Chapter 6

Claire

Part 1

A worried Claire was a restless Claire. Toe-tapping, nail biting, floor scrubbing, fishbowl cleaning, clock watching, sixth month old, why is this even still here, magazine reading, gonna go AK, and it had only been a day, shoot 'em up nuts.

Leon dropped an anvil on her thick as steel skull and her supervisors at Terrasave spiked his point home. She was on official lockdown. No in. No out. Sequestered in her house, and placed under twenty four-hour round the clock surveillance, courtesy of the Department of Defense, in collusion with the State Department, and backed with the blessings of a few politicians she didn't recall voting for.

Agent Bartles, and Agent James, no relation to the fine brew masters responsible for the cheap girly cocktails in a bottle that cluttered her nightstand, took turns in twelve-hour shifts. They were stationed like stalwart Buckingham Palace Guards outside her front door, and one loogie drop away from her bedroom window.

Not only did said agents keep her in, they kept the press out. Five news vans and an ever-growing group of reporters had managed to locate her address and had set up a makeshift refugee camp outside the gates to the Redfield residence.

It was a regular festival. Lights. Tarps over tables stacked high with catered food. Pancake makeup faces peered between gaps in the wrought iron fence. Cameras panned the front face of the two-story dwelling. Lenses lingered on the windows.

Claire Redfield, average Joe's sister, and sometimes zombie skull crusher, was the hottest scoop since Elvis' ghost had been caught on film at Graceland.

Non-stop calls, to a supposed to be unlisted number, rang her phone off its proverbial hook. Her e-mail took a similar hit. The inbox was on overload. Messages poured in faster than she clicked delete. A teen would flip cartwheels over this kind of popular. An adult on restricted leave, not so much. The world wanted in, and right now it was her mission to keep the world out.

Five aspirin, one unplugged wall jack, one shut down computer, and a good hot bath, later Claire managed to stymie the privacy invasion that had kept her hoppin' most of the day.

She climbed into bed with a six pack tastier than the ones found on a certain, needs to bust his ass a little harder in the gym, agent James.

Television was the worst. She leaned back on her propped up pillow and sipped her wine cooler while she flipped through the channels with the remote.

According to this station she was Bigfoot's lover, or so said the 'expert' in the beat up straw hat and scraggly beard that had supposedly followed them to their 'love cave.'

The Guns and Ammo Network, wait-she flipped back-do they really have a guns and ammo cable channel, had gone on the offensive. Tonight's topic: building a better zombie proof shelter. On deck, the eternal weapons debate, a sword, or a gun? Claire frowned. Everyone knows the answer to that.

And surprise, surprise, here was Dr. Dink face. She'd wondered when he'd crawl out of the woodwork to give his shit for brains opinion.

This 'oughta be good. She cranked up the volume.

'So what you're saying Doctor, is that it is wrong to exterminate these, for lack of a better word, zombies.'

'Absolutely, Ted. These beings, these creatures, are no less worthy of our understanding and our compassion than any other life form in existence on the planet. They have inherent human rights. To arbitrarily exterminate them is an inhumane act of cruelty and violence.'

Spoken like a man who'd never had a swarm of flesh eaters crawling up his backside on an all night brain bender. And since when did a walking corpse have rights? What came next? A health plan? Two for one zombie buffets? Equal rights in the workplace? Granted, she knew a few motor vehicle locations where a zombie infusion might be an improvement, but she aimed to keep her leg attached to its hip socket. Thank you very much, Dr. Dink face.

'The goal is not their eradication.'

'What is the goal, Doctor?'

'Well, isn't it obvious? We need to focus on the human within the inhuman. Achieving a quality of life for these so called, 'zombies' that will allow them to once again become functional, productive members of society.'

Unless the goal included an army of rapid amputation specialists, Dr. Dink face needed to have his head examined, and Claire knew a few adversaries who wouldn't mind performing a brainectomy.

She'd tie a carcass on a bumper and slow roll a bunch of skin crunch-a-munchers right up to Dr. Dink faces' door. Watch him scream about zombie rights with his jaw hanging off his face.

Claire clicked the button. She lowered the glass bottle from her lips. Sherry. A photo of the girl pasted next to an unflattering, and who wouldn't look like shit after an all out zombie brawl, picture of Claire. It was taken the morning they stepped out of Raccoon City as survivors, and walked into fame.

Sherry. The one promise she'd never kept. An irremovable stain smeared on an otherwise lily-white conscience.

She sunk deeper under the blankets. She'd sacrificed the well being of a helpless child to find her brother. A brother who was more than capable of taking care of himself. Chris didn't need her. Never had. Sherry needed her.

Not a day went by the girl wasn't in Claire's thoughts. Not a night where she wasn't in her dreams.

