Стефани Перри - Code Veronica

"One of the prisoners?" Steve asked, perking up. Uh-oh. She could lie, but he'd know the truth soon enough. "Urn, I don't think so … but he did let me go, and I kinda feel like I owe him…" Steve was frowning, and she quickly added, "… and it seems like the, uh, honorable thing to do, to at least get him a first-aid kit, you know?" He wasn't buying. "Forget it. If he's not a prisoner, he works for Umbrella, he deserves dick. Besides, they'll be sending troops in soon enough; it's their problem, let them deal with it. Now, are you coming or not?"

Claire met his gaze squarely, reading anger and hurt in his dark eyes, surely caused by Umbrella. She couldn't blame him for how he felt, but she didn't agree with him, either, not in Rodrigo's case. And there was no question in her mind that he would die before Umbrella showed if he didn't get help. "I guess not," she said. Steve turned away, took a few steps toward the door and then stopped, sighing heavily. He turned back, clearly exasperated. "There's no way I'm risking my neck to save an Umbrella employee, and no offense, but I think you're totally batshit for wanting to … but I'll wait for you, okay? Go give the guy a Band-Aid or whatever and then meet me at the dock."

Surprised, Claire nodded. Less than she'd hoped for but more than she'd expected, particularly after his weird people-will-let-you-down rant –

– oh!

For the first time, it occurred to her why Steve might have said those things, why he was denying the trauma of what had happened, what was still happening. He was here by himself, after all … how could he not have abandonment issues? Claire smiled warmly at him, remembering how angry she'd felt as a child when her father had died. Being snatched away from one's family couldn't be much better. "It'll be nice to go home," she said gently. "I bet your parents will be glad…"

Steve's sneering interruption was immediate and extreme. "Look, come to the dock or not, but I'm not going to wait all day, got it?"

Startled, Claire nodded mutely, but Steve was already striding out of the room. She wished she hadn't said anything, but it was too late … and at least now she knew what not to say. Poor kid, he probably missed his parents like crazy. She'd have to try to be a little more understanding. With a last look around the strange little den, Claire started back toward the front door, wondering what to do about Rodrigo. Steve was right, Umbrella might al-

ready have a team on the way, they could tend to him, but she meant to get him stabilized before she left. She needed to find a vial of that hemostatic liquid; she didn't know much about triage herself, but he had seemed to think it would help. She opened both of the other doors in the hallway on her way back to the lobby, stopping briefly at the first to gaze in at a number of portraits, some kind of pictorial history room for a family called Ashford. There was a shattered urn on the floor, but nothing else of interest. Behind the second door was an empty conference room, only a few scattered papers and silence. Claire stepped back into the front hall, deciding that she should probably try the upstairs before retracing her steps; just above the bridge to the prison and wasn't she looking forward to crossing that creaking nightmare again there'd been a door she'd bypassed in order to keep up with Steve's trail… A tiny red light on the floor caught her attention, like one of those laser pointer things, her geometry prof had used one. The small light jerked toward her and Claire looked up, followed a pencil-thin beam to… Gah! She dove for cover as the first shot bit into the tiles mere inches from where she'd stood, ceramic shards flying. She crashed behind one of the ornamental pillars as the second shot thundered through the lobby, shattering more tile. She scrambled to her feet, trying to make herself as tiny as possible, wondering if she'd actually seen what she'd thought she'd seen a thin blond man with a rifle and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uniform jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child's idea of what noble authority should wear. "My name is Alfred Ashford," a pinched, snobby voice called out. "I am the commander of this base and I demand that you tell me who you're working for!" What? Claire wished she had something brilliant to say, some snappy comeback, but she couldn't get any further than that. "What?" she asked loudly. "Oh, there's no point in your feigned ignorance," he continued, his jeering voice moving a little, as though he were descending the stairs. "Miss Claire Redfield. I know what you've been planning, I've known from the start, but you're not dealing with just anyone, Claire. Not when you're dealing with an Ashford."

He actually tittered, a high, girlish giggle, and Claire was suddenly absolutely positive that he was a whacko, she was talking to a whacko.

Yeah, and keep hint talking, you don't want to lose his position. She could see the tiny red light flicker on the wall behind her, as he worked to keep the pillar in his sights. "Okay, ah, Alfred. What is it that I'm planning?" She jacked the action on her semi as quietly as possible, making sure there was a round in the chamber. It was as though she hadn't spoken. "Our legacy of profundity, supremacy, and innovation is beyond question," Alfred said haughtily. "We can trace our heritage to European royalty, my sister and I, and to some of the greatest minds in history. But then I don't suppose your masters told you that, did they?" My masters? "I don't have any idea what you're talking about," Claire called out, watching the flickering red dot, deciding that she could dart a glance out from behind the pillar's other side, maybe get off a shot before he could target her. The longer Alfred talked, the more strongly she felt that meeting him face-to-face would be a bad idea. Dangerously mentally ill people were unpredictable at best. He'd mentioned a sister … the children in that movie, with the dragonfly? She didn't have proof, but her instincts shouted a resounding yes. It seemed he'd stayed the course, from creepy kid to creep.

"Of course, if you were willing to surrender yourself to me now," Alfred purred, "I might be persuaded to spare you your life. Providing that you confess to treason against your superiors…" Now!

Claire ducked her head around the pillar, gun up –

– and bam, wood and plaster exploded next to her face, the shot splintering the pillar's molding as she pulled back. She leaned heavily against the pillar, her breathing fast and gulping. If he'd been a hair more accurate… "Aren't you the fast little rabbit," Alfred said, his amusement unmistakable. "Or should I say rat? That's what you are, Claire, a rat. Just a rat in a cage." Again, that insane, unnatural giggle … but it was receding, following him back up the stairs. Footsteps, and then a door closed, and he was gone.

Well, doesn't that round out things nicely? What's a biohazardous disaster without a crazy or two? It'd almost be funny, if she wasn't so totally weirded out. Alfred was a fruit loop. Claire waited a moment to be sure he was gone, then exhaled heavily, relieved but not relaxed. She wouldn't, couldn't relax until she was well away from Rockfort, leaving Umbrella and monsters and insanity far behind. God, but she was tired of this shit. She was a second year lit major, she liked dancing and motorcycles and a

good latte on a rainy day. She wanted Chris, and she wanted to go home… and since neither of those seemed likely at the moment, she decided she'd settle for a good, solid nervous breakdown, complete with screams and floor-pounding hysterics. It was almost tempting, but that would have to wait, too. She sighed inwardly. Alfred had gone upstairs, so she thought she'd better check out that other door she'd passed back near the bridge, see if she could find something for Rodrigo there. At least things probably won't get any worse, she thought dismally, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as she opened the front door. It felt so much like Raccoon City … but that had been a serious catastrophe, rather than an isolated disaster.