Chapter Six
It searched the grounds, its huge feet slamming against the ground as it ran, its muscular legs making it go ever faster. Orders not to kill Dr. Redfield, but it didn't understand orders, not anymore. Chris had ordered him around, his voice still throbbing in the thing that had once been Leon Kennedy's head. No more. When it ran into the little fucker, it'd kill him, but tear his limbs off first.
Steve had been nice enough to give it a huge Halberd, a large staff of amazing length and power. It could control it easily, but ignored it at the moment, letting the spear drag on the ground. The large spear kicked up lots of sparks, catching a few things in the now-narrow hallway. Flames shot from dying plants, carpet, and a few paintings behind him, but he paid them no heed; he finally had the power to kill Chris, and would use it to the fullest.
Dr. Redfield crouched, not expecting anything to walk away from that wreck, even though Captain Steve had pulled a man from it. He heard that the wonderful Captain had recruited others than himself and Dr. Ashford, but didn't care. Right now, he was alone, the Remington tight in his grip.
He noticed the first figure walking towards the facility, limping, actually. A young girl, her reddish hair tied in a ponytail, her green eyes wide with fear, but determination. Determination to do what, he had no clue. But, she'd do it. She looked vaguely familiar, but he dismissed the thought immediately.
He saw a second figure, but couldn't make out the face. Aw, hell, who cares who it is? Redfield raised the rifle, the red laser dot slowly edging up beside the girl. All he could see was her foot, and it moved out of the way.
She saw the sight.
He fired, trying to at least catch her calf, but missed completely, kicking up dust. He rapidly searched for the two, and flipped off the laser. He found the girl's leg, and fired again, slowing her down. The larger figure kneeled down next to her. He targeted the figure in the head, seeing the face-
-and saw the face of himself, at a younger age. The set features, the intense, brown eyes, the youthfulness dripping from his entire body, his build, the military haircut, the S.T.A.R.S. uniform . . . this had to be the son that his wife, Alyssa, had told him about. Chris, that was his name. He had probably shot his own daughter, Claire.
God damn . . . what have I done? He unsighted the rifle, setting it next to him, crying. He had almost killed his own daughter and son, thinking them none better then spies from Umbrella, or a cleanup crew, or Wesker . . . he had heard too much about Albert Wesker to consider anything nice about him. And he thought his own children at those levels.
I'm horrible.
Claire got up, all of her tears cried out, her emotions spent, her eyes red from the session she just had. Her hand extended to Chris, to help him up. Pocketing the vials, he took her hand, and she helped him up. Relief flushed over her, that they wouldn't be limited to shooting defenseless people-
-not entirely-
-but, she didn't care now, not for anything but her brother, and Leon. Chris took her in an embrace, and she hugged him close and tight. They didn't let go for a bit, content to be held, a vision of her past catching her . . .
-and she jumped from the plane-
-and landed in Steve's arms, who caught her, but fell over with an "oomph" sound.
"Nice catch." She smiled at him.
"Aww, 't'warn't nothin'." He smiled back, and they both lay there for a bit, both content to be held . . . until Claire got up first, brushing herself off.
"We'd better . . ."
The words were repeated in her throat, in real life, not in fantasy.
" . . . find out where we are." Chris leaned back, and looked around the room.
Claire did the same, and saw what he saw. A dark, damp room, nothing special about it, a corridor on the east wall, though. She'd have to note that. Besides the door with the wood on it that Chris put there, that was the way into the facility. The walls had rust down them, the water that formed it already evaporated. A film of slime was on the west wall, which made Claire a bit sick. The ceiling was old, made of metal. Had the same rust, the same film, but it didn't seem like it would drip onto her.
The room reeked of rotting flesh, like a virus-carrier had recently been in here. Also, she smelled smoke, as if a fire was happening within the facility, but far away. A desk sat in the middle, some of the wood scratched away by claws . . . very inhuman. Like . . . that thing on the plane. The desk had nothing on it except some papers, and a very old Apple computer, like back-in-the-'80s computer. She noticed something red blink on the north wall, repeated rapidly, like on a camera . . .
"Chris, we're being watched." Her hand pointed at the large, black, dusty camera. It seemed to be as old as the computer, if not older, also not cleaned in the same amount of time. But, someone was using it right now, watching them, monitoring their movements. It was like Rockfort, knowing someone was watching you, but not knowing who. Or what.
"We'd better get moving anyway." Chris stood up, and walked toward the entrance. He checked the two open drawers again, making Claire assume the other two were locked. His boots clacked against the ground, and two items fell from his back pocket. Two or three, he couldn't tell. They looked like lock picks, the ones that Jill had showed her when they met up in Raccoon, behind Chris's back.
Slowly, Claire moved over to the spot with the two items, and picked them up. She walked over to the desk, and sure enough, the lower cabinets were locked. She shoved one of the slender metal objects in, letting it rest in the keyhole. The other one she placed in more carefully, and slowly jiggled it. An audible 'click' came from the cabinet, and she dropped the picks. She knew that Jill had taught her something, but didn't know she gave her this much . . .
Inside the cabinet was the best thing she could find in this situation - a weapon. It was a Walther P99, a beautiful gun. She took it up in her hands, also taking three clips up with it, because it was contained in a gun-belt. She didn't know exactly how many shots each clip contained, but knew the gun type from Barry, who had told her about some kick-ass guns from different movies and stuff. Her search of the other cabinet showed no prize, but, now that she had her gun, she was glad. Her hope grew, now that they had a chance.
