at a sprint.
Why? Why would he choose to be alone? Maybe she
was wrong, but Steve's bit about not wanting to be
slowed down just didn't ring true. When she'd unknow-
ingly stumbled into the Raccoon nightmare, running
into Leon had made all the difference in the world; they
hadn't stuck together the entire time, but just knowing
that there was someone else as shocked and scared as
she was ... instead of feeling helpless and isolated,
she'd been able to form clear objectives, goals beyond
mere survival - finding transportation out of the city,
looking for Chris, taking care of Sherry Birkin.
And simply from a safety standpoint, having someone
to watch your back is a hell of a lot better than going it
solo, no question.
Whatever his reason, she was going to do her
damnedest to talk him out of it, assuming she could find
him. The yard in front of her was much bigger than the
one she'd just stepped out of, a long, one-story cabin to
her right, a wall without doors to her left, the back of a
larger building, perhaps. A low fire was burning in one
of the wall's broken windows, and there was plenty of
debris strewn among the dead, evidence of the force-
ful attack. To her immediate right was a locked gate,
a moonlit dirt path on the other side, and a closed
door ... which meant that Steve was either in the cabin
or had gone around it, using the trail at the far end of the
yard that also headed to the right.
She decided to try the cabin first ... and as she
hopped the few steps up to the railed porch that ran most
of the length of the building, she found herself wonder- ing who had attacked Rockfort, and why. Rodrigo had
said something about a special forces team, but if that
was true, whose orders were they following? It seemed
that Umbrella had its share of enemies, which was defi-
nitely good news - but the island attack was a tragedy
nonetheless. Prisoners had died along with employees,
and the T-virus - perhaps the G-virus, too, and God only
knows how many others - didn't differentiate between
the guilty and the innocent.
She had reached the plain wooden door of the cabin,
and holding the 9mm at the ready, she gently pushed it
open and immediately closed it, her course decided by
the two virus carriers she'd seen inside, both stumbling
around a table. A second later there was a thump at the
door, a low, pitiful moan filtering out.
The trail it is, then. She doubted that the cocksure Steve would have left anyone standing if he had gone into
the cabin, and she probably would have heard the shots...
... unless they got him first.
Claire didn't like it, but the grim reality of her situation
was mat she couldn't afford to waste the ammo to find out.
She'd follow the path, see where that led and if she
couldn't find him then, he was on his own. She wanted to
do the right thing, but she also felt pretty strongly about
saving her own ass; she had to get back to Paris, to Chris
and the others, which she certainly couldn't do if she blew
her ammo and ended up being someone's lunch.
She moved back along the porch, all of her senses on
high as she neared the end of the building. She hadn't
forgotten about the zombie dog or dogs, and listened for
the patter of claws against dirt, for the heavy panting
that she remembered from her previous experience in
Raccoon. The damp, chill night was quiet, a shivering
breeze sweeping lightly through the yard, the only
breathing she heard her own.
A quick glance around the corner of the cabin; noth-
ing, only a man's body lying half in and half out of the
building's crawl space, some five meters away. Another
ten past that and the path turned right again, much to
Claire's relief - she'd seen that leg of the trail through
the locked gate, and it had been empty then.
So he must have gone through that door, the one on
the west wall... It was also a relief to know something, to know anything certain when it came to Umbrella. She
started down the path, thinking about what it would take
to convince the macho teen to stay with her. Maybe if
she told him about Raccoon, explained that she'd had
some practice with Umbrella disasters...
Claire was just about to step over the lone corpse's
upper body when it moved.
She jumped back, her semi pointed at the man's bloody head, her heart hammering - and she realized
that he was dead, that someone or something in the
shadows of the crawl space was pulling him inside by
his legs, a strong and steady series of jerks...
... like a dog backing up with something heavy in its
jaws.
She didn't think anything after that, instinctively leap-
ing over the dead man and sprinting away, aware that the
dog - if that's what it was - wouldn't be preoccupied for-
ever. The realization that it had been less than a meter
away lent her speed as she took the corner, her boots slap-
ping against the wet, hard packed earth, her arms pump-
ing. Zombies were slow, uncoordinated; the dogs that both
she and Leon had run across were vicious and lightning
quick. Even armed, she wasn't interested in facing off
with one of them, a single bite and she'd be infected, too.
Arrroooooo! The gurgling howl came from farther away than the crawl space, from somewhere back in the
front part of the yard.
Shit, how many... Didn't matter, she was almost there, her salvation ahead on the left. Not daring to look
back, she didn't slow down a step until she reached the
door, grabbed the handle and shoved. It opened easily,
and since she didn't see anything with teeth directly in
front of her, she jumped in and slammed the door be-
hind her...
. only to hear the multiple wails of zombies, to smell
the feverish rot of the dying virus carriers even as some-
thing crashed into the door at her back and began to
claw at it, growling like some feral monster.