The smiling face rubbed her heart beyond raw. She'd gone over should have, could have, would have, more times than she could count. It didn't change anything. She'd failed, pure and simple, and that's all there was to it…

Sherry. She called Claire's name in whisper. Her voice close. Her voice far.

Claire in her nightgown. Elegant marina blue swirls fashioned in a high-waisted empire style.

An empty corridor. Locked doors on either side played peek-a-boo in the mist clinging to the air.

'Claire.'

She stepped into the haze. The light behind her flickered. 'Sherry.'

Childish giggles. 'Find me, Claire.'

'Sherry, where are you?'

'I'm here.'

'Where?'

'Find me, Claire.'

She walked faster. Her bare feet sinking into and rising above the tilted hallway floor.

Darkness chased her heels. The corridor stretched longer. The walls grew closer. 'Sherry, where are you?'

'I'm here.'

'Where?' There were so many doors. Too many to check. Cold brass handles thrown open into empty rooms.

'Claire.'

'Sherry, I'm coming.'

A t-junction. Left? Right? Both corridors echoed her name. 'Claire.'

Crying. 'Help me, Claire. I'm all alone. I'm scared.'

Her pace quickened. 'Hang on, Sherry. I'm coming.'

She rounded a corner. Her eyes blinded in brilliant white light. The shape of a small child sitting, head downcast, on the floor. 'Sherry.'

Silence. The light dimmed, like a candle slowly deprived of oxygen to feed its flame. 'Sherry.'

She reached out. The child's chin went up. Her lips parted in a scream. She stumbled backward. Jill.

Jill's head on Sherry's body. Jill's voice came out of Sherry's mouth. 'Find me, Claire.'

Jill's head, and Sherry's body, undulated in the mist.

Footsteps behind her. Chris pushed through the haze. He bolted past Claire, ruffling her nightgown sleeves. His gun was drawn. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

'Chris!'

He turned. Grinned. 'Come on squirt.'

'Wait!'

His footsteps faded. The mist he had parted folded over the corridor in wispy waves.

'Chris!' Claire ran. Faster. Faster. Her heart pounded the rhythm of her feet.

The walls disappeared. The mist rolled back. A door at the end of the corridor swung open and shut on rusted hinges.

A closet. A bedside table lamp cast a warm glow across half closed louvers. Chris's hand on her mouth. His fingers clamped tight on her lips. Sirens sounded in the distance.

'Don't move,' he whispered in her ear.

Her mother screamed. Her father shouted. A loud crash. Gunshots. Footsteps on the stairs.

Tears flowed over Chris' hand.

'Please, Claire,' he breathed. 'Don't move.'

A masked figure entered the bedroom.

Claire whimpered.

The figure turned to the closet. A gloved hand reached out. The door was thrown open.

Laughter. Applause. She stood in the center aisle of an amphitheatre. Red velvet seats overflowed with rotted flesh.

Zombies. Hundreds of zombies dressed in black suits, ties, and polished loafers. Their flesh stripped hands clacked bone against bone.

Familiar faces front and center. Chris. Jill. Rebecca. Barry. Forrest. Vickers. Ada. Clapping.

'Sherry.'

Their applause drowned her voice. 'Sherry!'

A white speck splashed on the stage in front of a maroon curtain backdrop. Leon.

'Leon.'

He waved to her.

She gathered the length of her nightgown and climbed the carpeted steps.

He held out his hand. 'You're late,' his lips mimicked. No sound came from his open mouth.

'Claire.'

'Sherry.'

Leon's fingers rested on her elbow. He guided her toward the curtain.

His gentle, feather light touch faded into a firm grip.

Claire spun around.

Gangrene faces. Laughter. Pointing. A black suit, darker than the others, in front of her. A shadow a deeper shade than midnight fell across her face.

The man in the black suit swooped around her in a circle. Claire turned with him. The room revolved in a merry-go-round of blurry faces.

'Sherry.'

The man breathed in her ear. 'Mine.'

'She's not yours to take.'

'I take what I please.' He pulled her to his chest and dipped her low. Her back rested on his thigh. Her body slanted a few inches off the ground. 'Try and stop me.' His mouth came down on hers.

Claire twisted her head to the side. 'Give her back.'

'Take her, if you can.'

The seats slid in reverse. The curtain rushed forward. Claire's nose brushed its musty folds. She flung it aside.

A container. A see thru plastic pod. A child suspended in clear liquid. Blonde hair swayed weightless about a cherubic face. 'Sherry.'

Laughter. Giggles. Air bubbles. Tentacles. Claws. Bulging pustules attached to her arms and legs like rivets.

The man in black. 'Do you still want her?'

'Monster.'

'Me, or the girl?'

Claire swung a fist. The merry-go-round stopped. Empty. Quiet. The walls exploded in confetti colored shards.