ication she'd been looking for, Steve scowled - and then
blinked, his face clearly expressing a sudden change of
heart.
"Maybe this Umbrella guy..."
"Rodrigo," Claire interjected.
"Okay, whatever," Steve said impatiently. "Maybe he knows something about these proof key things. Like
where they are."
Good idea. "It would beat searching the entire island, wouldn't it?" Claire said. "You up for a trip back to the prison? Assuming we can get out of here, that is."
"Oh, I'll clear us a path," Steve said, not a trace of doubt in his voice. "You just leave that part to me." Claire opened her mouth to comment on the pitfalls
of overconfidence, particularly where Umbrella was
concerned, then closed it again. Maybe it was his belief
in himself that had carried him this far - that by not ac-
cepting the possibility of defeat, he was assuring him-
self a win.
Fine in theory, dangerous in practice. She'd be there to cover him, at least.
"We were on the first floor of the training facility," he continued. "Which means we're in the basement now. I know from my..."
Steve shook his head, flustered for some reason, but
before she could ask about it, he continued on as if noth-
ing had happened.
"There's a boiler room, and a sewer area ... basi-
cally, we go that way," he said, gesturing at the door. Claire decided not to point out that since it was the
only door, she'd already come to that conclusion. "I'm right behind you."
"Stay close," Steve said roughly, walking to the door and looking back over the shoulder, trying to look
fierce, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Claire was torn
between irritation and laughter, finally choosing to think
of it as endearing. Then he was opening the door, and
the reality of their situation came back to her, floating in
on the smell of gangrenous tissue. She stopped worrying
about the little things, concentrating on the need to sur-
vive.
What Steve knew about guns he could sum up in
about five seconds, but he knew what he liked. And he
decided immediately upon pulling the trigger of his
newest find that it was the shit, hands down.
He stepped out of the freight elevator ready to kick
some rotten ass, and saw his opportunity less than ten
feet away. There were five of them in all - well, five and
a half, including the crawling mess on the floor over by
the shelves - and all he had to do was tap the trigger,
and then he was trying like hell to keep the weapon from
flying out of his hand.
Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam...
He swept the kicking gun left to right, releasing the
trigger as the last zombie's swiss-cheese brain parted
company with its swiss-cheese head. It was all over in
just a few seconds, so fast that it seemed unreal - like
he'd coughed and a building had blown up or something.
Claire had taken care of the floor pizza during his
sweep, and when he turned around, triumphant, he was a little surprised to see that she wasn't smiling ... until
he thought about it for a second, and then he felt a little
ashamed of himself. As far as he was concerned, they
weren't really people anymore. He knew that if he were
ever infected he'd want someone to plug him, to keep
him from hurting anyone else - not to mention granting
him a fast death, rather than letting him rot on the hoof.
But they were human, once. What happened to them
was entirely shitty and unfair, no question.
True, and maybe he should be more respectful, but on
the other hand, the gun was extremely cool, and they were
zombies. It was a touchy subject, not one that he was pre-
pared to mess around with, but he decided he could at
least not laugh about it in front of Claire. He didn't want
her to think he was some bloodthirsty asshole.
He pointed at the door ahead and to the right, fairly
sure that they were heading in the right direction, at
least roughly. The way he figured it, they'd come out at
least close to the front yard of the training facility.
Claire nodded, and Steve led the way once again, push-
ing the door open and stepping through. They were stand-
ing at the top of a half flight of open stairs, leading down
into the boiler room. A room full of big, battered-looking,
hissing machinery, anyway, Steve didn't actually know
what a boiler looked like. There were four zombies
milling around between them and the steps leading up
and out, on the other side of the cold, hissing room.
Steve raised the machine gun and was about to fire
when Claire tapped his arm, moving to stand beside him.
"Watch," she said, and pointed her 9mm at the zom- bie group - not quite, he saw, she was aiming low at
something just past them...
... and pow, BOOM, three of the creatures went down,
blackened and smoking. Behind them, what was left of a
small, obviously combustible container, only jagged curls
of splayed metal surrounded by a smudge of toxic smoke.
The fourth zombie had been hit, but not as hard. Claire
took it out with a single head shot before speaking again.
"Saves ammo," she said simply, and brushed past him to walk down the steps. Steve followed, slightly awed
by her, but playing it detached, like he'd already thought
of that. If there was one thing he knew about chicks, it
was that they didn't like guys who mooned all over
them, acting all goofy.
Not that I give a shit what she thinks about me, he told himself firmly. She's just ... kind of cool, is all. Claire reached the next door first, and waited until he
caught up, nodded that he was ready. As soon as she
opened it they both relaxed, he could see her shoulders
loosen and felt his own heart beating again. A dark stone
walkway, totally empty, open on one side. There was water running somewhere below, and some kind of a
narrow gate straight ahead, like an old-fashioned eleva-
tor door.
"This is starting to seem a little too easy," Claire said softly.
"Yeah," Steve whispered back. So much for Alfie- boy's evil playground shtick.
