Chapter Five
THE ALLEGED DOCK WASN'T REALLY A DOCK at all, much to Steve's disappointment, and there wasn't a boat in sight. He'd expected a long pier with pilings and seagulls, all that shit, and a half dozen ships to choose from, each of them stocked with full pantries and soft beds. Instead, he'd found a tiny, grungy platform that sat over an unpleasantly gray lagoonish area, pro - tected from the ocean by a ridge of jagged rock that he could barely make out in the dark. There was a pulpit kind of thing with a ship's steering wheel stuck on it at the edge of the platform, probably some dumbass "mon - ument to the sea" or whatever, a decrepit table with some trash on it, and a ratty, moldy old life jacket heaped in a corner, the once bright orange stained to a murky mus - tard color. Nothing bigger than a canoe was ever going to dock at this particular pier; in a word, lame.
Great. So how did all those people get off the island, backstroke? And if there's an air strip, where the hell is it?
Bad enough that now he had to find another escape, he'd also told Claire that he'd meet her here. He couldn't just take off, but he didn't want to stand around waiting, either.
You could still ditch her.
Steve scowled, irritably kicking at a rusted-out hunk of random machinery. Maybe she was a little nosy, a lit - tle naive. . . but she'd saved his ass, no question, and her wanting to go back to help some wounded Umbrella hand just because he'd set her free - that was. . . well, it was nice, it was a nice thing to do. Leaving her behind didn't seem right. Not sure what to do next, he walked over to the mounted steering wheel (wasn't there some kind of sailor name for it, one of those port-starboard-ahoy words? He didn't know. ) and gave it a spin, surprised at how smoothly it turned considering how crappy the rest of the "dock" was. . . . . . and with a low mechanical hum, the platform be - neath his feet abruptly detached from the rest and slid out over the water, as giant bubbles started to break the water's surface in front of him. Christ! Steve held on to the wheel with one hand, pointed one of the gold Lugers at the rising bubbles with the other. If it was one of Umbrella's creatures, it was about to be breathing hot lead. . . . . . and a small submarine rose up out of the water like a dark, metal fish, the hatch conveniently popping open directly in front of his feet. A runged ladder led down into the sub, which appeared to be empty. Unlike the worn-out surroundings, the little sub looked sturdy and well-maintained. Steve stared at it, astounded. What was this shit? It was like some theme park ride, so weird that he wasn't sure what to think.
Is it any weirder than anything else I've dealt with today?
Point taken. The map he'd looked at back at the man - sion had been vague, just a couple of arrows and the words dock and airstrip. . . and apparently you had to take a submarine ride to get there. Umbrella was one messed up company. He stepped down onto the top rung and then hesi-tated, his skin still red from the last unknown he'd stepped into. He didn't want to drown any more than he'd wanted to get baked alive.
Ah, screw it, won't know 'til you try.
Again, point taken. Steve climbed down the ladder, and when he stepped off, he triggered a pressure plate in the floor of the sub. Above him, the hatch closed. He quickly stepped on it again, and the hatch reopened. It was good to know he wouldn't suffocate, at least. The interior of the submarine was very plain, maybe as big as a large bathroom, bisected by the narrow lad - der. There was a small padded bench on one side, the rear of the sub, and a simple control console in front. "Let's see what we got here," Steve muttered, step - ping up to the controls. They were ridiculously simple, a single lever with two settings - the handle was currently next to the upper setting, marked "main. " The lower set - ting was marked "transport," and Steve grinned, amazed that it could be this easy. Talk about user-friendly.
