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.
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
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