She smiled shakily, which suddenly made him want to put his arm around her, or hold her hand or some– thing. He didn't. "Brings up some bad memories, you know?" she said. Raccoon… that was the place that had been blown up a few months ago, if he remembered right, right be– fore he'd come to Rockfort. The town's own police chief had done it. "Did Umbrella have something to do with Raccoon?"

Claire seemed surprised, but then smiled a little eas– ier, turning her attention to the elevator controls.

"Long story. I'll tell you about it when we get out of here. So, first floor?" "Yeah," Steve said, then changed his mind. "Actually, maybe we should go up to the second. That way we can look out over the yard, see what we'll be up against." "You know, you're smarter than you look," Claire said teasingly, punching the button. Steve was still try-ing to think of a witty comeback when the elevator came to a stop, and Claire opened the door. There was a shuttered lockdown door to their right, so they went left, the short hallway empty. There was only one door in that direction, too, but they were in luck, the knob turned when Claire tried it. Again, there were no surprises. The door opened up to a cramped wooden balcony thick with dust, overlook– ing a big room full of junk – a rusted military Jeep, stacks of grungy old oil drums, broken boxes and the like. It seemed more like a storage shed than anything else, and though it was well lit, there were enough piles of crap that it was impossible to see if anyone was down there. There was, though, Steve could hear shuffling noises. He took a few steps to the left, trying to see the corner beneath the balcony, and Claire followed. The boards creaked and shifted beneath their steps. "Doesn't seem too sturdy…" Claire started, and was cut off by a giant, splintering craaack, pieces of the bal– cony floor flying up as both of them went down.

Shit.

Steve didn't even have time to tense for the impact, it was over so quick. He landed on his left side, jarring his shoulder, his left knee cracking against a random bit of wood. Almost immediately, a pyramid of empty barrels fell over behind him, clattering hollowly to the ground and Steve heard a zombie's hungry wail. "Claire?" Steve called, crawling to his feet and turn-ing, looking for her and the zombie. There she was amid the barrels, still down, rubbing one ankle. Her handgun was about ten feet away. Steve saw her eyes go wide and followed her gaze, a lone zombie teetering toward her…… and all he could do was stare at it, his body sud– denly a million miles away. Claire said something but he couldn't hear her, too intent on the virus carrier. It had been a big man, leaning toward fat, but someone had blasted off part of his gut. The open, sticky, belly wounds were seeping, the dark shirt made even darker by the almost uniform layer of blood that had soaked the cloth. It was gray-faced and hollow-eyed, like all of them, and had either bitten through its tongue or had been eating – his, its mouth was smeared with blood. Claire said something else, but Steve was remember– ing something, a sudden, vivid flash of memory so real that it was almost like reliving the experience. He'd been four or five years old when his parents had taken him to his first parade, a Thanksgiving parade. He was sitting on his father's shoulder, watching the clowns go by, sur– rounded by loud, shouting people, and he'd started to cry. He couldn't remember why; what he remembered was his father looking up at him, his eyes concerned and full of love. When he'd asked what was wrong, his voice was so familiar and well-loved that Steve had wrapped his tiny arms around his father's neck and hidden his face, still crying but knowing he was safe, that no harm could come to him so long as his father held him…

"Steve!"

Claire, practically screaming his name and he saw that the zombie was almost on top of her, its gray fingers closing around her vest, pulling her up to its drooling, bloody mouth. Steve screamed, too, opening fire, the thunder of bul– lets ripping into his father's face and body, tearing him away from Claire. He kept firing, kept screaming until his father lay still and the thunder had stopped, only dry clicks coming from the gun, and then Claire was touch– ing his shoulder, turning him away as he called out for his father, weeping. They sat for a while. When he could speak, he told her about it, parts of it, his arms around his knees and head down. Told her about his father, who had worked for Umbrella as a truck driver, who had been caught try-ing to steal a formula from one of their labs. He told her about his mother, who had been gunned down by a trio of Umbrella soldiers in their own home, lay choking and bloody and dying on the living room floor when Steve came home from school. The men had taken them away, taken Steve and his father to Rockfort. "I thought he was killed in the air strike," Steve said, wiping at his eyes. "I wanted to feel bad about it, I did, but I just kept thinking about Mom, about how she looked… but I didn't want him to die, I didn't, I… I loved him, too."

Saying it out loud made him start crying again. Claire's arm was around him but he barely felt it, so sad that he thought he might die. He knew he had to get up, he had to find the keys and go with Claire and fly the plane, but none of that seemed important anymore. Claire had been mostly quiet, only listening and hold– ing him, but she stood up now and told him to stay where he was, that she'd be back soon and then they could leave. That was okay, it was good, he wanted to be alone. And he was more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life, so tired and heavy that he didn't want to move. Claire went away, and Steve decided that he should go looking for the proof keys soon, very soon, as soon as he stopped shaking.

IN THE COOL DARKNESS, RODRIGO HAD BEEN resting uneasily. Now he heard a noise out in the corri– dor, and forced himself to open his eyes, to get ready. He lifted his weapon, bracing his wrist on the desk when he realized he hadn't the strength to hold it up. I'll kill anyone who messes with me, he thought, more by habit than anything else, glad he had the gun even if he was already a dead man. A zombie guard had fallen down the stairs and crawled into the cell room sometime after the girl had left, but Rodrigo had killed it with a boot to the head and taken its weapon, still holstered on its broken hip. He waited, wishing that he could go back to sleep, trying to stay alert. The gun eased his mind, took away a lot of his fear. He was going to die soon, it was in-evitable… but he didn't want to become one of them, no matter what. Suicide was supposed to be a particu– larly awful sin, but he also knew that if he couldn't man– age to wipe out an approaching virus carrier, he'd eat a bullet before he let it touch him. He was probably going to hell, anyway. Footsteps, and someone was walking into the room, too fast. A zombie? His senses weren't working right, he couldn't tell if things were speeding up or he was slow– ing down, but he knew he had to shoot soon or he'd miss his chance. Suddenly, a light, small but penetrating – and there she was, standing in front of him like some dream. The Redfield girl, alive, holding a lighter up in the air. She left it burning, set it on the desk like a tiny lantern. "What're you doing here?" Rodrigo mumbled, but she was rummaging through a pack at her waist, not looking at him. He let the heavy gun drop from his fingers, closing his eyes for a second or a moment. When he opened them again, she was reaching for his arm, a syringe in one hand. "It's hemostatic medicine," she said, her hands and voice soft, the prick of the needle small and quick.

"Don't worry, you won't OD or anything, somebody wrote dosage numbers on the back of the bottle. It says it'll slow down any internal bleeding, so you should be okay until help comes. I'll leave the lighter here… my brother gave it to me. It's good luck."