There was something uniquely creepy, thought Grayson, about empty warehouses. Where machines once chattered and beeped was now a tinny silence that whined in his ears like tinnitus. Their footsteps echoed, ghosting along the concrete walls, and the glossy, boot-worn concrete floor. Boxes were piled on the inert conveyors, waiting to be delivered to destinations they would never make it to.
"Garage is just across the warehouse," he told them, cutting through the tall industrial shelves, where products sat forgotten and dusty in moldering cardboard boxes, in canisters stacked neatly on pallets. He negotiated a path around the abandoned ladders, JLGs, and forklifts cluttering the aisles, and as Grayson stepped out of the aisle he was immediately greeted by death-reek: that putrid sweet, nutty stink of decay, and, underneath that, of old shit and piss.
Ants scuttled among the bodies of the warehouse personnel, hollowing them out with their mandibles and filling them, like macabre eclairs, with something black and slick, and with an odor like spoiled mushrooms.
"They're nesting in the bodies," said Claire, a slight tremor in her voice. Then, "Shit. "
The ants, upon noticing them, did not converge—they coalesced, resolving into a shape that was vaguely man-like. The swarm-thing moved like a stop-motion puppet skipping inbetween frames, and it stumbled toward them, and Grayson thought he could see Peter's face in the wriggling aggregation, see the dark pits of his eyes.
"I thought it was fucking dead," said Steve.
"Clearly not dead enough," replied Claire, and then she said, "Run!"
As they ran, the swarm-thing sprinted after them—and moved much faster than Grayson had anticipated. It dropped to all fours and scuttled along the floor, shrinking the distance between it and them. Grayson twisted, firing three shots into the lump he took as its head, but it did nothing to stop the thing; what ants he'd managed to kill were quickly replaced by others.
"The garage is just ahead," he told Steve and Claire, pumping his legs as hard as he could, the impacts of his feet against the concrete driving sharp rods of pain through the soles of his shoes, up into his shins. Something whipped him from behind, and Grayson tumbled forward and scraped his palms on the concrete, glimpsing a thin, bristly tendril cocking back for another lash.
Claire and Steve hauled him to his feet, and they bolted for the garage doors. He looked over his shoulder, saw the swarm-thing as it sprang up, springboarding off a shelf to close the distance between them.
They managed to clear the doors before it could land on top of them, and slammed them shut. Grayson braced himself against the doors to hold the creature at bay, another spidery tendril pushing through the crack in the doors before he banged them shut again, severing part of the limb. It flopped to the floor, wriggling like a dying fish. Claire shot it. Steve grabbed a galvanized pipe off a pallet and barred the door-handles.
The doors heaved as the swarm-thing threw itself against them, but they seemed to be holding, and when Grayson was sure the doors would continue to hold, he let go, sweating. Eventually, the thing backed off, perhaps retreating to lick its wound, or to chase easier prey, and an uneasy silence settled in the wake of its departure.
"Jesus fucking Christ," said Grayson, once he was absolutely certain the swarm-thing had gone. "What the fuck." The sweat quickly cooled on his skin, as if he'd dunked his head into a bucket of melted ice, and his breath steamed in the air. He shivered violently, turning to see someone had partially cranked up the garage shutter—enough to squeeze a truck or two through—and a bitter, evil wind was blowing in off the tundra, burying half of the garage in snowdrifts and ice.
Even Steve and Claire, who were both bundled in arctic gear, started to shiver, and Claire said, "We need to find some warmth. Holy shit."
"The shop," said Grayson, his teeth chattering. "Across the garage."
They hurried past the last two pistenbullies—the engine had been removed from one, while the other had been partially drifted in—left in the garage, toward the shop door, where the machinists, mechanics and carpenters had worked. Blessedly, the heat worked here, thanks to a kerosene heater rigged to a chugging portable generator.
A man was sitting at the worktable, slumped over in his seat, half his head blown into pulp, and a handgun lying on the floor beside him. He'd been bitten; Grayson saw the bite-wound on his arm.
"Poor guy," said Claire.
"He looks about my size," said Grayson.
"The fuck you talking 'bout?" asked Steve.
Grayson didn't answer him. He said to the dead man, "Sorry, buddy, but I need this," and peeled the guy out of his gear, ignoring the old, sticky blood on the polar fleece. Grayson pulled the gear over his suit, and it was a little tight around the chest and a little short in the sleeves, but it fit well enough. Then he took off his shoes, quietly bemoaning the loss of his pricey wingtips and simultaneously marveling at the fact there was another man with his shoe size, and pulled on the insulated boots.
"Dude, his blood is all over that," said Steve, with a face suggestive of just having whiffed dog shit. "What if, like, your skin absorbs it and you get all T-Virusey." He looked at him. "You got shot, right?"
"The wound healed."
"What? No way," said Steve. "Bullet-wounds don't just heal like that, man."
"Mine do. Wanna see for yourself?"
Steve turned his attention to Claire. "What the fuck is this dude's deal?"
"I dunno," said Claire, shrugging. "He just… heals. Like, he heals really fast. He's immune to the T-Virus, too."
