A/N: Don't take this seriously, and I won't either. It's all in good fun.
Anything you recognize (dialogue, descriptions, writing, etc.) belongs to E.L. James, who got it from Stephenie Meyer. I own nothing other than the fun I have writing this.
Reviews are wonderful, flames are hilarious.
50 Stages of Decay
CHAPTER ONE
I grimace with frustration at my reflection in the mirror. Damn my hair—it's a tangled mess, and damn Katie Korpse for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be helping in the kitchens or preparing for the raids, which are next week, yet here I am attempting to brush my hair into submission. We only have one lousy brush in the compound. I'm going to ask Eduardo if he can pick up more on the raid. How hard is it to get more hairbrushes? I must not keep it tied up all the time. I must not keep it tied up all the time. I repeat this mantra as I drag the bristles through my hair once more. I roll my eyes in besetment and stare at the pale, brown-haired girl with green eyes too big for her face looking back at me, and give up. I can only tie my hair back up into a semi-presentable ponytail and hope that it's not obvious I haven't washed it in three weeks now.
Katie is our scout, and she chose today of all days to be quarantined. It's just a little flu, but we can't risk an infection breaking out in the compound. That would be chaos. Speaking of horribleness, since she's sick she can't go out and meet our potential supplier, some mega-industrialist rich guy I've never heard of, to replenish our quickly emptying stocks. So I have been volunteered. They drew my name out of a hat. I have soups to cook and rabbits to skin, and I'm supposed to be helping organize the weapons this afternoon, but no—today I have to venture out into the battlefield and make it to downtown Seattle to meet this mysterious supplier. He was apparently some hotshot entrepreneur and major medicine guy before Patient Zero. Now he's our only hope of survival. His time is super precious—much more precious than mine apparently—but he's prepared to open up his fortress to us for an agreement. A real coup, Katie tells me. Damn her superb scouting abilities.
Katie is buried under blankets on a bed in quarantine. I press the button to speak to her and flinch as loud static blasts into my delicate ears. She coughs.
"Lana, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this contact. It will take another six to convince him we're real, and we'll all be dead by then. As the scout, I can't blow this off. Please," Katie begs me in her abrasive, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even sick she looks hoyden and beautiful, raspberry red hair in place and blue eyes shining, although now rimmed in scarlet and runny. I ignore my feeling of unwelcome sympathy.
"Of course I'll go, Katie. You should get some sleep. Would you like some NyQuil or Tylenol?"
"NyQuil if we have enough in stock. The passcodes are up front, along with the questions, and grab some weapons. Just press the trigger if you get in trouble. Make notes. We don't want him cheating us on supplies."
"I know nothing about him," I mumble, trying and failing to hold down my rising anxiety.
"The passcodes and questions will see you through. Go. It's a long trip. I don't want you to miss our window."
"Okay, I'm going. Go to sleep. There should be some leftover soup in the kitchens for you to eat." I stare at her tenderly. Only for you, Katie, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks, Lana—as always, you're my lifesaver."
I smile drolly at her, then head away from quarantine. I grab a backpack filled with two water bottles, an automatic, ammo, and a machete. I strap a knife to my hip and walk to the garage. We only have three cars currently, two dangerously low on gasoline, and I take the yellow Porsche. I cannot believe I'm going through with this. Katie can talk anyone into anything. It's why she's our best scout—well that and her skills with a shotgun. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, bossy, gorgeous—and she's my most special friend.
The roads are wonderfully clear as I set off from Aberdeen, Washington, toward Interstate 5. The clock on the dash says that it's ten. The meeting time is at two so I have plenty of time. It's not hard to navigate through the empty vehicles and debris in the Porsche. My old Honda Accord wouldn't have been able to make it without some trouble occurring. And these days trouble isn't a good thing—especially on the roads. The Porsche is a fun ride, and the miles vanish as I hit the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the former headquarters of the mysterious Mr. Gore's enterprise. It's a huge twenty-five story building, with the windows soldered shut and the most powerful solar-powered security system to ever exist. It's a fortress if there ever was one. The words Gore House are carved into the wall by the gate. It's a quarter to two when I get there, super happy that I'm not late as I punch in the first access code and enter the huge—and quite intimidating—steel, granite, and glass lobby.