It searched the grounds, its huge feet slamming against the ground as it ran, its muscular legs making it go ever faster. Orders not to kill Dr. Redfield, but it didn't understand orders, not anymore. Chris had ordered him around, his voice still throbbing in the thing that had once been Leon Kennedy's head. No more. When it ran into the little fucker, it'd kill him, but tear his limbs off first.
Steve had been nice enough to give it a huge Halberd, a large staff of amazing length and power. It could control it easily, but ignored it at the moment, letting the spear drag on the ground. The large spear kicked up lots of sparks, catching a few things in the now-narrow hallway. Flames shot from dying plants, carpet, and a few paintings behind him, but he paid them no heed; he finally had the power to kill Chris, and would use it to the fullest.
Dr. Redfield crouched, not expecting anything to walk away from that wreck, even though Captain Steve had pulled a man from it. He heard that the wonderful Captain had recruited others than himself and Dr. Ashford, but didn't care. Right now, he was alone, the Remington tight in his grip.
He noticed the first figure walking towards the facility, limping, actually. A young girl, her reddish hair tied in a ponytail, her green eyes wide with fear, but determination. Determination to do what, he had no clue. But, she'd do it. She looked vaguely familiar, but he dismissed the thought immediately.
He saw a second figure, but couldn't make out the face. Aw, hell, who cares who it is? Redfield raised the rifle, the red laser dot slowly edging up beside the girl. All he could see was her foot, and it moved out of the way.
She saw the sight.
He fired, trying to at least catch her calf, but missed completely, kicking up dust. He rapidly searched for the two, and flipped off the laser. He found the girl's leg, and fired again, slowing her down. The larger figure kneeled down next to her. He targeted the figure in the head, seeing the face-
-and saw the face of himself, at a younger age. The set features, the intense, brown eyes, the youthfulness dripping from his entire body, his build, the military haircut, the S.T.A.R.S. uniform . . . this had to be the son that his wife, Alyssa, had told him about. Chris, that was his name. He had probably shot his own daughter, Claire.
God damn . . . what have I done? He unsighted the rifle, setting it next to him, crying. He had almost killed his own daughter and son, thinking them none better then spies from Umbrella, or a cleanup crew, or Wesker . . . he had heard too much about Albert Wesker to consider anything nice about him. And he thought his own children at those levels.
I'm horrible.
Claire got up, all of her tears cried out, her emotions spent, her eyes red from the session she just had. Her hand extended to Chris, to help him up. Pocketing the vials, he took her hand, and she helped him up. Relief flushed over her, that they wouldn't be limited to shooting defenseless people-
-not entirely-
-but, she didn't care now, not for anything but her brother, and Leon. Chris took her in an embrace, and she hugged him close and tight. They didn't let go for a bit, content to be held, a vision of her past catching her . . .
-and she jumped from the plane-
-and landed in Steve's arms, who caught her, but fell over with an "oomph" sound.
"Nice catch." She smiled at him.
"Aww, 't'warn't nothin'." He smiled back, and they both lay there for a bit, both content to be held . . . until Claire got up first, brushing herself off.
"We'd better . . ."
The words were repeated in her throat, in real life, not in fantasy.
" . . . find out where we are." Chris leaned back, and looked around the room.
Claire did the same, and saw what he saw. A dark, damp room, nothing special about it, a corridor on the east wall, though. She'd have to note that. Besides the door with the wood on it that Chris put there, that was the way into the facility. The walls had rust down them, the water that formed it already evaporated. A film of slime was on the west wall, which made Claire a bit sick. The ceiling was old, made of metal. Had the same rust, the same film, but it didn't seem like it would drip onto her.
The room reeked of rotting flesh, like a virus-carrier had recently been in here. Also, she smelled smoke, as if a fire was happening within the facility, but far away. A desk sat in the middle, some of the wood scratched away by claws . . . very inhuman. Like . . . that thing on the plane. The desk had nothing on it except some papers, and a very old Apple computer, like back-in-the-'80s computer. She noticed something red blink on the north wall, repeated rapidly, like on a camera . . .
"Chris, we're being watched." Her hand pointed at the large, black, dusty camera. It seemed to be as old as the computer, if not older, also not cleaned in the same amount of time. But, someone was using it right now, watching them, monitoring their movements. It was like Rockfort, knowing someone was watching you, but not knowing who. Or what.
"We'd better get moving anyway." Chris stood up, and walked toward the entrance. He checked the two open drawers again, making Claire assume the other two were locked. His boots clacked against the ground, and two items fell from his back pocket. Two or three, he couldn't tell. They looked like lock picks, the ones that Jill had showed her when they met up in Raccoon, behind Chris's back.
Slowly, Claire moved over to the spot with the two items, and picked them up. She walked over to the desk, and sure enough, the lower cabinets were locked. She shoved one of the slender metal objects in, letting it rest in the keyhole. The other one she placed in more carefully, and slowly jiggled it. An audible 'click' came from the cabinet, and she dropped the picks. She knew that Jill had taught her something, but didn't know she gave her this much . . .
Inside the cabinet was the best thing she could find in this situation - a weapon. It was a Walther P99, a beautiful gun. She took it up in her hands, also taking three clips up with it, because it was contained in a gun-belt. She didn't know exactly how many shots each clip contained, but knew the gun type from Barry, who had told her about some kick-ass guns from different movies and stuff. Her search of the other cabinet showed no prize, but, now that she had her gun, she was glad. Her hope grew, now that they had a chance.