Rochelle

by dbowen09

This short story covers the back-story of character, Rochelle, and the events leading up to the game's introduction as I envisioned it. This is just my spin on it and should not be taken as canon.

The Heat of the Moment

With one arm propped against her passenger's seat window as a headrest, Rochelle was growing weary of the Georgia scenery scrolling past her in an endless loop of pine trees and rural houses. She could feel the heat issuing through the glass of the window against which her arm was pressed, but it wasn't until the van made a pit stop for fuel that she experienced the uniqueness of a summer's day in the Deep South. The instant her driving companion opened the driver's door, the past four hours of air-conditioned contentment escaped along with Rochelle's patience. "Jacob, I can't believe I let you talk me into taking this story. There's no way I can go on camera in this weather." With every breath she drew in order to further her complaints, her lungs heaved to process the heavy summer air. In Columbus, summer was tolerable for Rochelle, but Northern Georgia hung thick with a humidity that accelerated the beads of sweat on her forehead into steady trickles. Jacob paid her little attention. He had been born and raised in Memphis and was no stranger to hot, muggy summer days. It was only after moving to Columbus, Ohio to accept a lead anchor position with the Eyewitness 10 News Crew that he appreciated the meekness of northern states' summers. Winter, however, was quite different for him; he quickly realized that if it had been January and they were reporting in Columbus, his mood would likely be just as sour as Rochelle's was now. The polarity in personalities between Jacob and Rochelle was supposed by others at the television station to be the key to their success as co-anchors. Jacob loved the heat and hated the cold. Rochelle hated the heat and loved the cold. At that moment, both Jacob and Rochelle secretly envied their co-workers back in Columbus. Rochelle envied the fact that they were enjoying cool air in the comfort of their offices. Jacob did not mind the warmth. His envy was basic: they were spared an eight hour trip with Rochelle and her compendium of complaints. The gas lines were painfully long too. The emergence of a strange disease circulating in the southeastern United States had caused a panic among everyone. For the past three days, people all over the region were sweeping grocery store shelves of every slice of bread, every drop of milk, every carton of eggs, and gas stations of every gallon of gas that folks could pack into their vehicles. In an odd way it resembled the way investors made bank runs on the stock market in the late 1920's to spark the Great Depression. The store owners were out to make a profit off everyone's hysteria as well. Amidst her grievances about the line of vehicles queued before the pumps, Rochelle deadpanned when she noticed a banner was being raised over the station's roadside gas price sign, which in hurriedly scrawled handwriting of spray paint, read, "4 Gallon max per car - $25/gal!" The crowd erupted in a frenzy. Soon, neighbors turned on neighbors, physical brawls littered the ribbon of waiting cars, and the beginnings of a mob crowded outside the now locked and barred doors of the store. Rochelle's attitude of discontent quickly evolved into one of confusion and anger. "Jacob, they can't just do that. Why are they rationing gas? Why are they jacking up the price? Jacob? JACOB!" His eyes were fixed on the calamity that was spread before them. The vicious, primal, and greed-stricken reactions of all the people entranced Jacob. He had forgotten all about Rochelle until she latched her arms upon his shoulders and shook him back to clarity. "Sorry," exclaimed Jacob, "I've just never seen people act so crazy before. Let's get out of here." Hurriedly, the van kicked up a cloud of red dust from the station lot as the two continued toward Savannah, Georgia.