He tapped the pressure plate again, sealing the hatch, wondering if Claire would be impressed by his discov - ery as he pulled the lever down. He heard a soft metallic fhunk and then the submarine was moving, descending. There was a single porthole, but it was too dark to see anything besides a few rising bubbles. The anticlimactic ride was over in about ten seconds. The sub seemed to stop moving, and he heard a sharper metallic sound coming from the hatch, like it was brush - ing against something - definitely not an underwater sound. Onward and upward. The hatch opened as he started to climb the ladder, gun firmly in hand. . . and he stepped out onto a metal platform walled in glass or plexi, surrounded by black water on either side. There were a few steps leading down to a well-lit hallway, where only the left-hand wall was made out of water. Yees. It was like the displays at some aquariums, where you could go through an underwater tunnel, look at the fish. He'd never liked those things, finding it way too easy to imagine the glass breaking just as a shark de - cided to cruise by. . . or something worse. Enough of that. Steve stepped down into the hall and followed it around two bends, deliberately staring straight ahead. It was the first time since the attack on the island that he'd felt really nervous - not so much claustrophobia as a kind of primal fear, that something would come flashing out of the dark water toward the glass, an animal or something else - a pale hand, per - haps, or maybe a dead, white face pressing against the window, smiling at him. . . He couldn't help it. He broke into a run, and when the corridor met a door that apparently led away from the water room, he called himself pussy but was vastly re - lieved, anyway. He pushed the door open - and saw two, three. . . . . . four zombies in all, and all of them suddenly quite eager for his company. Each of them turned and began to limp or stagger toward him, the rags of their clothing - Um - brella uniforms, no question - hanging from their out - stretched arms. There was a smell like dead fish. "Unnnh," one of them moaned, and the others chimed in, the wails strangely gentle in a way, kind of sad and lost-sounding. Considering what Umbrella had put him through, he didn't feel a whole lot of sympathy. None, in fact. The room was half-split by a wall, the three zombies on the left unable to see the lone ranger on the right. . . though maybe they could, he thought, peering closer. Each of the trio had eyes that seemed to glow, a strange dark red. They reminded him of a movie he'd seen once, about a man with super X-ray vision, who saw all kinds of shit. Guess we'll never know what they see. Steve took aim at the nearest, closed one eye, and bam, right through the ol' frontal lobe, a clean hole appearing in its gray - green forehead like magic. The creature's red eyes seemed to fade and go out as it dropped, first to its knees, then flat down on its face, sploosh. Gross. The zombie's comrades took no notice, kept coming. The lone ranger's progress had been stopped by a desk; he continued to walk anyway, apparently not noticing that he wasn't going anywhere. Steve took out the next in line same as the first, a one shot kill, but for some reason, he didn't feel all that great about it. Shooting them down like that. It hadn't both - ered him before, back at the prison - then it had felt good, powerful even; he'd been stuck in that hellhole for long enough to be pretty righteously pissed, and having some control again had been like Christmas, like a great, big, Christmas present that some little kid had been waiting for all year, like he used to wait. . . Shut up. Steve didn't want to think about it, it was bullshit. So he didn't feel like clapping every time he wasted another one of them, so what? All it meant was that he was getting bored. He hurriedly shot the last two, the shots seeming louder than before, practically deafening. A quick look around for anything useful - if paper clips and dirty old coffee mugs were useful, he was sitting pretty - and he was ready to move on. There were two doors on the back wall, one on either side of the room; he picked left on general principles. He'd read somewhere that when given a choice, most people picked right. After checking his ammo, he walked past a big, empty fish tank that dominated the left side of the room and cautiously pushed the door open, taking in as much as he could in a single glance. Dark, cavernous, smells of salt water and oil, nothing moving. He stepped inside, sweeping with the Luger. . . . . . and laughed out loud, a rash of pure joy washing through his system as his laugh echoed back at him. It was a seaplane hanga
r, and there was one big-ass sea-plane sitting right in front of him. Big to him, anyway, he'd mostly flown in a little twin-engine private plane. Thoroughly pleased, Steve walked toward the plane, which sat just below the mesh platform under his feet. He was an inexperienced pilot, but figured he probably knew enough not to crash the thing.
First things first, board her and check fuel, general condition, learn the controls. . .
He stopped at the edge of the platform and looked down, frowning. He was at least ten feet above the front hatch, which looked to be locked down tight. There was a bank of machinery to his left, a few pan - els lit up. Steve walked over and looked at them, smiling when he saw a control to power up the boarding lift. The system should also open the plane door, according to the tiny diagram. "Presto," he said, flipping the switch. A loud and grat-ing mechanical noise bellowed through the giant hangar, making him wince, but it stopped after a few seconds, as a two-man lift slid to a halt at the platform's edge. He stepped onto the lift, studied the standing control panel - and started to curse, every bad word he could think of, twice. Next to a trio of hexagonally shaped spaces were the words, "insert proof keys here. " No keys, no power.
They could be anywhere on the whole goddamn is-land! And what are the chances that all goddamn three of them will be goddamn together?
He took a deep breath, made himself calm down a lit - tle, and spent the next few minutes figuring out how the plane's controls were hooked up to the rest of the sys - tem, looking for a way to bypass the keys. And after a careful, thoughtful deliberation, he started cursing again. When he finally got tired of that, he resigned himself to the inevitable. Steve turned around and started to search the area, peering into every dark crevice, formulating theories about where the proof keys might be as he ran his hands over the greasy, dust-slimed machinery cabinets - and he decided that he was definitely going to dance all over the bones of the next Umbrella employee he gunned down, just for working at such an unnecessarily compli - cated place. Keys and emblems and proofs and sub - marines; it was a wonder they ever got shit done.
