Resident Evil Volume 6 Chapter 5

through.

Some kind of courtyard, piled with pieces of random

wreckage, overlooked by a low guard tower. There was

an overturned transport vehicle to her left, a low fire

burning inside. The night was coming on quickly but the

moon was also rising, either full or close to it, and as she

secured the door behind her, she could see there was no

immediate danger - no zombies headed toward her,

anyway. There were several bodies strewn about, none

of them moving, and she mentally crossed her fingers

that at least one of them had a gun and some ammo.

A brilliant light suddenly snapped on, a spotlight on

the guard tower, the force of it instantly blinding her

and as she instinctively looked away, the whining

chatter of automatic fire broke out, bullets splashing in

the mud at her feet. Blind and panicked, Claire dove for

cover, the random thought that she might have been bet-

ter off in that cell repeating itself through her terror.

The fighting had been over for some time, the last

gunshots maybe an hour past, but Steve Burnside

thought he might stay where he was for a while, just in

case. Besides, it was still raining a little, a bitter ocean

wind picking up. The guard tower was safe and dry, no dead people and no zombies wandering around, and

he'd be able to see anyone coming in plenty of time to

head them off ... with a little help from the machine

gun mounted on the window ledge, of course, a seri-

ously kick-ass weapon. He'd mowed down all the

courtyard zombies without breaking a sweat. He had a

handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he'd taken off one of the

past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not

quite as much.

So, hang here another hour or so, assuming it doesn 't

start pouring again, then go find a way off this rock.

He thought he could handle a plane, he'd seen

his ... he'd been in cockpits often enough, but he

thought a boat might be better - not as far to fall if he

screwed the pooch, so to speak.

Steve leaned casually against the cement window

ledge, looking out over the moonlit courtyard, wonder-

ing if he should try to find a kitchen before ditching out.

The guards hadn't gotten around to serving lunch, being

as how they were all dying, and it seemed they didn't

stock the tower room with doughnuts or whatever, he'd

already looked. He was starving.

Maybe I should head for Europe, get myself some in-

ternational cuisine. I can go anywhere I want now, any-

where at all. There's nothing holding me back.

The thought was supposed to get him excited for all

the possibilities, but it didn't, it made him feel anxious

and kind of weird, so he went back to considering his

escape. The main gate that led out of the prison was

locked down, but he figured if he searched enough

guards, he'd find one of the emblem keys. He'd already

run across the warden, the late Paul Steiner, but all his

keys were gone.

So was most of his face, Steve thought, not particularly unhappy about it. Steiner had been a serious dick, strutting

around like he was King Turd of Shit Mountain, always

smiling when another prisoner got led off to the infirmary.

And nobody ever came back from the infirmary -

- snick.

Steve froze, staring at the metal door straight across

from the tower. The graveyard was on the other side,

and he knew for a fact it was full of zombies, he'd

sneaked a look right after plugging the courtyard

corpses. Jesus, could they open doors? They were walk-

ing vegetables, mush brains, they weren't supposed to

be able to open doors, and if they could do that, what

else were they capable of...

... don't panic. You've got the machine gun, remember?

All of the other prisoners were dead. If it was a per-

son, he or she was no friend of his ... and if it wasn't

human, or was a zombie, he'd be putting it out of its misery. Either way, he wasn't going to hesitate, and he

wasn't going to be afraid. Fear was for pussies.

Steve grabbed for the searchlight handle with his

right hand, his left already on the trigger guard of the

heavy black rifle. As the door swung open, he swal-

lowed dryly and snapped the light on, firing as soon as

he had the target piimed down.

The weapon rattled out a stream of bullets, the handle

jouncing against his hand, rounds kicking up tiny foun-

tains of mud. He caught a glimpse of something pink, a

shirt maybe, and then his target was diving out of the

line of fire, moving way too fast to be one of the canni-

bals. He'd heard about some of the monsters Umbrella

had cooked up and machine gun or no, he hoped to God

he wasn't about to meet one of them.

I'm not afraid, I'm not... He tracked right with the searchlight and kept firing, a sudden anxious sweat on his

brow. The person or thing was behind the protruding wall

near the base of the tower, out of sight, but if he couldn't

kill it, he could at least scare it away. Cement chips flew,

the high-intensity beam illuminating the lower half of a

dead prison guard, mud, and debris, but no target...

... and there was a lightning flash of motion from be-

hind the wall, a glimpse of pale, upturned face...

BAM! BAM! BAM!

... and the searchlight shattered, white-hot chunks of

glass spraying across the tower room floor. Steve let out

an involuntary yell as he jumped back from the machine

gun, somebody was shooting at him, and he didn't care

if it was pussy, he was about to shit his pants.

