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The newscaster said it would be hot, and then it would rain, and it would rain for days.

Grayson didn't mind the rain. His chores rarely took him beyond the house, and on the occasions they did, he went no farther than the yard. The precariousness of Alfred's psychotic condition often interrupted his work routine. During one particular episode, Alfred had shot one of the Spanish gardeners from the balcony of the Palace, where Alfred maintained his office, and had said it was because they had looked at him wrong.

He swept and vacuumed the hallway, dusted the furniture, organized the shelves, and the bric-a-brac Alfred had never bothered to put away in boxes.

He found a silver dragonfly barrette among the bric-a-brac, in a box underneath several discarded cassettes, and frowned. It had once belonged to Alexia, Alfred's twin sister, who had died, fifteen years ago, in a freak lab accident.

Footsteps. He knew without looking that it was Alfred; they were the only people who lived in the mansion. Grayson pocketed the barrette, before Alfred could see it. Alexia was a sore subject for both of them.

"Morning, Alfred. Listened to the newscast," he said. "They're calling for storms."

Alfred was a tall, thin man, and had the sort of colorless bored European face Grayson had observed in war-time photos of SS officers. His eyes were pale blue. Sunlight from the window burned his pale hair into a white corona.

"What else is new?" Alfred had a peculiar taste in wardrobe, which fluctuated indecisively between military formal and yacht club. Today he'd picked yacht club, and wore a white polo and pants. "Should I put the word out to the boys down in the prison compound?"

"I don't tell you how to do your job, Alfred," said Grayson, and shrugged. "But if you're asking for my opinion? I would."

Alfred nodded. "I suppose I'll tell them then," he said.

"Where are you going anyway?"

"Not that it's a servant's business, but I'm going to The Palace." Alfred's haughtiness barely fazed Grayson anymore. He'd been raised alongside the twins, and had resigned to the fact, a long time ago, that Alfred's sense of importance had evolved from an annoying quirk to an inseparable component of his personality. "I have to process new prisoners," Alfred added, rolling his eyes. "I don't know why they waste my time with this processing nonsense. Should have just shot them, and been done with it."

"Who's the prisoner?" Grayson could pretty much ask Alfred whatever he wanted, and didn't have to worry about the violent repercussions that usually came from asking him intrusive questions about his work.

Alfred looked as if he was about to argue that the prisoner wasn't any of Grayson's business. Then he said, "Prisoners. Plural. I know one is named David Burnside, and has a teenage son Steve." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"What did they do?"

"David was caught trying to sell information. It was trifling data, really. But a point is a point."

"The kid helped him?"

"Doubtful. But my superiors said to lock him up." Alfred shrugged. He paused, seemed to consider something. "Why don't you come with me, Harman?" he said. "I can show you around the compound."

"Depends," said Grayson. "Did you take your meds, Alfred?"

"Yes, I took the damn funny pills. Do you want to come or not? I haven't all bloody day."

"Sure. I've finished my chores anyway."

Alfred dusted a piece of lint from Grayson's black suit jacket. He frowned suddenly and adjusted the knot in Grayson's tie. Then he said, impatiently, "An Ashford won't be accompanied by a ragamuffin."

The air was boiling in the prison compound, as if it was trapped under a permanent inversion layer of human sweat. Armed guards from the Umbrella Security Service ushered prisoners between barracks, which were dilapidated structures cobbled together from sheet metal, plywood, and old bricks. The prisoners were a sorry-looking lot with sunken faces, their hair scraggly and dirty, and clothes little more than rags with dark sweat-rings around the armpits and neck. One prisoner, who might have been Hispanic, or perhaps a very tanned white guy, sucked on a cheap-smelling cigarette, watching them with a helpless animal look.

"Cigarettes aren't contraband?" asked Grayson. He was beginning to regret picking a black suit to wear. The prison compound was unforgivably hot, a hell-heat that dried his throat and hurt his lungs when he breathed.