How many dogs, how many zombies? The thought flashed through her panicked mind, the need to conserve
ammo deeply ingrained after Raccoon, and what if I'm about to hit a dead end? She almost turned back in spite of the risk, until she saw where the zombies were.
The passage she'd entered was thick with gloom, but
she could see several stumbling men locked in a caged
area to her left, all of them pretty far gone. One of them
was beating on the mesh door, its nearly skeletal hands
hanging with ribbons of damaged tissue, oblivious to
the pain of its disintegrating body.
Must be the kennel...
Claire took a few steps farther in, focusing worriedly
on the simple and somewhat flimsy lock holding the
door closed - and saw the three uncaged zombies just as
the first was reaching for her, its gaping mouth dripping
with saliva and some other dark fluid, its bony fingers
stretching out to touch her. She'd been so intent on the
caged creatures, she hadn't realized that there were
more of them.
She reflexively dropped her weight and snapped her left leg into its chest, a solid and effective side kick that
knocked the creature back. She could feel her boot sink
into its deteriorating flesh but didn't have time for dis-
gust, already bringing the 9mm up...
... and with a thin metallic crash, the kennel door banged open, and suddenly she was facing seven instead
of three. They crowded toward her, clumsily maneuver-
ing past a Dumpster, a few barrels, the bodies of their
fallen brethren.
Bam! She shot the closest one without thinking, a neat hole punching through its right temple, understand-
ing that she was doomed as it crumpled and hit the dirt.
Too many, too tightly grouped, she'd never make it -
- the barrels! One of them was marked flammable, same trick I used in Paris...
Claire dove for cover behind the Dumpster, switching
the gun to her left hand as she landed. The target marked
in her mind's eye, she came up shooting, only her arm
curling around the Dumpster as the confused zombies
teetered and searched, moaning hungrily...
Bam! Bam! B...
... KA-BLAM!
The Dumpster slammed into her right shoulder,
knocking her over backward. She curled into a ball on
her side, ears ringing, as jagged, burning shreds of metal
rained down from above, clattering atop the Dumpster, a
few of them landing on her left leg. She slapped them
off, scarcely able to believe that it had worked, that she
was still alive.
She sat up, pushing herself into a crouch, looking out
at what remained of her assailants. Only one of them
was still whole, leaning heavily on the kennel, its
clothes and hair on fire; the upper body of a second was
trying to crawl toward her, its black and bubbling skin
sloughing off as it inched forward. The rest were in
pieces, the burning earth licking up to claim the pathetic
remains as its own.
Claire quickly dispatched the two left alive, her heart
aching a little at the dismal end these people had come
to. Ever since Raccoon City, her dreams were haunted
by zombies, by the stinking, dripping creatures that
sought live flesh as sustenance. Umbrella had uninten-
tionally created these particular monsters, like night-
marish walking corpses straight out of the movies, and it
was kill or be killed, there was no choice.
Except they were people not so long ago. People with
families and lives, who hadn't deserved to die in such
terrible ways, no matter what evils they may have com-
mitted. She looked down at the poor burned bodies, feeling almost sick with pity and a low but insistent
fever of hatred for Umbrella.
Claire shook her head and did her best to let it go,
aware that allowing herself to carry all that pain might
make her hesitate at some crucial moment. Like a soldier
at war, she couldn't afford to humanize the enemy ... al-
though she had no doubts as to who the real enemy was,
and she hoped fervently that Umbrella's leaders would
all burn in hell for what they'd done.
Not wanting to be surprised again, she carefully and
thoroughly checked the passage's shadows in her evalu-
ation of next-step choices. In the back of the kennel was
an actual guillotine, stained with what appeared to be
real blood. Just looking at it made her shudder, remind-
ing her of RPD's Chief Irons, and his hidden dungeon;
Irons had been living proof that Umbrella didn't run
psych tests on their undercover employees. Behind the
nasty execution device was a door, but Steve obviously
hadn't gone that way, not with the zombies locked in.
Next to the kennel was a kind of metal sliding shutter,
but it wouldn't open ... and next to that, the only door
he could have gone through, because the passage was a
dead end just past it.
Claire walked to the door, suddenly feeling very tired
and very old, her emotions spent. She checked the hand-
gun and then reached for the handle, absently wonder-
ing if she would ever see her brother again. Sometimes
holding on to her hope was a tremendous burden, made
all the heavier because she couldn't set it aside, not even
for a moment.
Steve jumped when he heard the explosion outside,
reflexively looking around at the small, cluttered office
as though expecting the walls to crumble. After a few
beats he relaxed, figuring it was probably just another
heat blast, nothing to worry about. Ever since the attack,
the unchecked fires burning throughout the prison com-
pound occasionally rolled over something combustible,
a canister of oxygen or kerosene or whatever, and then
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