IMPORTANT NOTE:
Hi, everybody! I know haven't updated in a while, so I won't bore you with lame excuses, but I promised some of you something for the holidays and here I am putting my money where my mouth is. I don't know how many of you are still interested, but you need to know I updated the chapter BEFORE this one as well - (Ch. 22 Homecoming) - specifically the part where Claire reveals Wesker's alter ego.
Why? Because hindsight is always a perfect 20/20. After re-reading the chapter I realized how rushed and sloppy it was, not to mention it made Claire seem like a total airhead. *grinds teeth irritably* Someone also mentioned that the chapter suffered from jerky POV shifts and they were absolutely right. Therefore I updated the format of the entire chapter to deal with these pesky little issues and things are much better for it. And so we come to our Tip of the Day: if you write a chapter and sense there's something wrong with it, STOP. Do not pass Go. Spidey Sense does not lie. Something probably IS wrong with it. Ha!
You definitely might want to re-read the previous chapter to get a sense of where things are. Sorry if this messes anyone up! And here's hoping you enjoy the new chapter, too! I actually have the next one about halfway done, so that'll be along shortly... maybe even by next Sunday/Monday. Pfft. Fancy that, eh? Must be what the Mayans really foretold as doomsday.
A thousand pardons to anyone who sent me truly wonderful review over the past few months and didn't get a reply. I wasn't trying to be rude, so THANK YOU to everyone! I truly appreciate everything, believe it or not. And please excuse any and all butchery of hospital procedure and medical terminology I may have abused in the following chapter. LOL.
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2013! ^_^
Claire blearily stared down into her cup of dull beige coffee. It hadn't been particularly hot when she'd poured it. Now it was roughly the temperature of lukewarm piss, and even that was a compliment. She gulped some down with a grimace, feeling the effects of a cheap caffeine buzz beginning to crawl up behind her eyes. Twenty minutes ago the doors of the ambulance entrance had burst open and a stretcher had hurtled through, propelled by a pair of EMTs in dark blue uniforms. Claire caught a glimpse of a man in heavy snow gear.
One of the nurses rushed forward. "What have we got?"
"Snowmobile accident. Multiple neck fractures. There might be some internal bleeding as well. "
Hurtling along with the stretcher, the grey-haired nurse grabbed a passing intern without so much as a pause in stride. "Get me a unit of O-negative and meet me in Trauma 4."
Elevator doors lurched open and a moment later doctors, gurney, and patient were gone. Since then the admitting area had been silent. A priest in a dramatic red cassock was talking to the nurse at the reception desk, asking if there were any new patients. Feeling Claire's eyes, he eventually turned to smile at her. He was unpleasantly pale and bald to boot, the white apron going down his front displaying several obscure symbols that Claire didn't recognize as being Catholic. Seeing no reason not to, however, she offered him a polite smile in return, which he obviously took as a cue to approach her.
"You look troubled, sister."
Claire snorted. She had nothing against religious men, but any conversation with them was likely to be a long one and she just wasn't in the mood. "I'm in a hospital," she said, as if it were obvious. "What else should I be?"
"You have family here?"
"My brother."
The priest smiled and nodded, displaying yellowed but perfectly even teeth. "Have courage, then. Blessings often hide in the strangest of places." His voice was deep and a little raspy. Claire inhaled the deep, musky scent of his clothes. It reminded her of incense. "A new day is coming, sister. Its heralds are being chosen even now. Perhaps if your brother endures this trial, he will consider joining us."
He handed Claire a glossy pamphlet, the ring on his finger glinting slightly.
"Yeah. Maybe he will. And thanks," Claire answered, hoping Friar Tuck would take the hint since she had no desire to be rude, and to her relief that was exactly what he seemed to do. She watched the priest walk up the hallway and disappear around the corner, then turned the pamphlet over in her hand. On it was a picture of the new church downtown. Déjate guiar su camino por Los Iluminados – Let the Enlightened Ones Guide Your Path. Become a member now! Well, that explained why the priest looked familiar. Claire tossed the pamphlet onto the table in front of her, and only then did she realize it was scattered with more of the same. That, and an outdated Victoria's Secret with a scantily clad blonde lounging on the front. The hospital may have been Umbrella, but it had none of Wesker's class.
Suddenly feeling irritable, Claire took another drink of coffee. The tulip-pink chair she was sitting in was as uncomfortable as hell, so she hunched on the edge on the seat instead, glowering at the plastic hydrangea spilling over the edge of the receptionist's desk. The one in France had real ones.
She knew it was a stupid, ungrateful thought, but suddenly she couldn't help it. Her brother was coughing up blood, dying in the next room for all she knew, and she was feeling utterly helpless. She missed Mont St. Michel. She missed the feeling of knowing that everyone around her was powerful and competent. Wait… now where did that come from? Claire pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if she looked half as bad as she felt. Just when had she come to put so much faith in Wesker? She had no reason to believe that the people here would be any less skilled, but even so, everything just seemed inferior.
The sound of footsteps drew her gaze as Jill rounded the corner of the hall, coming back from the restroom. Her short brown hair was damp and raked back from her face, the front of her shirt splattered with drops of water. She turned her swollen eyes in Claire's direction and stared at her, her face twisting, before turning to the coffee machine. The ex-cop hadn't said anything, but Claire knew Jill didn't exactly trust her.
And why would she? She probably thinks it's my fault.