Behind the solid black granite desk, a very attractive, clean, redheaded young woman smiles nicely at me. She's wearing clothes that have been washed recently and I can smell soap wafting off of her body. She looks impeccable.
"I'm here to see Mr. Gore. Alana Scarlett for Katherine Korpse."
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Scarlett." She raises an eyebrow as I wait nervously before her. I'm beginning to wish that I'd begged for a chance to shower. Sure we are saving most of the water for drinking, but compared to this goddess I am a guttersnipe. I tried to make an effort and wore my one and only pair of non-ripped jeans, my sensible black boots, and a blue sweater that barely has any sweat stains. For me, this is clean. I tuck one of the missing tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I imagine that she doesn't intimidate me.
"Miss Korpse is expected. Please leave your weapons here, Miss Scarlett. You'll want the staircase on the right, and go on up to the twentieth floor." She smiles nicely at me, amused no doubt, as I hand over the automatic, the machete, and my knife.
She hands me a security pass that has "visitor" obviously stamped on the front. I can't help my smile. Surely it's clear that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all with my dirt and grime. Nothing changes. I sigh on the inside. Thanking her, I walk over to the stairwell and past two big security guys who are also way cleaner than I am in their suits.
I make my way up the stairs as fast as I can, going up to the twentieth floor and cursing Mr. Gore for not having a working elevator. The second passcode opens up the door to another lobby—again all glass, granite, and steel. I'm accosted by another young redhead woman, still way cleaner than I am, who stands up to greet me.
"Miss Scarlett, could you wait here, please?" She points to some black leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a large steel-walled meeting room with an equally large dark wood table and at least thirty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there's a ceiling-to-floor window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks over the city and toward the Sound. It's a ravishing view, and I'm momentarily stunned by the vista. Wow.
I sit down, find the remaining scraps of code from the backpack, and go through them. I curse Katie inwardly for not giving me more information on the supplier. I know nothing about this man that I'm about to deal with. He could be eighty or could be thirty. The not-knowing is exasperating, and my anxiety returns, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with making deals, especially not when so much is on the line, and I'd much prefer to sit back and watch Katie save us all with her sharp and persuasive tongue. To be honest, I prefer solidarity, reading a British novel, curled up in a chair in the compound and pretending that the world is still normal. Not sitting twitching anxiously in a gigantic glass-and-granite erection.
I roll my eyes at myself. Hold it together, Scarlett. Judging from my surroundings, I'd guess that Gore must be in his forties. No young person would be this prepared for doom and have the fortification to stay safe with no losses for this long. He's probably fit, tanned, and probably a redhead like everyone else in the building.
Another suave, flawlessly clean redhead comes out of a big door to the left. Do they have constant access to a shower? It's like a hospital in here. Taking a deep gulp of air, I stand up.
"Miss Scarlett?" the newest girl asks.
"Yes," I squawk, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded better.
"Mr. Gore will see you in a moment. May I take your sweater?"
"Um, sure." I struggle out of the dirty, sweaty garment.
"Have you been offered any refreshment?"
"Oh—no." Oh gosh, is Redhead Number One in trouble?
Redhead Number Two frowns and stares at the clean woman behind the desk.
"Would you like water, coffee, tea?" she asks, looking back at me.
"Water, please." I'm desperate for clean, cold liquid sliding down my throat. "Thank you," I mutter when I remember my manners. I probably shouldn't act like a barbarian.
"Cassidy, please get Miss Scarlett a glass of water." Her voice is strict. Cassidy stands up and hurries to another door on the other side of the foyer.
