closed around them. Something smelled bad, like rot-
ting grain, and though she couldn't hear anything mov-
ing, it didn't feel like they were alone. She was
generally big on trusting her instincts, but it was so still
and silent, not even a whisper of sound or movement...
Nerves, she thought hopefully.
They could only see about three feet in front of them,
but they moved as quickly as possible, the feeling of being
totally exposed and vulnerable pushing them forward.
A few steps more and she could see that the corridor
branched, they could keep going straight or turn left.
"What do you think?" Claire whispered - and the hall suddenly exploded with movement, wings flapping, the
rotten smell gusting over them. Steve cursed as the
matches suddenly went out, completing the darkness.
Something brushed past Claire's face, feathery and light
and soundless, and she reflexively flailed at it in
loathing, skin crawling, not sure where or what to shoot.
"Come on!" Steve shouted, grabbing her upper arm and yanking her forward. She stumbled after him
breathlessly, and again, something fluttering touched
her face, dry and dusty...
... and then Steve was pulling her through a doorway
and slamming it closed behind them, both of them sag-
ging against it, Claire shuddering, totally disgusted.
"Moths," Steve said, "Jesus, they were huge, did you see them? Big as birds, like hawks..." She could hear him spit, like he was trying to clear his mouth out.
Claire didn't answer, fumbling for a match. The room
was pitch dark and she wanted to make sure there
weren't more of them flapping around, moths, eeww! They somehow seemed worse than any zombie, that
they could brush right up against you, flutter up against
your face - she shuddered again, and struck her match.
Steve had pulled them into an office, one apparently
free of giant moths and any other Umbrella unpleasant-
ness. She saw a pair of candlesticks on a trunk to her
right and immediately grabbed them up, lighting the
half burned tapers and handing one of them to Steve be-
fore looking around, the soft candlelight illuminating
their sanctuary in flickering shadows. Wood desk,
shelves, a couple of framed paintings - the room was
surprisingly nice, considering the utilitarian feel of the
rest of the place. It wasn't as cold, either. They quickly checked around for weapons or ammo, but came up
empty.
"Hey, maybe there's something we can use in these,"
Steve said, moving to the desk. There were a number of
papers, and what appeared to be a collection of maps
strewn across its top, but Claire was suddenly more in-
terested in the whitish lump stuck on the back of his
right shoulder.
"Hold still," she said, stepping up behind him. There was some thick, web-like gunk holding the
thing on, the lump itself about six inches long and
kind of misshapen, like a chicken egg that had been
stretched out.
"What is it? Get it off," Steve said tensely, and Claire held the candle closer, saw that the white form wasn't
entirely opaque. She could see inside, a little...
... to where a fat white grub was squirming around,
encased in translucent jelly. It was an egg case, the moth
had laid an egg case on him.
Claire wanted to vomit but held it together, looking
around for something to grab it with. There was some
crumpled paper in a wastebasket next to the trunk, and
she snatched up a piece.
"Hang on a sec," she said, amazed at how casual she sounded as she pulled the case off his shoulder. It didn't
want to come, the wet webbing tenaciously holding on,
but she got it, instantly dropping it to the floor. "It's off." Steve turned and crouched next to the paper, holding
his candle out - and stood up abruptly, looking as sick-
ened as she felt. He brought his boot down on it, hard,
and clear jelly squirted from beneath the sole.
"Oh, man," he said, his mouth turned down. "Remind me to blow chunks later, after we've eaten. And next
time we go through there, no matches."
He checked her back - clean, thank God - and then
they split up the papers on the desk, Steve taking the
maps and sitting on the floor, Claire looking through the
rest of it at the desk.
Inventory list, bill, bill, list... Claire hoped Steve was having better luck. From what she could gather,
they were in what Umbrella was calling a "transport ter-
minal," whatever that was, and it had been built around
an abandoned mine - she wasn't clear on what had been
mined, exactly, but there were a number of receipts for
some newer spendy equipment and a shitload of con-
struction materials. Almost enough to build a small city.
She found a series of memos between two extremely
boring gentlemen, discussing Umbrella's budget allot-
ments for the coming year. It was all the more boring be-
cause everything appeared to be perfectly legal. The office
they were in belonged to one of them, a Tomoko Oda, and it was from Oda that she finally ran across something that
caught her eye, a postscript on one of his lengthy account-
ing reports dated from only a week before.
PS - by the way, remember the story you told me
when I first got here, about the "monster" prisoner?
Don't laugh, but I finally heard him myself, two
nights ago, in this very office. It was just as frighten-
ing as the stories say, a kind of angry, moaning
scream that echoed up from the lower levels. My fore-
man tells me that workers have been hearing it for
something like 15 years, almost always late at
night - the most popular rumor has it that he screams
like that because someone missed his feeding time.
I've also heard that he's a ghost, a hoax, a scientific
experiment gone wrong, even a demon. I haven't
formed an opinion myself, and since none of us are
allowed down there, I suppose it will continue to be a
mystery. I have to tell you, though, after hearing that
horrible, insane howling, I have no interest in going
below B2.