Chris' sudden illness had all the hallmarks of the corporation they so hated and feared. And Claire knew full well that after how viciously she'd tried to defend Umbrella, it made her look guiltier than sin. The redhead swallowed, clawing the fingers of one hand through her hair. She distantly felt a trickle of coffee run down the side of her hand, drizzling from the tiny rent where her fingernail had punched through the cup. Was it possible that Umbrella had something to do with this? Claire angrily shook the thought away. Regardless of bad this looked – or how uncanny the coincidence – she wasn't going to start second-guessing herself. She had faith, but it wasn't blind. She'd gone through far too much for that.
She felt rather than saw Jill sit down in a chair several feet away. Lifting her head, Claire gave her a bleary sort of glance, hoping that it conveyed some kind of indication that she was suffering, too. Jill was watching her closely, watching the line of coffee dribble down Claire's wrist and patter on the floor, but she had no idea what the ex-cop made of that. Getting up, Claire threw the cup in the garbage just as the doors to the hospital proper flapped open like a pair of palsied wings.
"Redfield?"
"Here," said Claire, turning around as Jill hastily got out of her chair. "Is my brother okay?"
"He's still unconscious, but his condition's stable. You can see him now if you want," said the orderly. He was in his early twenties, blue-eyed and baby-faced, with a head of neatly combed brown hair. Switching a pen and clipboard to his other hand, he waved them down the sterile white hallway, past color-coded examination rooms and dim alcoves where spare wheelchairs and emergency medical equipment waited like alien creatures ready to suck vital fluids from the pliant bodies in their grasp. A heavyweight nurse drifted past, Nikes squeaking on the immaculate floor.
"I'm Adam, by the way," he said to Claire, obviously trying to be friendly. "We've run some tests on your brother and… well, it doesn't seem like there's anything too seriously wrong, but I've got to ask: has he been ill recently? Something like the flu? His white-blood-cell count is through the roof.'"
"I wouldn't know. I just got home," Claire mumbled, feeling inexplicably guilty. She barely heard a word of the conversation as Jill filled in the rest of Adam's questions. They'd put Chris in a large recess directly off the hallway, meaning no walls or doors, just a pale green curtain that could be pulled around the bed for privacy. Here the lights were turned down to a comfortable level. Claire could hear CNN playing softly from nurse's station just a little further up the corridor.
Chris was lying with the blanket pulled up to his chest, thick arms straining the sleeves of his papery hospital scrubs. Claire's eyes moved passed the IV tubes and monitor leads – at least they hadn't put him on a respirator, thank God – to her brother's face. The scruffy beard appearing on his jaw made seem years older. Gripping the bed rail, Claire felt as though her guts were being dragged up through her mouth. Somehow this was all her fault. All she'd wanted was for him to understand, to make everything right again… and it was such a selfish, stupid thing to do. Claire ducked her head, her expression pained.
"Which one of you is the patient's sister?" asked a voice.
Claire wearily lifted her eyes to see another doctor standing in the hallway. Her first impression of him was a short, heavyset man with dark eyes and a receding hairline gone grey at the temples, a waft of Old Spice following him into the room. Standing up straight, Claire introduced herself, wondering if there were going to be more questions. No, she didn't know what was wrong with her brother. No, he'd never shown similar symptoms in the past. Yes, she'd brought him to the hospital as soon as it'd happened.
"I'm Nigel Underwood," the doctor said. "I just got your brother's test results back from the lab," he snapped his fingers and Adam quickly handed him the clipboard he was carrying, "and I thought you'd like to know that he's going to be just fine. The symptoms you described – coughing blood and some fainting, correct? Your brother had a severe pulmonary embolism, or a blood clot in his left lung."
Underwood casually flipped through the chart he was holding. "…Causing substantial internal bleeding and partial collapse of lung," he read aloud. "Also, I couldn't help but notice that his blood-alcohol content was quite elevated. Alcohol can act as a blood thinner, and I've reason to believe that increased stress was also a factor." His dark eyes glinted softly. "Are you having family problems, love?"
Claire felt a muscle leap in her jaw. She liked Underwood less and less by the second. "What about the spasms?" she asked, completely ignoring the doctor's question about her personal life. Guilt roiled in her stomach, centering on the words "increased stress was also a factor".
"Well, essentially he was drowning," said Underwood. "His body began to seize in reaction. It's quite normal."
Normal? You obviously didn't see him thrashing on the kitchen floor, thought Claire, but she didn't say so. Biting the inside of her lip, she glanced at her brother, struggling to recall everything that had happened. She had no reason not to except Underwood's prognosis… no reason except a strange uneasiness. She didn't know if it was instinct or paranoia, some silly byproduct of living with a scientist for the past four months, but it felt as though they were getting off far too easy. Frustrated, she followed Chris' IV line into the puffy pink vein on his arm.
"Ms. Redfield? Are you listening to me?"
Claire switched her attention back to Underwood. "Sorry, what?"
Underwood smiled indulgently. "I was just saying that besides the discomfort, I think your brother's healthy enough to be discharged. He does seem to have a phobia for hospitals, after all." The doctor chuckled softly, ratcheting Claire's annoyance to new levels. "Perhaps you could find a hotel somewhere in town? Judging by your address, I wouldn't advise driving all that way in the middle of the night. I'd hate to see a car crash bring you back in."
