Author's Note: (shrug) Yeah, yeah. I know.

This was a PR nightmare. No… it was worse.

I must keep her safe. My little girl….

"Arthur, where are you going." It wasn't quite a question. The sallow-faced head scientist knew exactly where he was going.

"Espella is at home. I must get her to safety, before it's too late." Newton Belduke shook his head.

"It is too late, Arthur. The miasma has spread. My data analyzers tell me the computers are projecting 43% coverage of England by 0800 tomorrow."

"No!" The man spun to face the door, slamming a hand on his desk. "The island is far from the mainland. She'll be fine. The air will… will…." He broke into muttering, running a hand through his silver hair. "Espella… Dad's coming."

"Arthur, stop and listen to m—" His plea became a grunt as he was shoved aside, nearly losing his footing on the posh carpeting of the CEO's suite. By the time he scrambled to his feet, lab coat fluttering around his knees, the glass door was swinging. "Arthur! No!" He ran to the hall, looking up and down the empty corridor before running towards the lift as fast as his shoes could carry him on the slippery tiles.

The lift chimed as it began to descend; he didn't bother trying to catch it, instead running past the metal doors and choosing the stairwell instead. He took the doors two at a time, but when he reached the foyer he was alone. The lift was closing again, showing a lavish, but empty interior. The receptionist's desk was abandoned, the phones ringing off their hooks.

He stood for a moment, panting heavily and watching people, innocent bystanders, running for their lives outside the plate-glass windows. Some carried possessions; others ran with only the clothes on their backs. The windows and the heavy doors kept out the sound, but he could hear their screaming in his mind. Some of the most susceptible were already showing the first signs of illness: the red blisters on otherwise pale, ashen skin, the lagging speed, the bulging eyes as they began to cough and choke….

My god… what have I done?

"Mr. Belduke, sir!" He turned, slowly, unable to tear his eyes away from the macabre scene unfolding on the streets as the panic began to shift from madhouse into pure chaos. His intern leapt from the lift, reams of dot-matrix paper spilling from her arms. The tail end of her report caught in the lift doors as they closed and she jerked back, nearly sprawling on the marble before catching herself and yanking it free with a loud tear. She scurried up to him, feeding him the paper the way she fed it into the computers every day.

"Sir, look!" she gasped, goggles shoved sideways on her forehead to keep the teal bangs out of her eyes. "The miasma is being affected by the dry air and is spreading faster than we could have imagined!"

"Jean…"

"Unless it rains—no, until it rains, we're looking at biohazards on a countrywide scale! We have to contact someone!"

"Jean—"

"Please, go get Mr. Cantabella and tell him to phone Parliament; we have to get governmental aid underway or else we're looking at nearly 1/5 of London's population succumbing within a fortnight! This is a calamity on scale with the Black Death!"

"Jean!" The girl stopped short, catching her breath in one quick inhale. In the five months she'd been interning under Newton, he'd never once raised his voice to her. "Mr. Cantabella is gone." Her mouth worked wordlessly, shoulders heaving as she looked from his face to the door, to the lift and back again.

"G-gone?" she licked her lips, fingers rising to her chin. "Gone where?"

"His daughter is very ill. He's moving her somewhere safe." He saw the confusion in her eyes. "He may be back soon." A lie. Arthur Cantabella was not coming back. He had abandoned his own company. As head scientist… it was his burden now. "In the meantime, I'll make the calls. Go home, Jean."

"But—" He cut her off with a hand on her head. She was tiny for her age, and very young to be an intern at that. He felt, sometimes, like she was more of a daughter to him than a future potential colleague.

"Get your family and leave while you still can. They'll be closing off the borders soon. At least make it into the countryside. Leave the city."

"But what will you do?"

"I'll stay here and manage as best I can." He felt the first stirrings of tickling in his throat. The miasma was leaking in from under the door, perhaps? Or was it filtering up through the ducts from the compromised laboratory?

"I'll help you, then." Her eyes sparkled with determination. It was a face he'd seen directed at him many times before; he knew how obstinate she could be. "Together, we can start work on a cure before—"

"No." He ruffled her hair before gently tugging the goggles off her head, placing them around his neck. You are young. You have a life ahead of you still. You have family that cares about whether or not you live. "Go, Jean. We'll meet again someday."

"M-Mr. Belduke…?" He pushed her towards the door, as one might do with a stray puppy that attaches itself to a master. "Mr. Belduke, if you stay here, you'll breathe the air and… and you'll… you can't find a cure all on your own!"

"I'm not the top scientist in the UK for nothing, you know." He smiled at her, forcing his lips to mimic the look and feel of a fond farewell. "Good-bye, Ms. Greyearl. It was a pleasure to work with you." He could see the tears swimming in her eyes, even as she backed towards the door.

"Do-don't give up hope, Mr. Belduke." Her voice, though faint, was just as determined as ever. "I believe in you. You can do it… you can do it!" She bit back a sob, turning and bursting through the door into the outside. In the few seconds between it opening and the automated system shutting it, he could hear the din of human screams, choking off into violent hacking. Even though it was futile, he held his breath until the door locked with a heavy snap.

