Стефани Перри - Code Veronica

As she spoke, Rodrigo concentrated on waking up, on overcoming the apathy that had taken him over. What she was telling him didn't make sense, because he'd let her go, she was gone. Why would she come back to help him? Because I let her go. The realization touched him, flooded him with feelings of shame and gratitude. "I … you're very kind," he whispered, wishing there was something he could do for her, something he could say that would repay her for her compassion. He searched his memories, rumors and facts about the island, maybe she can escape… "The guillotine," he said, blinking up at her, trying not to slur his words too badly. "Infirmary's behind it, key's in my pocket … supposed to be secrets there. He knows things, puzzle pieces … you know where's the guillotine?"

Claire nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Rodrigo, that helps me a lot. You rest now, okay?"

She reached out and stroked his hair back from his forehead, a simple gesture, but so sweet, so nice, he wanted to weep. "Rest," she said again, and he closed his eyes, calmer, more at peace than he'd ever felt in his life. His last thought before he drifted off was that if she could forgive him after the things he'd done, show him such mercy as if he deserved it, maybe he wouldn't go to hell, after all. Rodrigo had been right about secrets. Claire stood at the end of the hidden basement corridor, steeling herself to open the unmarked door in front of her. The infirmary itself was small and unpleasant, not at all what she would have expected for an Umbrella clinic no medical equipment to be seen, nothing modern at all. There was only a single examination table in the front room, the splintery wooden floor around it stained with blood, a tray of medieval-looking tools nearby. The adjoining room had been burned beyond recognition; she couldn't tell what purpose it had served, but it looked like a cross between a recovery room and a crematorium. Smelled like one, too. There was a tiny, cluttered office just off the first room, a lone body sprawled in front of it, a man in a stained lab coat who had died with a look of horror on his narrow, ashen face. He didn't appear to have been infected, and since there were no virus carriers in the room and no obvious wounds, she guessed that he'd had a heart attack, or something like it. The contorted expression on his pinched features, bulging eyes and gaping, downturned mouth, suggested to her that he'd died of fright. Claire carefully stepped over him, and found the first secret in the small office almost by accident. Her boot had nudged something when she walked in, a marble or stone that had rolled across the floor which had turned out to be a most unusual key. It was a glass eye, one that belonged in the grotesque plastic face of the office's anatomical dummy, propped leering in the corner. Considering what Steve had said, about no one coming back from the infirmary, and considering what she already knew about the kind of insanity that Umbrella seemed to attract, Claire wasn't surprised to find a hidden passage behind the office wall. A worn set of stone steps were revealed when she'd placed the eye back where it belonged, which hadn't really surprised her, either. It was a secret, a trick, and Umbrella was all about secrets and tricks.

So open the door, already. Get it over with.

Right. She didn't have all day. She didn't want to leave Steve alone for too long, either, she was worried

about him. He'd had to kill his own father; she couldn't imagine the kind of psychological damage that would do to someone… Claire shook her head, irritated with her own dawdling. It didn't matter that she was in a barren, frightening place where lots of people had apparently died, where she could feel the pervasive atmosphere of terror emanating from the cold walls, trying to wrap around her like a burial shroud… "Doesn't matter," she said, and opened the door. Immediately, three stumbling virus carriers started for her, drawing her attention, keeping her from really seeing the details of the large room they'd been trapped in. All three were badly disfigured, missing limbs and long, ragged strips of skin, their putrefying flesh flayed and raw. They moved slowly, painfully dragging themselves toward her, and she could see older scars on the exposed rotting tissue. Even as she targeted the first, the knot of dread in her stomach was expanding, making her feel sick. It was over quickly, at least but the terrible suspicion that had been growing in her mind, that she'd been hoping was false, was confirmed with a single good look around.

Oh, Jesus.

The room was strangely elegant, the muted lighting coming from a hanging chandelier. The floor was tiled, with a runner of finely woven carpet leading from the door to a kind of sitting area on the other side of the room. There was an overstuffed velvet chair and cherry wood end table there, the chair facing out so that someone sitting there would be able to see the entire room … which was worse than she could have imagined, worse than the mad Chief Irons's dungeon, hidden beneath the streets of Raccoon. There were two custom-built water wells, one with a pillory built into its rail, a steel cage suspended over the other. Chains hung from the walls, some with well-used manacles attached, some with leather collars, some with hooks. There were a few elaborate devices that she didn't look at too closely, things with gears and metal spikes. Swallowing back bile, Claire focused on the sitting area. The elegance of the furnishings and of the room itself made things worse somehow, adding a touch of warped ego to the obvious psychosis of its creator. Like it wasn't enough to enjoy torturing people, he –or she –

– wanted to observe it in luxury, like some mad aristocrat. She saw a book on the end table and walked over to retrieve it, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead. Virus zombies and monsters and useless death were all horrible things, tragic or frightening or both but the kind of sickness represented by the chains and devices all around her was appalling to her very soul, because it made her want to give up her faith in humanity. The book was actually a journal, leather bound with thick, high quality paper. The inner cover proclaimed that it was the property of a Dr. Enoch Stoker, no title or inscription otherwise. "He knows things, puzzle pieces…" Claire didn't want to touch the thing let alone read it, but Rodrigo had seemed to think it might help. She flipped through a few pages, saw that nothing was dated, and started scanning the narrow, spidery writing for a familiar word or name, something about puzzles, maybe … there, an entry that made several references to Alfred Ashford. She took a deep breath and started at the top.

We finally talked today about the details of my preferences and pleasures. Mr. Ashford wouldn't share his own, but he was most encouraging to me, as he's been since my arrival six weeks ago. He was informed at the beginning that my needs are unconventional, but now he knows everything, even the small things. I was uncomfortable at first, but Mr. Ashford Alfred, he insists I call him Alfred proved to be an eager audience. He said that he and his sister both strongly approve of research in the boundaries of experience. He told me that I should think of them as kindred spirits, and that here, I am free. It was strange, describing aloud my feelings, sensations and thoughts that I've never shared. I told him about how it all started, when I was still a boy. About the animals I experimented with early on and later, the other children. I didn't know then that I was capable of killing, but I knew that the sight of blood excited me, that causing pain filled an empty, lonely space inside with profound feelings of power and control. I think he understands about the screaming, about how important the screaming is to me and…

Enough. This wasn't what she was looking for, and it was making her want to vomit. She turned a few pages, found another entry about Alfred and his sister, scanned over something about a private home and went back, frowning.