contacts. Would Umbrella choose to rebuild at Rockfort? Would he agree to it? He and Alexia had been perfectly safe from the virus during its 'hot' stage, both pathways between the rest of the facility and their private home locked down throughout most of the air attack, but knowing that Umbrella's nameless enemy was willing to resort to such extreme measures, did he really want to
risk refitting a laboratory so near their home? The Ashfords feared nothing, but neither were they reckless.
Alexia would never agree to closing the facility, not now, not when she's so close to her goal…
Alfred stopped in his tracks, staring at the banks of radio and video equipment, at the blank computer screens that stared back at him with wide dead eyes. He stared but didn't see, a strange emptiness opening up inside of him, confusing him. Where was Alexia? What goal?
Gone. She's gone.
It was true, he could feel it in his bones but how could she leave him, how could she when she knew that she was his heart, that he would die without her?
The monstrosity, screaming and blind, a failure and it was cold, so cold, the queen ant naked, suspended in the sea and he couldn 't touch her, could only feel the cold unyielding glass beneath his longing fingers…
Alfred gasped, the nightmare imagery so real, so horrid that he didn't know where he was, didn't know what he was doing. Distantly, he felt his hands clenching tighter and tighter around something, the muscles of his arms shaking… … and there was a burst of static from the console in front of him, loud and crackling, and Alfred realized that somebody was speaking.
'… please, if anyone can hear me this is Doctor Mario Tica, in the second floor lab,' the voice was saying, breaking with fear. 'I'm locked in, and all the tanks have gone down, they're waking up … please, you have to help me, I'm not infected, I'm in a suit, swear to God, you gotta get me out of here…'
Dr. Tica, locked in the embryo tank room. Tica, who had long been sending private reports to Umbrella about his progress with the Albinoid project, secret reports that were different than the ones he showed Alfred. Alexia had suggested that Tica be sent to Dr. Stoker some months ago … wouldn't she be amused, to hear him now? Alfred reached over and turned off Tica's babbling plea, suddenly feeling much better. Alexia had warned him time and again about his peculiar episodes, the flashes of intense loneliness and confusion stress, she insisted, telling him that he was not to take them seriously, that she would never leave him voluntarily. She loved him too much for that. Thinking of her, thinking of all the trouble and pain that Umbrella's incompetent defenses had brought about for them both, Alfred abruptly decided not to place his uplink call. HQ had certainly heard about the attack by now, and would be sending a cleanup crew soon enough; really, there was no need to speak with them … and besides, they didn't deserve to hear his observations of the
situation, to have foreknowledge of the dangers they'd be facing. He was no employee, no ignorant lackey who had to report to his superiors. The Ashfords had created Umbrella; they should be reporting to him.
And I did speak to Jackson only a week ago, about the Redfield girl…
Alfred felt his eyes widen, his mind working madly. Claire Redfield, sister to Chris Redfield, he of the meddlesome S.T.A.R.S. holdouts, had arrived mere hours before the attack. She had been caught in Paris, inside Umbrella's HQ Administration building, claiming to be searching for her brother and they'd sent her to him, to keep her locked up while they decided what to do with her. But … what if the plan had been to lure her brother out into the open, to crush his ridiculous insurrection once and for all, a plan they'd conveniently forgotten to tell him? And what if she'd been followed to Rockfort by Redfield and his comrades, her very presence a signal for them to attack… … or perhaps even allowed herself to be captured in the first place?
It was as if a puzzle was falling into place. Of course, of course she had. Clever girl, she'd played her part well. Whether or not Umbrella had unwittingly encouraged the attack didn't matter, not now, he would deal with them later; what mattered was that the Redfield witch had brought the enemy to Rockfort, and she might still be alive, stealing information, spying, perhaps even planning to, to hurt his Alexia… 'No,' he breathed, the fear immediately transforming into fury. Obviously that had been her plan all along, to do as much damage to Umbrella as possible and Alexia was undoubtedly the brightest scientific mind working in bioweapons research, perhaps the brightest in any field. Claire wouldn't get away with it. He'd find her … or, better yet, wait for her to come to him, as she surely would. He could watch for her, lay in wait like a hunter, the girl his prey.
