the center of the courtyard, a gun in hand … and as he got closer, it was all he could do not to stare. She was muddy and wet and about the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, her face like a model's, big eyes and fine, even features. Reddish hair in a dripping ponytail. An inch or two shorter than him, and about the same age, he thought he'd be eighteen in a couple of months, and she couldn't be much older. She wore jeans, boots, and a sleeveless pink vest over a tight black half tee, her flat stomach showing, the entire outfit accentuating her lean, athletic body … and although she looked tired and wary, her gray-blue eyes sparkled brightly.
Say something cool, play it cool no matter what…
Steve wanted to tell her he was sorry about firing at her, to tell her who he was and what had happened during the attack, to say something suave and worldly and interesting… 'You're not a zombie,' he blurted, inwardly cursing even as it came out. Brilliant. 'No shit,' she said mildly, and he suddenly realized that her weapon was pointing at him, she held it low, but she was definitely aiming it. Even as he froze she took a step back and raised the gun, watching him closely, her finger under the trigger guard and the muzzle only inches from his face. 'And who the hell are you?'
The kid smiled. If he was nervous, he was doing a good job of not letting it show. Claire didn't take her finger off the trigger, but she was already half convinced that he was no threat to her. She'd shot out the light, but he easily could have strafed the yard and taken her down. 'Relax, beautiful,' he said, still smiling. 'My name's Steve Burnside, I'm … I was a prisoner here.' 'Beautiful?' Oh, great. Nothing annoyed her more than being patronized. On the other hand, he was obviously younger than her, which probably meant he was just trying to assert his maleness, to be a man rather than a boy. In her experience, there were few things more ob-
noxious than someone trying to be something they weren't. He looked her up and down, obviously checking her out, and she took another step back, the gun unwavering; she wasn't going to take any chances. The weapon was an M93R, an Italian 9mm, an excellent handgun and apparently standard issue for the prison guards; Chris had one of them. She'd found it after diving for cover, next to the dead, outstretched fingers of a man in uniform … and if she shot the young Mr. Burnside with it at this range, most of his handsome face would be on the ground. He looked like an actor she'd seen before, the lead in that movie about the sinking ship; the resemblance was striking. 'I'm guessing you're not from Umbrella, either,' he said casually. 'I'm sorry about opening up on you like that, by the way. I didn't think there was anyone else alive around here, so when the door opened…' He shrugged. 'Anyway,' he said, cocking an eyebrow, obviously trying to be charming. 'What's your name?' There was no way Umbrella had hired this kid, she was more sure of it with each word out of his mouth. She slowly lowered the semiautomatic, wondering why Umbrella would want to imprison someone so young. They wanted to imprison you, remember? She was only nineteen. 'Claire, Claire Redfield,' she said. 'I was brought here as a prisoner just today.' 'Talk about timing,' Steve said, and she had to smile a little at that; she'd been thinking the same thing herself. 'Claire, that's a nice name,' he continued, looking into her eyes. 'I'll definitely remember that.' Oh, brother. She wondered if she should shut him down now or later she and Leon had gotten pretty tight and decided that later might be better. There was no question that she'd have to take him with her to look for an escape, and she didn't want to deal with his reproach along the way.
'Well, much as I'd like to hang around, I've got a plane to catch,' he said, sighing melodramatically. 'Assuming I can find one. I'll look for you before I take off. Be careful, this place is dangerous.'
He started toward a door next to the guard tower, directly opposite from the one she'd come through.
'Catch you later.'
She was so surprised that she almost couldn't find her voice in time. Was he nuts, or just stupid? He was at the door before she spoke up, jogging after him.
'Steve, wait! We should stick together…'
He turned and shook his head, his expression incredibly condescending. 'I don't want you following me, okay? No offense, but you'll just slow me
down.'
He smiled winningly again, working the eye contact as hard as he could. 'And you'd definitely be a distraction. Look, just keep your eyes and ears open, you'll be fine.'
He was through the door and gone before she could say anything. Dumbfounded and thoroughly annoyed, she watched the door settle closed, wondering how he had survived so far. His attitude suggested that he thought this was just one big video game, where he couldn't possibly get hurt or killed. It appeared that sheer bravado counted for something … the one thing teenaged boys seemed to have in abundance.
That and testosterone.
If being perceived as cool was his main concern, he wasn't going to make it very far. She had to go after him, she couldn't leave him to die…
Arroooooooo…
The terrible, lonely, ferocious sound that suddenly shattered the still night was one she'd heard before, in Raccoon City, and it was coming from behind the door that Steve had just gone through. There was no mistaking it for anything else. A dog, infected by the T-virus, turned from a domestic animal into a ruthless killer. After a fast search of the dead guards in the courtyard, she had two more full clips and part of a third. As ready as she was going to get, Claire took a few deep breaths and then slowly pushed the door open with the 9mm's barrel, hoping that Steve Burnside would stay lucky until she found him … and that by meeting him, her own luck hadn't just taken a serious turn for the worse.
THREE
As terrible and disheartening as the destruction to Rockfort, Alfred couldn't deny that he enjoyed putting down a few of his subordinates on the way to the training facility's main control room. He'd had no idea how gratifying it could be to see them sick and dying, reaching for him in hunger the same men who'd sneered at him behind his back, who'd called him abnormal, who had pretended allegiance with their fingers crossed and then expiring by his hand. There were listening devices and hidden cameras throughout the compound, installed by his own paranoid father, a hidden monitor room in the private residence; Alfred had known all along that he wasn't liked, that the Umbrella employees feared but didn't respect him as he deserved.
And now…
Now it didn't matter, he thought, smiling, stepping
out of the elevator to see John Barton at the other end of the hall, staggering toward him with outstretched arms. Barton had been responsible for training Umbrella's growing militia in small arms, at least at the Rockfort compound, and had been a loud, vulgar barbarian swaggering around with his cheap cigars, flexing his ridiculously bloated muscles, always sweating, always laughing. The pale, blood-drenched creature stumbling toward him bore little resemblance, but was undoubtedly the same man. 'You're not laughing anymore, Mr. Barton,' Alfred said rightly, raising his .22 rifle, using the sight to put a tiny red dot over the trainer's bloodshot left eye. The drooling, moaning Barton didn't notice…
Bam!
… although he surely would have appreciated Alfred's excellent aim and choice of ammunition. The .22 was loaded with safety slugs, rounds designed to spread out on impact designated 'safe' because the bullet wouldn't go through the target and injure anyone else. Alfred's shot obliterated Barton's eye and certainly a goodly part of his brain, rendering him harmless and quite dead. The large man crumpled to the floor, a puddle of blood spreading out beneath him. Some of the BOWs were unnerving to him, and he was relieved that most had either been locked down in various parts of the training facility or had been killed outright he certainly wouldn't be wandering around if there were more than a few on the loose, but he didn't find the virus carriers to be particularly frightening. Alfred had seen many men and a number of women, as Well turned into these zombie-like creatures by way of the T-virus, experiments that he'd witnessed throughout his childhood, that he'd directed himself as an adult. In fact, there were never more than fifty or sixty prisoners living at Rockfort at a time; between Dr. Stoker, the anatomist and researcher who'd worked at the 'infirmary,' and the constant need for training targets and spare parts, no one incarcerated at the compound enjoyed Umbrella's hospitality for more than six months.
And where will we all be six months from now, I wonder?
Alfred stepped over Barton's swollen corpse, walking toward the control room to call his Umbrella HQ
