Chapter 16: Dark Designs
Wesker's fist was clenched at his side, his glove squeaking with the strain. He knew it was unrealistic to expect Krauser's team to move any faster, as they were well within the time limit he'd set for situations like this, but he hadn't counted on getting trapped in the labs, either. In his mind, it added insult to injury. Being a practical and highly efficient man, he wasn't used to sitting on his hands in the middle of a crisis situation. Teeth bared, he went back to pacing the floor, earning a reproachful look from Birkin. How long before the geneticist asked him to sit down again?
A technician was crouched outside, trying to wire the panel to a portable generator in order to unlock the door. Through the massive glass window, Wesker could see the same process being attempted on every door within his field of vision. Armed soldiers had already fanned out through the lower levels. Wesker had to admire their single-minded precision – he'd picked his men well – but it would have been preferable to not need them at all. This was one of the worst possible scenarios he'd planned for, and he was going to demand answers.
Through the window, Wesker saw Krauser speaking into his radio, getting more agitated by the minute. Wesker brought his cellphone to his ear. It was an expensive model equipped with a two-way radio, but having been on it almost constantly, it was possible he'd missed something. He could only listen to one channel at a time.
"Some kind of trouble?" Wesker drawled.
"You could call it that," Krauser replied, scowling. "We got some broad stuck out in the hallway, so I dispatched a unit to pick her up. I've just lost contact with both men and now I can't raise her either, so there's probably something big roaming around down there."
A horrible suspicion rooted itself in Wesker's brain. "Did she indentify herself?" he demanded.
"Yeah, sure. Said her name was Claire, or some crap like that. Why?"
Wesker's blood ran cold. He slammed the wall with a fist, cursing every single one of Dante's nine hells. The power had gone out while Claire was still en route to the elevators. He realized he should have expected it and planned ahead, but in his frustration he'd overlooked it. Now something told him he was going to pay for it. Luck had spurned him his entire life.
Growling deep in his chest, Wesker furiously scanned the room. The door was four inches of solid steel, built on hydraulic runners that retracted it into the ceiling. It was designed to stop Tyrants, so no amount of pounding would make it shift. The rest of the lab was, in essence, a huge cement block overlaid with sterile tiling. It was built like a vault. Nothing was supposed to go in or out of it. Even the window was two inches of solid safety glass that had been welded at the seams to make sure not even the tiniest microbe could escape.
However, the window was still the room's weakest point and he couldn't afford to wait any longer, even if things hadn't already passed beyond his control. Damn it, woman, you had better be alright, Wesker said to himself, the strength of the emotion catching him off guard. It felt like something molten being forced through that cold, iron thing that passed for his heart, but he would dwell on the implication later. He had no time for silly emotional conflicts.
"…Al?" Birkin nervously approached him, sensing his sudden urgency. "What's wrong?"
"Get back, Will. Down on the floor behind the desk," Wesker ordered, ripping his gun out of his shoulder holster. Red light flashed along its chrome-plated barrel. Birkin's eyes bulged at the sight of it, realizing what his colleague intended to do.
"Are you crazy?" he howled, grabbing Wesker's arm. "The bullet's just going ricochet around and—"
"That's why I'm telling you to take cover," Wesker growled, chambering the first bullet. He shoved Birkin back, in no mood to explain or waste time catering to his questions. The desk caught Birkin behind the knees and he nearly toppled over it, so great was the force at which he'd been propelled away. Long experience had taught him that regardless of whatever had thrust Wesker into such a volatile state, plea-bargaining would do no good. Eyes wide, Birkin scrambled beneath the heavy metal desk and covered his head with arms, wondering if his colleague had finally snapped.
After a swift glance in Birkin's direction, and much to the horror of the people standing outside the lab, Wesker pointed his gun at the window and fired. The report echoed like a thunderclap in the confined room. As predicted, the bullet zinged away into the ceiling, shattering a fluorescent light. Glass and bits of metal rained down on the floor as Wesker fired at the same spot several more times. Several people in the hallway were trying to get out of the line of fire in case the glass failed.
Wesker lowered his gun, scrutinizing the damage done to the window. The thick glass had cracked and spider-webbed instead of shattering outright, and the damage was localized to his side of the window, but this had been expected. Wesker crisply replaced his gun and strode over to the window, placing his hands flat on either side of the crack. Peering over the desk, a pale Birkin took in Wesker's low stance, his bared teeth.
