Chapter Eight
Meltdown
It took Claire a long time to hook the knife behind the window bars. She didn't know how long, and she lost count of throws after seventeen. She could throw the knife through the window all right, no problem with that. It was getting it to twist and lock behind the bars that was the problem. And when she finally did accomplish it, she'd tied the sheet too loosely, and it almost fell away, sending her knife plummeting outside. Her heart pounded as she reeled her makeshift rope in that time. Maybe it wasn't worth it.
But she wanted to know where she was, just in case she managed to escape -- send a message -- anything. And it wasn't like she had anything else to do. Day had come and gone with no sign of Wesker -- or of food. Her stomach rumbled, but she wasn't horribly hungry. It certainly didn't compare to the burning need for water she'd experienced at his hands before. She'd been guzzling water at an alarming rate, as if to store it like a camel. She'd contemplated hording some away -- in case Wesker tried his luck withholding it again -- but couldn't think of any way to store it.
The knife clanged against the steel bars. Claire glanced behind her instinctively, but the door remained closed. She tugged on the sheet, testing its strength and the strength of the knot. Both seemed to hold.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She kicked off her shoes and socks, bracing her bare feet against the cold cement wall. Using the bed sheet for leverage, she jumped as high as she could and swung her feet in, beginning the slow, painful vertical walk.
She stumbled a few times, but was pleased to find she was in no danger of falling. She'd worried about getting out of shape since the island incident, but apparently her muscles remembered how to move. They ached a bit, but she had little trouble climbing to the top.
Gasping for breath, she snaked an arm through the window and wrapped it around a bar, carefully avoiding the jagged glass lining what remained of the window. She caught on with her other arm and worked the knife free, tossing it back to the floor -- she could jump from here, and losing her knife was a worst case scenario.
Finally she could see outside.
"Oh, great," she muttered, staring across the expanse of flat, grassy land. This could be anywhere in the US, not to mention several other countries. A grassy plain. He couldn't have picked a more nondescript location if he'd tried.
Still, she wiggled around to get a better angle to her left and right, unwilling to accept defeat. She'd worked hard to get up here, damn it; there'd better be something more to show for it than a field of grass.
And then to her left, a glimmer of moonlight struck something. Grimacing, Claire braced herself against the wall and swung as far as she could, roping her arms around the far right bars. She tilted her head against what was left of the window and peered out, careful to keep her face away from the sharp edges where the glass broke.
A sign. She could only make out part of it:
UMBR
LABOR
NO EN
And then a few letters that either connected to words she didn't understand or -- more likely -- were in a different language.
NOT the States, then. She could guess what the first three lines read well enough: Umbrella, laboratory, no entry. Another freaking Umbrella base. How many did they have? And how many had Wesker taken over?
Her arms and shoulders burned, but she dangled there a moment longer, grateful for any change of scenery, grateful for the fresh air. Before long, though, her teeth chattered with cold, and her muscles began to cramp in protest. She eased herself down and dropped to the floor.
The second her feet collided, the lock clicked and the doorknob turned.
Claire panicked. She grabbed the knife, yanked it free of the sheet, and jammed it down her waistband behind her back. She didn't care if Wesker found out what she'd been up to -- but if he found the knife? It was her last means of defense.
And now it was totally exposed if he happened to stand behind her.
He filled the doorway, thin beams of moonlight slanting across his face, dark glasses in place. "What are you doing, Miss Redfield?"
She sniffed. "Trying to escape."
"With a bed sheet through a barred window? I'm disappointed. I thought you had more sense."
Claire shrugged. She didn't care what he thought.
He drew a step closer, and her heart pounded in her ears. Terror settled over her in waves. Had she ever been this frightened? She remembered running through the police station pursued by creatures that wouldn't bloody die...
No, this was much worse.
He stopped just out of reach, arms folded, head tipped to one side. "Have you had time to consider my offer?"
"What offer?" She heard the tremble in her voice and knew he heard too. It made her mad, gave her the strength to steady herself. "The one where I tell you what you want to know and you kill me?"
