a stone killer. Now … now she wasn't sure, and when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, she prayed that he'd changed for the better. Without a word, he pulled the cell door open and blankly met her gaze before jerking his head to one side the universal sign for 'get out,' if there was such a thing. Before she could act, he turned and staggered away, definitely injured from the way he held his gut with one shaking hand. There was a chair between the desk and the far wall; he sat down heavily and picked up a small bottle from the desktop with bloodstained fingers. He shook the bottle, about the size of a small spool of thread, before weakly throwing it across the room, muttering to himself.
'Perfect…'
The presumably empty bottle clattered across the cement floor, rolling to a stop just outside the cell. He glanced in her direction tiredly, his voice thick with exhaustion. 'Go on. Get out of here.' Claire took a step toward the open cell door and hesitated, wondering if it was some kind of trick being shot trying to 'escape' crossed her mind, and didn't seem all that far-fetched, considering who he worked for. She still clearly remembered the look in his eyes when he'd shoved that gun in her face, the cold sneer
that had twisted his mouth. She cleared her throat nervously, deciding to probe for an explanation. 'What are you telling me, exactly?' 'You're free,' he said, muttering to himself again as he sank deeper into the chair, chin lowering to his chest.
'I don't know, might have been some kind of special forces team, troops were all wiped out … no chance of escape.' He closed his eyes. Her instincts told her that he really meant to let her go, but she wasn't going to take any chances. She stepped out of the cell and picked up the bottle he'd thrown, moving very slowly, watching him carefully as she approached. She didn't think his wounded act was a fake; he looked like hell, an ashy-white pallor over his dark skin, like a transparent mask. He wasn't breathing all that evenly, either, and his clothes smelled like sweat and chemical smoke. She glanced at the bottle, an empty syringe vial with an unpronounceable name on the label, catching the word hemostatic in the fine print. Hemo was blood … some kind of bleeding stabilizer? Maybe an internal injury… She wanted to ask him why he was releasing her, what the situation was outside, where she should go, but she could see that he was on the verge of passing out, his eyelids fluttering.
I can't just walk out, not without trying to help him –
– screw that! Go, go now! He might die… You might die! Run for it! The internal dispute was brief, but her conscience triumphed over reason, as usual. He obviously hadn't set her loose because of some personal affinity, but whatever the reason, she was grateful. He didn't have to let her go, and he'd done it anyway. 'What about you?' She asked, wondering if there was anything she could do for him. She certainly couldn't carry him out, and she was no medic. 'Don't worry about me,' he said, raising his head to glare at her for a second, sounding irritated that she'd even brought it up. Before she could ask him what had happened outside, he lost consciousness, his shoulders slumping, his body growing still. He was breathing, but without a doctor, she wouldn't want to bet on how long. The lighter was getting hot, but she endured the heat long enough to search the small room, starting with the desk. There was a combat knife thrown casually on the blotter, a number of loose papers… She saw her own name on one of them and scanned the document while fixing the knife sheath to her waistband. Claire Redfield, prisoner number WKD4496, date of transfer, blah blah blah … escorted by Rodrigo Juan
Raval, 3rd Security Unit CO, Umbrella Medical, Paris.
Rodrigo. The man who'd caught her and set her free, and now appeared to be dying right in front of her. She couldn't do anything about it, either, not unless she could find help. Which I can't do down here, she thought, snapping the overheated lighter closed after she finished the rest of her search. Nothing but junk, mostly, a trunk of musty prisoner uniforms, endless stacks of paperwork stuffed into the desk. She'd found the pair of fingerless gloves they'd taken from her, her old riding gloves, and put them on, grateful for the minor warmth they provided. All she had to defend herself with was the combat knife, a deadly weapon in the right hands … which, unfortunately, hers weren't.
It's a gift horse, don't complain. Five minutes ago you were unarmed and locked up, at least now you have a chance. You should just be happy that Rodrigo didn 't come down here to put you out of your misery.
Still, she pretty much sucked at knifeplay. After a brief hesitation, she quickly patted Rodrigo down, but he wasn't carrying. She did find a set of keys but didn't take them, not wanting to carry anything that might draw someone's attention by jangling at the wrong moment. If she needed them, she could come back.
