd been in cockpits often enough, but he thought a boat might be better - not as far to fall if he screwed the pooch, so to speak. Steve leaned casually against the cement window ledge, looking out over the moonlit courtyard, wonder - ing if he should try to find a kitchen before ditching out. The guards hadn't gotten around to serving lunch, being as how they were all dying, and it seemed they didn't stock the tower room with doughnuts or whatever, he'd already looked. He was starving.
Maybe I should head for Europe, get myself some in-ternational cuisine. I can go anywhere I want now, any-where at all. There's nothing holding me back.
The thought was supposed to get him excited for all the possibilities, but it didn't, it made him feel anxious and kind of weird, so he went back to considering his escape. The main gate that led out of the prison was locked down, but he figured if he searched enough guards, he'd find one of the emblem keys. He'd already run across the warden, the late Paul Steiner, but all his keys were gone. So was most of his face, Steve thought, not particularly unhappy about it. Steiner had been a serious dick, strutting around like he was King Turd of Shit Mountain, always smiling when another prisoner got led off to the infirmary. And nobody ever came back from the infirmary -
- snick.
Steve froze, staring at the metal door straight across from the tower. The graveyard was on the other side, and he knew for a fact it was full of zombies, he'd sneaked a look right after plugging the courtyard corpses. Jesus, could they open doors? They were walk - ing vegetables, mush brains, they weren't supposed to be able to open doors, and if they could do that, what else were they capable of. . .
. . . don't panic. You've got the machine gun, remember?
All of the other prisoners were dead. If it was a per-son, he or she was no friend of his. . . and if it wasn't human, or was a zombie, he'd be putting it out of its misery. Either way, he wasn't going to hesitate, and he wasn't going to be afraid. Fear was for pussies. Steve grabbed for the searchlight handle with his right hand, his left already on the trigger guard of the heavy black rifle. As the door swung open, he swal - lowed dryly and snapped the light on, firing as soon as he had the target piimed down. The weapon rattled out a stream of bullets, the handle jouncing against his hand, rounds kicking up tiny foun - tains of mud. He caught a glimpse of something pink, a shirt maybe, and then his target was diving out of the line of fire, moving way too fast to be one of the canni - bals. He'd heard about some of the monsters Umbrella had cooked up and machine gun or no, he hoped to God he wasn't about to meet one of them. I'm not afraid, I'm not. . . He tracked right with the searchlight and kept firing, a sudden anxious sweat on his brow. The person or thing was behind the protruding wall near the base of the tower, out of sight, but if he couldn't kill it, he could at least scare it away. Cement chips flew, the high-intensity beam illuminating the lower half of a dead prison guard, mud, and debris, but no target. . . . . . and there was a lightning flash of motion from be - hind the wall, a glimpse of pale, upturned face. . . BAM! BAM! BAM!. . . and the searchlight shattered, white-hot chunks of glass spraying across the tower room floor. Steve let out an involuntary yell as he jumped back from the machine gun, somebody was shooting at him, and he didn't care if it was pussy, he was about to shit his pants. "Don't shoot!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "I give!" It was dead silent for a few seconds, and then a cool female voice came out of the dark, low and somehow amused.
"Say Uncle. "
Steve blinked uncertainly, confused and then re - membered how to breathe again, feeling his cheeks go red as the fear fell away.
"I give," that was totally lame. So much for first im-pressions. "I'm coming down," he said, relieved that his voice didn't break this time, deciding that anyone who could make a joke after being shot at couldn't be all bad. If she was the enemy, he had the 9mm. . . but friendly or not, there was no way he was going to ask her not to shoot again, that would just make him look worse.
And it's a girl. . . maybe a pretty one. . .
He did his best to ignore the thought, no point in get-ting his hopes up. For all he knew, she was ninety-eight, bald, and smoked cigars. . . but even if she wasn't, even if she was a total hottie, he didn't want to end up taking responsibility for any life besides his own, screw that shit. He was free now. Having someone count on you was almost as bad as having to depend on others. . . The thought was uncomfortable, and he pushed it aside. Anyway, the circumstances w
eren't exactly ro - mantic, what with a bunch of diseased monsters running wild and death around every corner. Gross, slimy death, too, the kind with maggots and pus. Steve took the steps to the courtyard two at a time, his eyes adjusting to the post-searchlight dark as he stepped out to meet her. She stood in the center of the courtyard, a gun in hand. . . and as he got closer, it was all he could do not to stare. She was muddy and wet and about the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, her face like a model's, big eyes and fine, even features. Reddish hair in a dripping ponytail. An inch or two shorter than him, and about the same age, he thought - he'd be eighteen in a couple of months, and she couldn't be much older. She wore jeans, boots, and a sleeveless pink vest over a tight black half tee, her flat stomach showing, the entire outfit ac - centuating her lean, athletic body. . . and although she looked tired and wary, her gray-blue eyes sparkled brightly.
