Стефани Перри - Code Veronica

It was like some bizarre reality twist, Claire decided, closing the mansion doors behind her. From the ramshackle, death-filled cold of the dark prison yards to where she stood now … it was hard to believe, and yet so like Umbrella that she had no choice.

But goddamn. I mean, seriously.

The grand, beautifully designed sunken lobby spread out in front of her was marred only by a few sets of muddy footprints across the hand-tiled floor, a few splotches of blood painted across the delicate eggshell walls. There were also a number of large cracks near the ceiling, and a single maroon handprint drying on one of the thick decorative columns that lined the west wall, thin rivulets of red streaking down from the base of the palm.

So the prisoners weren't the only ones to suffer a shitty afternoon. It was classist and petty of her, she knew, but it made her feel a little better to know that the Umbrella higher-ups had taken an ass-kicking along with everybody else. She stood where she was for a moment, relieved to be out of the cold and still mildly shocked by the different faces of the Rockfort facility as she took hi the layout. Behind one of the columns to her left was a blue door, a second door in the northwest corner of the spacious room. Straight ahead was a polished mahogany recep-

tion desk, abutting an open flight of stairs along the right wall that led up to a second floor balcony, richly hung with a strangely damaged portrait. The face of the portrait's subject had been scratched out for some reason. Claire stepped down into the lobby, crouched and ran a finger through one of the muddy footprints; still wet, and more tracks leading to the corner door. She couldn't be certain they were Steve's, but thought the odds were pretty good. He'd left a trail, from the open prison gate to a couple of dropped shell casings just outside the mansion, along with two more dead dogs. For such an obviously troubled young man, he was a surprisingly accurate shot… … so why am I going through so much trouble to help him out? She thought sourly, standing. He doesn't want my assistance, doesn't seem to need it, and it's not like 1 don't have anything better to do.

When he'd taken off running, she hadn't followed immediately, wanting to get a message to Leon ASAP; she'd also felt obliged to run a quick search of the office for medical supplies, something to help Rodrigo, but she hadn't found anything useful… "Help! Help meee!" A muffled shout, from somewhere in the building.

Steve? "Let me out! Hey, somebody, help!"

Claire was already running for the comer door, weapon up. She slammed into the heavy wood, the door crashing open into a long hallway. Steve shouted again, from the far end of the corridor. Claire hesitated just long enough to see that the three bodies sprawled on the tiled floor weren't going to get up and then ran, fixing the door straight ahead as the one.

"Help!" Jesus, what's happening to him? He sounded panicstricken, his voice breaking with it. Reaching the end of the hall, Claire shoved at the door, ran in sweeping with the handgun and saw nothing, a room with display cases and stuffed chairs. An alarm was buzzing somewhere, but she didn't see its source. Movement to the left. Claire spun, desperate for a target and saw that a piece of film was being projected on a small wall screen, silent and flickering. Two attractive blond children, a boy and girl, staring intently into each other's eyes. The boy was holding something, something wriggling –

– a dragonfly, and he's –

Claire looked away involuntarily, disgusted. The boy was pulling the wings off of the struggling insect, smiling, both of them smiling. "Steve!" Why wasn't he shouting anymore, where

was he? She had the wrong room, must be…

"Claire? Claire, in here! Open the door!"

His voice was coming from behind the projection screen. Claire dashed across the room, searching the wall, absently aware that the towheaded children had dropped the tortured dragonfly into a container full of ants, were watching the crippled bug being stung to death. "What door, where?" Claire shouted, running anxious hands over the wall, pushing at a glass display case, pulling at the screen –

-and the screen raised up, disappearing into a slot. Behind it was a console, a keyboard, and six picture boxes in two rows of three, a switch beneath each one. "Claire, do something, I'm burning up!" "What do I do, how did you get in there? Steve!"

No answer, and she could hear the rising desperation in her voice, could feel it eating into her brain –

-concentrate. Do it, now. Claire clamped down on her near panic, the clear voice in her mind the voice of intellect. If she panicked, Steve would die.

There's no door. There's a console with boxes.

Yes, that was it, that was the key. Steve yelled out another terrified plea, but Claire only looked at the boxes, focusing, each is different, a boat, an ant, a gun, a knife, a gun, an airplane… They weren't all different, there were two guns, a semiautomatic handgun and a revolver, the switches labeled "C" and "E." Nothing else matched, and her first thought was that it was like one of those grade-school tests, which two are alike. Without questioning her reasoning, Claire reached out and flipped the two switches, the two boxes lighting up –

– and to her right, a display case slid out from the wall. The buzzing alarm stopped, and a blast of dry, baking heat expelled from the opening, washing over her. A half second later, Steve stumbled out and dropped to his knees, his arms and face beet red. He was holding a pair of matching handguns, what looked like gilded Lugers. Guess I picked the right boxes.

She leaned over him, trying to remember what the signs of heatstroke were dizziness and nausea, she thought. "Are you okay?" Steve gazed up at her. With his flushed cheeks and vaguely embarrassed expression, he resembled nothing so much as a little boy who'd had too much sun. Then he grinned, and the illusion was lost. "What took you so long?" he cracked, pushing himself to his feet. Claire straightened, scowling. "You're welcome."

His grin softened and he ducked his head, pushing thick bangs away from his forehead. "Sorry … and I'm sorry about before, too. Thanks, seriously."

Claire sighed. Just when she'd decided he was a total asshole, he decided to be nice. "And look what I got," he said, snapping both handguns up and aiming at one of the display cases. "They were hanging on a wall back there, fully loaded and everything. Cool, huh?"

She had to resist a sudden urge to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him. He had nerve, she'd give him that, and he obviously had at least a few survival skills … but did he not understand that he would have died, if she hadn't heard him calling for help?

This place is probably full of booby traps, too; how do I keep him from running off again?

She watched him pretend-shoot a bookshelf, wondered absently if the whole macho tiling was just his way of dealing with fear and a different approach suddenly occurred to her, one that she thought might actually work.

He wants to play Mr. Tough Guy, let him. Appeal to his ego. "Steve, I understand that you're not looking for a partner, but I am," she said, doing her best to look sincere. "I … I don't want to be alone out there." She could actually see his chest puff out, and felt a huge sense of relief, knowing that it had worked before he said a word. She also felt a little guilty for manipulating him, but only a little; this was for the best.

Besides, it's not lying, exactly. I really don't want to be alone out there. "I guess you could tag along," he said expansively. "I mean, if you're scared."

She only smiled, teeth gritted, aware that if she opened her mouth to thank him, she didn't know what would come out. "And anyway, I know how to get us out of here," he added, his bluff manner slipping, his youthful enthusiasm spilling out. "There's a little map under the counter at the front desk. According to that, there's a dock just west of here, and an airstrip somewhere past that. Which means we have a choice, but my piloting skills are a little iffy, so I vote cruise. We can go right now." Maybe she had underestimated him a bit. "Really? Great, that's…" Claire trailed off. Rodrigo, she couldn't forget about Rodrigo, between the two of us we could probably get him to the dock… "Would you come with me back to the prison, first?" She asked. "The guy who let me out of my cell is back there, he's pretty badly wounded…"