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Chaos had ensued. The base commander, that creepy maniac Alfred Ashford, hadn’t done a damned thing to organize, so it had been up to the ranking soldiers to lead.
He had a handgun, too, a 9mm semi that he’d taken off one of the past-tense guards, which also kicked ass, though not quite as much.
He looked like an actor she’d seen before, the lead in that movie about the sinking ship; the resemblance was striking.
Oh, brother. She wondered if she should shut him down now or later—she and Leon had gotten pretty tight—and decided that later might be better.
He started toward a door next to the guard tower, directly opposite from the one she’d come through. “Catch you later.” She was so surprised that she almost couldn’t find her voice in time. Was he nuts, or just stupid?
information about some kind of special alloy that metal detectors couldn’t pick up… that one was kind of interesting, considering he’d had to walk through a two-way lockdown metal detector to get to the office, but three or four well-placed bullets to the mechanism had taken care of that. Good thing, too; he’d found one of the main gate emblem keys tucked in a desk drawer, which would definitely have triggered a lockdown on his way back through.
Entirely without warning, a fiery rage welled up inside of him, a tornado of anger and despair and a whole bunch of feelings he couldn’t even begin to understand. What he did understand was that little Miss Claire was wrong, she was stupid and snotty and wrong.
Claire sighed. Just when she’d decided he was a total asshole, he decided to be nice.
thin blond man with a rifle and laser sight, wearing what looked like a dress uniform jacket from a yacht club, deep red, complete with puffy white cravat and gold braid. Like a child’s idea of what noble authority should wear.
He actually tittered, a high, girlish giggle, and Claire was suddenly absolutely positive that he was a whacko, she was talking to a whacko.
Well, doesn’t that round out things nicely? What’s a biohazardous disaster without a crazy or two? It’d almost be funny, if she wasn’t so totally weirded out. Alfred was a fruit loop.
and he decided that he was definitely going to dance all over the bones of the next Umbrella employee he gunned down, just for working at such an unnecessarily complicated place. Keys and emblems and proofs and submarines; it was a wonder they ever got shit done.
She’d have thought that a pharmaceutical company might actually have a few pharmaceuticals lying around, but it was looking more doubtful by the moment
Alfred controlled his body as tightly as he controlled his life, and prided himself on his ability to dominate his sexual desires, to feel nothing unless he chose to— but just thinking of Claire’s death inspired in him a passion that was beyond physical lust, beyond words, even beyond the simple scope of man’s awareness.
And Steve Burnside, who she’d written off as a well-intentioned but troubled, barely competent blowhard, had kept that from happening.
The seaplane was terrific news; having to deal with Umbrella’s bizarre key fetish yet again wasn’t so terrific.
“I’ll say. Do you know anything about Alfred Ashford?” “Only that him and his sister are total fruitcakes,” Steve said promptly.
“Stay close,” Steve said roughly, walking to the door and looking back over the shoulder, trying to look fierce, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Claire was torn between irritation and laughter, finally choosing to think of it as endearing.
True, and maybe he should be more respectful— but on the other hand, the gun was extremely cool, and they were zombies.
Steve followed, slightly awed by her but playing it detached, like he’d already thought of that. If there was one thing he knew about chicks, it was that they didn’t like guys who mooned all over them, acting all goofy.
“You know, you’re smarter than you look,” Claire said teasingly, punching the button. Steve was still trying to think of a witty comeback when the elevator came to a stop, and Claire opened the door.
What she was telling him didn’t make sense, because he’d let her go, she was gone. Why would she come back to help him? Because I let her go. The realization touched him, flooded him with feelings of shame and gratitude.
Dearest Alfred—you are the brave, brilliant soldier, ever fighting to reinstate the Ashford name to its former glory. My thoughts are with you always, beloved. Alexia. Ick. Steve dropped the card, making a face. Was it just him, or had Alfred created a seriously unnatural relationship with his imagined sister?
“Cross-dressing freak,” Steve snapped, but Alfred either didn’t hear him or didn’t care.
He totally wanted to but not like that, not if she didn’t want him to. He thought she did, but she’d also told him a little about her friend Leon, too, and he wasn’t so sure that they were just friends.
Let me know about that stem bolt shipment. Regards, Tom
“There are experiments being performed there,” Wesker mock-whispered, as if telling him a secret. “I plan on going myself, see if I can get an experiment or two of my own going. Tell me, is your sister good-looking? Do you think she might be interested in getting some action, because I’ve got a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe—
Oswell Spencer and Edward Ashford had been responsible for the creation of the T-virus, but it had been their only real accomplishment; the rest was money thrown away. Truly, the entire facility—except for the laboratories, of course—was an expensive joke, set up by old men and children with little imagination and too much money.
How had he dared to consider such a thing? He should be on his knees in front of her, a worthless supplicant for her to do with as she wished, how dare he?