Let me know about that stem bolt shipment.
Regards, Tom.
It seemed that the workers upstairs didn't know much
about what was going on downstairs. Probably better for
them, Claire thought ... although considering the cur-
rent situation, maybe not.
Steve laughed suddenly, a short bark of victory, and
stood up, grinning widely. He slapped an Antarctica po-
litical map across the desk.
"We're here," Steve said, pointing to a red spot that someone had penciled in, "about halfway in between this Japanese outpost, Dome Fuji, and the Pole itself, in
the Australian territory. And right here is an Australian
research station - we're looking at ten or fifteen miles,
tops."
Claire felt her heart skip a beat. "That's great! Hell, we could probably hike it if we could find some good
gear..."
... and if we can get out of this basement, she
thought, some of her enthusiasm dying down.
Steve unfolded a second map, spreading it out. "Wait, that's not the good part. Check this out."
A photocopy of a blueprint. Claire studied the hand-
drawn diagrams, side and top views of a tall building
and three of its floors, the levels and rooms neatly la-
Beled and stood up herself, too elated to stay still. It
was a comprehensive map of the building they were in,
not tall but deep.
"This is where we are at now," Steve said, pointing to a small square labeled "manager's office," on level
B2. He traced his finger down and left and down again, stopping at an oddly shaped area at the bottom of the
diagram, like a big quotation mark lying on its side.
The tiny black letters read "mining room," and there
was a lightly penciled tunnel extending out of it with
"to surface/unfinished" written next to it, also in pen-
cil.
"And there's where we need to go," Claire finished, shaking her head in disbelief. The map Steve had found
would probably save them hours of wandering around,
and with as little ammo as they had, it might also save
their lives.
"Yeah. If we run into any locked doors, we break 'em
down, or shoot the locks, maybe," Steve said happily. "And it's like a one-minute walk from here. We'll be fly-
ing the friendly skies in no time."
"It says the tunnel is unfinished..." Claire started, but Steve cut her off.
"So? If they're still working on it, there'll be some
kind of equipment laying around," Steve said happily. "I mean, it says mining room, right?"
She couldn't argue with his logic, and didn't want to.
It was almost too good to be true, and she was more than
ready for some good news ... and though it did mean
another run through mothville, this time, they'd be
ready.
"You win the prize," Claire said, giving in to her own enthusiasm.
Steve raised his eyebrows innocently. "Oh, yeah? What's the prize?"
She was about to answer that she was open to sugges-
tions when an unexpected and alarming noise stopped
her, coming into the office from nowhere and every-
where. For a split second she thought it was some kind
of an air raid siren, it was so loud and penetrating, but
no siren started so deep and low, or kept rising like that,
or conjured up such feelings of dread. There was fury in
the sound, a blind rage so complete that it was incom-
prehensible.
Frozen, they listened as the incredible, grisly scream
stretched out and finally died away, Claire wondering
how long it had been since feeding time. She had no
doubt that it was one of Umbrella's creations. No ghost
could produce such a visceral sound, and no human soul
could encompass such rage.
"Let's go now," Claire said quietly, and Steve nodded, his eyes wide and anxious as he folded the maps and
tucked them away.
They readied their weapons, laid out a quick plan,
and on the count of three, Steve shoved the door open.
As the monstrosity's roar echoed away, Alfred smiled
at it through the thick metal bars of its bare, dank cell, admiring his sister's handiwork. He'd helped, of course,
but she was the genius who'd created the T-Veronica
virus, and at only ten years of age ... and though she
had considered her first experiment a failure, Alfred
thought not. The result was deeply gratifying on a per-
sonal level.
Things were so much clearer, had been since the very
moment he'd left Rockfort. Memories had returned,
things he'd buried or lost, feelings he'd forgotten he had.
After fifteen years of gray area, of muddled confusion
and unstable fantasy, Alfred felt that his world was fi-
nally drawing to order - and he understood now why
their home had been attacked, and how fortunate for
him that it had been.
"They knew that it was time, too, you see," Alfred said. "If not for the strike, I might have continued to be- lieve that she was with me."
He watched with some amusement as the monstrosity
tilted its filthy head toward the door, listening. It was
chained to its chair, blindfolded, hands bound behind its
back ... and though it had been incapable of anything
like real thought for a decade and a half, it still re-
sponded to the sound of words. Perhaps it even recog-
nized his voice on some animal instinctual level.
I should feed it, Alfred thought, not wanting it to die before Alexia awoke ... but that would be soon, very
soon - perhaps the process had already begun. The
thought filled him with wonder, that he was to be pres-
ent for her miraculous rebirth.
"I missed her so," Alfred said, sighing. So much that he'd created a reflection of her, to share the lonely years
of waiting. "But she's soon to emerge a reigning queen, with me as her faithful soldier, and we'll never be apart
again."
Which reminded him of his final task, a last objective
to be met before he could comfortably begin the final
wait. His joy at discovering the crashed plane had been
short-lived when he'd found it empty, but upon refresh-
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