"Don't shoot!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "I give!" It was dead silent for a few seconds, and then a cool

female voice came out of the dark, low and somehow

amused.

"Say Uncle."

Steve blinked uncertainly, confused and then re-

membered how to breathe again, feeling his cheeks go

red as the fear fell away.

"I give," that was totally lame. So much for first im-

pressions.

"I'm coming down," he said, relieved that his voice didn't break this time, deciding that anyone who could

make a joke after being shot at couldn't be all bad. If she

was the enemy, he had the 9mm ... but friendly or not,

there was no way he was going to ask her not to shoot

again, that would just make him look worse.

And it's a girl ... maybe a pretty one...

He did his best to ignore the thought, no point in get-

ting his hopes up. For all he knew, she was ninety-eight,

bald, and smoked cigars ... but even if she wasn't, even

if she was a total hottie, he didn't want to end up taking responsibility for any life besides his own, screw that shit. He was free now. Having someone count on you was almost as bad as having to depend on others...

The thought was uncomfortable, and he pushed it

aside. Anyway, the circumstances weren't exactly ro-

mantic, what with a bunch of diseased monsters running

wild and death around every corner. Gross, slimy death,

too, the kind with maggots and pus.

Steve took the steps to the courtyard two at a time, his

eyes adjusting to the post-searchlight dark as he stepped

out to meet her. She stood in the center of the courtyard,

a gun in hand ... and as he got closer, it was all he

could do not to stare.

She was muddy and wet and about the most beautiful

girl he'd ever seen, her face like a model's, big eyes and

fine, even features. Reddish hair in a dripping ponytail.

An inch or two shorter than him, and about the same

age, he thought - he'd be eighteen in a couple of

months, and she couldn't be much older. She wore

jeans, boots, and a sleeveless pink vest over a tight black

half tee, her flat stomach showing, the entire outfit ac-

centuating her lean, athletic body ... and although she

looked tired and wary, her gray-blue eyes sparkled

brightly.

Say something cool, play it cool no matter what...

Steve wanted to tell her he was sorry about firing at

her, to tell her who he was and what had happened dur-

ing the attack, to say something suave and worldly and

interesting...

"You're not a zombie," he blurted, inwardly cursing even as it came out. Brilliant.

"No shit," she said mildly, and he suddenly realized that her weapon was pointing at him, she held it low,

but she was definitely aiming it. Even as he froze she

took a step back and raised the gun, watching him

closely, her finger under the trigger guard and the muz-

zle only inches from his face. "And who the hell are you?"

The kid smiled. If he was nervous, he was doing a

good job of not letting it show. Claire didn't take her fin-

ger off the trigger, but she was already half convinced

that he was no threat to her. She'd shot out the light, but

he easily could have strafed the yard and taken her

down.

"Relax, beautiful," he said, still smiling. "My name's Steve Burnside, I'm ... I was a prisoner here."

"Beautiful?" Oh, great. Nothing annoyed her more than being patronized. On the other hand, he was obvi-

ously younger than her, which probably meant he was

just trying to assert his maleness, to be a man rather than

a boy. In her experience, there were few things more ob- noxious than someone trying to be something they

weren't.

He looked her up and down, obviously checking her

out, and she took another step back, the gun unwavering;

she wasn't going to take any chances. The weapon was an

M93R, an Italian 9mm, an excellent handgun and appar-

ently standard issue for the prison guards; Chris had one

of them. She'd found it after diving for cover, next to the

dead, outstretched fingers of a man in uniform ... and if

she shot the young Mr. Burnside with it at this range, most

of his handsome face would be on the ground. He looked

like an actor she'd seen before, the lead in that movie

about the sinking ship; the resemblance was striking.

"I'm guessing you're not from Umbrella, either," he said casually. "I'm sorry about opening up on you like that, by the way. I didn't think there was anyone else alive

around here, so when the door opened..." He shrugged. "Anyway," he said, cocking an eyebrow, obviously trying to be charming. "What's your name?"

There was no way Umbrella had hired this kid, she

was more sure of it with each word out of his mouth.

She slowly lowered the semiautomatic, wondering why

Umbrella would want to imprison someone so young.

They wanted to imprison you, remember? She was only nineteen.

"Claire, Claire Redfield," she said. "I was brought here as a prisoner just today."

"Talk about timing," Steve said, and she had to smile a little at that; she'd been thinking the same thing herself.

"Claire, that's a nice name," he continued, looking into her eyes. "I'll definitely remember that."

Oh, brother. She wondered if she should shut him

down now or later - she and Leon had gotten pretty

tight - and decided that later might be better. There was

no question that she'd have to take him with her to look