"I apologize, Miss Scarlett, Cassidy is new to our sanctuary. Please be seated. Mr. Gore will be another five minutes."
Cassidy comes back with a glass of iced water. I stare thirstily at the floating cubes.
"Here you go, Miss Scarlett."
"Thanks."
Redhead Number Two stomps over to the big desk, her heels clicking on the floor. Who wears heels these days? She sits down, and they both continue whatever they're doing.
Perhaps Mr. Gore wants all of his employees to be redheads. I'm wondering if there's a reason why. Do the monsters not like redheads as much as other hair colors? Maybe I should ask Eduardo to add hair dye to that raid list. The office door opens and a tall, clean, attractive African American man with dreads exits. I am definitely not clean enough.
He turns and says into the office, "Hunting this week, Gore?"
I don't hear the reply. He turns, notices me, and smiles, his dark eyes cringing at the corners. Cassidy has jumped up to open the stairwell door for him. She seems to have excellent reflexes. Maybe that's why she's still alive.
"Good afternoon, ladies," he says as he leaves through the door.
"Mr. Gore will see you now, Miss Scarlett. Do go through," Redhead Number Two says. I quiver as I stand, and try to suppress my anxiety. I gather up my backpack, gulp down the water in less than a minute, and make my way to the halfway open door.
"You don't need to knock—just go on." She grins kindly.
I push the door open and tumble through, tripping on air and falling into the office.
Triple crap—me and my clumsy limbs! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Gore's office, and smooth hands are around me, and help me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my two left feet. I have to gird myself to look up. Holy moly—he's so young…and clean.
"Miss Korpse." He holds out a long-fingered hand to me once I'm standing. "I'm Christopher Gore. Are you okay? Do you want to sit?"
So clean—and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, wearing a fine suit, clean shirt, and dark tie with unkempt dark copper-colored hair and intense, shining eyes that I'm not sure whether they're gray or gold. He regards me adroitly. It takes a while for me to find my vocals.
"Um. Actually—" I murmur. If this guy is over thirty, then I'm an ape's aunt. In a daze, I put my hand in his and we shake. When our fingers touch, I feel a weird adrenaline rush run through me. I take my hand away quickly, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink a lot, my eyelids matching my heart beat.
"Miss Korpse is out of action, so they sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Gore."
"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's hard to tell from his vacant expression. He looks somewhat intrigued but, above all, nice.
"Alana Scarlett. I'm friends with Katie, um…Katherine…um…Miss Korpse, at the Aberdeen sanctuary."
"I see," he says simply. He gestures me toward an L-shapes black leather couch.
His office is way too huge for just one guy. In front of the large windows, there's a modern dark wood desk that eight people could eat around. It matches the table by the couch. Everything thing else is gray—ceiling, floors, and walls, except for the wall by the door, where newspapers have been tacked into a mosaic of chaos. Little colored strings connect one newspaper to another, but I can't understand the connection. It's breathtaking to see the spread.
"It started in New Jersey," says Gore when he notices my gaze.
"It's fascinating. Tracking from the beginning," I mutter, distracted by the newspapers and by him. He throws his head to one side and looks at me intently.
"I couldn't agree more, Miss Scarlett," he responds, his voice soft, and for some unknown reason I blush.
Apart from the newspapers, the rest of the office is clean, organized, and cold. I wonder if it's a reflection of the David who sits with lithe grace on one of the black leather chairs across from me. I shake my head, perturbed by the direction of my mind, and take out Katie's proposal and questions from the backpack. Next, I grab a pencil even as I fumble with it between my fingers and thumbs, dropping it three times on my lap. Mr. Gore doesn't say anything, waiting patiently—I pray—as I become more and more embarrassed and unhinged. When I finally get the balls to look at him, he's staring at me, one hand in his lap and the other holding his chin and trailing a long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to hold back a smile.
"S-sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take as long as you need, Miss Scarlett," he says.
"Do you mind if I take notes?"
"After you've taken so much trouble to find a pencil, you ask me now?"
