It's a gift horse, don't complain. Five minutes ago you were unarmed and locked up, at least now you have a chance. You should just be happy that Rodrigo didn 't come down here to put you out of your misery.

Still, she pretty much sucked at knifeplay. After a brief hesitation, she quickly patted Rodrigo down, but he wasn't carrying. She did find a set of keys but didn't take them, not wanting to carry anything that might draw someone's attention by jangling at the wrong moment. If she needed them, she could come back.

Time to blow this Popsicle stand, see what there is to see out there. "Let's do it," she said softly, as much to get herself moving as anything else, aware that she was basically terrified of what she might find … and also that she didn't have a choice in the matter. As long as she was on the island, Umbrella still had her and until she assessed the circumstances, she couldn't make plans to escape. Holding the knife tightly, Claire stepped out of the cellar room, wondering if Umbrella's madness would ever end.

Alone, Alfred Ashford sat on the wide, sweeping stairs of his home, half blind with rage. The destruction had finally ceased raining down from the skies, but his home had been damaged, their home. It had been built for his grandfather's great-grandmother the brilliant and beautiful Veronica, God rest her soul on the isolated oasis that she had named Rockfort, where she had made a magical life for herself and her progeny over the generations … and now, in the blink of an eye, some horrible fanatic group had dared to try and destroy it. Most of the second floor architecture had been warped and twisted, doors crushed shut, only their private rooms left whole.

Uncouth, uncultured miscreants. They can't even

fathom the measure of their own ignorance.