After a moment she straightened, walking over to check out the vending machines – one for snacks, the other, beverages. She suddenly realized she was ravenous, and incredibly thirsty. When was the last time she ate? The machines were both broken, but a couple of good, solid kicks circumvented the problem nicely; most of it was crap, but there were several bags of mixed nuts and a few cans of orange juice. Not exactly a steak dinner, but considering the circumstances, a boun– tiful harvest anyway. She ate quickly, stuffing a few un– opened bags in her vest pockets for later, feeling more focused almost immediately.

So… door number one, or door number two? Eeny-meeny-miney-mo… The gray door, to the right of the corridor. She doubted that Alfred had the patience to still be waiting, but edged up to the door carefully just in case, pushing it open with the barrel of the 9mm. Claire relaxed. A small, cozy room, couple of couches, an antique typewriter on a table, a large, dusty trunk in one corner. It seemed safe enough; Alfred must have gone through door number one. She stepped inside to search it, drawn toward a small heap of miscellaneous objects on one of the couches – and her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening.

Thank you, Alfred!

Someone had dumped the contents of a fanny pack on the couch, the pack itself crumpled next to the pile, which included two sterile needles and a syringe, a pack of waterproof matches, half a box of 9mm rounds – and a small, half-filled bottle of the same hemostatic stuff Rodrigo had been out of, exactly what she'd been looking for. There were a few other odds and ends in the makeshift survival kit, a pen, a small flat screwdriver, a foil-wrapped condom… at the last, she rolled her eyes, grinning. Inter– esting, what some people considered absolute necessities. Her grin faded when she noticed the blood stains on the pack, but she still felt better than she had in days. She reloaded the pack and strapped it low around her hips, transferring a few things over from her own woe– fully tight pockets. She could hardly believe her luck. The medicine was what she'd been most worried about, but it was also an incredible relief to find more ammo. Even a single clip's worth was a godsend. A search of the rest of the room yielded up nothing more, not that she minded. She felt like the end was in sight, an end to this terrible and horrific night.

Get back to the prison, give the drugs to Rodrigo, then see if Steve's had any luck wrangling us a ride home, she thought happily, stepping out of the room. It had been a hard ride, but compared to Raccoon, this was a picnic…

The heavy rattle of the closing shutter whipped her around, the moment of happiness blown as the corridor, her exit, was blocked off with a thundering crash. No! Claire ran to the metal shutter, banged it once with her fist, already knowing that there was no chance. She was sealed in, the only possibility of escape now the one door she hadn't yet tried. The one Alfred had fled through. "Welcome, Claire," a voice called out, as snotty and pretentious as she remembered, with the same snide un– dertone as before. There was an intercom box above one of the vending machines, in the upper corner of the room. Howdy, Alfred, she thought dismally, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her anger or fear. The whole compound was probably wired up for sound, she'd been stupid not to think of it, and just because she didn't see a camera, that didn't mean there wasn't one.

"You're about to enter a special playground, of sorts," Alfred continued, "and there's a friend of mine I'd like very much for you to meet; I think you'll play well to– gether."Fantastic, can't wait."Don't die too soon, Claire. I want to enjoy this."

He laughed, that insane, annoying, distinctly unnat– ural giggle of his, and then he was gone. Claire stared blankly at the door she was supposed to go through, considering her options. It was probably the best thing Chris had ever taught her, that there were al-ways options; they might all totally suck, but there was always a choice, regardless, and thinking over her alter– natives now had a calming effect.

I can hide in the safe room, live on snack food and pop while I wait for Umbrella to show up. I can sit here and pray that some friendly party will miraculously come to my rescue. I can try to get through the steel shutter, or through one of the walls… with that screwdriver and some elbow grease, I can probably break out in about 10,000 years. I can kill myself. Or I can walk through Al-fred'splay ground door, see what there is to see.

There were a number of variations, but she thought that basically summed things up… and only one of them made any sense. Technically, none of them makes sense! Part of her howled. I should be in my dorm room, eating cold pizza and cramming for some test! Objection noted, she thought dryly, reaching into her new pack for a full clip, tucking another in her bra for fast access. Time to see what Alfred and his underlings had been up to out here, see if Umbrella had finally come up with a formula for the perfect bio-organic war– rior. Claire stepped up to the door and paused, wondering if she should go into battle with some profound thought about her life, or love, wondering if she was ready to die… and decided that she could worry about all that stuff later. If there wasn't a later, she wouldn't have to worry about it, would she? "Boy, am I smart," she murmured, and pushed the door open before she could lose her nerve.

EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT. The cameras were set so that he could watch from four different angles, all in full color, the "battle arena" well lit, his chair comfortable. He only regretted that he hadn't had time to return to their private residence, to watch the entertainment with Alexia by his side – al– though that had turned out to be advantageous, as well, a silver lining. The training facility's control room had cameras that could be re-angled with the touch of a but– ton, ensuring the clearest possible view. Alfred smiled, watching as Claire hesitated at the door, quite pleased with how his plan had come to fruition. She'd chased him as he'd hoped, stepped into his trap with hardly a struggle. He hadn't expected her to actually fire at him, but that was easily overlooked in retrospect. And truly, it made the anticipation for her up– coming death all the sweeter, the addition of a personal revenge aspect into the mix. The OR1, a highly developed BOW specifically cre– ated for field combat, was one of Alfred's all-time fa– vorites. The An3 Sandworm was impressive, to be sure, the standard Hunter 121s lethal and fast, but the ORls were special – the human skeletal structure showed through, particularly in the face and torso, giving them the look of classic Death. Thek skull faces leered out beneath corded ropes of real and synthetic tendon, like a neo grim reaper. They weren't just dangerous; the way they looked was terror inspiring, at the most basic level of instinct. The island employees called them Bandersnatches, a nonsense word from some poem that was strangely fit– ting, considering thek unique design and function. There were thirty of them at Rockfort, half of those in stasis, though Alfred had only been able to account for eight of them since the attack…… oh! Claire was opening the door. Elated, Alfred focused his full attention on the girl, his left hand on the camera controls, his right hovering over the lock functions for the storage areas. Claire stepped onto the balcony of the large, open, two-story bay with gun in hand, trying to look every-where at once. Alfred zoomed in on her face, wanting to fully appreciate her fear, but was disappointed by her lack of expression. After surmising that she was in no immediate danger, she seemed watchful, no more.