Time to blow this Popsicle stand, see what there is to see out there. 'Let's do it,' she said softly, as much to get herself moving as anything else, aware that she was basically terrified of what she might find … and also that she didn't have a choice in the matter. As long as she was on the island, Umbrella still had her and until she assessed the circumstances, she couldn't make plans to escape. Holding the knife tightly, Claire stepped out of the cellar room, wondering if Umbrella's madness would ever end.
Alone, Alfred Ashford sat on the wide, sweeping stairs of his home, half blind with rage. The destruction had finally ceased raining down from the skies, but his home had been damaged, their home. It had been built for his grandfather's great-grandmother the brilliant and beautiful Veronica, God rest her soul on the isolated oasis that she had named Rockfort, where she had made a magical life for herself and her progeny over the generations … and now, in the blink of an eye, some horrible fanatic group had dared to try and destroy it. Most of the second floor architecture had been warped and twisted, doors crushed shut, only their private rooms left whole.
Uncouth, uncultured miscreants. They can't even
fathom the measure of their own ignorance.
Alexia was weeping upstairs, her delicate rose of a heart surely aching with the loss. The mere thought of his sister's needless pain fueled his rage to greater intensity, making him want to strike out, but there was no one to submit to his anger, all the commanding officers and chief scientists dead, even his own personal staff. He'd watched it happen from the safety of the private mansion's secret monitor room, each tiny screen telling a different story of brutal suffering and pathetic incompetence. Almost everyone had died, and the rest had run like frightened rabbits; most of the island's planes were already gone. His personal cook had been the only survivor in the common receiving mansion, but she'd screamed so much that he himself had been forced to shoot her.
We're still here, though, safe from the unwashed hands of the world. The Ashfords will survive and prosper, to dance on the graves of our adversaries, to drink champagne from the skulls of their children.
He imagined dancing with Alexia, holding her close, waltzing to the dynamic music of their enemies' tortured screams… It would be nothing short of bliss, his twin's gaze locked to his, sharing the awareness of their superiority over the common man, over the stupidity of those who sought to destroy them. The question was, who had been responsible for the attack? Umbrella had many enemies, from legitimate rival pharmaceutical companies to private shareholders the loss of Raccoon City had been disastrous for the market to the few closet competitors of White Umbrella, their covert bioweapons research department. Umbrella Pharmaceutical, the brainchild of Lord Oswell Spencer and Alfred's own grandfather, Edward Ashford, was extremely lucrative, an industrial empire … but the real power lay with Umbrella's clandestine activities, the operations of which had become too vast to remain entirely unnoticed. And there were spies everywhere. Alfred clenched his fists, frustrated, his entire body a live wire of furious tension and was suddenly aware of Alexia's presence behind him, a trace of gardenia in the air. He'd been so intent on his emotional chaos that he hadn't even heard her approach. 'You mustn't let yourself despair, my brother,' she said gently, and stepped down to sit beside him. 'We will prevail; we always have.'
She knew him so well. When she'd been away from Rockfort all those years ago, he'd been so lonely, so afraid that they might lose some of their special connection … but if anything, they were closer now than ever
before. They never spoke about their separation, about the things that had happened after the experiments at the Antarctic facility, both of them just so happy to be together that they would say nothing to spoil it. She felt the same way, he was certain. He gazed at her for long seconds, soothed by her graceful presence, astounded as always by the depths of her beauty. If he hadn't heard her weeping in her bedroom, he wouldn't have known that she'd shed a tear. Her porcelain skin was radiant, her sky-blue eyes clear and shining. Even today, this darkest of days, the very sight of her gave him such pleasure… 'What would I do without you?' Alfred asked softly, knowing that the answer was too painful to consider. He'd gone half-mad with loneliness when she'd been away, and sometimes still had strange episodes, nightmares that he was alone, that Alexia had left him. It was one of the reasons he encouraged her never to leave their heavily secured private residence, located behind the visitor mansion. She didn't mind; she had her studies, and was aware that she was too important, too exquisite to be admired by just anyone, quite content to be sustained by her brother's affections, trusting him to be her sole contact with the outside world.
If only I could stay with her all the time, just the two of us, hidden away… But no, he was an Ashford,