The virus carrier was wearing a lab coat and its lower jaw had fallen off somewhere, or been broken off; it gur - gled and spluttered horribly, its wormy tongue flopping limply across its neck. Claire couldn't tell if it had been a man or woman, although she supposed it didn't really matter. As pitiful as it was revolting, she put it out of its misery with a single shot to the temple and then searched the area - working laboratory office, small in - ventory room - before stepping back into the hall, dis - couraged at her overwhelming lack of success. The entrance she'd walked back to from the mansion had opened up into a reasonably big courtyard, hard packed dirt and totally utilitarian - more like the prison than the palace, although even after searching a few rooms, she still couldn't figure out where she was, ex - actly; some kind of testing facility, maybe, or a training ground for guards or soldiers. Maybe just a building designed to destroy hope, she thought blackly, looking toward the front door. She'd walked in maybe ten minutes ago, hoping that Rodrigo wasn't already dead, that Steve had found a boat, that Mr. Psycho Ashford and his sister weren't planning to blow up the island - and in just ten minutes, those hopes had been thoroughly stomped on. All she really wanted now was a goddamn bottle of medicine, because then she'd be one step closer to leaving. She'd tried the upstairs first, undergoing an exciting lit - tle adventure that had shaved a few years off her age. All she'd found up there was a small, locked lab with a lot of broken glass on the floor, from what appeared to be rup - tured holding tanks. She'd seen the damage through an observation window, and had been about to leave when some poor, bloody guy in an environmental suit threw himself at the glass. It had been his dying act; the suit ob - viously hadn't done him much good, his head had practi - cally exploded, coating the inside of his helmet with gore. It hadn't done her heart much good, either, scaring her half to death, and the whole upstairs experience had been topped off by an emergency shutter lockdown, apparently triggered by the suit guy. She'd practically had to hurl herself down the stairs to avoid being trapped.
Whee.
Nine zombies she'd had to put down so far, three of them in lab coats or scrubs, and not even a cotton swab to show for it. Nothing in the locker room - and she'd looked through practically every damned one of the lockers, turning up jockstraps and porn, but little else, nothing in the odd little shower room, zip and zilch. She'd have thought that a pharmaceutical company might actually have a few Pharmaceuticals lying around, but it was looking more doubtful by the mo - ment. Claire walked back to the long hall that branched off from the building's first floor, that opened into an out - door courtyard. She'd hoped to find something for Rod - rigo without having to leave the building proper, but there was no help for it.
If I get lost, I can just follow the trail of corpses back,
she thought, walking quickly down the nondescript cor - ridor. Not funny, but she wasn't feeling all that politi - cally correct at the moment. She was starting to run low on ammo, too, which made her even less inclined to a positive frame of mind. She stepped from the relative warmth of the hall into the mist-cloaked courtyard, smells of the ocean perme - ating the cold gray night. A small fire burned against one wall. The whole Rockfort facility was strangely laid out, she thought, an unlike mix of new and old. Ineffi - cient, but interesting; the little courtyard was actually cobblestoned, definitely not a recent addition. . . Claire froze. The narrow red beam of a laser scope sliced through the mist in front of her, swept toward her from somewhere above. A low balcony to her right, the stairs for it set against the east wall.
Stairs, cover!
It was all she had time to think before the little red dot was stuttering across her chest. She threw herself out of the way as the first shot blasted through the cold air, burying itself in a miniature fountain of stone chips. She rolled to her feet and sprinted for the stairs, the red light jerking back and forth, trying to find her. Bam, a second shot, it missed but was close enough that she could actually hear it cutting through the air, a high - pitched buzzing sound. She caught a glimpse of the shooter just before ducking behind the low stone balustrade, not surprised at all to see slicked-back blond hair and a red jacket trimmed in gold. She was more angry than scared, that after all she'd been through, she hadn't been more careful - and that she'd almost been taken out by such a weird little elitist creep. That stops right now. Claire raised her handgun over the stone railing and fired off two rounds in Alfred's general direction. She was immediately rewarded with a cry of shocked outrage. Not so much fun when the peas-ants fire back, is it?
Ready to capitalize on his surprise, Claire scrambled up three steps and risked a look over the rail - just in time to see him run through a door on the west wall, slamming it behind him. She leaped up the stairs and took off after him, bang - ing through the door and down a moonlit hall, shafts of cool light gently piercing the shadows. It wasn't a con - scious decision to pursue him, she just did it, not want - ing to stumble into any more of his ambushes. She could see what looked like a soda machine at the end of hall, could still hear his running footsteps. . . . . . and heard a door slam just before she reached the corridor's end, a small room with two decrepit vending machines and two doors to choose between. Claire hesitated, looking at either door - and then put her hands on her knees to catch her breath, giving up the chase. For all she knew, he was standing on the other side of one of those doors, just waiting for her to walk through. Score one for the nutcase. Not a big victory, anyway. With any luck, she'd be off the island soon, Alfred Ash - ford just another bad memory.