They were about halfway across when they heard it,
echoing up from somewhere in the black running waters below - a strangely high, piercing trill, inhuman but not
like an animal, either. Whatever it was, it sounded ex-
tremely pissed - and from the splashing noises, it was
coming closer.
Steve was ready to start shooting but Claire grabbed
his arm and took off running, practically jerking him off
his feet. They were at the lift in about two seconds, Claire
ripping the gate aside and shoving him into a tiny elevator
cab, jumping in after him and slamming the gate closed.
"Okay, jeez, you don't have to push," Steve said, rub- bing his arm indignantly.
"Sorry," she said, pushing an errant strand of hair be- hind one ear, looking as rattled as he'd seen her get. "It's just ... I've heard that sound before. Hunters, I think
they're called, extremely bad news. There were a bunch
of them loose in Raccoon."
She smiled shakily, which suddenly made him want
to put his arm around her, or hold her hand or some-
thing. He didn't.
"Brings up some bad memories, you know?" she said. Raccoon ... that was the place that had been blown
up a few months ago, if he remembered right, right be-
fore he'd come to Rockfort. The town's own police chief
had done it. "Did Umbrella have something to do with Raccoon?"
Claire seemed surprised, but then smiled a little eas-
ier, turning her attention to the elevator controls.
"Long story. I'll tell you about it when we get out of
here. So, first floor?"
"Yeah," Steve said, then changed his mind. "Actually, maybe we should go up to the second. That way we can
look out over the yard, see what we'll be up against."
"You know, you're smarter than you look," Claire said teasingly, punching the button. Steve was still try-
ing to think of a witty comeback when the elevator came
to a stop, and Claire opened the door.
There was a shuttered lockdown door to their right, so
they went left, the short hallway empty. There was only
one door in that direction, too, but they were in luck, the
knob turned when Claire tried it.
Again, there were no surprises. The door opened up
to a cramped wooden balcony thick with dust, overlook- ing a big room full of junk - a rusted military Jeep,
stacks of grungy old oil drums, broken boxes and the
like. It seemed more like a storage shed than anything
else, and though it was well lit, there were enough piles
of crap that it was impossible to see if anyone was down
there. There was, though, Steve could hear shuffling
noises.
He took a few steps to the left, trying to see the corner
beneath the balcony, and Claire followed. The boards
creaked and shifted beneath their steps.
"Doesn't seem too sturdy..." Claire started, and was cut off by a giant, splintering craaack, pieces of the bal-
cony floor flying up as both of them went down.
Shit.
Steve didn't even have time to tense for the impact, it
was over so quick. He landed on his left side, jarring his
shoulder, his left knee cracking against a random bit of
wood.
Almost immediately, a pyramid of empty barrels fell
over behind him, clattering hollowly to the ground
and Steve heard a zombie's hungry wail.
"Claire?" Steve called, crawling to his feet and turn- ing, looking for her and the zombie. There she was amid
the barrels, still down, rubbing one ankle. Her handgun
was about ten feet away. Steve saw her eyes go wide and
followed her gaze, a lone zombie teetering toward her...
... and all he could do was stare at it, his body sud-
denly a million miles away. Claire said something but he
couldn't hear her, too intent on the virus carrier. It had
been a big man, leaning toward fat, but someone had
blasted off part of his gut. The open, sticky, belly
wounds were seeping, the dark shirt made even darker
by the almost uniform layer of blood that had soaked the
cloth. It was gray-faced and hollow-eyed, like all of
them, and had either bitten through its tongue or had
been eating - his, its mouth was smeared with blood.
Claire said something else, but Steve was remember-
ing something, a sudden, vivid flash of memory so real
that it was almost like reliving the experience. He'd been
four or five years old when his parents had taken him to
his first parade, a Thanksgiving parade. He was sitting on
his father's shoulder, watching the clowns go by, sur-
rounded by loud, shouting people, and he'd started to
cry. He couldn't remember why; what he remembered
was his father looking up at him, his eyes concerned and
full of love. When he'd asked what was wrong, his voice
was so familiar and well-loved that Steve had wrapped
his tiny arms around his father's neck and hidden his
face, still crying but knowing he was safe, that no harm
could come to him so long as his father held him...
"Steve!"
Claire, practically screaming his name and he saw
that the zombie was almost on top of her, its gray fingers
closing around her vest, pulling her up to its drooling,
bloody mouth.
Steve screamed, too, opening fire, the thunder of bul-
lets ripping into his father's face and body, tearing him
away from Claire. He kept firing, kept screaming until
his father lay still and the thunder had stopped, only dry
clicks coming from the gun, and then Claire was touch-
ing his shoulder, turning him away as he called out for
his father, weeping.
They sat for a while. When he could speak, he told
her about it, parts of it, his arms around his knees and
head down. Told her about his father, who had worked
for Umbrella as a truck driver, who had been caught try-
ing to steal a formula from one of their labs. He told her
about his mother, who had been gunned down by a trio
of Umbrella soldiers in their own home, lay choking and
bloody and dying on the living room floor when Steve
came home from school. The men had taken them away
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