"Dude, Umbrella should be probing you for a cure or something," said Steve, incredulous. "I ain't thought anyone was immune to that shit. How ?"
"Roughly ten percent of the global population is immune to the T-Virus," said Grayson. "I guess I'm one of them." He shrugged, sweating in his insulated layers. "Or I'm an asymptomatic carrier."
"How do you know you're immune?"
"He was bitten in Raccoon City," Claire said to Steve. "He was in rough shape for a while, but came outta it."
"Annette wanted to do some tests," said Grayson. Then, "When things blew over, I mean. She had to focus on William, not me."
"William?" said Steve.
"The scientist behind the G-Virus. William Birkin," said Claire. "I mentioned him to you on Rockfort."
"Oh, right. Wait…" Steve trailed off, and regarded him with renewed interest, grinning like an asshole. "Holy fuck, you were banging his wife? That's cold, dude."
"His wife was going to leave him for me," said Grayson. "And not because I told her to, or talked her into it. We loved each other. Just happened at a complicated time in our lives." He glanced at the door, and said, "Let's check out those snow-trucks. Check the lockers at the back of the shop if you need a couple more layers to stay warm."
They did, and Grayson disconnected the generator and carried it out into the garage. He rolled over one of the industrial hot air blowers and hooked it up to the generator. He let the machine warm up a bit, to thaw the hose, and took a moment to inspect the only pistenbully left in the garage. It seemed okay, but Grayson couldn't be sure; he wasn't a mechanic—barely even knew how to maintain a regular car beyond the basics. When Steve and Claire came out, swaddled in their new layers, Grayson said, "Let's get this thing thawed out. Seems okay."
"What if it breaks down?" asked Steve, taking up the blower hose.
"All the vehicles have radios," said Grayson, leaping down from the truck's high, thick treads. "Back of this pistenbully's been converted into a bunk-room. Basically, you got two cots. But the vehicle's insulated and, of course, heated. You could radio Casey once you're in range, have them come get you. Just follow the ice-road marked with red flags." He glanced at the cracked shutters, at the wind howling snow into the garage, and said, "But you might wanna wait a bit, see if the weather dies down. Con-1 conditions, looks like, maybe con-2—also no joke."
Steve started thawing the drifts out with the hot air blower, and Claire said, "It's not too late to come with us, Gray."
"I can't," he said.
"You can," said Claire.
"You got the keys for the truck?"
Claire sighed. "Would you not change the fucking subject? Jesus."
He patted down his jacket, the dead man's jacket, and realized the keys were in the pocket. There was still a bloody thumbprint smudged on them. "Sorry, I had them," he said, and tossed the keys to her. Claire snatched them out of the air, gave him a look of disapproval. "Don't look at me like that," he said.
"You're throwing away a chance to get away from Alfred," said Claire.
"Speaking of which, I thought Steve was gonna shoot him."
"Much as I really wanna, my chance to get outta here is right in front of me," said Steve, melting the last of the drifts, his boots splashing through slushy puddles. "I ain't passing this up. Might not get another."
"You won't," agreed Grayson.
"Would you stop changing the subject?" said Claire, glaring at him.
"Claire," said Grayson, "it's complicated."
"It really fucking isn't," said Claire, conversationally. She gestured at the truck with both hands. "Freedom." She gestured at the doors to the garage. "Prison. Certain death. Ant monsters. Zombies. Alfred."
"I love how certain death was only the second reason in that list, and Alfred was the one you emphasized as the most important."
"You're really getting on my nerves, Gray."
"If he wants to die, let him." Steve switched off the blower now that the truck was thawed out, and said, "Clearly he ain't in any hurry to go."
"You can't leave just yet either," said Grayson. "Not with the weather being this bad."
"Can't be that bad," said Steve.
"Then go ahead," said Grayson, demonstratively sweeping his hands toward the open shutter. "But you're gonna go off the road, get lost and probably drive into a crevasse."
"What should we do?" asked Claire, having finally abandoned her attempts to persuade him to leave.
"If I were you? I'd camp out in the truck for a bit. It'll be chilly, but the insulation will keep you warm enough, and there's probably some polar sleeping bags in there."
"And what if the weather don't die down?" asked Steve.
"Head back into the facility and hunker down until it does," he said.
"The facility full of zombies," said Steve dryly.
"You could always bring that kerosene heater out here, and just hook it up to the generator until you gotta use the hot air blower again. But fuel's not infinite."
"That sounds shitty too," said Steve.
"We don't have too many options," said Claire.
"Well, my end of the bargain's done," said Grayson.
Claire looked as if she were willing herself, with every ounce of her strength, not to slap him. "Gray, come on. What about Sherry?"
"She's safer where she is," said Grayson. "I'm too close to Umbrella. Know too much. I'd put her in danger." He glanced at the doors to the garage, then said, "I'm gonna head back. When I'm gone, back the truck up to the doors to block them."
He left before Claire could convince him to stay—she was good at that sort of thing, at making sense—and found himself back in the chilly darkness of the warehouse. The swarm-thing, however, wasn't waiting for him.
"Who are they?" asked Alexia.