Claire frowned, trying to figure out exactly what about this man got under her skin. The smug way he talked – as if they should be so lucky to receive his advice – made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "We'll think about it," said Claire, her voice bordering on frigid. "Thanks."
"Anytime, love."
Claire grit her teeth as Underwood left the room. Adam lingered for a moment, biting his lip and looking for all the world like he wanted to say something, but a curt order from Underwood swiftly got him trotting along behind. Jill silently moved to sit down beside Chris' bed, acting as though all the strength had temporary flown out of her. Claire looked over at her, hurt when the older woman pointedly avoided her gaze. And she realized that no matter her reservations about Underwood or Chris' diagnosis, Jill wasn't prepared to listen should she try to discuss it. Feeling betrayed, a bystander in the drama she was silently being accused off, Claire drifted out of the room.
The hallway was nearly deserted. A few people dozed in plastic chairs waiting to hear news of a friend or relative. An old woman hobbled by, a clattering IV pole dragged in tow as she wandered in search of a place to sneak a cigarette. The air was sharp in Claire's nose, harsh with orange-scented cleaner and disinfectant. Picking a direction at random, she began walking just for the sake of movement. She felt jittery and tired. She knew she should probably eat something, but that was as far as she acknowledged it. All she really wanted was to crawl under a blanket somewhere and sleep.
Fighting the urge to do just that, Claire ducked into the ladies' restroom. Bent over the gleaming porcelain sink, she splashed some water on her face in an attempt to wash away the events of the night. Lifting her head, she surveyed her dripping reflection in the mirror. Tired blue eyes stared hopelessly back. What am I going to do?
The sensible thing would be to take Underwood's advice and find a hotel, but every time she closed her eyes she could see her brother's veins swelling and pushing through his arms, some even extending up the side of his face, and she had to ask, What kind of a blood clot did that? Something wasn't right. Chills skated down her back as she thought about her brush with the T-Veronica virus. Her veins had swollen then, too. Was that what Chris was sick with?
Without even stopping to think, Claire pulled out her cellphone and started dialing Wesker's number. Halfway through the process, however, she suddenly hesitated, her stomach tightening at the thought of how needy she was behaving. She hadn't even been gone a full day and she was already running back to Wesker. As if the man needed another ego stroke. She grimaced, remembering that her symptoms had been different: she hadn't coughed up blood, and she'd never lost consciousness that suddenly. And the swellings on her arm had been green, more bruise-like than anything else. Claire suddenly had to wonder, what if nothing was wrong? What if she just had a bone to pick with Underwood and was letting her paranoia get the better of her? Her instincts screamed otherwise, but she had to remember that if she pulled Wesker into this, his involvement could turn a bomb scare into a nuclear catastrophe.
But the line had already begun to ring. Claire hastily flipped her cellphone shut, struggling with the increasingly painful lump in her throat. It only rang once, she told herself, not enough for Wesker's caller ID to have recognized the number. Torn between wanting the man nearby and knowing she should keep him a thousand miles away, Claire felt frustrated and lost, and angry enough to scream. Or cry. Whichever came first. Turning, she wrenched a napkin from the dispenser and dried her face. She had to get it together. It wasn't T-Veronica, she was pretty sure of that now. So whatever else it was, she'd just have to hang in there. She could always decide to call Wesker later if things became too much to handle. The thought gave Claire a small measure of comfort.
Behind her, the door creaked open. The soft, stealthy noise – not at all like someone else coming to use the restroom – immediately caught Claire's attention and she turned around to see Adam searching the restroom through the gap in the door, his eyes darting and skittish. Seeing Claire, his expression pinched into a weird mixture of relief and hesitation. In no mood to be flirted with, because that almost certainly the young man's MO, Claire tossed her wadded-up towel into the garbage.
"Can I help you?" she inquired coolly.
"Uh… yeah. I, uh…" Adam nervously stepped into the restroom. For a single awkward moment he stood against the door, fiddling with the stethoscope draped over neck. "Look, Claire… it's Claire, right? About your brother… I heard what Underwood told you."
"Yeah, so?"
Adam swallowed, a motion that moved his entire upper body. He bent forward to continue in a hushed voice, "I wasn't sure before, but I don't think he was being completely honest about the whole "blood clot" thing. There's been a lot of cases like your brother these last couple weeks. Fainting, throwing up blood, the whole nine yards. A lot of them get these crazy swellings, too." He made a gesture along the veins in his arm.
Claire suddenly felt sick. She knew those veins hadn't been normal, but having it confirmed wasn't any easier. In fact, it made it ten times worse. "So Underwood lied to me? Why would he do that?"
"Protecting his bottom line, maybe? How should I know? They're saying it's just some new strain of the flu. You know, with everybody's jacked-up immune systems, but some old lady had the same thing last week and… well, she didn't make it," Adam finished lamely, color draining from his face as he realized that probably wasn't the most chivalrous thing to say. "Look, don't get freaked out! It's probably nothing! I just thought it was weird that Underwood didn't tell you, that's all."
Claire thought so, too. If an orderly knew more about what was really going on, did that make Underwood incompetent or just apathetic? As head resident, responsibility for the hospital fell on him. Was he trying to avoid a confrontation with the CDC? Maybe it would be better to call Wesker after all.
"I appreciate you telling me this. Really, I do," said Claire, trying to ignore the squirming feeling in her gut. "And I won't say anything about talking to you, if that'll make you feel better."
