he probably knew enough not to crash the thing.
First things first, board her and check fuel, general condition, learn the controls…
He stopped at the edge of the platform and looked
down, frowning. He was at least ten feet above the front hatch, which looked to be locked down tight. There was a bank of machinery to his left, a few panels lit up. Steve walked over and looked at them, smiling when he saw a control to power up the boarding lift. The system should also open the plane door, according to the tiny diagram. 'Presto,' he said, flipping the switch. A loud and grating mechanical noise bellowed through the giant hangar, making him wince, but it stopped after a few seconds, as a two-man lift slid to a halt at the platform's edge. He stepped onto the lift, studied the standing control panel and started to curse, every bad word he could think of, twice. Next to a trio of hexagonally shaped spaces were the words, 'insert proof keys here.' No keys, no power.
They could be anywhere on the whole goddamn island! And what are the chances that all goddamn three of them will be goddamn together?
He took a deep breath, made himself calm down a little, and spent the next few minutes figuring out how the plane's controls were hooked up to the rest of the system, looking for a way to bypass the keys. And after a careful, thoughtful deliberation, he started cursing again. When he finally got tired of that, he resigned himself to the inevitable. Steve turned around and started to search the area, peering into every dark crevice, formulating theories about where the proof keys might be as he ran his hands over the greasy, dust-slimed machinery cabinets and he decided that he was definitely going to dance all over the bones of the next Umbrella employee he gunned down, just for working at such an unnecessarily complicated place. Keys and emblems and proofs and submarines; it was a wonder they ever got shit done.
The virus carrier was wearing a lab coat and its lower jaw had fallen off somewhere, or been broken off; it gurgled and spluttered horribly, its wormy tongue flopping limply across its neck. Claire couldn't tell if it had been a man or woman, although she supposed it didn't really matter. As pitiful as it was revolting, she put it out of its misery with a single shot to the temple and then searched the area working laboratory office, small inventory room before stepping back into the hall, discouraged at her overwhelming lack of success. The entrance she'd walked back to from the mansion had opened up into a reasonably big courtyard, hard packed dirt and totally utilitarian more like the prison than the palace, although even after searching a few rooms, she still couldn't figure out where she was, ex-
actly; some kind of testing facility, maybe, or a training ground for guards or soldiers. Maybe just a building designed to destroy hope, she thought blackly, looking toward the front door. She'd walked in maybe ten minutes ago, hoping that Rodrigo wasn't already dead, that Steve had found a boat, that Mr. Psycho Ashford and his sister weren't planning to blow up the island and in just ten minutes, those hopes had been thoroughly stomped on. All she really wanted now was a goddamn bottle of medicine, because then she'd be one step closer to leaving. She'd tried the upstairs first, undergoing an exciting little adventure that had shaved a few years off her age. All she'd found up there was a small, locked lab with a lot of broken glass on the floor, from what appeared to be ruptured holding tanks. She'd seen the damage through an observation window, and had been about to leave when some poor, bloody guy in an environmental suit threw himself at the glass. It had been his dying act; the suit obviously hadn't done him much good, his head had practically exploded, coating the inside of his helmet with gore. It hadn't done her heart much good, either, scaring her half to death, and the whole upstairs experience had been topped off by an emergency shutter lockdown, apparently triggered by the suit guy. She'd practically had to hurl herself down the stairs to avoid being trapped.
Whee.
Nine zombies she'd had to put down so far, three of them in lab coats or scrubs, and not even a cotton swab to show for it. Nothing in the locker room and she'd looked through practically every damned one of the lockers, turning up jockstraps and porn, but little else, nothing in the odd little shower room, zip and zilch. She'd have thought that a pharmaceutical company might actually have a few Pharmaceuticals lying around, but it was looking more doubtful by the moment. Claire walked back to the long hall that branched off from the building's first floor, that opened into an outdoor courtyard. She'd hoped to find something for Rodrigo without having to leave the building proper, but there was no help for it.