"Al, no!" he exclaimed, flying to his feet. "Just wait until the guys unlock the door. You're going to be sorry if you do this!"
I'll be even sorrier if I don't, thought Wesker. He closed his eyes and began to strain against the glass. This room was meant to hold B., not gods. Growling, Wesker set his incredible strength against the glass. Muscles bunched and gathered between his shoulders, tendons standing out like high-tension cables. For moment, nothing seemed to happen, and then jagged little snapping noises filled the room as the glass began to fissure.
With a loud crack, the window disintegrated into a glittering cascade of crumbled glass. Swaying slightly to hold his balance without toppling headfirst into the hallway, Wesker stepped out of the lab, pulling his gun back out of its holster. Krauser and the other mercenaries stood rooted to floor, mouths hanging open in silent disbelief.
"Give me her last known position," Wesker ordered, turning a shockingly crimson glare upon Krauser.
The big man gaped shamelessly. "…What? Oh!" Krauser hastily snapped to attention, composing his face into what he hoped was a hard and confident expression. He didn't pay attention to rumors and he certainly didn't gossip, but he wasn't blind. Suddenly, the identity of the missing woman fell into place.
"Her last radio transmission was near Lab 21," said Krauser. "I sent her down hallway 9, back towards us."
Without a word, Wesker turned on his heel and marched down the hallway, fading into the blackness at the end of it. Krauser was not a poetic man, but predatory was the only one way he could describe that heavy, menacing stride. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the creatures the chairman was bound to encounter on his way. Almost.
Claire was sick with horror. She'd fought her way through both Raccoon City and Rockfort Island, held her ground against nearly everything Umbrella's depraved labs could throw at her, but even that didn't compare to the cold, incapacitating terror she felt now. Sergei closed the distance between them, tucking his scythe into his belt, and seized a handful of her hair, jerking her upright against the wall. Pain sliced across her scalp as she tried to twist out of his grasp.
"I varned you, I'm taking everything he doesn't deserve, my dear, and since you're here, I'm afraid that includes you, too," Sergei hissed, putting his face close to hers.
His held her tightly with one hand and reached for his belt with the other. Nausea flooded Claire's body. She wouldn't be violated by this bastard! Crying out, she bucked against the wall despite the searing pain in her scalp and struck him hard in the side of the head. Her strength must have surprised him, because Sergei recoiled slightly, freeing her from most of his weight.
Claire seized her only chance. He'd moved too quickly before, depriving her of a chance to us it, but Claire still hadn't let go of her knife. Freeing her arm, she drove the thick blade into his shoulder, feeling the serrated edge scrap against his collarbone. Sergei roared and Claire twisted to one side, leaving a lot of hair behind in the process, but she ignored it. She thought she had it, she thought she would break free, but he grabbed her again. He whirled and threw her hard into the other side of the wall. Red agony sparkled through her body.
She blinked, and she vision cleared. Sergei stood in the middle of the hall, clutching the knife still imbedded in his shoulder. To Claire's absolute horror, he began to laugh, a hoarse, choking kind of sound.
"That's it, my dear. Fight and make this worthwhile!" He gripped the hilt of the hilt and dragged it from his flesh, uttering a low, perverse moan of pleasure, as though he was actually enjoying the pain. Claire's stomach turned. Wavering slightly on his feet, Sergei spun the knife, flicking little drops of blood onto the floor.
"This is going to be even better than I imagined," he rasped, coming towards her. In pain and now without a weapon, Claire had never felt so powerless in her life. Using the wall for support, she dragged herself upright, trying to turn and run away down the hall. Sergei's body collided with hers as he drove her face-first against the wall. Gripping her wrist, he forced her arm behind her, wrenching it up between her shoulder blades. The muscles in her armpit screamed. .
"Maybe this vay is more fitting for two wolves," Sergei gritted. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire watched him toss the knife into the air, letting it spin a few times before catching it again. The blade descended towards her as she felt a hot, fiery pain lance down the side of her face. She screamed loudly, realizing what had happened.
"Again, my dear," Sergei purred, whipping the knife back across her arm. Claire choked back a second scream, refusing to give him the pleasure. Had she thought herself a good fighter? She couldn't even make him loosen his grasp. Tears of pain and frustration leaked from her eyes as she bucked and struggled against him, refusing to give up. Something wet and hot was soaking into the back of her shirt and she knew the Russian was bleeding heavily from his shoulder wound. Twisting, she repeatedly banged his shin with her heel. She knew she was hurting him, but instead of hissing in pain Sergei groaned deeply against her. The knife retreated from view.