Say something cool, play it cool no matter what. . .
Steve wanted to tell her he was sorry about firing at her, to tell her who he was and what had happened dur - ing the attack, to say something suave and worldly and interesting. . . "You're not a zombie," he blurted, inwardly cursing even as it came out. Brilliant. "No shit," she said mildly, and he suddenly realized that her weapon was pointing at him, she held it low, but she was definitely aiming it. Even as he froze she took a step back and raised the gun, watching him closely, her finger under the trigger guard and the muz - zle only inches from his face. "And who the hell are you?"
The kid smiled. If he was nervous, he was doing a good job of not letting it show. Claire didn't take her fin - ger off the trigger, but she was already half convinced that he was no threat to her. She'd shot out the light, but he easily could have strafed the yard and taken her down. "Relax, beautiful," he said, still smiling. "My name's Steve Burnside, I'm. . . I was a prisoner here. " "Beautiful?" Oh, great. Nothing annoyed her more than being patronized. On the other hand, he was obvi-ously younger than her, which probably meant he was just trying to assert his maleness, to be a man rather than a boy. In her experience, there were few things more ob - noxious than someone trying to be something they weren't. He looked her up and down, obviously checking her out, and she took another step back, the gun unwavering; she wasn't going to take any chances. The weapon was an M93R, an Italian 9mm, an excellent handgun and appar - ently standard issue for the prison guards; Chris had one of them. She'd found it after diving for cover, next to the dead, outstretched fingers of a man in uniform. . . and if she shot the young Mr. Burnside with it at this range, most of his handsome face would be on the ground. He looked like an actor she'd seen before, the lead in that movie about the sinking ship; the resemblance was striking. "I'm guessing you're not from Umbrella, either," he said casually. "I'm sorry about opening up on you like that, by the way. I didn't think there was anyone else alive around here, so when the door opened. . . " He shrugged. "Anyway," he said, cocking an eyebrow, obviously trying to be charming. "What's your name?" There was no way Umbrella had hired this kid, she was more sure of it with each word out of his mouth. She slowly lowered the semiautomatic, wondering why Umbrella would want to imprison someone so young. They wanted to imprison you, remember? She was only nineteen. "Claire, Claire Redfield," she said. "I was brought here as a prisoner just today. " "Talk about timing," Steve said, and she had to smile a little at that; she'd been thinking the same thing herself. "Claire, that's a nice name," he continued, looking into her eyes. "I'll definitely remember that. " Oh, brother. She wondered if she should shut him down now or later - she and Leon had gotten pretty tight - and decided that later might be better. There was no question that she'd have to take him with her to look for an escape, and she didn't want to deal with his re-proach along the way.
"Well, much as I'd like to hang around, I've got a plane to catch," he said, sighing melodramatically. "As-suming I can find one. I'll look for you before I take off. Be careful, this place is dangerous. "
He started toward a door next to the guard tower, di-rectly opposite from the one she'd come through.
"Catch you later. "
She was so surprised that she almost couldn't find her voice in time. Was he nuts, or just stupid? He was at the door before she spoke up, jogging after him.
"Steve, wait! We should stick together. . . "
He turned and shook his head, his expression in-credibly condescending. "I don't want you follow-ing me, okay? No offense, but you'll just slow me down. "
He smiled winningly again, working the eye contact as hard as he could. "And you'd definitely be a distrac-tion. Look, just keep your eyes and ears open, you'll be fine. "
He was through the door and gone before she could say anything. Dumbfounded and thoroughly annoyed, she watched the door settle closed, wondering how he had survived so far. His attitude suggested that he thought this was just one big video game, where he couldn't possibly get hurt or killed. It appeared that sheer bravado counted for something. . . the one thing teenaged boys seemed to have in abundance.
That and testosterone.
If being perceived as cool was his main concern, he wasn't going to make it very far. She had to go after him, she couldn't leave him to die. . .
Arroooooooo. . .
The terrible, lonely, ferocious sound that suddenly shattered the still night was one she'd heard before, in Raccoon City, and it was coming from behind the door that Steve had just gone through. There was no mistak - ing it for anything else. A dog, infected by the T-virus, turned from a domestic animal into a ruthless killer. After a fast search of the dead guards in the court-yard, she had two more full clips and part of a third. As ready as she was going to get, Claire took a few deep breaths and then slowly pushed the door open with the 9mm's barrel, hoping that Steve Burnside would stay lucky until she found him. . . and that by meeting him, her own luck hadn't just taken a serious turn for the worse.