touch the thing let alone read it, but Rodrigo had seemed to think it might help. She flipped through a few pages, saw that nothing was dated, and started scanning the narrow, spidery writing for a familiar word or name, something about puzzles, maybe … there, an entry that made several references to Alfred Ashford. She took a deep breath and started at the top.
We finally talked today about the details of my preferences and pleasures. Mr. Ashford wouldn't share his own, but he was most encouraging to me, as he's been since my arrival six weeks ago. He was informed at the beginning that my needs are unconventional, but now he knows everything, even the small things. I was uncomfortable at first, but Mr. Ashford Alfred, he insists I call him Alfred proved to be an eager audience. He said that he and his sister both strongly approve of research in the boundaries of experience. He told me that I should think of them as kindred spirits, and that here, I am free. It was strange, describing aloud my feelings, sensations and thoughts that I've never shared. I told him about how it all started, when I was still a boy. About the animals I experimented with early on and later, the other children. I didn't know then that I was capable of killing, but I knew that the sight of blood excited me, that causing pain filled an empty, lonely space inside with profound feelings of power and control. I think he understands about the screaming, about how important the screaming is to me and…
Enough. This wasn't what she was looking for, and it was making her want to vomit. She turned a few pages, found another entry about Alfred and his sister, scanned over something about a private home and went back, frowning.
Alfred attended one of my live autopsies today, and told me afterward that Alexia has asked after me, that she wants to know if I have everything I need. Alfred worships Alexia, will let no one near her, I haven't asked to meet her yet, and have no plans to do so; Alfred wants their private home to remain private, and to keep her all to himself. It's behind the common mansion, he told me, most people don't even know it exists. Alfred tells me things that no one else knows. I think he appreciates having an ac-
quaintance with common interests. He said that Rockfort has many places that require unusual keys much like the eye he gave me some new, some very old. Edward Ashford, Alfred's grandfather, was apparently obsessed with secrecy, an obsession shared by Umbrella's other founder, according to Alfred. He and Alexia are the only people alive who know all the hidden places at Rockfort, he said. Alfred had full sets of keys made for both of them when he took over his father's position. I joked that it's good to have a spare in case he ever locks himself out, and he laughed. He said that Alexia would always let him in. I believe that twins often have a much deeper bond than other sets of siblings that in a figurative sense, if you cut one, the other will bleed. I'd like very much to test this theory in a more literal way, regarding pain levels. I've found that filling a fresh wound with cut glass and sewing it closed again is a…
Sickened, Claire tossed the book aside and wiped her hands on her jeans, deciding that she had enough information to go on. She hoped quite sincerely that the corpse upstairs was Dr. Stoker's, that his black heart had failed him and it was the thought of going to hell that had frozen his face into a mask of terror and she abruptly realized that she'd had more than enough of his atmosphere, that if she had to be in the infirmary for one more minute, she really was going to throw up. She turned and walked quickly to the door, was full on running by the time she reached the stairs. She took them two at a time, and sprinted through the upstairs room, not looking at the body, not thinking about anything but the need to get out. When she hit the outside path that led back to the guillotine door, she collapsed against one wall and breathed in huge lungfuls of air, concentrating on keeping her gorge down. It took a couple of minutes before she was out of the danger zone. When she felt ready, Claire plugged a fresh clip in her semi and started back toward the training facility. She realized that she'd lost the second weapon Steve gave her somewhere between the torture chamber and the front door, but there was nothing on Earth that would persuade her to step foot back inside. She was going to get Steve, and they would find those goddamn keys, and then they were getting the fuck away from the asylum that Umbrella had created at Rockfort.
Steve cried for a while, and rocked himself back and forth for a while, dully aware that he'd just done a very Big Thing as far as lifetime experiences went, there was the small shit and then big and then capital B Big.
