Стефани Перри: Code Veronica

Okay, good, you know the environment. What else you got?

Thankfully, her inner voice was a lot calmer than she was. She quickly went through her other pockets, turning up a couple of ponytail elastics and two breath mints in a crumpled roll. Terrific. Unless she wanted to take on the enemy with a very small, refreshingly peppermint slingshot, she was shit out of luck… Footsteps, in the corridor outside the cell room, coming closer. Her muscles tensed and her mouth went dry. She was unarmed and trapped, and the way a few of those guards had been looking at her on the transport… … bring it on. I'm unarmed, maybe, but not defenseless. If someone meant to assault her, sexually or otherwise, she'd make a point of doing some major damage in return. If she was going to die anyway, she didn't plan on going out alone. Thump. Thump. There was only one person out there, she decided, and whoever it was, he or she was hurting. The steps were erratic and slow, shuffling, almost like…

No, no way.

Claire held her breath as a lone male figure stepped haltingly into the room, his arms out in front of him. He moved like one of the virus zombies, like a drunk, reel-

ing and unsteady, and immediately staggered for the door to her cell. Reflexively, Claire backed away, terrified at the implications if there'd been some kind of viral outbreak on the island, at best she'd end up starving to death behind bars.

And Jesus, another spill? Thousands had died in Raccoon City. When would Umbrella learn, that their insane biological experiments weren't worth the cost?

She had to see. If it was a drunk guard, at least he was alone, she might be able to take him. And if it was a carrier, she was safe for the moment. Probably. They couldn't operate doors, or at least the ones in Raccoon hadn't been able to. She took out the lighter, flipped the top and thumbed the wheel. Claire recognized him instantly and gasped, taking another step back. Tall and well-built, Hispanic perhaps, a mustache and dark, merciless eyes. It was the man who'd caught her back in Paris, who'd escorted her to the island. Not a zombie, at least there's that. Not much of relief, but she'd take whatever she could get. She stood for a moment, frozen, not sure what to expect. He looked different, and it was more than his dirtsmeared face or the small bloodstains on his white T-shirt. It was as though there'd been some fundamental internal change, the way his expression was set. Before, he'd looked like a stone killer. Now … now she wasn't sure, and when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, she prayed that he'd changed for the better. Without a word, he pulled the cell door open and blankly met her gaze before jerking his head to one side the universal sign for "get out," if there was such a thing. Before she could act, he turned and staggered away, definitely injured from the way he held his gut with one shaking hand. There was a chair between the desk and the far wall; he sat down heavily and picked up a small bottle from the desktop with bloodstained fingers. He shook the bottle, about the size of a small spool of thread, before weakly throwing it across the room, muttering to himself.

"Perfect…"

The presumably empty bottle clattered across the cement floor, rolling to a stop just outside the cell. He glanced in her direction tiredly, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Go on. Get out of here." Claire took a step toward the open cell door and hesitated, wondering if it was some kind of trick being shot trying to "escape" crossed her mind, and didn't seem all that far-fetched, considering who he worked for. She still clearly remembered the look in his eyes when he'd shoved that gun in her face, the cold sneer

that had twisted his mouth. She cleared her throat nervously, deciding to probe for an explanation. "What are you telling me, exactly?" "You're free," he said, muttering to himself again as he sank deeper into the chair, chin lowering to his chest.

"I don't know, might have been some kind of special forces team, troops were all wiped out … no chance of escape." He closed his eyes. Her instincts told her that he really meant to let her go, but she wasn't going to take any chances. She stepped out of the cell and picked up the bottle he'd thrown, moving very slowly, watching him carefully as she approached. She didn't think his wounded act was a fake; he looked like hell, an ashy-white pallor over his dark skin, like a transparent mask. He wasn't breathing all that evenly, either, and his clothes smelled like sweat and chemical smoke. She glanced at the bottle, an empty syringe vial with an unpronounceable name on the label, catching the word hemostatic in the fine print. Hemo was blood … some kind of bleeding stabilizer? Maybe an internal injury… She wanted to ask him why he was releasing her, what the situation was outside, where she should go, but she could see that he was on the verge of passing out, his eyelids fluttering.

I can't just walk out, not without trying to help him –

– screw that! Go, go now! He might die… You might die! Run for it! The internal dispute was brief, but her conscience triumphed over reason, as usual. He obviously hadn't set her loose because of some personal affinity, but whatever the reason, she was grateful. He didn't have to let her go, and he'd done it anyway. "What about you?" She asked, wondering if there was anything she could do for him. She certainly couldn't carry him out, and she was no medic. "Don't worry about me," he said, raising his head to glare at her for a second, sounding irritated that she'd even brought it up. Before she could ask him what had happened outside, he lost consciousness, his shoulders slumping, his body growing still. He was breathing, but without a doctor, she wouldn't want to bet on how long. The lighter was getting hot, but she endured the heat long enough to search the small room, starting with the desk. There was a combat knife thrown casually on the blotter, a number of loose papers… She saw her own name on one of them and scanned the document while fixing the knife sheath to her waistband. Claire Redfield, prisoner number WKD4496, date of transfer, blah blah blah … escorted by Rodrigo Juan

Raval, 3rd Security Unit CO, Umbrella Medical, Paris.

Rodrigo. The man who'd caught her and set her free, and now appeared to be dying right in front of her. She couldn't do anything about it, either, not unless she could find help. Which I can't do down here, she thought, snapping the overheated lighter closed after she finished the rest of her search. Nothing but junk, mostly, a trunk of musty prisoner uniforms, endless stacks of paperwork stuffed into the desk. She'd found the pair of fingerless gloves they'd taken from her, her old riding gloves, and put them on, grateful for the minor warmth they provided. All she had to defend herself with was the combat knife, a deadly weapon in the right hands … which, unfortunately, hers weren't.

It's a gift horse, don't complain. Five minutes ago you were unarmed and locked up, at least now you have a chance. You should just be happy that Rodrigo didn 't come down here to put you out of your misery.

Still, she pretty much sucked at knifeplay. After a brief hesitation, she quickly patted Rodrigo down, but he wasn't carrying. She did find a set of keys but didn't take them, not wanting to carry anything that might draw someone's attention by jangling at the wrong moment. If she needed them, she could come back.

Time to blow this Popsicle stand, see what there is to see out there. "Let's do it," she said softly, as much to get herself moving as anything else, aware that she was basically terrified of what she might find … and also that she didn't have a choice in the matter. As long as she was on the island, Umbrella still had her and until she assessed the circumstances, she couldn't make plans to escape. Holding the knife tightly, Claire stepped out of the cellar room, wondering if Umbrella's madness would ever end.