I redden. He's making fun of me? I blink at him, not knowing what to say, and I think he feels sorry for me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."
"Did Katie, I mean, Miss Korpse, explain our situation?"
"Yes. To aid your sanctuary with supplies due to an increase of population, and to provide more weaponry in exchange for your help with research for the cure I'm working on."
Oh! This was news to me, and I'm temporarily engrossed with the thought that someone not much older than me—okay, maybe seven years or so, and okay, mega-successful, but still—is going to cure the disease. I grimace, dragging my lagging attention span back to the matter at hand.
"Good." I swallow anxiously. "I have some questions, Mr. Gore." I tuck back a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks explode in red at the realization, and I sit up and try to look taller and more serious. I try to look professional, like I do this all the time.
"You're very young to have gathered this much strength. And you're willing to share your success with the sanctuaries nearby—what's the catch?" I glance up at him. His smile is lamentable, but he looks sort of disappointed.
"No catch. In these times I would feel selfish to keep everything to myself. The survival of the human race depends on the generosity of people like me." He pauses and gazes at me with his metallic stare. "My belief is that if we work together then we can make it through this, and I won't accept anything less than success. I work very hard to accomplish this. I have a natural gut instinct that tells me who I can trust and who I can't. The bottom line is that I just want to help."
"Maybe you're just trying to be a hero." This isn't on Katie's list of deal-making questions—but he's so pretentious. His eyes open momentarily in surprise.
"I don't register heroics or narcissism, Miss Scarlett. The harder I work the more people seem to think me some hero. It really is all about having the best people on your team and focusing their energies in the right direction. I believe it was Napoleon who said, 'A leader is a dealer in hope.'"
"And what would you have us hope for?" The words burst out of my mouth like puke.
"Oh, I have hope in all things, Miss Scarlett," he says without a trace of humor in his grin. I stare at him, and he clutches my gaze fiercely, impassive. My heartbeat tap dances, and my face reddens again.
Why does he make me feel so awkward? His overwhelming cleanliness maybe? The way his eyes flame at me? The way he glides his middle finger over his lower lip? I wish he'd quit doing that.
"Besides, hope is held onto by assuring yourself in your secret dreams that you were born to fix everything," he says, his voice as soft as crushed velvet.
"Do you feel that you need to fix everything?" Maybe he's a control freak.
"Before four years ago I ran the largest pharmaceutical research and development company in the western hemisphere. That gives me a certain responsibility—power, if you will. If I decided today that I didn't want to work on a cure, the world would end."
My mouth plops open. I am astonished by his utter lack of humbleness.
"Don't you have a sanctuary board to listen to?" I ask, appalled.
"I am the board of this sanctuary. I don't have to answer to anyone." He raises an eyebrow at me. Of course, if Katie had given me more information about him I would've known that beforehand. But holy cow, he's full of himself. I change echelon.
"What do you do outside of your leadership position?"
"I have many interests, Miss Scarlett." A phantasm of a grin kisses his lips. "Very many." And for some reason, I am baffled and excited by his steady stare. His eyes are on fire with some terrible thought.
"But if you're working so hard on a cure, what do you do when you hang out?"
"Hang out?" He grins, showing perfect white teeth. I stop inhaling air. He really is clean. No one should be this immaculate.
"Well, to 'hang out,' as you said—I hunt, I fly, I indulge is various mental pursuits." He moves in his chair. "I'm a very curious man, Miss Scarlett, and I have many questions and few answers."
I look fast at Katie's deal-making questions, wanting to steer away from this subject.
"You've been seen multiple times taking the Infected into your sanctuary. Why, specifically?" I question. Why does he make me so awkward?
"I like to know how things work, and how can I work on a cure without knowing the disease intimately? I like to know how things are made and unmade, and how to fix them."
"That sounds like your interests talking, rather than logic."
His mouth jumps up, and he gazes calculatingly at me.