Adam offered her a nervous smile. "That'd be great, thanks."
After he'd gone Claire took a moment to lean against the sink, trying to gather herself. The coffee she'd drunk was roiling around inside her stomach, threatening to climb back up her throat. Claire blew out a shuddering breath, centering her attention on the cold porcelain pressing against her palms, and after a moment the urge to vomit passed. Filled with a renewed sense of determination, she left the restroom and headed back down the hallway, arriving just in time to see Underwood filling out a clipboard at the nurse's station just past Chris' room.
"Ah, good. I was about to come looking for you," he said, turning to face her. "I was just filling out your brother's release form, so as soon as his medication wears off you can be on your way."
He offered her the clipboard, smiling in what he obviously thought was a reassuring manner. "Just sign here, Ms. Redfield," he said. "I really hope tonight hasn't been too rough on you. If there's anything else I can do, please let me know."
Claire made no move to take the clipboard. "Actually, we're not leaving."
Underwood's smile grew decidedly tight. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me," said Claire, adopting the same philosophy she'd used successfully on Mont. St. Michel: Act like you know what you're talking about, act as though you have authority, and people generally assume you do. "I've had some medical experience and don't think a "blood clot" is the only thing that put my brother in the hospital. Something else went on and we're not leaving until I'm satisfied what that something is."
"I see. Well, that's within your right, said Underwood softly, favoring Claire with an expression that was no longer a smile, but not quite a frown. There was a protracted moment of silence as if he were sizing her up with those marble-black eyes. By now used to Wesker's inscrutable gaze, Claire had no trouble glaring right back, pitting herself against the doctor in a silent battle for dominance. Underwood's lip curled ever so slightly.
"As your brother's attending physician, I feel obligated to point out that since I've given him a clean bill of health, any further hospitalization is likely to be unnecessary – and liable to be quite costly, since you seem to be without health insurance." Underwood's noxious smile gained some strength again. "I canschedule your brother for a checkup next weekend if that will put your mind at ease," he added generously.
Claire folded her arms. "Thanks, but I think I'd rather just take care of things now," she said.
It seemed as though Underwood had nothing left to say. Bracing the clipboard against his arm, he made a show of scratching something out with a pen. "As you wish, love," he said, smiling at Claire in a way that made her feel distinctly agitated, which translated into the desire to punch Underwood in the face. But she smiled back at him, using her greater height over the man to angle her stance slightly forward.
"Thanks, doc. I appreciate it," she said.
Underwood's eyebrow gave a spastic twitch, but he quickly took the opportunity to have the last word by informing her that any tests and procedures would have to wait for the next morning. Claire didn't rise to the bait, however, and assured him that would be fine, stepping aside to allow the physician to take his leave. Only then did she allow herself to release the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Still unaccustomed to the tenuous influence she'd learned to wield over people, she leaned against the nurse's station.
Suddenly she caught Jill watching her from the doorway. Realizing she'd been noticed, the older woman stepped out into the corridor. She kept one hand tightly clenched on her purse strap, if only to have something to hold onto as the silence stretched between them, with neither one knowing the easiest way to break it. But then again, Jill had never been one to do things the easy way.
"What are you doing?" she whispered softly, gazing at Claire with a kind of dread curiosity.
Claire felt as thought a gaping pit had opened up in her stomach. "Trying to make sure my brother's okay," she answered. Her voice was tired and strained, with none of the cool authority with which she'd challenged Underwood. Pushing off the desk, she did her best to face the other woman with what little strength she had left. "I'm scared, Jill," she admitted weakly. "I scared and I don't know what to do, but I'm trying my best. And that's the God-honest truth."
She waited to see anger or mistrust cross Jill's face, but instead the older woman nodded jerkily, tears spilling down her cheeks. Claire tentatively moved to close the distance between them, reaching out to put her hand on Jill's shoulder. Jill tensed, but made no move to brush her off. "I, uh… ha," she swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."
Claire shook her head. "Don't be. I get it. Things went to hell and I look like the bad guy. Believe me, I get it."
She didn't expect that to be enough, but even so, the tension between them seemed to bleed away. Maybe Claire had gotten through to her, at least for the moment. She hoped so. Neither one of them had anyone else right now. Without saying anything more, Claire gave Jill's shoulder a squeeze and sat down beside Chris' bed, smoothing imaginary rumples in his blanket. After a moment, she reached over and gave his sleeve a quick jerk with both hands, tearing it along the seam. She then did the same to the other. Jill laughed – a genuine if horribly fragile sound.
"He says he isn't on steroids, but then again, I have to wonder why I haven't got pregnant yet," she said wearily.
That did it. Dropping her head to her forearms, Claire began to laugh hysterically, salty tears tracking their way down her face. She heard a creak as Jill sat down opposite her, laughing away the stress, and for a moment it felt as though everything was going to be all right, but as Claire slipped her hand into her brother's – feeling the deep, sweaty heat of his skin – she had to wonder if that were true.
The boardroom on Mont St. Michel was a grand, barrel-vaulted chamber near the top of the citadel. In its last incarnation it'd been an assembly hall for visiting popes and the occasional monarch, decorated in lavish tapestries and golden idols. Today, an enameled Umbrella logo dominated the head of the room, a not-too-large but far from subtle replacement for the coat of arms that'd once hung in its place. Massive windows lined either side of the room, providing a splendid view of the island below.
