Chapter Seven

Code Red

Claire clutched a blanket beneath her chest, shivering in a corner of the bed. Wesker seemed to be ignoring her, but she didn't dare move around too much. If she annoyed him, she had no doubt she'd find herself chained to the railing again, probably with a few new bruises to boot. And she was overwhelmingly relieved to be free. To use the washroom as necessary, drink a glass of water, take a protein bar (apparently his only food) when she was hungry. Small freedoms she'd always taken for granted rendered precious by novelty.

She watched him work at a monitor in the far corner. What did he find to occupy himself for hours on end? In all the time they'd been here, she'd yet to see him interact with another person. Aside from his brief communication with Chris, he hadn't even conversed with another person -- his commands to Claire had been terse, hard, cold, and hardly conversational. She closed her eyes against the sheer harsh loneliness of his... what? Room? Lab? Bomb shelter? She had no way of telling.

All at once he stood, stretched, and stalked toward her. Claire shrank into the corner. She hadn't asked to use the bed; exhaustion overwhelming her, she'd simply curled up and tried to nap. All at once she was certain he'd grab her throat and yank her to her feet.

But Wesker didn't even glance at her. He walked straight to the cupboard, removed a protein bar, and tore it open. Her surprise must have registered, because he glanced at her and arched an eyebrow. Taking that as invitation, Claire said, "I thought you didn't eat anymore."

"A figure of speech, I suppose. I eat, but rarely."

"Oh," she whispered, not sure how to respond. Had Wesker given her a fairly civil answer to an almost invited question? Or was this some new trick designed to expose and demean her?

But he didn't follow up, simply grabbed a bottle of water and a thick book from the shelf. Claire couldn't stop watching him. She knew she was supposed to be plotting her escape, but somehow Wesker's controlled movements arrested her. In fact, the word control described him perfectly. He lent the simplest acts a sort of grace and agility, treating every movement like a karate kata.

He caught her watching again. "Is there something I can do for you, Miss Redfield?" he asked, his voice not at all threatening, almost pleasant -- impersonally so, like a clerk at a shop.

"You could let me go," she said before she could stop herself, and winced, tensing in expectation of an attack.

But to her surprise he almost smiled. "Not a chance."

And then an ear-shattering alarm split the silence. Claire's heart leaped into her throat, stifling her scream of surprise; even Wesker started slightly. "Well," he said wryly. "That can't be good." In the blink of an eye he'd returned to his work station, leaning over the monitor and stabbing at buttons. The shrill alarm, mercifully, faded.

Slowly, Claire unfolded herself from the bed and climbed the steps separating them. She wasn't sure what to make of the Wesker she'd seen over the last few moments -- a glimpse, perhaps, of the Wesker Chris had respected so completely? Only that gave her the courage to ask, "What's going on?"

"Biohazard alert," he replied shortly.

"Bio -- are we in an Umbrella base?"

"Beneath one, yes."

Claire stared at his back. "I thought you worked on your own."

"Perhaps I should say, a former Umbrella base. Damn," he swore softly. She drew another step closer as he snatched a headset and slid it over his ears. "Ada, Yuki, respond immediately."

Someone must have answered. Wesker listened intently, his expression unreadable. Claire continued to advance until she was almost close enough to touch him. "Hai, wakatta," he snapped in what Claire thought was Japanese. "Itsu kara?" He paused again, listening, and then unleashed a torrent of indecipherable speech. "Hai," he repeated a moment later. "Ima doko? So... Hai hai... OK. Hyakute." He tore the headset free and swore loudly, banging his fist into the console. Claire leaped back a step, drawing his attention; he stared at her as though he'd forgotten her.

Chris' Wesker had vanished. It was her grim captor who smirked at her now. "Well, Miss Redfield, it seems my rendezvous with your brother will have to be postponed yet again -- or at least altered."

The chill racing through her had nothing to do with the cold. "What do you mean?" she demanded, chasing him as he crossed to a cupboard and began rifling through it.

"Unfortunately the outbreak is not containable. I've evacuated my staff." He clicked a round into a .9 mm and tucked it into his belt. "You, however, are coming with me."

A chill raced through her. "What do you mean? Coming where?"

"I have a sample to retrieve, Miss Redfield. I don't dare send any of my people after it -- not one of them would make it alive."

"Oh God." She closed her eyes, a dozen memories assaulting her -- zombies, vicious dogs, creatures too horrible to be imagined. "Those creatures are loose out there, aren't they?"

"Which creatures?"

"Any of them!" she nearly shouted, not giving a damn if she annoyed him or not.

"There are a number of creatures loose in the base, Miss Redfield. Some of them I imagine you have encountered before; others, you have not."

He rushed down the steps, Claire hot on his heels. "You've got to be kidding! Aren't there, like, procedures for this kind of stuff? How is it possible for one company to have so many damn accidents?"

"I'm no longer associated with Umbrella, so technically it's two companies -- although I'm not technically that either. And when you're dealing with genetically altered creatures the likes of which we've never seen before, accidents are not only likely but probable." He kicked over the table and yanked the mat aside to reveal a tightly sealed hatch set into the ground. He grabbed the wheel and twisted hard; with a squeal, it spun free. "Move," he commanded, gesturing towards the ladder descending into a shadowy darkness interrupted only by the rhythmic pulse of a red light.

Shaking her head, Claire backed up. She'd barely taken a step before a gust of wind brushed her cheek and Wesker's hand clamped tightly over her wrist. Ignoring her attempts to resist, he dragged her along with him. "Wait!" she cried. "Give me a gun!"

"You have to be kidding."

She hovered on the verge of the hatch. "I will do anything you tell me, I swear. I won't turn the gun on you. Chris said it wouldn't kill you anyway, so you have nothing to worry about. But you can't make me go down there defenseless!" She didn't have to fake the tremor in her voice, nor the tears filling her eyes.

Wesker sighed heavily. "Miss Redfield, I assure you, you're far safer with me than you are with a gun. I won't let any harm come to you -- as you so cleverly pointed out, I need you alive. If I give you a weapon, you may begin to think you can survive without me, and I can't have that." His eyes glinted at her through his glasses, his arms taut and fists tight. "One thing your dear brother may not have told you is that I don't like repeating my orders. If you haven't descended this ladder in five seconds, I'll throw you down and pick up the pieces at the bottom. Now move."

Without a weapon? She'd be helpless, completely dependent on him. But she didn't dare call his bluff. Drawing a breath, she crossed to his side and preceded him down the ladder as he directed.

He has a gun, she reminded herself as she climbed into the shadows, her footsteps echoing with dull metallic clangs. If something happens to him, if you're left defenseless... Well, you know what to do.