"I dunno how I'm still alive," murmured Steve, his face drawn and pale, eyes pain-glazed and unfocused. Alexia had cracked the back of his skull like an eggshell when she'd slammed it against the wall, and bits of the kid's brain was dripping onto his nape. It was hard for Grayson to look at.

"It's the mutamycete," said Grayson, sitting opposite the kid—down another failed attempt to wrest control of the mutamycete from Alexia. He'd found a cigarette in his pocket, and took a long drag off it. "Spores," he said, smoke streaming from his mouth like a New York steam grate. He watched the kid with pity, watched him loll and suffer in his pain-stasis, and hated that he couldn't do anything for him. Grayson tried to reach out to the hyphae again, but it was like trying to charm dead snakes. He sighed, then continued, "You're infected. Wound's gonna keep healing. Slow, yeah, but it's healing. And it's just gonna keep happening like that."

"She injected me with something," said Steve, quietly.

Grayson frowned around his cigarette.

"I can feel my insides shiftin' around," said the kid. Then his voice strained to a whine, and he mewled, "It hurts. It hurts fuckin' bad, man. Bitch said she needs to up the dosage. Maybe 'cause of the… spores, or whatever." Steve looked at him like a man begging to die, because that was what he wanted: an end. "Can't you just… can't you just shoot me, you stupid motherfucker?" His grimy, bloody cheeks were wet with tears. He snorted back snot. "Or do you enjoy watchin' me like this? Like some kinda sick fuck. Like your girl."

"I'm trying to help you," said Grayson, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt aside. "It's just… not working."

"How the fuck are you gonna help me?"

"Remember what happened in the foyer?" asked Grayson. Then, without waiting for Steve's reply, he said, "I took control of the mutamycete. Not for long. But I did. Alexia's gotta tight grip on it now, though. She's not giving it any slack."

"Even if you got this shit off me, it ain't gonna do nothin'. I'm dead, dude. She poked me with somethin'."

Grayson said nothing. He focused on the hyphae again, imagined himself easing into the stuff like a ghost. Felt her presence rebuff him again. He swore. "Goddammit, Alexia," he spat, and stood up.

"I don't wanna die, man," said Steve, voice snagging in his throat. He started to cry again in quiet, lurching sobs.

He tried to pry the hyphae off Steve, rip them off the kid with his bare hands, but the fucking things swatted him away like a fly. Grayson considered biting the shit, and he did. And regretted it. It tasted like wet mushrooms and what he imagined stink-bugs would taste like, and possessed a very unpleasant texture that reminded him of natto. He spat the slimy gob out, the taste festering in his mouth, and almost heaved his guts up. Thankfully, Grayson managed not to blow chunks. He toyed with the idea of shooting the hyphae, but ultimately decided against it, because there was a strong possibility he'd shoot Steve too. Not that it matters anyway, you dumb fuck, because Alexia put that junk in his veins…

He left the kid down there, making his way back upstairs. Grayson felt numb. All the shit he'd weathered in the last few months had wrung the emotions out of him, and it hurt to care anymore. Upstairs, in the mansion, he found himself in Marigold's room. He didn't know why. Maybe because Marigold was the only Ashford who hadn't done anything to piss him off, and right now, he needed to talk to someone who didn't piss him off, or reminded him of how helpless he was.

But, of course, Alfred was there. There were armchairs in front of the fireplace, and he was sitting in one of them. Grayson stared at him, and Alfred said, "What the bloody hell do you want, Grayson?" There was no real indignation in his voice. He just sounded tired and resigned.

"Alfred," chided Marigold, and she turned her head and coughed. It was a nasty cough, the sort that rumbled and frothed in the chest, and usually came up in a white spume. Her eyes shone red in the dark. She looked three shades paler, and she'd already been very pale. Now Marigold looked see-through, like some species of deep-sea fish. Her features were pinched with pain. Alfred passed her a handkerchief, and she dabbed at her mouth. "Don't mind him, Grayson," she said. "You know how he is."

"Yeah," said Grayson, still staring at Alfred, his hands in his pockets.

"Can't say whatever it is you have to say in front of me?" asked Alfred.

"Not really," said Grayson, honestly.

Alfred pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on the chair-arm. He stood up. "Fine," he said. "Talk. But don't vex her too much, Grayson. She's not… feeling very well."

"She gonna turn into a zombie?" joked Grayson.

"Don't say that sort of nonsense," said Alfred, and he left the room. But he'd made sure to slam the door, so Grayson knew he was pissed off.

"Guy should've become an actor. He's gotta flair for the dramatic," said Grayson, sagging into the seat Alfred had previously occupied. The cushion was still unpleasantly warmed by Alfred's ass. He peered at Marigold, frowning. Her eyes reflected the light like a cat's. "Alexia," he began, "is killing a kid, and there's nothing I can do about it. Just… can't tap into the mutamycete like before."