"… your investment will be good hands, madam, I assure you," Wesker said, casually folding his hands on the table. The fabric of his expensive Armani suit displayed a slight glisten in the hot white sunlight. Without even knowing it, the corporate delegation couldn't help but bask in the sheer power of his presence. They even forgave him his odd quirk of wearing his sunglasses indoors. A few signatures and one or two million dollars would be the least they could do for a man so ingenious, so utterly devoted to the advancement of mankind. Even those people ordinarily viewed as being at the loosing end of the deal did seem to mind overly much.
Regina Miller was the owner of a small, but wealthy and highly respected chain of spas and health clubs in nearby France. They specialized in therapeutic research and natural healing, with their own research lab and pharmacy that developed most of their signature products. Chairman Wesker had contacted her several months ago expressing interest in her work, and talk had finally advanced to the prospect of merging with Umbrella.
"What happens if I agree?" she asked suspiciously. "What about my employees?"
"Their contracts will be transferred to me," said Wesker. For the second time that morning, he ignored the pager vibrating in his pocket. "I don't want to change anything about your company, Mrs. Miller. After the merger, you will merely continue your work under the auspices of Umbrella – with full access to our funding network, of course. I believe it will benefit us both."
Wesker smiled, displaying his perfect teeth. The sunlight flickered across his handsome face, making his features seem sharper still, and Regina felt a distinct flush of color spread across her cheeks, married woman or not. Unlike the hordes of blind old geezers and scheming CEOs that'd tried to buy her company in past years, Chairman Wesker had a surprising edge of sincerity. With him there was no talk of handing out pink-slips, or changing the way she did business, or of removing her from a position of power within the merger. He wanted her company to be part of Umbrella, no more and no less.
Regina allowed herself a smile. "So do I, Mr. Wesker. Where would you like me to sign?"
By 11:00 that morning, Wesker had shook everybody's hand at least twice and all of the necessary paperwork had been signed and filed away. Left alone in the empty boardroom, he leaned back with a smirk. With more and more people turning to natural healing, Umbrella could greatly advance its interests in the field with the help of a company as popular as the one he'd just acquired. Mrs. Miller would prove to be a valuable local ally, of that he was certain. So all in all, Wesker was in a glorious mood after having his ego stroked all morning. Tapping the intercom, he requested a cup of coffee before pulling out his PDA.
As expected, his Inbox displayed two missed calls. The first caller had disconnected before leaving a message, so he accessed the second one, his gaze narrowing sharply. It was an email alert notifying him that an Umbrella hospital in Harvardville had pulled Chris' medical records, momentarily leaving him wonder why on earth he was receiving it.
Shortly after the outbreak in Raccoon City, Valentine and the Redfield siblings had literally fallen off the map. At the time, there'd been several reasons for Wesker to want tabs on them – ranging from wanting to know the location of potential threats to Umbrella, to a deep-seated feeling of guilt and thus a responsibility to see that they were safe. Using Umbrella's extensive resources, his attempts to locate them included being notified if any of the three were admitted to a hospital. Wesker had never needed to use it, since Chris had eventually pinged Umbrella's radar while renewing his driver's license at a DMV in Harvardville, Colorado.
The email alert on his PDA was the result of a long-outdated safety net that he'd clearly forgotten to deactivate. Putting all that aside, however, it still didn't explain why Chris was in said hospital. Frowning, Wesker scrolled through the message, his trained eyes skimming through the extensive admission form. Redfield, Christopher… thirty-two year old Caucasian male admitted for oral hemorrhaging, severe chest pains, and periods of prolonged unconsciousness…
The timestamp for admission was late last night, around 10:30 Central Standard Time.
Noting Claire's signature down as next of kin, Wesker's frown became somewhat of a glower, wondering if the missed call in his Inbox had anything to do with her. He was a cold man, but he wasn't entirely insensitive… at least not where certain people were concerned. He'd always made sure not to push Claire too hard, mindful of the consequences, but he was well aware of her emotional stress due to her four-month exile on the island. The thought of her going through real trauma beyond the grasp of his perfectly controlled environment – as it had been with Sergei's little stunt in the labs – made Wesker's fist clench. Like all Redfields, Chris had an unconscious knack for causing the greatest amount of trouble at the most inconvenient of times.
To his surprise Wesker found himself wondering if he should get involved, but after a moment's though he decided against it. While the symptoms appeared serious at first glance, he doubted they were life threatening. And besides, he had several very good reasons for staying away. While Claire would probably welcome him with open arms, he had no doubt that her brother and his live-in lover would be decidedly less than friendly. Wesker was just about to call the matter closed when a chart near the bottom of the report caught his eye.
As per standard hospital procedure, they'd run a tox-scan on Chris' blood. His blood-alcohol level peaked at just under the legal limit, a fact that made Wesker's lip curl slightly in disapproval, but his attention was drawn to another spike on the chart indicating his white-blood cell count. It was nearly off the charts, indicative of someone suffering from a severe case of the flu, except that the chart showed no signs of viral infection. Wesker frowned, enlarging the chart to fullscreen. Several other chemicals had peaked as well, including several obscure amino acids that had no right being that high.
Impossible.
Sitting bolt upright in his chair, Wesker grabbed a nearby laptop and spun it around hard enough to send several folders hydroplaning onto the floor. Accessing the laboratory database, he entered his password and seven-digit security number, fingers drumming an impatient tempo on the table. He'd seen those protein spikes before, but how could the same readout appear half a world away in an unrelated subject? It didn't make any sense. But if they were the result of the same thing…
Don't be a match. Don't you dare.
