ker-blooey, another explosion.
It was just such a blast that had kept him alive, actu-
ally - he'd been knocked out by a flying chunk of wall
when an oil barrel had blown up, the debris covering
him completely, hiding him. When he'd finally come to,
the big zombie chow-down was pretty much over, most
of the prison guards and prisoners already dead...
Bad train of thought. He shook it off and returned his
attention to the computer screen, to the file directory
he'd stumbled across while trying to find a map of the
island. Some dumbass had written the pass code number
on a sticky note and slapped it on the hard drive, giving
him easy access to some obviously secret stuff. Too bad
most of it was dull as dishwater - prison budgeting, names and dates he didn't recognize, information about
some kind of special alloy that metal detectors couldn't
pick up ... that one was kind of interesting, considering
he'd had to walk through a two-way lockdown metal de-
tector to get to the office, but three or four well-placed
bullets to the mechanism had taken care of that. Good
thing, too; he'd found one of the main gate emblem keys
tucked in a desk drawer, which would definitely have
triggered a lockdown on his way back through.
All I need is a goddamn map to the nearest boat or
plane and I'm history. He'd pick up the chick after he cleared a path, too, play the knight in shining armor...
... and she'd undoubtedly be appreciative, maybe even
enough to want to...
A name on the file directory caught his eye. Steve
frowned, peering closer at the screen. There was a folder
labeled Redfield, C... as in Claire Redfield? He
tapped it up, curious, and was still reading, totally ab-
sorbed, when he heard a noise behind him.
He scooped his gun off the counter and spun around,
mentally kicking himself for not paying better atten-
tion and there was Claire, her own weapon pointing at
the floor, a slightly irritated look on her face.
"What are you doing?" she asked casually, as if she hadn't just scared the crap out of him. "And how did you get past the zombies outside?"
"I ran," he answered, annoyed by the question. Did she think he was helpless or something? "And I'm looking for a map ... hey, are you related to a Christopher Redfield?"
Claire frowned. "Chris is my brother. Why?"
Siblings. That explains it. Steve motioned toward the computer, vaguely wondering if the entire Redfield clan
kicked ass. Her brother sure as hell did, ex-Air Force
pilot and S.T.A.R.S. team member, a competition
marksman and a serious thorn in Umbrella's side. No
way he would have admitted it out loud, but Steve was
kind of impressed.
"You might want to tell him that Umbrella's got him
under surveillance," he said, stepping back so she could read what was on the screen. Apparently Redfield was
in Paris, though Umbrella hadn't managed to locate his
exact whereabouts. Steve was glad that he'd run across a
file that meant something to her; a little gratitude from a
pretty girl was always a good thing.
Claire scanned the info and then tapped a few keys,
glancing back at him with a look of relief. "Thank God for private satellites. I can get through to Leon, he's
a friend, he should have hooked up with Chris by
now..."
She'd already started typing, absently explaining her-
self as her fingers moved across the keys. "... there's a message board we both use ... there, see? 'Contact
ASAP, the gang's all here.' He posted the night I was
caught."
Steve shrugged, not really interested in the life and
times of Claire's pals. "Go back a file, the longitude and latitude of this rock are written down," he said, smiling a little. "Why don't you send your brother directions, let him come save the day?"
He expected another irritated look, but Claire only
nodded, her expression dead serious. "Good idea. I'll say there's been a spill at these coordinates. They'll
know what I mean."
She was pretty, all right, but also pretty naive. "That was a. joke," he said, shaking his head. They were in the middle of nowhere.
She was staring at him. "Hilarious. I'll tell it to Chris when he shows up."
Entirely without warning, a fiery rage welled up in-
side of him, a tornado of anger and despair and a whole
bunch of feelings he couldn't even begin to understand.
What he did understand was that little Miss Claire was
wrong, she was stupid and snotty and wrong.
"Are you kidding? You actually expect him to show,
with what's going on here? And look at the coordi-
nates!" The words came out hot and fast and louder than he intended, but he didn't care. "Don't be such an idiot - believe me, you can't depend on people like that,
you'll only get hurt in the end, and then you'll have no-
body to blame but yourself!"
Now she was looking at him like he'd lost his mind,
and on top of his fury came a crushing wave of shame,
that he'd freak out for no good reason. He could feel
tears threatening, only adding to his humiliation, and
there was no way he was going to cry in front of her like
some baby, no way. Before she could say anything, he
turned and ran, blushing furiously.
"Steve, wait!"
He slammed the office door behind him and kept
going, wanting only to get out, to get away, hell with the map, I've got the key, I'll figure something out and I'll
kill anything that tries to stop me...
Through the long hall, past the dead metal detector
and out, his weapon ready, a part of him bitterly disap-
pointed as he ran past the kennel, twice nearly tripping
over wet and smoldering body parts - there was nothing
to shoot, no one to blast into oblivion, to make him stop
feeling whatever it was he was feeling.
He barreled through the door that came out behind the
bunkhouse and started around the long building, sweat-
ing, his heart pounding, his thick hair sticking to his
scalp in spite of the cold air - and he was so focused on his own strange madness, his need to run, that he didn't
see or hear anything coming until it was almost too late.
