Стефани Перри - Code Veronica

Steve jumped when he heard the explosion outside, reflexively looking around at the small, cluttered office as though expecting the walls to crumble. After a few beats he relaxed, figuring it was probably just another heat blast, nothing to worry about. Ever since the attack, the unchecked fires burning throughout the prison compound occasionally rolled over something combustible, a canister of oxygen or kerosene or whatever, and then ker-blooey, another explosion. It was just such a blast that had kept him alive, actually he'd been knocked out by a flying chunk of wall when an oil barrel had blown up, the debris covering him completely, hiding him. When he'd finally come to, the big zombie chow-down was pretty much over, most of the prison guards and prisoners already dead… Bad train of thought. He shook it off and returned his attention to the computer screen, to the file directory he'd stumbled across while trying to find a map of the island. Some dumbass had written the pass code number on a sticky note and slapped it on the hard drive, giving him easy access to some obviously secret stuff. Too bad most of it was dull as dishwater prison budgeting,

names and dates he didn't recognize, information about some kind of special alloy that metal detectors couldn't pick up … that one was kind of interesting, considering he'd had to walk through a two-way lockdown metal detector to get to the office, but three or four well-placed bullets to the mechanism had taken care of that. Good thing, too; he'd found one of the main gate emblem keys tucked in a desk drawer, which would definitely have triggered a lockdown on his way back through.

All I need is a goddamn map to the nearest boat or plane and I'm history. He'd pick up the chick after he cleared a path, too, play the knight in shining armor… … and she'd undoubtedly be appreciative, maybe even enough to want to… A name on the file directory caught his eye. Steve frowned, peering closer at the screen. There was a folder labeled Redfield, C… as in Claire Redfield? He tapped it up, curious, and was still reading, totally absorbed, when he heard a noise behind him. He scooped his gun off the counter and spun around, mentally kicking himself for not paying better attention and there was Claire, her own weapon pointing at the floor, a slightly irritated look on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked casually, as if she hadn't just scared the crap out of him. "And how did you get past the zombies outside?" "I ran," he answered, annoyed by the question. Did she think he was helpless or something? "And I'm looking for a map … hey, are you related to a Christopher Redfield?" Claire frowned. "Chris is my brother. Why?" Siblings. That explains it. Steve motioned toward the computer, vaguely wondering if the entire Redfield clan kicked ass. Her brother sure as hell did, ex-Air Force pilot and S.T.A.R.S. team member, a competition marksman and a serious thorn in Umbrella's side. No way he would have admitted it out loud, but Steve was kind of impressed.

"You might want to tell him that Umbrella's got him under surveillance," he said, stepping back so she could read what was on the screen. Apparently Redfield was in Paris, though Umbrella hadn't managed to locate his exact whereabouts. Steve was glad that he'd run across a file that meant something to her; a little gratitude from a pretty girl was always a good thing. Claire scanned the info and then tapped a few keys, glancing back at him with a look of relief. "Thank God for private satellites. I can get through to Leon, he's a friend, he should have hooked up with Chris by now…"

She'd already started typing, absently explaining herself as her fingers moved across the keys. "… there's a

message board we both use … there, see? 'Contact ASAP, the gang's all here.' He posted the night I was caught."

Steve shrugged, not really interested in the life and times of Claire's pals. "Go back a file, the longitude and latitude of this rock are written down," he said, smiling a little. "Why don't you send your brother directions, let him come save the day?"

He expected another irritated look, but Claire only nodded, her expression dead serious. "Good idea. I'll say there's been a spill at these coordinates. They'll know what I mean." She was pretty, all right, but also pretty naive. "That was a. joke," he said, shaking his head. They were in the middle of nowhere. She was staring at him. "Hilarious. I'll tell it to Chris when he shows up."

Entirely without warning, a fiery rage welled up inside of him, a tornado of anger and despair and a whole bunch of feelings he couldn't even begin to understand. What he did understand was that little Miss Claire was wrong, she was stupid and snotty and wrong.

"Are you kidding? You actually expect him to show, with what's going on here? And look at the coordinates!" The words came out hot and fast and louder than he intended, but he didn't care. "Don't be such an idiot believe me, you can't depend on people like that, you'll only get hurt in the end, and then you'll have nobody to blame but yourself!"

Now she was looking at him like he'd lost his mind, and on top of his fury came a crushing wave of shame, that he'd freak out for no good reason. He could feel tears threatening, only adding to his humiliation, and there was no way he was going to cry in front of her like some baby, no way. Before she could say anything, he turned and ran, blushing furiously.

"Steve, wait!"

He slammed the office door behind him and kept going, wanting only to get out, to get away, hell with the map, I've got the key, I'll figure something out and I'll kill anything that tries to stop me… Through the long hall, past the dead metal detector and out, his weapon ready, a part of him bitterly disappointed as he ran past the kennel, twice nearly tripping over wet and smoldering body parts there was nothing to shoot, no one to blast into oblivion, to make him stop feeling whatever it was he was feeling. He barreled through the door that came out behind the bunkhouse and started around the long building, sweating, his heart pounding, his thick hair sticking to his scalp in spite of the cold air and he was so focused on

his own strange madness, his need to run, that he didn't see or hear anything coming until it was almost too late. Wham, something hit him from behind, knocking him sprawling. Steve immediately rolled onto his back, a sudden mortal terror blocking out everything else and there were two of them, two of the prison's guard dogs, one of them circling back from having jumped on him, the other growling deep in its throat, its legs stiff and head down as it slowly approached.

Jesus, look at 'em…

They had been rottweilers, but not anymore; they'd been infected, he could see it in their glazed red eyes and dripping muzzles, in the strange new ridges of muscle that flexed and bunched beneath their almost slimylooking coats. And for the first time since the attack, the immensity of Umbrella's craziness their secret experiments, their ridiculous cloak and dagger mentality really hit home. Steve liked dogs, a hell of a lot more than he liked most people, and what had happened to these two poor animals wasn't fair.

Not fair, wrong place at the wrong time, I didn't deserve any of this, I didn 't do anything wrong…

He wasn't even aware that the object of his pity had changed, that he was admitting to himself how shitty things really were, how badly he'd been screwed; he didn't have time to notice. It had been less than a second since he'd rolled onto his back, and the dogs were getting ready to attack. It was over in another second, the time it took to pull the trigger once, pivot, pull it again. Both animals went down instantly, the first taking it in the head, the second, in the chest. The second dog let out a single yip of pain or fear or surprise before it collapsed in the mud, and Steve's hatred for Umbrella multiplied exponentially with that strangled sound, his mind repeating again and again how unfair it all was as he crawled to his feet and broke into a stumbling run. He had the key to the prison gate; he wasn't going to be their captive anymore. Time for a little payback, he thought grimly, suddenly hoping, praying that he crossed paths with one of them, one of the sick, decision-making asshole bastards who worked for Umbrella. Maybe if he got to hear them beg for death, maybe then he'd feel a little better.