Dozing fitfully beside Chris' bed, Claire had slept a grand total of two hours the entire night. She groggily tried to scrub the film from her eyes, feeling a slow, uncomfortable burn spread across the back of her neck as her circulation returned. Slouched in a chair on the other side of the bed, Jill was still asleep, her head cocked in a way that promised a stiff neck. All around them, the cacophony of monitors continued to hiss and beep and whir. Claire shot them a hateful glower. Somewhere down the hall, the local weatherman was making his morning report.
"…and with this area of low pressure making it's way across the mountains, we're looking at even more snow over the course of the day, especially for the higher elevations. Harvardville can expect five to ten inches of new snowfall, so expect chain controls on highways 50 and 80, and plan for long delays if you happen to be traveling through the Rockies. The high for today…"
The rest of his report trailed off into a drone. In her current state, Claire couldn't even remember the weatherman's name. Getting up, she heard the vertebra in her back make a peculiar crackling noise, like an energetic horse prancing on a field of broken glass. Claire grimaced, old habits encouraging her to hobble over to the window. A thin, milky glow peered between the blinds, nearly invisible in the hospital's florescent lighting. It was snowing heavily. The parking lot was white with over several inches of snow, bare-branched ornamentals whipping back and forth in a stiff breeze. Claire couldn't even see the mountains behind a heavy cover of pale, brooding clouds.
Letting the blinds drop back into place, Claire turned around to survey the room. She was ravenously hungry and miserable and tired. She wondered if there was somewhere to eat inside the hospital, and if she'd be able to choke anything down if she found such a place. Chris gave a restless twitch, his head turning slightly on the pillow. His face was flushed and oily with sweat, his hair clinging to his scalp. Approaching the bed, Claire touched his forehead with the back of her head, stunned by the abnormal heat.
She went out into the hallway and called to the nearest nurse, who immediately came over to check on Chris' temperature. Claire was by no means reassured to see the readout on the thermometer hovering well in the vicinity of 102 degrees. Frowning, the nurse asked a couple of questions – mostly if Chris had woken up yet that morning – and when Claire shook her head no she moved to attach another IV line to Chris' arm. Jill stirred at the commotion, worry plainly forming in her eyes, and Claire dearly wished she had something to say that would reassure the other women.
"Should we get some breakfast?" Jill asked dully, after the nurse had left.
It was amazing how unwanted the idea of food became in certain situations. Claire made a face, but at the same time her stomach sent out a gurgling plea for nourishment. She'd needed to eat even if she didn't want it, so she grudgingly volunteered to go look for some coffee and a donut, though it was clear by the look of Jill's face she wanted nothing to do with food.
Except for the greater density of people roaming the halls, the dayshift at the hospital wasn't any different than the nightshift. Claire passed a crowd of chattering young men in scrubs, an old man leaning on a walker, and a haggard teenage mother trying to pull a crying toddler into an examination room. Claire followed the signs until they led her to a small cafeteria directly past the gift shop. The whiteboard behind the counter announced a breakfast special of egg sandwiches, hash browns and coffee, so Claire just went with that since the decision required less effort. The girl behind the counter blearily took her money and muttered something about her order being ready in a minute. Stepping back to wait, Claire decided that watchinga greasy-looking pizza spinning inside the display case wasn't helping to enkindle her desire for food, so she turned her attention to gift shop instead. It was closed for business right now, but offered a wide range of Hallmark cards, balloons, and stuffed animals. Chris would have loved the turtle with the Band-Aid stitched on its shell.
"Three breakfast combos to go?"
The clerk shoved a paper bag and a tray of coffee cups across the counter, and Claire headed back without stopping to allow any more unwelcome thoughts to creep in. She was relieved to find her brother sitting up in bed looking sick and miserable, but otherwise conscious. "Hey," she hastily deposited breakfast on the table. "How you feeling?"
"Like shit," Chris muttered thickly. "What have I told you about hospitals?"
"Just that you didn't like them," said Claire, putting her arms around him. "Seriously, though, how are you?"
"Let's see: I'm sweating like a pig, my head's throbbing, so which part of "like shit" didn't you understand?" Chris grumbled, but he made an effort to return the hug. That was something, at least. "Is anybody going to tell me what's going on, or is keeping me in the dark a new thing around here?"
Choosing to ignore the comment, Claire did her best to fill in last night's events. She had a feeling Chris might raise a stink, but he was mercifully cut short when the nurse came by to take his vitals, drawing a sample of blood for his morning test. Chris didn't fuss about it, but he never took his eyes off the syringe either, eying it up like a poisonous viper. Right before she left, the nurse pulled plastic bag out of the cupboard and cracked it over her knee. "Let's try to get that fever down a little," she said, handing it to him. "Would you like some medication?"
"In your dreams, maybe," Chris muttered, holding the icepack to his forehead. "I'm outta here as soon as I can walk."
"Well, you let me know if you change your mind, and try to get some fluids down if you can. Alright?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fluids. Got it."
The nurse drifted back to her station at the same time Claire dug into the bag she'd gotten from the cafeteria. "You heard the lady, meatwad. Here," she said, holding out a bottle of orange juice. "You want something to eat, too? I've got McMuffins in here and some hash browns."