"Make it good for me, my dear," he whispered, reaching for his belt again. Claire heard his radio suddenly crackle to life.
"This is Lt. Sebastian. We've cleared sectors 1 through 6 and are beginning sectors 7 through 13. Five infected, four males and one female, have been disposed off and are awaiting cleanup. Over."
"Copy that. Proceed through Sector 7. The chairman is en route to assist you. Over."
Sergei spat a curse in Russian. Claire twisted her head to the side, trying to see, but her gaze jerked to the Ivan instead. The beast hadn't moved during their entire confrontation, but now it was shifting, turning its attention to the adjacent hallway. "Target approaching." It said it broken, gravelly English.
Claire froze. She couldn't help it. She'd encountered Tyrants before, but none of them had actually spoken. Snarling, Sergei turned his attention to the Ivan. "Vhat is it? Him?" the Russian demanded.
"Bio Organic Weapon." The Ivan appeared to study something through its brightly colored orange visor. "1-505."
Claire didn't understand the serial number, but it was apparent Sergei did. He remained still for a moment, as if weighing his options, and then stepped back. Claire gasped, dragging air into her aching lungs, only to be viciously spun around to face the Russian. His face was a twisted mask of hate and desire, his eyes glowing so fiercely they made Claire's breath stick in her throat. He wasn't like Wesker – the glow was purple, tarnished and faintly iridescent, but not red. However, they burned with that same kind of inner, hellish light.
Claire stifled a whimper as the knife appeared beneath her throat. "Vell, it appears that I've run out of time," said Sergei, obviously angry. "I should slit your pretty throat right now," he traced the knife along her skin, "but it vould be too clean a death. I vould rather he find your corpse in several pieces."
Sergei lifted the knife and drew across his mouth, slicing his tongue and the corner of his lip. Claire gasped and recoiled, sick to her stomach, as he spat a hot mouthful of blood and salvia right in her face. The Russian stepped back, leaving her to grab at the wall in order to keep from falling. Moving with disturbing ease, Sergei flipped the knife around and threw it hard, burying it in the floor at her feet. "I vouldn't want to be inconsiderate," he sneered.
He laughed and went down the dark stairs a little way up the hall, the Ivan obediently following him even though he hadn't given it any verbal commands. Footfalls echoing loudly in the stillness, they faded into the gloom. Moaning, Claire clawed at her face, trying to wipe it clean. A moment later, she was throwing up on the floor, her shaking hands clamped over her stomach. Finally, she slumped back against the wall. Shooting glances down the corridor, as if expecting Sergei to change his mind and come back, she made an effort to swallow the sobs trying to force their way up her throat. He'd been so close… so horribly, loathsomely close.
Claire shuddered, scraping her sticky eyes on her sleeve. Her legs were trembling, and the cut on her cheek throbbed. She wanted to sink to the floor and cry, but she didn't. She'd fought for her life before and knew that sitting down would be a grave mistake, so she forced herself to dig down, tapping her last reservoir. Claire was upset and scared, but she wasn't ready to fall apart just yet. The approaching security teams had saved her from a terrible fate, but it only counted if she didn't get torn to pieces by whatever else was out there.
Shaking, Claire stooped to retrieve the bloody combat knife, but it brought no comfort to her. There was something out there and judging by Sergei's reaction, it was something bad. She had to meet up with the security force and get out of here. Gathering herself, she pushed away from the wall and started down the corridor. The laces of her shoe dragged on the floor, but she didn't stop to tie them. Blood from the knife oozed down the handle and over her skin, and she fought the urge to drop it. Glancing up at the signs, she'd dimly remembered being told to head up Hallway 11. Or was that Hallway 9? Claire reached into her waistband, but the radio was gone, lost when she'd been flung against the wall.
Fighting back a growing feeling of dismay, she picked hallway 11. She thought she heard the report of a gunshot, but the corridors distorted the sound and made it hard to tell which direction it had come from. Swallowing, Claire tasted blood that wasn't hers and quickened her pace. She came to a halt at a T-junction, trying to decide which way to go next. It was then that she heard it, a wet snuffling sound, like a dog with its head in the garbage. A dark blot was in the middle of the corridor about fifteen feet to her left. The first thing she saw was the heavy combat boots, their toes pointing towards the ceiling. Something dark was leaking across the floor towards her. The chewing noise continued.
