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 juice. 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.
SIX
EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT.
The cameras were set so that he could watch from
four different angles, all in full color, the "battle arena"
well lit, his chair comfortable. He only regretted that he
hadn't had time to return to their private residence, to
watch the entertainment with Alexia by his side - al-
though that had turned out to be advantageous, as well, a
silver lining. The training facility's control room had
cameras that could be re-angled with the touch of a but-
ton, ensuring the clearest possible view.
Alfred smiled, watching as Claire hesitated at the
door, quite pleased with how his plan had come to
fruition. She'd chased him as he'd hoped, stepped into
his trap with hardly a struggle. He hadn't expected her
to actually fire at him, but that was easily overlooked in
retrospect. And truly, it made the anticipation for her up-
coming death all the sweeter, the addition of a personal
revenge aspect into the mix.
The OR1, a highly developed BOW specifically cre-
ated for field combat, was one of Alfred's all-time fa-
vorites. The An3 Sandworm was impressive, to be sure,
the standard Hunter 121s lethal and fast, but the ORls
were special - the human skeletal structure showed
through, particularly in the face and torso, giving them the
look of classic Death. Thek skull faces leered out beneath
corded ropes of real and synthetic tendon, like a neo grim
reaper. They weren't just dangerous; the way they looked
was terror inspiring, at the most basic level of instinct.
The island employees called them Bandersnatches, a
nonsense word from some poem that was strangely fit-
ting, considering thek unique design and function.
There were thirty of them at Rockfort, half of those in
stasis, though Alfred had only been able to account for
eight of them since the attack...
... oh! Claire was opening the door.
Elated, Alfred focused his full attention on the girl,
his left hand on the camera controls, his right hovering
over the lock functions for the storage areas.
Claire stepped onto the balcony of the large, open,
two-story bay with gun in hand, trying to look every-
where at once. Alfred zoomed in on her face, wanting to fully appreciate her fear, but was disappointed by her
lack of expression. After surmising that she was in no
immediate danger, she seemed watchful, no more.
But when I push this button...
Alfred snickered, unable to contain his excitement,
lightly stroking his right forefinger across the switches
for the bay's two shuttered storage closets, one on the
balcony, one bordering the freight elevator on the lower
floor. At his whim, Claire Redfield would die. True, she
wasn't important, her death as meaningless as her life
had surely been, but it was the control that mattered,
his control.
And the pain, the exquisite torture, the look in her
eyes when she realizes that her existence is at its end...
Alfred controlled his body as tightly as he controlled
his life, and prided himself on his ability to dominate his
sexual desires, to feel nothing unless he chose to, but
just thinking of Claire's death inspired in him a passion
that was beyond physical lust, beyond words, even be-
yond the simple scope of man's awareness.
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