Chris gagged pointedly, so Claire handed them to Jill instead. With Chris awake and being his usual I'm-sick-and-crabby self, Claire was feeling infinitely better than she had earlier. She emptied several packets of cream and sugar into her coffee, and took a tentative sip. Thankfully it was much better than the mud she'd siphoned out of the machine in the lobby. She sighed as the scalding brew sent hot snakes wriggling through her belly. Maybe she'd even try to eat something. Maybe. Groaning, Chris twisted the cap off his orange juice and gulped down half the bottle before pressing the icepack over his eyes, his expression twisting.
"You sure you're okay?" asked Claire.
"Ask me that one more time and I'll dump this over your head," Chris growled. He sounded uncomfortably short of breath, but Claire couldn't think of a reason why. "And I'm not done with you either, so don't think you're off the hook," Chris added, before she could say anything.
Sharply reminded of the fact, Claire looked away. She nibbled on her hash browns, listening to the TV further down the hall. Further storm reports brought to mind flashlights, oil lamps, and a noisy generator – at least for Claire. Living as remotely as they did, they lost power at the house at least once a winter, sometimes even two or three times depending on how bad the weather was. Except for the inconvenience, though, no one truly minded since most of the time it just became an excuse to make s'mores over a stove burner. Her meager appetite gone, Claire suddenly would have given anything to be home right now. With a sigh she offered Jill the rest of her hash browns and crumpled the greasy bag into a little ball, halfheartedly licking the salt from her fingers.
"Hey," called a friendly voice. "How y'all doing this morning?"
Swiveling around, Claire saw Adam standing in the hallway. He looked tired, a can of cherry Monster clutched in one hand, but that didn't seem to have dampened his cheerfulness. "Alright, I guess," said Claire, returning his nervous smile. "You work the day shift, too?"
"Have to. Med school doesn't come cheap," said Adam, coming over and depositing a pile of newspapers on the table. "Here, I brought you some stuff from the waiting room. Might be some crosswords in the back if somebody hasn't filled them out yet."
"Thanks," said Claire, even though she had no intention of doing any crossword puzzles. She liked Adam, though. He reminded her a bit of her brother – when he was younger, anyway. Speaking of which, Chris was watching the intern with something akin to suspicion, feverish eyes glinting with an all-too familiar message: No, you can't have her, so back off. And given her knowledge of this, Claire didn't know whether to laugh or cry. If he discovered her romantic entanglement with Wesker, the destruction of Pompeii would seem like a fart in the wind by comparison. She winced as Chris suddenly let out a sharp cough, rubbing his chest with a grimace. Adam reached up to fiddle with his stethoscope.
"I, uh… I'm glad you're still hanging around," he said in an undertone.
"Yes, funny how that turned out, isn't it?"
Adam blanched at the voice, only barely keeping from spinning around on the spot. He settled for casting as anxious glance over his shoulder. This morning Underwood was dressed in dazzling white flannels and button-down shirt with his white lab coat overtop. Without the advantage of Wesker's height, however, Claire thought it made him look like a pudgy blob of whipping cream. She could accept not having heard him coming, but she had to wonder why she hadn't smelled him. The scent of Old Spice was almost overpowering, as if Underwood equated taking a shower with drenching himself in cologne. Coming forward, he shot Adam a decidedly unfriendly glower before turning his attention to Claire.
"Good morning, Ms. Redfield," he said, affixing a plastic smile to his face. "I trust you're doing well so far?"
"So far," Claire agreed, getting to her feet. "What about those tests?"
"Of course, of course. I just stopped by to check on your brother's condition." His eyes slid past Claire's shoulder to fix on Chris. "He does seem to be doing better – aside from the fever, that is."
"I feel fine," Chris wheezed, grinding his knuckles into his chest. Real pain was starting to show on his face.
"I'm sure you do," said Underwood smoothly. "However, your sister seems to think you need further treatment, so let's get the ball rolling, shall we? Your blood tests came back negative for drugs, and your alcohol levels have dropped considerably, so I think we'll start with a urine sample – check for any hormonal imbalances."
"I don't… need to take a piss test!" Chris growled indignantly. He levered himself, trying to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, and Claire moved forward to intercept, dismayed to realize that Chris had begun to shake. He hunched forward with a groan, heart monitor beeping. Jill anxiously got to her feet. "Chris…?"
"I think it's best if you don't get out of bed," said Underwood. "With a temperature like yours you really ought to be sedated, or better yet at home getting some rest. I could administer it right now if—"
"No!" Chris snarled.
Underwood clucked his tongue irritably. "Really, now! Is your whole family this stubborn?" He dropped his hand on Chris' shoulder. After that, Claire would never really remember exactly what happened. Chris began to cough and shake, the air leaving his body and refusing to return. Emergency klaxons filled the room as his heart monitor climbed with terrifying speed. Claire let out a cry of alarm, but before she could move someone crashed into her shoulder from behind, knocking her aside with a startled oomph. Adam and two other nurses were suddenly all around her, wrenching the bed curtains aside so hard they nearly tore off the rail.
"He's seizing. Hold him! Hold him down now!"
They gave Jill a no-nonsense push and grabbed hold of Chris as best they could, trying to pin him down. Adam fumbled inside the cupboards, trying to draw a vial of clear liquid into a syringe. Muffled, bloody gasps tore their way from Chris' throat as Underwood hastily retreated to the edge of the room. One of the nurses waved a penlight across Chris' face.