The hairs rose on the back of Claire neck and she took a step back. The dark blot shifted. Something large and hairy was crouched over the body, cradling the man's head in long, spindly arms as it ate out of the bloody pit where his face had been. Claire smelled the metallic reek of blood and she brought the knife up, still backing away, but her shoes squeaked, further drawing the thing's attention. Slowly, it uncoiled itself from over the body. Stepping out of the shadows into a pool of red light, Claire found herself staring into a wrinkled, evil-looking face, an ape that had been bred in the depths of hell. Blood and bits of tissue stained its shaggy white fur, and its claws scraped on the ground as it reared back slightly, sniffing the air.
Terror plunged a stake though Claire's body. Something told her that she couldn't outrun this abomination and it was too late to sneak by. The realization washed away her paralysis, filling her with a light, cold fire, the same empty certainty she'd felt in Raccoon City when she knew that she was probably going to die. She thought about Chris and Jill, and the friends she had made on the island. Last of all, she thought of Wesker, and was sorry she wasn't going to get to say goodbye to any of them. A chilling snarl rose in the ape's throat.
Planting her feet, Claire got ready to face it. No spoiled city girl, she'd grown familiar with weapons before she'd even been out of high school. Having just lost both parents, it'd been a difficult time, but having a big brother in the army made her feel strong and tough by comparison, and she'd soaked up all things Chris had taught her about guns and knives. The knowledge had saved her life in Raccoon City, and it was going to save her life now.
Gripping the knife, Claire hurled it as hard as she could. Her aim was perfect, there was no error on her part, but the ape shifted at the last minute and the blade sunk into its shoulder instead of in its evil brain. It let out an unearthly squeal and arched its back, scrabbling at the knife with its front paws. Frozen, Claire watched it fall to the floor with a metallic clatter as the wounded ape snarled at her. Its eyes were white and round, filled with pain and hatred. The ape unfolded its legs and sprang forward, crossing most of the distance in a single bound. It hissed, and then lunged for her.
Bye, Chris, thought Claire. She braced herself for the sensation of fangs ripping into her throat.
It never came. The air into front of her suddenly folded and buckled. Something red flashed, and the ape's trajectory abruptly changed. Long arms flailing, it smashed into the wall hard enough to crack it. Broken tiles and bits of concrete rained down on the squealing creature as it tried to right itself again. Mouth gone dry, Claire gasped as a dark, lethal shadow blurred past her and descended on the ape. Gloved hands reached out, gripping the creature's head and twisting it to the side. There was sickening crunch. Silent now, the ape flumped to the tiles and did not get up again.
Heart pounding, Claire suddenly recognized her savior. Knees trembling, she wondered what would happen if she fainted as Wesker rushed at her and roughly grabbed her shoulders. "Are you all right?" he growled, but when she didn't answer right away, he gave her a brutal shake. "Answer me!"
The harsh edge in his voice snapped Claire out of her daze. "I…" She swallowed painfully and tried again, meeting Wesker's gaze. His eyes were blazing with a fierce crimson glow that even his glasses couldn't hide. "I'm okay," she gasped, finally managing to form the words. There was no way to describe the overwhelming feeling of relief coursing through her.
However, Wesker didn't seem convinced. He reached up and turned her head to the side, examining the deep cut on her cheek. Then she felt his eyes rake the gash on her arm and the large amount of blood staining the back of her coat. A low snarl rose in his chest, his hand clenching on her shoulder. Eyes watering, Claire winced and grabbed his wrist. "It… it's not all mine," she managed thinly. "I'm not hurt." Not badly.
Wesker's gaze raked her up and down. She couldn't be sure, but Claire thought she saw real desperation on his face just before it slid beneath that cold, angry stare. Was Wesker actually worried about her? As impossible as it sounded, something deep inside her knew this was the case. Claire swallowed, trembling with fatigue. She wanted to tell him about Sergei – something told her it was important – but a convulsive shudder ripped through her body, making her dizzy from the receding adrenaline.
"Are you strong enough to walk?" Wesker asked, the implication being that if she wasn't she would be carried.