If I get lost, I can just follow the trail of corpses back,
she thought, walking quickly down the nondescript corridor. Not funny, but she wasn't feeling all that politically correct at the moment. She was starting to run low on ammo, too, which made her even less inclined to a positive frame of mind. She stepped from the relative warmth of the hall into the mist-cloaked courtyard, smells of the ocean permeating the cold gray night. A small fire burned against
one wall. The whole Rockfort facility was strangely laid out, she thought, an unlike mix of new and old. Inefficient, but interesting; the little courtyard was actually cobblestoned, definitely not a recent addition… Claire froze. The narrow red beam of a laser scope sliced through the mist in front of her, swept toward her from somewhere above. A low balcony to her right, the stairs for it set against the east wall.
Stairs, cover!
It was all she had time to think before the little red dot was stuttering across her chest. She threw herself out of the way as the first shot blasted through the cold air, burying itself in a miniature fountain of stone chips. She rolled to her feet and sprinted for the stairs, the red light jerking back and forth, trying to find her. Bam, a second shot, it missed but was close enough that she could actually hear it cutting through the air, a highpitched buzzing sound. She caught a glimpse of the shooter just before ducking behind the low stone balustrade, not surprised at all to see slicked-back blond hair and a red jacket trimmed in gold. She was more angry than scared, that after all she'd been through, she hadn't been more careful and that she'd almost been taken out by such a weird little elitist creep. That stops right now. Claire raised her handgun over the stone railing and fired off two rounds in Alfred's general direction. She was immediately rewarded with a cry of shocked outrage. Not so much fun when the peasants fire back, is it?
Ready to capitalize on his surprise, Claire scrambled up three steps and risked a look over the rail just in time to see him run through a door on the west wall, slamming it behind him. She leaped up the stairs and took off after him, banging through the door and down a moonlit hall, shafts of cool light gently piercing the shadows. It wasn't a conscious decision to pursue him, she just did it, not wanting to stumble into any more of his ambushes. She could see what looked like a soda machine at the end of hall, could still hear his running footsteps… … and heard a door slam just before she reached the corridor's end, a small room with two decrepit vending machines and two doors to choose between. Claire hesitated, looking at either door and then put her hands on her knees to catch her breath, giving up the chase. For all she knew, he was standing on the other side of one of those doors, just waiting for her to walk through. Score one for the nutcase. Not a big victory, anyway. With any luck, she'd be off the island soon, Alfred Ashford just another bad memory.
After a moment she straightened, walking over to check out the vending machines one for snacks, the other, beverages. She suddenly realized she was ravenous, and incredibly thirsty. When was the last time she ate? The machines were both broken, but a couple of good, solid kicks circumvented the problem nicely; most of it was crap, but there were several bags of mixed nuts and a few cans of orange juice. Not exactly a steak dinner, but considering the circumstances, a bountiful harvest anyway. She ate quickly, stuffing a few unopened bags in her vest pockets for later, feeling more focused almost immediately.
So… door number one, or door number two? Eenymeeny-miney-mo… The gray door, to the right of the corridor. She doubted that Alfred had the patience to still be waiting, but edged up to the door carefully just in case, pushing it open with the barrel of the 9mm. Claire relaxed. A small, cozy room, couple of couches, an antique typewriter on a table, a large, dusty trunk in one corner. It seemed safe enough; Alfred must have gone through door number one. She stepped inside to search it, drawn toward a small heap of miscellaneous objects on one of the couches and her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening.
Thank you, Alfred!
Someone had dumped the contents of a fanny pack on the couch, the pack itself crumpled next to the pile, which included two sterile needles and a syringe, a pack of waterproof matches, half a box of 9mm rounds and a small, half-filled bottle of the same hemostatic stuff Rodrigo had been out of, exactly what she'd been looking for. There were a few other odds and ends in the makeshift survival kit, a pen, a small flat screwdriver, a foil-wrapped condom … at the last, she rolled her eyes, grinning. Interesting, what some people considered absolute necessities. Her grin faded when she noticed the blood stains on the pack, but she still felt better than she had in days. She