There were some things that just changed people forever, and this was one of them. He'd had to kill his own father. Both his parents, good people who meant no harm, were dead. That meant there was no one in the world who loved him now, and it was that thought that kept repeating itself, making him cry and rock back and forth. It was thinking about the Lugers that finally snapped him out of the private emotional hell he was in, that made him remember where he was and what was happening. He still felt entirely terrible, aching inside and out, but he started to tune back in to his environment, wishing that Claire was with him, wishing for a glass of water. The Lugers. Steve rubbed at his swollen eyes and then pulled both of them from under his belt, staring down at them. It was stupid, unimportant, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd finally connected that when he'd taken the matched handguns off the wall, that was when he'd been locked in and the heat had gone on. It had been a trap … and as far as he could figure, the only purpose of a trap like that was to keep someone from taking the weapons.
Which means maybe they're useful for something besides shooting. Yeah, they were gilded and cool-looking and probably expensive, but the Ashfords obviously weren't hurting for money … and if the guns had some kind of sentimental value, why were they being used as part of a trap? He decided that he wanted to go back and take a closer look at where they'd been hanging, see if putting them back did anything. It was a two-minute walk back to the mansion, tops, he could be there and back in five; Claire would wait for him if she got back first. And if I stay here, I'll just keep crying. He wanted, needed something to do. Steve stood up, feeling shaky and kind of hollow as he brushed dirt off his pants, unable to avoid looking over at where his father had died. He felt a rush of relief when he saw that Claire had covered him up with a piece of tarp. She was a great girl … though for some reason, he suddenly felt kind of weird about her, about telling her all that stuff. He wasn't sure how he felt. He stepped outside, and was vaguely surprised to see that he wasn't in the front yard of the training facility. He was also vaguely surprised that in the small, highwalled square he had walked into was what appeared to be a WWII Sherman tank. Giant, mud-crusted treads, revolving turret with huge gun, the whole deal. He might have been interested earlier, or at least more than just a little surprised there was no reason at all for there to be a tank at the Rockfort facility but now all he wanted to do was check out the Luger trap, see if he
could at least contribute something toward getting them off the island. He felt kind of bad that Claire had been stuck with questioning the wounded Umbrella guy by herself, since it was his idea and all. On the other side of the tank was a door that did open into the training yard. At least his sense of direction wasn't totally blown. It seemed darker than it had earlier; Steve looked up and saw that the sky had gone cloudy again, blocking the moon and stars. He was about halfway across the yard when he heard thunder, loud enough that the very ground seemed to quake a little beneath his feet. By the time he reached the other side, it had started to rain again. Steve stepped up the pace, hanging a right at the exit and jogging for the mansion. The rain was heavy and cold, but he welcomed it, opening his mouth and turning his face to the sky, letting it wash over him. He was soaked in just a few seconds.
'Steve!' Claire.
He felt his stomach knot up a little, turning to watch her approach. She caught up to him outside the door to the mansion's grounds, wearing a concerned expression. 'Are you all right?' she asked, studying him uncertainly, blinking rain out of her eyes. Steve wanted to tell her that he was aces, that he'd shaken off the worst of it and was ready to get back to the zombie smackdown, but when he opened his mouth, none of that came out. 'I don't know. I think so,' he said truthfully. He managed a half smile, not wanting her to worry too much but not wanting to talk about it, either. She seemed to understand, swiftly changing the topic.
'I found out that the Ashford twins have a private house hidden behind the mansion,' she said. 'And I'm not a hundred percent sure, but the keys we're looking for might be there. I think there's a good chance.' 'You found all that out from the, uh, Rodrigo?'
Steve asked doubtfully. It was hard to imagine that an Umbrella employee would give that up to the enemy. Claire hesitated, then nodded. 'In a roundabout way,' she said, and he suddenly had the impression that there was something she didn't want to talk about. He didn't push it, just waited. 'The problem is getting to the house,' she continued. 'I'm sure it's locked up tight. I was thinking we might poke around the mansion a little more, see if we can find a map or a passage…'
She pushed her dripping bangs out of her eyes, smiling. '… and, you know, get out of the rain before we
get wet.'
Steve agreed. They went through the entrance to the manicured grounds, stepping over a few corpses along