Wham, something hit him from behind, knocking him sprawling. Steve immediately rolled onto his back, a
sudden mortal terror blocking out everything else - and
there were two of them, two of the prison's guard dogs,
one of them circling back from having jumped on him,
the other growling deep in its throat, its legs stiff and
head down as it slowly approached.
Jesus, look at 'em...
They had been rottweilers, but not anymore; they'd
been infected, he could see it in their glazed red eyes
and dripping muzzles, in the strange new ridges of mus-
cle that flexed and bunched beneath their almost slimy-
looking coats. And for the first time since the attack, the
immensity of Umbrella's craziness - their secret experi-
ments, their ridiculous cloak and dagger mentality - re-
ally hit home. Steve liked dogs, a hell of a lot more than
he liked most people, and what had happened to these
two poor animals wasn't fair.
Not fair, wrong place at the wrong time, I didn't de-
serve any of this, I didn 't do anything wrong...
He wasn't even aware that the object of his pity had
changed, that he was admitting to himself how shitty
things really were, how badly he'd been screwed; he
didn't have time to notice. It had been less than a second
since he'd rolled onto his back, and the dogs were get-
ting ready to attack.
It was over in another second, the time it took to pull
the trigger once, pivot, pull it again. Both animals went
down instantly, the first taking it in the head, the second,
in the chest. The second dog let out a single yip of pain
or fear or surprise before it collapsed in the mud, and
Steve's hatred for Umbrella multiplied exponentially
with that strangled sound, his mind repeating again and
again how unfair it all was as he crawled to his feet and
broke into a stumbling run. He had the key to the prison
gate; he wasn't going to be their captive anymore.
Time for a little payback, he thought grimly, suddenly hoping, praying that he crossed paths with one of them,
one of the sick, decision-making asshole bastards who
worked for Umbrella. Maybe if he got to hear them beg
for death, maybe then he'd feel a little better.
FOUR
CHRIS REDFIELD AND BARRY BURTON WERE
reloading rounds in the back room of the Paris safe
house, silent and tense, neither of them speaking. It had
been a bad ten days, not knowing what had happened to
Claire, not knowing if Umbrella still had her alive...
... stop, his inner voice said firmly. She's alive, she has to be. To even entertain the alternative was unthinkable. He'd been telling himself that for ten days, and it was
wearing thin. It had been bad enough hearing that she'd
been in Raccoon City for the final meltdown, and that
she'd gone there looking for him. Leon Kennedy, her
young cop friend, had filled him in on the details at their
first meeting. She'd survived Raccoon only to be hi-
jacked by Trent on the way to Europe, she and Leon and
the three renegade S.T.A.R.S.; they'd ended up facing
off with yet another group of Umbrella monsters, at a
facility in Utah. Chris hadn't known about any of it, had
ignorantly assumed that she was still safely studying
away at the University.
Hearing that she'd gotten tangled up in the fight
against Umbrella was bad, all right - but knowing that
Umbrella had captured her, that his little sister might al-
ready be dead ... it was killing him, eating him up in-
side. It was all he could do not to barge into Umbrella's
headquarters with a couple of machine guns and start de-
manding answers, even knowing that it would be suicide.
Barry pumped the shell loader while Chris scooped
up the fresh rounds and boxed them, the acrid, familiar
scent of gunpowder suffusing the air. He was relieved
that his old friend seemed to understand his need for si-
lence, the steady click-click of the loader the only sound
in the small room.
It was also a relief to have something to do after a full
week of sitting still and praying, hoping that Trent might
contact them with news, or to offer help. Chris had never
met Trent, but the mysterious stranger had aided the
S.T.A.R.S. a few times in the past, passing along inside in-
formation about Umbrella. Although his exact motivations
were unknown, his objective seemed clear enough - to
destroy the pharmaceutical company's secret bioweapons
division. Unfortunately, waiting on Trent was a long shot;
he'd only ever contacted them when it suited his needs,
and since they had no way of reaching him, the prospect
of his assistance was seeming less likely all the time.
Click-click. Click-click. The repetitive sound was
soothing somehow, a muted mechanical process in the
quiet of the rented safe house. They all had specific jobs
to do in their pledge to bring Umbrella down, tasks that
changed from day to day as the need arose. Chris had
been helping Barry out with the weapons for the past
week and a half, but he usually ran HQ surveillance.
They'd received a message from Jill a few weeks before,
she was on her way to Paris, and Chris knew that her
misspent youth would come in very handy for internal
recon. Leon had turned out to be a half decent hacker, he
was in the next room on the computer; he'd hardly slept since Claire's capture, most of his time spent trying to
track Umbrella's recent movements. And the trio of
S.T.A.R.S. who'd come with Claire and Leon to Eu-
rope - Rebecca, from the disbanded Raccoon squad,
and the two S.T.A.R.S. from Maine, David and John,
were currently off in London, meeting with an arms
dealer. After all they'd been through together, the three
of them worked well as a team.
There aren't many of us, but we've got the skills and
the determination. Claire, though...
With both their parents dead, he and Claire had devel-
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