After a moment she straightened, walking over to check out the vending machines - one for snacks, the other, beverages. She suddenly realized she was ravenous, and incredibly thirsty. When was the last time she ate? The machines were both broken, but a couple of good, solid kicks circumvented the problem nicely; most of it was crap, but there were several bags of mixed nuts and a few cans of orange ju
ice. Not exactly a steak dinner, but considering the circumstances, a boun - tiful harvest anyway. She ate quickly, stuffing a few un - opened bags in her vest pockets for later, feeling more focused almost immediately.
So. . . door number one, or door number two? Eeny-meeny-miney-mo. . . The gray door, to the right of the corridor. She doubted that Alfred had the patience to still be waiting, but edged up to the door carefully just in case, pushing it open with the barrel of the 9mm. Claire relaxed. A small, cozy room, couple of couches, an antique typewriter on a table, a large, dusty trunk in one corner. It seemed safe enough; Alfred must have gone through door number one. She stepped inside to search it, drawn toward a small heap of miscellaneous objects on one of the couches - and her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening.
Thank you, Alfred!
Someone had dumped the contents of a fanny pack on the couch, the pack itself crumpled next to the pile, which included two sterile needles and a syringe, a pack of waterproof matches, half a box of 9mm rounds - and a small, half-filled bottle of the same hemostatic stuff Rodrigo had been out of, exactly what she'd been looking for. There were a few other odds and ends in the makeshift survival kit, a pen, a small flat screwdriver, a foil-wrapped condom. . . at the last, she rolled her eyes, grinning. Inter - esting, what some people considered absolute necessities. Her grin faded when she noticed the blood stains on the pack, but she still felt better than she had in days. She reloaded the pack and strapped it low around her hips, transferring a few things over from her own woe - fully tight pockets. She could hardly believe her luck. The medicine was what she'd been most worried about, but it was also an incredible relief to find more ammo. Even a single clip's worth was a godsend. A search of the rest of the room yielded up nothing more, not that she minded. She felt like the end was in sight, an end to this terrible and horrific night.
Get back to the prison, give the drugs to Rodrigo, then see if Steve's had any luck wrangling us a ride home, she thought happily, stepping out of the room. It had been a hard ride, but compared to Raccoon, this was a picnic. . .
The heavy rattle of the closing shutter whipped her around, the moment of happiness blown as the corridor, her exit, was blocked off with a thundering crash. No! Claire ran to the metal shutter, banged it once with her fist, already knowing that there was no chance. She was sealed in, the only possibility of escape now the one door she hadn't yet tried. The one Alfred had fled through. "Welcome, Claire," a voice called out, as snotty and pretentious as she remembered, with the same snide un - dertone as before. There was an intercom box above one of the vending machines, in the upper corner of the room. Howdy, Alfred, she thought dismally, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her anger or fear. The whole compound was probably wired up for sound, she'd been stupid not to think of it, and just because she didn't see a camera, that didn't mean there wasn't one.
"You're about to enter a special playground, of sorts," Alfred continued, "and there's a friend of mine I'd like very much for you to meet; I think you'll play well to - gether. "Fantastic, can't wait. "Don't die too soon, Claire. I want to enjoy this. "
He laughed, that insane, annoying, distinctly unnat - ural giggle of his, and then he was gone. Claire stared blankly at the door she was supposed to go through, considering her options. It was probably the best thing Chris had ever taught her, that there were al-ways options; they might all totally suck, but there was always a choice, regardless, and thinking over her alter - natives now had a calming effect.
I can hide in the safe room, live on snack food and pop while I wait for Umbrella to show up. I can sit here and pray that some friendly party will miraculously come to my rescue. I can try to get through the steel shutter, or through one of the walls. . . with that screwdriver and some elbow grease, I can probably break out in about 10,000 years. I can kill myself. Or I can walk through Al-fred'splay ground door, see what there is to see.
There were a number of variations, but she thought that basically summed things up. . . and only one of them made any sense. Technically, none of them makes sense! Part of her howled. I should be in my dorm room, eating cold pizza and cramming for some test! Objection noted, she thought dryly, reaching into her new pack for a full clip, tucking another in her bra for fast access. Time to see what Alfred and his underlings had been up to out here, see if Umbrella had finally come up with a formula for the perfect bio-organic war - rior. Claire stepped up to the door and paused, wondering if she should go into battle with some profound thought about her life, or love, wondering if she was ready to die. . . and decided that she could worry about all that stuff later. If there wasn't a later, she wouldn't have to worry about it, would she? "Boy, am I smart," she murmured, and pushed the door open before she could lose her nerve.