"Perhaps. Although there are some people who say that I don't actually have any interests outside of work."
"Why would they say that?"
"Because they know me well." His lip curls up in a mysterious smile.
"Would your friends say that you're easy to get to know?" I want to snatch back the words; they aren't on Katie's list.
"I'm a very confidential person, Miss Scarlett. I go a long way to protect my secrets. I don't often allow others into the sanctuary…"
"Why did you agree then?"
"Because your situation is the first of many, and for all intents and purposes, I could not get Miss Korpse away from my gates. She persisted and persisted, even risking infection, and I admire that kind of bullheadedness."
I know how stubborn Katie can be. That's why I'm sitting here twitching awkwardly under his piercing stare, when I should be making soup.
"You have also invested in the Forks sanctuary, as well as Vancouver. Any reason?"
"They're in the same situation that you are, Miss Scarlett, and there are already too many people in this country running out of supplies."
"That sounds very selfless of you. Do those places mean something to you? Any particular reason why you support them?"
He shrugs ambiguously.
"It's judicious business," he mutters, though I think he's being mendacious. It doesn't make sense—Vancouver and Forks? I can't see the particular benefit of this, only the virtue of the charity. I look down at Katie's next question, puzzled by his personality.
"Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?"
"Not particularly. Although I think of Falcone often: 'He who doesn't fear death dies only once.' I'm very focused, driven. I like answers—from myself and those around me."
"So you want to know everything?" Control freak.
"I want to deserve to know everything, but yes, end of the line, I do."
"You sound like a super student."
"I am." He grins, but it doesn't crinkle his eyes. Again, this is weird for someone who wants to save the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about some other thing, but I'm confounded as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room just rocketed up, or perhaps it's just me. I just want this deal to be over. Surely I've covered all of Katie's bases. I look at the next question.
"You were adopted. Do you think that's why you take pity on the less fortunate sanctuaries?" This is personal. I gaze at him, wishing that he's not offended. His brow creases.
"I have no knowledge if that's the reason."
My interest is aflame. "How old were you when you were adopted?"
"That's no longer important, Miss Scarlett." His tone is harsh. Shoot. Duh—if I'd known that I was making this deal, I would've done more research. Blustered, I move on hurriedly.
"You've had to give up family for your work."
"That's not a question." He's trenchant.
"Sorry." I quiver; he's made me feel like a meandering child. I make another attempt. "Have you had to make personal sacrifices for your work?"
"I have a family. My brothers and one sister were infected early on—they're gone now—but I still have one sister and my parents. I'm not interested in involving anyone else in my personal business, much less more family."
"Are you gay, Mr. Gore?"
He sucks in air harshly, and I twitch, horrified. Shoot. Why didn't I use some kind of mouth trap before I read Katie's totally random question? How can I explain that I'm just reciting her words? Damn Katie and her randomness!
"No, Alana, I'm not." His eyebrows push up, a chilly shine in his eyes. He does not look super happy.
"I apologize. It's, um…Katie's question." It's the only time he's said my name so far. My heartbeat has jumped up to terminal velocity, and my cheeks are on fire again. Anxiously, I push my loosened hair behind my ear.
He twitches his head to one side.
"These aren't your questions for negotiation?"
The blood drains from my head.
"Er…no. Katie—Miss Korpse—she put together the queries."
"Are you both scouts for the sanctuary?" Oh no. I have absolutely nothing to do with suicidal trips outside of the safety of the fortress. It's her job, not mine. My face is blazing.
"No. She's my roommate."
He strokes his chin in silent thought, his gray/gold eyes examining me.
"Did you volunteer to do this deal?" he questions, his voice a deathly hush.
Hold it, who's supposed to be dealing with whom? His eyes sear into me, and I'm impelled to answer truthfully.
"I was chosen by the sanctuary. She's in quarantine." My voice is soft and sorrowful.
"That explains a lot."
There's a knock at the door, and Redhead Number Two comes in.