"No. I mean, yes. I'll walk," said Claire, the survivor in her trying to be strong. She was badly shaken up, but she wasn't helpless. Nodding, Wesker began moving down the corridor, pulling her along with him. Most people would have thought this rather callous, but Claire sensed a little differently. As they walked, Wesker kept her beside and slightly behind him, his hand wrapped around her upper arm, ready to either pull her to safety or hurl her aside should a threat present itself. Claire felt unexpectedly touched by this subtle display of protectiveness. She had no idea how Wesker had found her is this labyrinth from hell, but all she cared about right now was the shameless feeling of safety he provided. She pressed closer to his warmth. Just because she didn't want to be carried didn't mean she didn't want to be reassured.
Wesker wove his way through the corridors with practiced ease, never even glancing at the signs. Eventually, they turned a corner and Claire saw bright white lights up ahead, banishing the creepy red gloom. The loud buzz of people and machinery filled the sterile hallway, bouncing off the bare walls. Squinting against the invasive light, Claire saw armed guards everywhere, either talking on their radios or escorting people out of the labs. A fleet of portable generators had been set up along one wall, providing power to the spotlights and a small field office.
Relief swelled inside Claire's chest. She was alive and safe. She was going to be able to see Chris again. Dragging her forward, Wesker stepped over a tangle of bright orange wires, his shoes crunching on a field of broken glass. The crowd parted and Claire saw a familiar face.
"Claire!" Birkin rushed over to meet them. "My God, are you alright? You're bleeding!"
"It's not that bad," Claire protested, hating to be fussed over, but Wesker pushed her towards a plastic tent that had been erected right in the middle of an adjoining lab. A moment later, he was forcibly extracting her from her coat and pushing her to sit. Claire was too surprised to argue.
"Take care of this," Wesker growled, indicating the wound on her arm. A black man with wire-rim glasses pushed forward and began snipping away at her sleeve, cutting it all the way up to her shoulder. Claire winced as the fabric pulled at her wound. Looking at the deep cut, it seemed to Claire that the pain actually increased. Why did injuries seem to hurt worse when you had an audience? She screwed up her face as the doctor poured antiseptic over the wound, blood washing away down her arm in rivulets.
"You're going to need stitches," the doctor said, prepping a needle.
Claire nodded weakly and made a pointed effort to look anywhere but the work being done to her arm, even if the pricks from the needle weren't anything compared to how much it already hurt. However, the doctor worked quickly and was soon wrapping her arm in gauze. After sterilizing the cut of her face with another dose of antiseptic, he applied several butterfly Band-Aids and handed Claire a cup filled with pills. Without even asking what they were for, she swallowed them all with a glass of water. Coming down from an adrenaline high was not a pleasant experience and she was starting to feel exhausted.
"Make sure she takes a shot of anti-virus, too," Wesker ordered from his place by the door. Claire looked at him, trying to figure out how to phrase her next question. She would rather not have brought it up at all, but she couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that it was significant somehow.
"I think you should look for Sergei," she said to him, hating having to say the name. Her skin crawled just thinking about the sadistic Russian and what he would have done to her if allowed another few minutes.
Wesker's gaze snapped to her face. "Excuse me?"
"Sergei," Claire repeated. "I… I saw him down in the hallways. He was carrying a big metal case. He told me— I mean, I heard him say he was going to take everything you didn't deserve." Including me, she thought with a shudder.
Wesker's eyes burned behind his glasses. Without saying anything, he stormed out of the tent with his teeth bared. Claire was sorry to have him leave, but she prayed he would find Sergei and tear the bastard in half the same way he'd done with that ape: with his bare hands. She held onto that thought as the doctor cleaned her skin with alcohol and injected her with a dose of bright green fluid. For some reason, it left the surrounding area numb.
Rubbing the injection site, Claire wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this place as possible. She massaged her stomach. The pills were already dissolving, judging by the fuzziness in her limbs. After asking her a few questions, the doctor released her. Ruined shirtsleeve swinging, Claire wobbled out of the tent, trying to figure out what she should do next.
"Hey, you. Redfield," someone called. Claire vaguely remembered hearing his voice somewhere before. Turning, she spotted a muscular blond in a red beret. Dazed as she was, she didn't need a degree in rocket science to tell he'd obviously been waiting for her. "I've been ordered to take you to your room," he said, "so if you're ready let's get it over with."
Claire hesitated, in no mood to trust anybody after what had happened tonight. To her utmost relief, however, Birkin suddenly appeared at her elbow. "Claire, are you okay?" He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "We were so worried about you!"
