Chapter Eight

            Chris led the way down the corridor, which happened to lead into a stairwell.  His Beretta drawn, he stepped into the dark, damp lower level first, Claire close behind, her breath literally warming his neck.  When they reached the level labeled "Basement Level 1", the familiar chill of the Umbrella facilities washed over them.  He could feel Claire shiver behind him, holding one back himself.  This was all bullshit, all this coldness, the virus . . . and this was just a side effect of the goddamn thing, all these zombies.  I mean, Chris thought, damn . . . who thought a virus made for making horrible creatures, all the BOWs, would turn people – actual people – into the walking goddamn dead?  Just as the thought passed, Chris heard footsteps.  They were slow, but were definitely human, the clack-clack of expensive dress shoes ringing out, breaking the silence of the underground.

            Chris motioned for Claire to get behind him, even though she had a weapon.  At least if this was some maniac – like Wesker - then at least Claire'd be able to take the rear if Chris fell.  He motioned for her to get her gun ready, and he heard her pistol slide out of its holster, her flipping the safety off, and he did the same.  Raising the weapon, Chris took two steps forward, letting his hand scrape against the wall of the room, trying to find a light switch.

            Fat chance.

            Chris gave up on rubbing the wall with his hand, most likely to find a switch.  He pulled a mini-flashlight out of his pocket.  He pushed the button on the back, and a small, low-powered beam of light shed from it.  The beam scanned the room as he moved his hand, and Claire saw someone walking up the corridor.  When Chris trained the flashlight on the figure, she gasped.  It couldn't be.  Not . . . but it was.  His craggy, wrinkled face, the sly smiled, the trench coat . . .

            "Trent."

            The S.T.A.R.S. informant, the only link to White Umbrella that they could trust, if not the whole way.  He had given the map to Jill, the co-ordinates to Brad Vickers, the chartered plane to Utah for Rebecca and Claire . . . .

            Chris rushed him, and shoved the gun into his face.  The man just kept his cool demeanor, but Chris saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.  Point for him.  But Trent kept quiet, trying his best to conceal his fear from Chris.  This bullshit had gone on long enough.  Time, once and for all, to get all the information he needed from this little prick, and get it fast.  He set Trent down, but kept his gun on him.

            "So you're Trent.  You little fuck, this is . . . you're . . . this isn't your fault, is it?"

            "No, Mr. Redfield."  Trent seemed as if nothing mattered, that there hadn't been a spill.  He spoke as if a meeting had been missed, or a company had lost a few thou.

            "Trent, what the fuck is going on here?!  Why is there any virus at all?!  And . . ."  Chris pulled a file from his pack, the manila reflecting the little light fairly well.  "Who is . . . Alice?  Rain Ocampo?  Matt Adison?  Who are these people?"

            "Sit down, Mr. Redfield, and I shall explain."  He motioned towards a chair, and didn't regain eye contact with Chris.  Following his gaze, he saw Trent was looking at the frightened Claire, who looked like she was about to leap out and kill Trent.

            Albert Wesker had been screwed over, a million times.  Only a few mil, maybe nine hundred thou at the least.  He was assigned to the job of training the little prick.  Steve, the fucker from Antarctica, was the last person he wanted to have the same repair-job that Wesker himself had.  His eyes were an eerie blue, which scared the hell out of Wesker more than his own eyes, the yellow, cat-like eyes.

            He shook off that thought.

            Wherever that ass was, he had left Wesker to die.  They had fought, just because Steve had gotten pissed that Wesker was proven to be stronger.  After that, all he remembered was a brick slamming into the back of his head, and a shot into his stomach.

            Reminder, Wesker!  Get up!

            The pain shot up through his body as he remembered the shot, his falling to the ground.  He had been lying a while; his body was surrounded with his own blood.  Burnside was going to pay for his backstabbing, and pay good.

            Now, how to get out of Cali?

            They had been at the California facility, and were enjoying everything there:  The targets, the beaches, the cars, and the babes.  Yeah, the babes were good.  Just get a good face on, and you can fuck 'em all night long.  And the day later, just fuck 'em again.  He remembered his first one.  She was a virgin, but hell, she was great . . .

            Stop that!  He snapped himself out of the stupor, and got up slowly, gritting his teeth.  Looking around, he found a MedKit.  Stupid Burnside.  He was not the smartest, nor the fastest.  And this proved it.  He left a damn MedKit on the table next to Wesker, leaving him opportunity to heal his wounds.

            Alrighty then.  Don't give a fuck about his mistakes, just take the opportunity.  He took the MedKit, and looked through it.  He found a syringe, a few bottles, a lot of gauze, and tweezers.  This was creepy; the stuff was everything he needed for his injury, nothing more or less.

            Fuck it.  It's a miracle.  Don't complain.  He took out the syringe, and injected himself with the first local anesthetic.