"He's going into shock," she said. "Intubate him."
Moving quickly, the nurse tilted Chris' head back and attempted to guide a plastic breathing tube down his throat. He jerked and gagged, fighting her the whole way. Panic surged higher in Claire's chest as the nurse shouted for a sedative. The heart monitor wailed and beeped, spiking erratically. "Pressure eighty and rising."
"Get out of the way!"
Wrenched back to a place halfway around the world, Claire's heart came to a stop as Albert Wesker suddenly brushed past her, his hair and leather trench coat dusted with snow, glittering wet in the overhead lighting. For a frantic moment, activity around Chris ceased as the nurses turned to look at the intruder. One of them made a frantic move to intercept him. "Sir, I need you to get out—"
Wesker curtly shoved her aside, placing a thin metal case on the nearby table without breaking stride. Flipping it open, he removed a helix-shaped syringe. Chris arched off the bed, fingers curled into claws as he gasped desperately for breath. He gave a choked cry of surprise as Wesker shoved him back down with inhuman ease, restraining the worst of his struggles as he stabbed the syringe into the fleshy part of Chris' arm. Scrambling desperately, the nurse fled the room to get security. Chris let out a shuddering moan, his lips tinged blue from lack of oxygen. Wesker fumbled to reach something amidst the cluster of devices and monitors.
Without needing to be told, Claire was suddenly at his side. "What do you need?" she gasped breathlessly.
"Oxygen mask."
Wrenching the cupboard open, Claire knocked everything out onto the floor until she found the requested item, shoving it into Wesker's outstretched hand. Turning the flow up to maximum, Wesker pressed the mask over Chris' face, a task made all the more difficult as he attempted to throw his head to the side, fighting the invasive presence.
"Enough, Redfield," said Wesker sharply. "I haven't given you permission to die yet! Now breathe!"
It seemed a cruel order, but Chris' entire body heaved as he struggled to pull air into his lungs, Wesker's voice triggering a long-buried instinct to obey. Flailing, his hand clamped over Wesker's so that both of them were clutching at the oxygen mask. Shoving his free hand beneath Chris' armpit, Wesker hoisted the larger man to a sitting position and that seemed to help.
Trembling with the strain, Chris sucked in another massive gulp of air. Whatever Wesker had injected him with, it seemed to be working. The blond glared at the heart monitor, watching the erratic spikes begin to slow one BPM at a time. Chris drew in a short, raspy breath. Then another. And another. Claire reached out, putting both hands on her brother's shoulders as if that would help somehow. Wesker's elbow jammed into her side. She felt beads of cold water from his coat seep through her shirt, sending a cascade of shivers down her back. It was a surreal moment. She had no idea why he was here, and she didn't care. All that mattered was Chris. Blood spattered the inside of the oxygen mask as he coughed, but at least that meant he was getting air into his lungs. Wesker pressed his hand between Chris' shoulders.
"Easy, Chris… Slow down. Inhale through your nose."
It was if somebody had thrown a switch. Suddenly conscious of his rescuer, Chris' snapped his head around, recognition suddenly kindling in his eyes. Fear, anger, hatred, shock – more emotions than Claire could count flashed through what little she could see of his expression. He tried to pull out of reach, but most of his body wouldn't respond. One hand fumbled on Wesker's sleeve, too numb to make a fist. Only a minute had passed since the man's arrival, but suddenly the nurse was back with an anxious-looking security guard in tow, hand on the gun at his hip.
"Hey, you! Step away from the bed, hands where I can see them. Do it now!"
Wesker shot a glance over his shoulder. "Hold this," he ordered, indicating the oxygen mask. Claire took over for him as he turned to face the guard, striding purposefully across the room. The guard tensed and drew his gun partway out of its holster.
"That won't be necessary. My name's Albert Wesker. I trust you understand what that means, or do I have to waste my time explaining?" he asked coolly, lifting one side of his coat to reveal the ID badge clipped to the inside pocket. Claire was aware of Underwood making a minute spasm towards the wall: rigid, staring forward, his face as white as gauze.
"Wait… chairman Wesker?" the nurse demanded, eyes widening slightly.
"That's correct. And I have every authority to be here, I can assure you," said Wesker. Claire noticed that he made no attempt to apologize for the abruptness of his arrival. Ask me why I'm not surprised, she thought, feeling a wave of hysteric laughter bubbling up in her throat. She glanced back to her brother. By the jerky movements of his eyelids he was barely keeping conscious, so she lowered him back to the bed. His hand dropped away from the oxygen mask, and Claire found herself unable to look away from the dark spatters of blood dripping from its interior. She didn't know if it was okay to take the mask off to clean it up.
Why is this happening? Why?
Distantly she heard the nurse asking about Chris, but Claire barely paid any attention to how Wesker answered. Her legs wobbled, forcing her to lock her knees to keep from falling. When had the ward gotten so crowded? She noticed Jill glancing spasmodically between her and Wesker, almost as if she believed Claire had somehow conjured the man from thin air. Adam was staring, too. And so was Underwood, now fumbling in his coat pocket for a roll of antacid tablets. Further down the hall the priest Claire had met the previous evening was standing at the end of the ward, guiding the beads of a rosary through his spidery fingers, his expression tinged with such an edge of malice Claire felt shaken to her very core.