Claire forced a pained smile. "I'm fine," she said. All she wanted to do was find someplace private to cry.
"I'm so, so sorry this happened," said Birkin. He looked pale and anxious, and his unruly hair looked as though it had been rented out to family of mice, no doubt because he kept plowing his hand through it.
Claire shrugged. She was upset and angry at having been put through this again, but she tried to keep the emotion suppressed. If she allowed it to boil to the surface, she'd most likely start screaming and hurting people. Why on earth had she come down here anyway? To prove something to herself, or to prove it to Wesker? It was like going bungee jumping and ending up as part of that 2% death statistic. It was cruelly ironic, and Claire didn't find it the least bit funny. She swayed on her feet, numerous aches protesting all over her body.
"Hey, there. Take it easy. Shouldn't you be taking Claire to her room?" Birkin demanded, glaring at Krauser.
"I was about to, sir," the blond man replied gruffly.
Without saying anything, Claire followed the large mercenary through the throng of people. Radios squelched and crackled all around her, broadcasting reports of rescued lab workers and terminated B.O.W.s Reaching the elevator, Claire saw that they'd managed to get it working despite the power outage, no doubt by hooking it up to a generator powerful enough to run the electric grid of small city. Spotlights were blazing all around, giving the hallway a harsh, surreal kind of quality. Another plastic tent had been set up in an adjacent lab. Krauser ushered her over.
A moment later, Claire was standing with her arms out to the side, trying not to breath the fine mist of chemicals pouring over her body. It was like getting showered in industrial strength Lysol, but without the pleasantly fake aroma. Coughing, Claire hastily wiped her dewy hair off with a paper towel as the bottoms of her shoes were sprayed. The tread on Krauser's boots were making the people here want chew their fingernails, but the big man endured with the long-suffering patience of somebody who had gotten used to it. At last, eyes watering, they were allowed in the elevator. Taking shallow breaths through her mouth, Claire decided not to ask if this fiasco posed any threat to the rest of the island.
Nothing could live through that, not even the most ferocious, flesh-eating mutant strain of T-Virus. Wesker had been right about one thing: he wasn't taking chances, since his methods of handling the outbreak seemed to revolve around the philosophy of going after a fly with a bazooka. Claire discretely leaned her hip against the side of the elevator, trying to rest, but the elevator ride ended too soon. Keeping her complaints to herself, she followed Krauser through the hallways, the buzz of activity taking her by surprise.
Armed mercenaries were everywhere, and technicians in casual button-down shirts – the kind with Inspiron laptops permanently glued under one arm – were hurrying to and fro in close-knit packs, fumbling with their Bluetooth headsets. Nearly everybody was carrying some type of flashlight since the hallways were almost completely dark. Claire was reminded sharply of a fire drill, only this was almost as serious as it could get.
A moment later, Claire found herself standing outside her room. Krauser went in first to scan the interior. Claire didn't know what he would be looking for, but she assumed it was procedure. And besides, she was grateful. Leaning against the open door, she tried not to think about being left alone with the demons clawing at the inside of her head, but Krauser returned from his sweep almost immediately. "Here," he said, pulling a crookneck flashlight off his vest. "And take this, too."
To Claire's surprise – and overwhelming gratitude – Krauser tugged his handgun out of his holster and gave it to her. Forcing her hand not to tremble, Claire closed her fingers around the gun, gripping it tightly. It was a sturdy 9mm Glock. A bit heavy, but she'd handled worse.
"I'd ask you if knew how to use it, but I think I'd be wasting my breath," said Krauser. "Thanks for the tip on those open doors."
Claire smiled, even if it didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks. I think."
"Huh. Just try not to shoot any of my boys," Krauser answered. "Unless they're chewing on somebody's arm, that is," he added darkly. His voice was deep and husky, the voice of a man who was accustomed to shouting orders, but despite his scars and huge physical stature, Claire didn't feel uncomfortable in his presence. At least not by much. She felt uncomfortable around everybody right now.
"Now get in there and stay in there," said Krauser.
Claire went into her room, twisting the flashlight as she went. Krauser banged the door shut behind her and left, muttering something about Mr. Death stealing all the good assignments. Listening to his heavy footsteps move away down the hall, Claire nervously panned the flashlight around the room. Her birthday presents were still on the coffee table, so she moved to light the candle. The tiny orange flame tossed moving shadows onto the walls.