"I never said I would kill you, dear heart."
"Will you?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On you."
Claire folded her arms in turn, refusing to be drawn into a game of twenty questions. Wesker smiled slightly and took another step towards her.
Within striking range.
If she moved fast.
If he didn't realize what she was up to.
"Dear heart," he murmured softly, running a gloved finger along her cheek, seeming pleased with her shudder. "The situation has changed somewhat."
Changed? Her heart pounded even louder. She hadn't thought such a thing possible. Did he know what she'd done to Steve's blood? "What do you mean, changed?" she forced out. Her words were barely a croak.
I hate you, Claire Redfield, she snarled at herself. Grow up. Stop acting like a damsel in distress. Whatever he does to you, you'll deal with it; but don't let him scare you!
Oh, but it was so easy to be afraid of him -- of the inhuman red eyes hidden behind dark glasses, themselves unnatural in the dark room, of his superhuman strength and speed, of his sadistic cruelty and ruthless determination. He smiled as though sensing her thoughts. "Come with me."
"What? Where?"
"Explanations are best deferred until we reach our destination. Then they may prove... unnecessary."
She waged a brief war with herself, finally deciding it was better to follow him voluntarily than be carried, dragged, or thrown. Besides, there was still the knife to consider... "Lead on."
"I think not." He took her arm in his hand and all the blood rushed from her face, leaving her pale and frightened. My God, he was going to make her lead -- he'd see the knife -- unless she pulled it now -- but could she...? -- or would he...?
And then he was leaving the room, pulling her along by dint of his grip above her left elbow. Stunned, Claire stumbled in his wake, adjusting to the two most important things: one, he hadn't seen the knife, and two, he'd left her right hand free.
She'd only have one shot. She'd have to make it count.
But she almost forgot about that as she took in the dark emptiness of the huge space. "How big is this lab?" she wondered out loud as their footsteps reverberated along the corridors.
"Far bigger than the last."
She glanced at him. He wasn't looking at her, but once again his answer seemed uncalculated -- a simple response to a simple question. She risked another. "How many people are here?"
"Aside from you and me? One."
One. "Who?"
He shook his head, smiling slightly. "I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."
Probably Ada bloody Wong, she realized with a scowl. A name that had come up many times over the past few months as her relationship with Leon stumbled along.
Leon. God, she missed him. Everything would seem better if only he was here, supporting her, letting her know she wasn't alone.
She scratched that thought immediately. The last thing she wanted was Leon here. Or Chris, or any of the others. So far her stupidity had only endangered herself; she planned to keep it that way.
Wesker jerked her around another corner. Claire slid her right hand behind her back, fingering the knife hilt. She eased it free and reversed the blade so it lay flat along her arm.
Where to strike?
Heart? Might work as long as she scored a direct hit. Was that body armour he was wearing?
Too many risks.
Throat? More possibilities. According to Chris, a ton of steel girders had dropped on the man's head and he'd gotten back to his feet. Would the blade even pierce the skin? Had he been bleeding after surviving the girders? She couldn't remember, if Chris had ever told her.
Eye?
She glanced at him sideways. She could see the gleam of his eyes behind his sunglasses, had a good angle towards his right eye. She could hit it, she was sure of that.
It wouldn't kill him.
But it would hurt like hell, and it would definitely incapacitate him, at least temporarily. Even if he was able to regrow the eye or something, he couldn't do it instantaneously, could he? And in the meantime he would be hurt, bleeding -- vision faulty, body slowed.
She could escape.
Drawing a breath, she took in her surroundings. It was no use -- she had no idea where to find the exit. She'd just have to run, put as much distance as possible between them, and then stick to the shadows as she searched the building. She'd been through enough Umbrella labs by now to have a pretty good idea of the basic layout.
He still wasn't looking at her. She steeled herself, adjusting her grip on the knife, clutching the hilt with the blade pointing out to her right.
Oh God, she couldn't do it. He might be a monster but he was still human; she couldn't just stab a knife into his eye!