Life was self-preserving.

Clearing his throat, he walked over to the receptionist's desk. It took him a moment to figure out the proper buttons; he was used to phoning only the lab, instead of the entire building. But he sighed in relief when he heard the trio of beeps play above his head, to his sides, and all throughout the many labyrinthine levels of Labrelum HQ.

"Everyone, cease your work. We can no longer stand against the inevitable. The chemicals released from Test Center 4 are spreading through the city as we speak. You've seen the readouts, and you know the odds. It is imperative that you take what precautionary measures you can before you breathe too much in." He couldn't see or hear anyone left in the building, but all the same there was a collective sense of dread, as if every staff member listened with bated breath.

"We have to flee the building, and London itself. Mr. Cantabella has already left for abroad, and I plan to leave… soon. Go, and may we meet again under more auspicious circumstances." He hung up with a click that sounded deafening in the raised ceilings of the antechamber.

The lift was deserted. Apparently, anyone still left was taking a leaf out of his book and using the stairs as a faster way to get down. Or perhaps it was the emergency training that always said never to use the lift in a crisis. Either way, he managed to make it from the ground floor to his top-story office suite without meeting another soul.

He walked to the window and looked down, seeing the lines of people cramming the sidewalks. Even as he watched, white lab coats and business wear joined the throngs. The few who dared to drive their cars found themselves swamped and ended up abandoning them, carrying what they could as they tried to fight their way amidst the others. They looked like ants, scurrying around only without the hive mind. The ones who fell were trampled, alive or not.

He sat as his desk, fingers reaching across the cool, safe wood. Jean was right. He would die if he remained. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. This was ½ his company, and he was just as responsible for whatever it did. Whereas Arthur abandoned ship, he had to take the helm as captain and sail home, even if he were as ill-fated as the soul who tied himself to the wheel in Dracula.

He reached again for a phone, this time dialing out. He hesitated before punching the number, trying to remember the digits he hadn't used in years. He tapped the speaker icon, the tinny sound of ringing filling the otherwise silent room. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

You have reached the number of… a human woman's voice interrupted the robotic soundtrack, speaking slowly and clearly. "Eve Belduke."… The voice mailbox is full. If you'd like to leave your message in another mailbox, type the code now, followed by the pound sign.

He hung up. Waited a moment, dialed again. This time, it only rang once before the robotic soundtrack played again. You have reached the number of… He picked up the receiver until he heard the dial tone, and let it hang from his fingers until the sound was too much to bear. He tried once more, just for the hell of it, and again only one ring played before the oh-so-helpful robot tried it's best to let him leave a message.

"So, you're still avoiding my calls." He ran his hands through his hair, mussing the ponytail. What could he do? His only daughter wouldn't speak to him even on a good day, and he couldn't leave a message. Her voicemail was probably filled with birthday messages and awkward attempts to apologize from the past five years. He doubted she even listened once she heard his voice on the recording.

He couldn't warn her, so she might die. Just another thing that he couldn't prevent. If he hadn't been so hard on her, if he'd just stopped work and listened when she called, if he hadn't forced her to be the daughter he'd envisioned, even when she wanted to be a prosecutor… perhaps they'd be fleeing the city together.

He could leave a note, but there was no way that she'd find it. In approximately ten more minutes, Labrelum would enter automatic lockdown mode. The emergency siren still hadn't been turned off in Test Center 4, seeing as everyone within was lying dead, their skin burned until it melted and fused to the metal floor and grates, their hands stuck to the doorknobs and grinning skulls twisted askew on their necks, eyeballs pooling in the sockets.

The outer doors would lock; the windows bar themselves, the Test Centers and Laboratories shut their steel doors and wait for the key that would unlock them once more. There were only two special keys, and he had neither one of them. The air filtration system would turn on, keeping out the miasma but leaving him to starve. He wouldn't be able to access the lift or the stairwell. He would die a slow, painful death all alone on the top floor of the company skyscraper.

No. I am leaving.

Life was self-preserving, but willpower was its downfall.

He reached into the side drawer, pulling out his key. He looked at the lone decoration in his office, a picture of his late wife and estranged daughter. They were almost identical, especially now that she was a young woman and not the happy little girl that sat so demurely on her mother's lap.

Eve would survive. She was a good girl, a smart girl. Law study would have honed her judgment, given her new perspectives. She had money of her own, legal settlements from her mother's posthumous account, inheritance that he'd given to her, but she'd refused to use. She knew how to read people, to see what they were really thinking. There was hardly a person in the world who could take advantage of her. She wasn't the baby bird in her mother's loving hold; she had spread her wings and soared far into the sky, farther than he could reach. He could do no more for her now.

He touched the eternal smile of his late wife, feeling even through the growing numbness in his chest the pain of her premature departure. The terrible, terrible accident that had ripped her from his arms. Perhaps, in some way, he'd deserved that too. And it had only furthered the rift between him and his daughter; while he'd wallowed in his misery, she had needed him. But surely his wife had understood. Just as he understood what Eve would feel. He stood from the chair, key clutched in his fist. Darling… I am coming. Soon.

He pulled the trigger.