Sitting on the couch and drawing her legs up, Claire curled up as tightly as she could, resting her chin atop her knees. A weary undertow was dragging at her, but she was just too anxious and wound-up to submit. She felt hollow, her throat tight with unshed tears, but she didn't let them fall. Why did this always happen to her? What kind of pitiless star had she been born under?
"I told him," she croaked to the empty room. Arrogant, horrible bastard! I told him this was eventually going to happen!
When things went wrong for Umbrella, them weren't just accidents, they were utter catastrophes! A small voice in the back of her head told her to be more understanding, since the outbreak had been localized with very few casualties, and unless someone did something unbearably stupid the rest of the island wouldn't even know about it, but she was just too upset to care about the facts. Outside, she heard a crack of thunder. Right. The storm.
Muffled footsteps passed by her door, the sound sending a thin spike of panic through her veins, but it was somebody hurrying where they were needed. Groaning, Claire huddled further into the corner of the couch. She was tired and covered in bruises, and every sound made her want to cringe, certain that Sergei was coming back to finish her. It was absurd – unless Wesker had caught him, the Russian was probably miles away – but cold facts were of no comfort. Thunder rumbled again, making Claire jump. She put the gun down on the couch beside her before she accidently shot herself in the foot.
I don't want to stay here, she thought miserably. Over the weeks she'd been spending in it, she'd made the room her own: books and magazines, a nice quilt on the couch, roses from the botanical garden in a small white vase, her CD player and a large stack of CDs borrowed from Sherry's personal collection. She didn't know what it was, but she hating being here.
It was like being a kid and waking up with a nightmare. Sure, it was over and couldn't hurt you anymore, but there'd been a lot of times when she'd still grabbed a blanket and headed for the living room to sleep on the couch, or if things were really bad she'd go into her brother's room. But her brother wasn't here, and for the first time in weeks it made Claire feel truly miserable. She would have gone to Birkin's room, but Sherry would just get scared and ask a bunch of unwanted questions. Dr. Connors was an acquaintance, not her mother, and she didn't even know where the woman lived anyway. The same went for Ada.
Claire swallowed, a crazy thought occurring to her. She couldn't imagine how it would help besides offering some kind of twisted psychological refuge, since all rooms were pretty much the same when it came down to it, and it wasn't as if the man would be lounging on his couch anyway, but as somebody else hurried past her door, Claire decided that she didn't care.
Getting up, she grabbed her gun and flashlight, and extinguished the candle. Going to the door, she carefully eased it open, looking left and right. The hallway was dark and foreboding, filled with phantoms and ghostly Russians. Thumbing the safety on her pistol, Claire threw herself into the corridor and began to run. It was crazy stupid, but she didn't care. Finally arriving at the right door, she hastily ripped it open and let herself in. At the last minute, she realized that she needed a keycard to enter, but the power had apparently disabled the lock. Falling into the large room, she threw the door shut behind her.
The warm smell of cologne and leather greeted her like an old friend.
Shaking from the burst of adrenaline, Claire suppressed a sigh. It was a good thing, too, as it probably would have sounded more like a relieved whimper. She didn't know why, but it felt so much safer here, as if the residual threat of Wesker's presence would keep out any would-be monsters. God in Heaven, had she really fallen this far? Behind her, the door creaked slightly. With the power out, the lock wouldn't catch properly. Marching over to the kitchen, Claire picked up one of the chairs and wedged it beneath the doorknob, effectively sealing herself in.
"There," she declared shakily. "Try getting through that."
The threat was mute, of course. If somebody wanted in, nothing short of pushing the entire bed in the way would stop them, but such details were negligible. Chris couldn't really fend off monsters with his bare hands, but that hadn't stopped her from feeling better curled up at the top of his messy bunk bed. Feeling utterly spent, Claire went to Wesker's couch and collapsed. At last, she was finally ready to let herself rest.
A/N: Bet you thought Wesker was going to save her from Sergei, didn't you? Psyche! He's more useful to me alive… for now. Heh, heh. Sorry if I freaked anybody out. It was important to make Sergei as depraved as possible in order to show Claire what REAL monsters are like, as opposed to what everybody *cough*Chris*cough*cough* thinks Wesker is. As you can see, there's no comparison and that's why, even though she's confused and a just little angry with Wesker, Claire still feels safe in his room.
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