Alfred looked at the cigarette man, the man's dirty brown face reflected in his sunglasses. Unlike Grayson, Alfred seemed to enjoy the heat, like some cold-blooded animal. Grayson was sure there was a joke in there somewhere, something about cold-blooded animals rarely exerting energy on their prey. "It hardly matters. They're not leaving this camp," he said. "Killing themselves with cigarettes makes my life easier." When Alfred passed the prisoners, they'd go quiet, and the guards would salute and say things were good, and it was a scorcher, wasn't it, Warden? Alfred rarely replied to the guards, and whenever he did, he was curt. "I hate these people," he added, as they rounded a corner and went through a security gate.

The compound was an enormous ferroconcrete sprawl, divided into a military compound, where the Umbrella Security Service trained, and the prison itself, where the prisoners slept and worked. Grayson asked what sort of work they did, and Alfred said they built things, or performed repairs on the compound ("It had been my suggestion," Alfred had proudly informed him. "Having the prisoners do basic maintenance cuts down upkeep cost, so I have a wider budget to work into the U.S.S"). He saw a few prisoners toiling under the sun like an old-fashioned chain-gang, while the soldiers watched them. One of the prisoners, who seemed to be an older, maybe middle-aged man, suddenly keeled over; the prisoners kept working, and the guards did nothing.

They came to the prison gate. It was a large metal gate with a guardhouse, and a kennel for the prison dogs. A convoy of jeeps came up the road, kicking up clouds of dust which seemed to freeze in the air like a photograph. The driver of one of the jeeps, a large square-faced African, got out and went around to the back of the vehicle. He unloaded several people from the back of the jeep, still dressed in their civilian clothes. Grayson counted fifteen. They looked confused and scared, or very tired, as if they had already resigned to their fate and no longer cared about their predicament.

"Greetings," said Alfred, with a too-cheery smile. "Welcome to Rockfort Prison. I am the Warden Alfred Ashford." He looked as if he was appraising cattle. The smile vanished. "You are going to hate every moment of your miserable lives here," he said. "You will work. You will work hard until you cannot work any longer, and then you will die, and you will not be remembered. Laziness is not tolerated in my prison. Those who decide they are too good for the work here will find themselves wishing for death. But do your part, and there may be some reward for you. I am not without compassion."

Compassion, Grayson thought, rolling his eyes. He was sure Alfred didn't even know what compassion meant. He was pretty sure he spotted Steve at the back of the group. Steve was the only teenager, a scared kid. He was tall and thin, with a shag of red hair—almost a dead-ringer for DiCaprio. Grayson assumed the heavy-set man beside Steve was his father. They looked alike.

One of the prisoners spoke up. He looked like a cokehead. Grayson knew the type from when he'd tended a bar in Raccoon City called The Black Room, which had almost exclusively catered to a clientele of cokeheads and broke stoners. "Hey, sweetheart," said the man to Alfred, and he was grinning."You gotta sister?"

Grayson shook his head. Always that one idiot who wanted to play tough guy; though Grayson figured it was just the drugs, and the guy still hadn't come off his kick.

Alfred looked at the cokehead, said, "I do, as a matter of fact," and shot the man in the head. Pieces of brain sprayed the guy who stood behind the cokehead. The man looked as if he was trying very hard not to vomit, or cry. "Would anyone else like to ask about my sister?" asked Alfred, brandishing his pistol. "Go on, don't be shy now!"

He put his hand on Alfred's shoulder and leaned toward him. "I think they get the point, Alfred."

Alfred said to the African, "Get these filthy nobodies to processing." Alfred huffed, holstered the pistol, and started toward the gate.

He stared at the dead man on the ground, feeling nothing. He had seen Alfred kill people before, and had seen cokeheads die before, in similar fashion. "What do you want to do with the corpse?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged. "Feed it to the dogs, I suppose," he said. "Or leave it there. Hardly matters to me."