"Mr. Gore, excuse me for the interruption, but your next appointment is in three minutes."
"We're not finished here, Alexandra. Please cancel my next appointment."
Alexandra hesitates, gaping at him like a fish. She looks lost. He turns his head slowly to look at her and pushes up his eyebrows. She turns fluorescent pink. Oh, good. I'm not the only one.
"As you wish, Mr. Gore," she murmurs, then leaves. He frowns, and focuses back to me.
"Where were we, Miss Scarlett?"
Oh, it's back to 'Miss Scarlett' now.
"Please, don't let me hold you from anything."
"I want to know about you. It's only fair." His eyes are burning with curiosity. Triple shoot. Where is he going with this? He puts his elbows on the chair arms and spires his fingers together in front of his mouth. His mouth is very…distracting. I swallow.
"Not much to know."
"What are your plans for the next few years?"
I shrug, thrown off by his curiosity. Move to a bigger and safer sanctuary with Katie, try to survive. I don't really think of much beyond making it through one day at a time.
"I haven't made any plans, Mr. Gore. I just need to get through the raids next week." Which I should be preparing for right now, instead of sitting in your sumptuous, ostentatious, clean office, feeling awkward under your piercing stare.
"We have plenty of room for new members here," he says quietly. My eyebrows jump in surprise. Is he offering me sanctuary?
"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I mutter, puzzled. "I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no. I'm thinking out loud again.
"Why do you say that?" He twitches his head to one side, interested, a smile hinting on his lips.
"It's clear, isn't it?" I'm helpless, dirty, and I'm not a redhead.
"Not to me." His stare is intense, all funniness gone, and weird feelings deep in my tummy jerk suddenly. I tear my gaze away from his and look blindly at my curled fingers. What's happening here? I have to go—now. I grab for the pencil.
"Would you like a tour?" he questions.
"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Gore, and I do have to make it back before dark."
"You're driving back to Aberdeen?" He sounds shocked, nervous even. He looks out the window. It's started raining. "You should drive carefully." His tone is fierce, and full of authority. Why does he care? "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.
"Yes, sir," I respond, putting the pencil and paper into the backpack. His eyes narrow, analytically.
"Thank you for making this deal with us, Mr. Gore. I just need your signature on our copy of the agreement."
"The pleasure's all mine," he says, polite as ever. He signs the dotted line with beautiful script. I hand him the other copy of the agreement.
As I stand, he rises and holds out his hand.
"Until we meet again, Miss Scarlett." It sounds like a promise, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I grimace. When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand again, shell-shocked that that weird vibe between us is still there. It must be my anxiety, or gas.
"Mr. Gore." I nod at him. Moving with nimble Olympian grace to the door, he opens it wide.
"Just making sure you make it through the door, Miss Scarlett." He gives me a small grin. Clearly, he's referring to my earlier less-than-amazing entry into his office. I redden.
"Very kind of you, Mr. Gore," I snap, and his grin widens. I'm so glad that you find me entertaining, I scowl on the inside, walking into the foyer. I'm shocked when he follows me out. Cassidy and Alexandra both look up, equally shocked.
"Did you have a coat?" Gore asks.
"A sweater."
Cassidy jumps up and fetches my sweater, which Gore takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling horrible self-conscious of the sweat stains, I shrug it on. Gore puts his hands on my shoulders for a moment. I gasp at the touch. If he notices my reaction, he doesn't say anything. His long fingers push open the door to the stairwell, and we stand for a moment—uncomfortably on my part, coolly confident on his. I hurry down, desperate to escape. I need to get out of here. I make the mistake of turning to look at him, and he's staring at me and leaning against the door to the stairwell with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking, and so, so clean. It's unnerving.
"Alana," he says as a goodbye.
"Christopher," I respond. And thankfully, the door closes.
The beginning is going to follow 50 Shades pretty closely, but it's eventually going to dissolve because the setting is VERY DIFFERENT, and so is Christopher.