that they would help much here. Even if he could blow the mouth without bringing all of it down, it was still too high to jump, and the rope had been in the bag; unless she'd been taking lessons, Claire wasn't a good enough rock climber to go down unassisted… 'What?' someone rasped, and Chris dropped into a defensive crouch, searching the shadows… … and saw a man on the cave floor, slumped against the wall. He wore a tattered white T-shirt with blood on it, his pants and boots military he was one of Umbrella's, and not in very good shape. Nevertheless, Chris stepped quickly to his side, ready to kick the shit out of him if he so much as sneezed. 'I didn't know anyone was still around,' the man said weakly, and coughed a little. 'Thought I was the last one … after the self-destruct.'
He coughed again, obviously not far away from death. His words sank in, creating a lead ball in Chris's stomach. Self-destruct? He crouched down, trying to keep his voice level.
'I'm here looking for a girl, her name is Claire Redfield. Do you know where she is?'
At the sound of Claire's name, the man smiled, though not at Chris. 'An angel. She's gone, escaped. I helped her … let her go. She tried to save me, but it was too late.' Hope bloomed anew. 'Are you sure she got away?' The dying man nodded. 'Heard the planes leave. Saw a jet come out of the basement, under the…' a cough, '… the tank. You should go, too. Nothing left here.'
Chris could feel some of his stress and fear ebbing away, tensions in his neck and back releasing. If she was gone, she was safe. 'Thank you for helping her,' he said sincerely. 'What's your name?' 'Raval. Rodrigo Raval.' 'I'm Claire's brother, Chris,' he said. 'Let me help you, Rodrigo, it's the least I can do and…'
Eeaaaaaaa!
A deafening animal cry filled the cave, and at the same instant, another tremor struck, a bad one, the ground shaking so hard that Chris was thrown off his feet… … and earth erupted, what Chris thought was an explosion at first, a fountain of dirt and rock spraying upward, but it kept rising, and Chris could see thick, filth-coated slime beneath it, could smell sulfur and decay, saw a huge cylinder made of rubber still climbing –
– and then it shrieked again, the top of the cylinder twisting around, wormy tentacles peeling back from a yawning, howling throat, and Chris scrambled to his feet, grabbing a grenade from his belt… … and the giant, shrieking snake-worm came crashing down, mouth open… … and swallowed Rodrigo whole before slamming into the sandy soil where he'd been sitting. It dove into the ground like a swimmer into water, its impossibly long body arching over, following through. Jesus!
Chris stumbled away as the ground continued to quake, the burrowing creature kicking up rock and dirt and sand all around him, and he realized that he had to kill it or get away fast, that it could easily come up beneath him for another quick snack. He ran to the outer wall of the cave, making a split second plan as the snake-worm burst up through the ground behind him, its insane mouth peeling open as it hesitated at the top of its arch, ready to plunge down over him, rocks falling all around –
– and Chris pulled the safety ring off the grenade, stripping the tape and pin away, and ran, straight for the creature's lower body where it emerged from the ground. Crazy, this is crazy…
He ducked just before hitting the filthy, muscular body and set the grenade on the ground in front of it, on the run, as careful as he could be not to set it off and then dived for cover behind the snake-worm's twisting body, tucking into a shoulder roll, covering his head as the animal started downward, shrieking… … and BOOM, the explosion shook the ground even harder than the animal had, the shriek cut off, the grenade blast muffled by a half ton of worm guts that shot out in all directions, stinking and warm, painting the walls of the cave hi viscous bucket loads. Chris rolled on his back, drenched, watched the front half of the animal convulse and writhe, already dead and as its muscles and reflexes clenched and released for the last time, the snake-worm expelled a gush of stomach acid and rock from its gaping maw, vomiting out its last meal.
Rodrigo!
Before the massive corpse had completely settled to the ground, Chris was at Rodrigo's side, horrified and helpless, the man seizing in shock and pain. He was coated in yellow bile, and Chris could see places where it had already burned through his skin. Rodrigo let out a soft cry, too weak to scream in what had to be incredible pain, and Chris tore his own jacket off, wiping his face clean of the sticky, acidic fluid.