You'd better, she told herself firmly. Because he won't have any problem doing the same -- or worse -- to you.
She forced herself to stare straight ahead and count to twenty. Then she glanced sideways, marking her target, drew a deep breath, and drove her fist at his face.
He saw her coming, but just barely. The knife missed his eye as he threw his head back, catching below his eyebrow and slicing across his forehead. Even as his roar of pain echoed through the hall, Claire was off and running. She'd missed, damn it -- should have struck again -- but instinct said run, and she listened. Who knew how fast he'd recover? The wound was deep but he wasn't human, he might...
She didn't hear or see him coming. She ran into his chest full tilt, bouncing off him, restrained by the hand clasping her throat. His other hand caught her wrist and shook, sending the knife scattering across the floor, then flew in a graceful backhand that sent her flying into the wall. Dazed, she struggled to her feet, but he dealt her a hard kick in the ribs that toppled her again. "Congratulations," he seethed, blood dripping past his eyes. She tilted her head, trying to see evidence that she had hurt him, but aside from the blood there was none -- the wound had closed already. "Not many could catch me off guard."
"What are you...?" She didn't finish the question because he kicked her again, this time in the face. Her jaw snapped shut on her tongue, and she tasted blood as she collapsed on the floor, dizzy and nauseous. She barely managed to roll over and spit on the concrete. If she hadn't, if she'd swallowed it, she would have been spitting up more than blood.
He didn't give her a chance to recover, catching the back of her neck and hauling her to her feet. He threw her face first into the wall and held her there. Claire couldn't stifle a cry of pain as he mashed the side of her head against the cold, hard wall. She trembled, longing for unconsciousness -- please, let me be asleep when he kills me, it's all I ask -- but in spite of the pain, the nausea, the dizziness, it would not come.
He jerked her back and cracked her forehead into the wall again. Once more she shouted, his hand on her neck holding her helpless against his fury. Part of her longed to plead, to apologize, but she squelched it resolutely. It was the thing she'd promised herself -- no groveling. And if he killed her now, he'd spare her a great deal of pain.
But apparently he didn't plan to kill her. He held her there a moment longer, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see what would come next.
All at once she was lifted off her feet and slammed into the wall again, this time facing him. Her eyes flew open. He was holding her by her upper arms, incredible pain radiating from the spots where his fingers bit into her flesh, supporting her several feet off the floor against the wall. His furious eyes stared up at her, blood drying above his right eyebrow. "You are as big a fool as your brother, Miss Redfield. And you will share his fate."
She kicked at him, knowing it was useless but welcoming the gesture of rebellion. He slammed her again, making her teeth rattle.
And then, to her amazement, he let her go.
Before she had a chance to react, his hands whisked over her body, probing for other weapons. He jerked her jacket free of her arms and tossed it aside, leaving her shivering in a form fitting tank top. For a moment she was afraid he would take that too, but he didn't, his hands sliding over her legs, her back, through her hair. "Hmm," he said at last. "No other surprises?"
"You took my other surprise in the parking lot," she told him bitterly.
He shoved her. "Move."
She obeyed, shuffling forward, stopping when he directed. She didn't care anymore. Her last chance had fled, and she was as good as dead now. What difference did anything make?
He moved in front of her, his hand resting on a door. "You are beginning to irritate me, Miss Redfield, and that is not a good idea. Perhaps we can curb your spirit some."
She glared at him, spitting another mouthful of blood through swollen lips. "Do what you want, Wesker. I don't give a damn anymore. I don't care if you hurt me; I don't care what you do to my body. But after the last few months, there's nothing left you can do except hurt me. I'm done being manipulated by you."
"Are you?" he chuckled lightly, good humour apparently restored. "We'll see, won't we?"
And then he opened the door.
And Claire realized she'd been wrong. There was more he could do to her, much, much more, beyond physical violence, beyond sadistic torture. "Oh God no," she whispered.
"Yes," Wesker replied in a smooth, confident tone. "You will tell me what I want to know, dear heart."
And Claire knew he spoke the truth.