"Alfred told me," said Marigold. "About what happened in the foyer. I heard it too, of course." She heaved a sigh. "Seems my niece has developed a taste for murder." Marigold sounded consigned to the fact that Alexia was a murderer, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. "Alexander," she added.

"I'm sorry, Ma."

"It's not your fault, Grayson. I told Alexander that isolating the twins was a terrible idea. He didn't listen." Her expression guttered, and she said, "Now look what's happened to him. But… ah, sorry." Marigold gave him an apologetic look. "I didn't mean to make this about me. Does Alexia still have the journal I gave her?"

"That 'Teig O'Kane' thing? Yeah, she's got it."

"Good," said Marigold, with a nod. Then she told him about Don. When she finished, she said, "You need to get to that safe-room. Use the journal. Right now, Donald's the only thing keeping this facility from being blown to shit. "

Then it clicked for Grayson, and he said, "He's a Monitor."

Marigold stared at him.

"Monitors," began Grayson, because he could tell Marigold had no fucking idea what he was talking about, "are Umbrella's internal investigations team. Deep-cover operatives planted by the company brass to keep tabs on people they suspect of doing sketchy backroom shit. Like William Birkin. He was making deals with the US government behind Umbrella's back—trying to sell his research to them." He frowned, gazing into the fire. The flames sputtered and crackled, and spat embers at the ornate Victorian fire-screen. "Shit," he said, as certain realizations slowly unfolded in his mind. "Don's been at this facility since its opening."

Marigold said nothing, patiently waiting for him to elaborate.

Now , Grayson thought, I know how Edward might have died. But he didn't tell Marigold that particular theory; she had enough on her plate, and Alfred had warned him not to vex her too much. "I think Spencer planted him here to watch your family," he told her, carefully omitting his other speculations. "But now that things have gone to shit, he's compiling BOW data just like Zinoviev did in Raccoon City. He's looking to sell his way outta this place."

"Why am I not surprised," said Marigold, although Grayson couldn't tell if she'd meant it was no surprise Don was some kind of double-agent, or that she wasn't surprised Zinoviev had done something similar. Grayson sensed some history there, with Zinoviev, but he didn't pry; he got the feeling Marigold was quickly approaching her limit for conversation, and he'd need to go soon, so she could recoup her energy. Then she said, "There was one other thing. Don, he built a prototype hibernaculum."

"He mentioned wanting to peddle some kinda prototype to potential investors," said Grayson, remembering his conversation with the Scotsman in the bar. It felt like a lifetime ago, like a conversation someone else had had. "You suggesting I go after it?"

"No," said Marigold, "I'm not. You need to get to the safe-room. I just thought you should know, since you'd mentioned Don was looking to sell his way off Antarctica." She frowned, adding, "Could be a very valuable thing to the wrong person."

"If I get the chance, I'll destroy it."

Marigold smiled. "Hard to believe you're the same man I saw standing outside Jack's Bar, all those months ago."

Grayson looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, and said, "I thought that was you, but Annette told me I was crazy." He felt a twinge in his chest, and grimaced. Then, "Wish she was still around so I could tell her she was wrong."

"Someone else had to point it out to me, much later," said Marigold. "But then it was obvious. I wish she was around too." Marigold paused, staring into the middle-distance. "I owe her, and now? I can't ever repay my debt."

Silence settled between them. Then Grayson said, "I wish I hadn't left Sherry behind. Some government spookshow got their hands on her."

Marigold looked thoughtful. "Have you ever heard the name Simmons?"

Grayson stared at her. Marigold just smiled, and looked back at the fire.

Jill had thankfully squirreled away a molotov from earlier, and as the ant-zombies burned in their skinsuits, the three of them managed to slip through and away without incident, and without wasting any ammunition. "Just don't expect that trick again," Jill told them, once they were back in the atrium. "That was the only molotov I had."

Snow wheeled down through the shattered dome ceiling, and wind howled, rattling what remained of the glass panes. Snowdrifts had collected along the railings and walls, and the concrete walkway was slick with ice, so they had to walk carefully. Huge icicles hung from the smashed nose of the plane like strands of frozen snot.

"Good thing you had enough sense to save the fucking thing," said Chris, wiping at his face with his hands. "Would've been fucked without that molotov. We're running low on ammo."

"We should've brought more," said Jill, with a sigh.

"Just means we have to be smart," said Claire. "But enough about that." Claire darted a look between them, then said, "Steve. We have to figure out another way down to him." She frowned, folding her arms. "The longer we sit around, the more time Alexia has to hurt him. And wherever Alexia is, Alfred's gonna be there too."

"Save the kid, put an end to this shit once and for all," said Chris.

Claire nodded.

"The elevator was the only way down to the mansion," said Jill.

"Bullshit," said Claire. "Elevators can malfunction, break down. The Ashfords would need another way to leave their hole in the event something like that happened."

"We're gonna need a map," said Jill. She slipped Alfred's keycard from her pocket, and held it up. "And I think this can get us access to one. We just need to find the maintenance department."