'You're going to be okay, just relax, don't try to talk,'
Chris said, fully aware that Rodrigo would be dead in minutes, perhaps seconds. He kept talking, kept his tone soothing in spite of his own dismay. Rodrigo opened his eyes, and though they were full of suffering, they also had the wet, glassy, faraway look of someone leaving it all behind, someone about to be free of pain and fear. 'Right … pocket…' Rodrigo whispered. 'The angel … gave … for luck.'
Rodrigo took a slow, deep breath, and let it out just as slowly, an exhalation that seemed to go on forever, and then he was gone. Chris automatically closed his half-open eyes, simultaneously sad and relieved at Rodrigo's passing, the end of a life but also an end to dying.
Rest, friend.
Sighing, Chris reached into Rodrigo's pocket, felt skin-warmed metal and pulled out the scuffed, heavy old lighter that he'd given to Claire himself, a long time ago. For luck. Chris held it to his chest, suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of love for his sister. She'd carried the lighter with her everywhere for years, but had given it up to ease the mind of a dying man, possibly one of the men responsible for her capture. He slipped it into his pocket and stood, glad that he'd be able to give it back to her and to tell her that she'd made a difference in Rodrigo's last hours, that he'd smiled upon hearing her name. Even though Claire didn't need to be rescued, Chris's trip to the island had already turned out to be worthwhile. The stink of the splattered cave was getting to him, and now that he knew his sister was safe, all that was left was to get himself home. His entrance had been caved in, and he didn't have a decent weapon, but if someone had triggered Umbrella's self-destruct system it seemed that all their illegal facilities were built with such failsafes in place, a fine way to destroy evidence if anything went wrong then he shouldn't run into too much trouble looking for the tank that Rodrigo had mentioned, see if there was another jet to be had. 'No going back,' he said softly, and with a final silent
prayer for Rodrigo to find peace, he went to see what he could find.
There was a fight about to happen on one of the monitors in what was left of the control room, and Albert Wesker, frustrated by a day of fruitless searching and not looking forward to yet another long flight, pulled up a crate and sat down to watch. He'd already sent the boys back to the world, he was alone except it appeared that he'd missed somebody, and said somebody was still wandering around the island… … but not for much longer, he thought happily, wishing the reception was better; thanks to that lonesome loser, Alfred Ashford, the self-destruct system had screwed everything up … and finally, something interesting was actually going to happen.
Christ, he's unarmed!
Crazy or stupid or totally ignorant of what the island was, no question. Wesker grinned. The unarmed man was walking through the training facility just one floor below, and he was about to meet up with one of Umbrella's newer bio-organics, one that had been trapped down in the sewers until Wesker had shown up and set it free. They were one hallway apart; when the dumbass turned the next corner, he was dead. Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, pleasantly diverted from his own troubles. Sweepers, Umbrella was calling the new monsters, but they were basically Hunters with poison claws huge, primarily amphibious, violent as hell. In Wesker's opinion, the Hunters, the 121 series, were perfectly badass without the extra poison touch.
But isn't that just like Umbrella, always wasting resources, playing games when they could be winning wars.
Yes, it was, but there was about to be bloodshed. Wesker set aside his distaste for the company and leaned in to watch. The weaponless idiot a tall guy with reddish-brown hair, that was about all the static would allow was two steps from disaster, the Sweeper waiting just around the corner … when he stopped and backed up a step, pressing himself against the damaged wall. Wesker frowned. The man started to back up, slowly and carefully, still hugging the wall. Okay, maybe not a complete idiot. He'd made it halfway back down the corridor he'd come through when the Sweeper finally got impatient, deciding to take action. There was no sound system left, but the creature had thrown back its head and was screaming, that weird, trilling screech floating up to Wesker through the ruined building just a split second later. 'Get him,' Wesker breathed eagerly, looking back at
the poor, doomed dumbass … just in time to see him throwing something, something small and dark, the Sweeper leaping out from behind the corner, still screaming, the object landing at its feet… … and the building was shaking, the screens going white and then black, the deep thunder of explosives rumbling through the floor. Wesker was astounded. And then furious. That creature had been a miracle of science, a warrior created for battle who was this dick who'd just rambled in and blown it to shit? A dead dick, Wesker thought darkly, pushing the crate away and heading for the stairs. He took them two at a time, carefully bypassing a few still burning fires, aware that he
