No, no way.

Claire held her breath as a lone male figure stepped haltingly into the room, his arms out in front of him. He moved like one of the virus zombies, like a drunk, reel-

ing and unsteady, and immediately staggered for the door to her cell. Reflexively, Claire backed away, terrified at the implications if there'd been some kind of viral outbreak on the island, at best she'd end up starving to death behind bars.

And Jesus, another spill? Thousands had died in Raccoon City. When would Umbrella learn, that their insane biological experiments weren't worth the cost?

She had to see. If it was a drunk guard, at least he was alone, she might be able to take him. And if it was a carrier, she was safe for the moment. Probably. They couldn't operate doors, or at least the ones in Raccoon hadn't been able to. She took out the lighter, flipped the top and thumbed the wheel. Claire recognized him instantly and gasped, taking another step back. Tall and well-built, Hispanic perhaps, a mustache and dark, merciless eyes. It was the man who'd caught her back in Paris, who'd escorted her to the island. Not a zombie, at least there's that. Not much of relief, but she'd take whatever she could get. She stood for a moment, frozen, not sure what to expect. He looked different, and it was more than his dirtsmeared face or the small bloodstains on his white T-shirt. It was as though there'd been some fundamental internal change, the way his expression was set. Before, he'd looked like a stone killer. Now … now she wasn't sure, and when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, she prayed that he'd changed for the better. Without a word, he pulled the cell door open and blankly met her gaze before jerking his head to one side the universal sign for "get out," if there was such a thing. Before she could act, he turned and staggered away, definitely injured from the way he held his gut with one shaking hand. There was a chair between the desk and the far wall; he sat down heavily and picked up a small bottle from the desktop with bloodstained fingers. He shook the bottle, about the size of a small spool of thread, before weakly throwing it across the room, muttering to himself.