And why kill her immediately, when you could have so much fun with her first? It was Alexia's voice in his thoughts, reminding him of their childhood games, the pleasure they'd shared in their own experiments, creating environments of pain, watching things suffer and die. It had forged the bond between them in steel, to share such intimate things… … I can keep her alive, let Alexia play with her … or better, I could invent a maze for her, see how she fares against some of our pets… There were many possibilities. With few exceptions, Alfred could unlock all the doors on the island by computer; he could easily lead her wherever he wanted, and kill her at his discre-
tion. Claire Redfield had underestimated him, they all had, but no more … and if things worked out the way Alfred was starting to hope, the day would end on a much happier note than the dismal discord which had marked its beginning.
If there were infected dogs roaming the grounds, they were hiding. The open yard Claire stepped into was littered with corpses, their flesh a sickly gray beneath the pale moonlight except for where the countless splashes of blood had fallen; no dogs, nothing moving except the low clouds scudding across the thickening night sky. Claire stood for a moment, watching the shadows, wanting to make sure of her surroundings before leaving the exit behind. 'Steve,' she whispered harshly, afraid to shout for fear of what might be lurking. Unfortunately, Steve Burnside was as scarce as the howling dog she'd heard; he hadn't just wandered away, it seemed, he'd taken off at a sprint. Why? Why would he choose to be alone? Maybe she was wrong, but Steve's bit about not wanting to be slowed down just didn't ring true. When she'd unknowingly stumbled into the Raccoon nightmare, running into Leon had made all the difference in the world; they hadn't stuck together the entire time, but just knowing that there was someone else as shocked and scared as she was … instead of feeling helpless and isolated, she'd been able to form clear objectives, goals beyond mere survival finding transportation out of the city, looking for Chris, taking care of Sherry Birkin.
And simply from a safety standpoint, having someone to watch your back is a hell of a lot better than going it solo, no question.
Whatever his reason, she was going to do her damnedest to talk him out of it, assuming she could find him. The yard in front of her was much bigger than the one she'd just stepped out of, a long, one-story cabin to her right, a wall without doors to her left, the back of a larger building, perhaps. A low fire was burning in one of the wall's broken windows, and there was plenty of debris strewn among the dead, evidence of the forceful attack. To her immediate right was a locked gate, a moonlit dirt path on the other side, and a closed door … which meant that Steve was either in the cabin or had gone around it, using the trail at the far end of the yard that also headed to the right. She decided to try the cabin first … and as she hopped the few steps up to the railed porch that ran most of the length of the building, she found herself wonder-
ing who had attacked Rockfort, and why. Rodrigo had said something about a special forces team, but if that was true, whose orders were they following? It seemed that Umbrella had its share of enemies, which was definitely good news but the island attack was a tragedy nonetheless. Prisoners had died along with employees, and the T-virus perhaps the G-virus, too, and God only knows how many others didn't differentiate between the guilty and the innocent. She had reached the plain wooden door of the cabin, and holding the 9mm at the ready, she gently pushed it open and immediately closed it, her course decided by the two virus carriers she'd seen inside, both stumbling around a table. A second later there was a thump at the door, a low, pitiful moan filtering out. The trail it is, then. She doubted that the cocksure Steve would have left anyone standing if he had gone into the cabin, and she probably would have heard the shots…
… unless they got him first.
Claire didn't like it, but the grim reality of her situation was mat she couldn't afford to waste the ammo to find out. She'd follow the path, see where that led and if she couldn't find him then, he was on his own. She wanted to do the right thing, but she also felt pretty strongly about saving her own ass; she had to get back to Paris, to Chris and the others, which she certainly couldn't do if she blew her ammo and ended up being someone's lunch. She moved back along the porch, all of her senses on high as she neared the end of the building. She hadn't forgotten about the zombie dog or dogs, and listened for the patter of claws against dirt, for the heavy panting that she remembered from her previous experience in Raccoon. The damp, chill night was quiet, a shivering breeze sweeping lightly through the yard, the only breathing she heard her own. A quick glance around the corner of the