The sun was well into its dusky descent when the news van parked crookedly in a spot at the Burger Tank. Rochelle made a beeline from one air-conditioned location to the next, jingling the bells on the front door as she whirled into a booth at the back of the restaurant. Burger Tank was an interesting eatery. It combined the convenience of fast food with the hospitality of a serving staff. She had hoped for a clean, welcoming establishment in which she could relax. A fine layer of greasy residue coated her table, the floors, the walls, the napkin dispenser, the plates, the glasses, the wait staff, and soon, Rochelle herself. Great, she thought to herself, sweat, dust, now grease. Savannah better have a shower waiting for me! A portly woman roughly aged to her late thirties swept by Rochelle's table precariously balancing a stack of slippery plates in her arms. "Be with you in just a sec, hun." Rochelle was in no mood for waiting, but she had been doing so all day, and one more delay was not likely to make a difference. When the waitress returned to Rochelle's table, the stench of body odor and cooking oil quickly followed. Rochelle immediately drew her attention to the unfortunately large and ill-placed mole on the waitress's chin. Vanity had always been one of her absolute necessities, even before she became the face all of Cleveland associated with Eyewitness 10. The mole made Rochelle's stomach churn, but she had not eaten since they left Ohio. Almost perfectly in line with the mole, pinned just above her left breast was a nametag, which scrawled in permanent marker displayed the name "Bobbi." Bobbi? What kind of hick name is that? Rochelle hated the South. She hated the weather, she hated the people, and she especially hated the bugs. All of which persisted no matter how hard she tried to ignore them. As Bobbi placed greasy silverware on the table, Jacob finally appeared at the doorway and took a seat across from Rochelle. "What took you so long?" piped Rochelle. Before Jacob could respond, Bobbi seized the opening in the conversation to introduce herself. "Hey ya'll, I'm Bobbi and I'll be takin' care of ya. You two thirsty?" The mole on her chin bounced with each syllable she uttered. "Water," Rochelle spat out while Jacob mumbled, "coffee." Rochelle eyed Jacob in search of an answer to her question of his tardiness. "Oh, right. Some old man outside saw the news van and was just curious about why we were in Georgia. According to him, there are rumor's flying around that this flu or whatever on the East Coast we are going to report on is really spreading quickly." Jacob continued by peering over his shoulder in a manner that suggested he wanted the next part of his conversation to be private. "He said that people in Savannah, Atlanta, and in a lot of other cities on the coast are acting very strange too. Almost like mad dogs or something once they get sick. The old man also told me he saw milit-." Jacob cut his sentence short when Bobbi appeared at the table with drinks in her hands. She then took their food orders. Rochelle had quickly discovered that there was nothing on the menu except burgers. Granted, there were several varieties of burgers from which she could choose, but hamburgers had monopolized the menu. Rochelle went with a veggie burger while Jacob settled for a plain bacon cheeseburger. "He said he saw military vehicles on the interstate heading for Atlanta just a few minutes ago," Jacob discretely finished as soon as Bobbi was out of earshot. Rochelle's response to Jacob's concerning statements was ignorant and laced with pessimistic judgment. "They probably can't keep people from looting stores like they did when Katrina hit New Orleans. Sheesh, people down here just don't know how to act." Jacob knew that he would not be able to argue with Rochelle. Instead, he merely nodded and sipped his coffee, wincing as the first taste proved to be not only hot, but at the brink of boiling. His burned tongue put him in no mood to continue the conversation. The mounting concern over the East Coast Flu put him in no mood to talk. But, most of all, Rochelle's constant bitterness was what kept him silent. He nodded, sipped his coffee (more cautiously this time), and occasionally added a passive "mmhm" or "yeah" throughout Rochelle's tirade on Southern culture. "And that's another thing, New Orleans is the worst out of them all. Not only are the people rednecks, but they're Cajun, swamp rednecks. I'd rather die than have to go there." Having been born and raised in Memphis, one of the most iconic cities of the South, Jacob took a fair deal of offense to Rochelle's comments, but had learned not to cross wires with her, especially while working. It may have been two minutes or it could have been an hour, Jacob was not keeping track of the time. Nonetheless, when Bobbi returned with two grease-glazed plates, piled high with fries and burgers, his mood elevated slightly. He just hoped that they had gotten Rochelle's order correct. He was almost at his wits' end over her ranting. Jacob slid the top bun off his bacon cheeseburger and drowned the cheese-meat marriage in ketchup. No sooner had he flicked the lid closed on the ketchup bottle had Rochelle finally found a reason to complain about her food. Jacob watched as Rochelle flung tomatoes, onions, pickle chips, and lettuce leaves from her plate. "If I wanted all those vegetables on my burger I would have asked for them." Jacob could not help but crack a smile at the irony of the situation. As she plucked the last pickle chip from the unnaturally gray surface of her veggie burger, the television mounted on the wall across the restaurant immediately hopped from an episode of Judge Judy to breaking news from the Atlanta 5 News channel. "The old man wasn't kidding, Rochelle," said Jacob, "the military is trying to keep order in Atlanta." With almost a quarter of her burger devoured, Rochelle glanced up from her plate to see the breaking news. She had always liked watching other news teams cover the news. Actually, she had always liked criticizing other news teams and pointing out their journalistic flaws. "If things are as bad in Savannah as they are in ATL, then this will be the story of the year," exclaimed Rochelle. "This may just be that big story I've always deserved to cover." Jacob's eyes rolled in their sockets. "Well, you better thank our sister station in Savannah when we get there," said Jacob. Eyewitness 42 was their affiliate network in Savannah. Most of their crew called in sick a few days ago, prompting the need for some help from Cleveland's Eyewitness 10 in covering the outbreak. Jacob seized the opportunity to help out fellow journalists. He guessed that Rochelle tagged along only to one-up him on camera as she frequently did.

The reporter covering the Atlanta infection on the television was aboard a news chopper and was coated in dirt. "We are bringing you footage, live from above southeastern Atlanta. The military has quarantined the entire metropolitan area in an effort to contain this mysterious sickness. The Civil Emergency and Defense Agency has set up several aid shelters and mobile research labs right here on the streets below us." The reporter was frantic, but still composed. "As you can see CEDA agents are taking no precautions, wearing biohazard suits. Officials from the Agency have instructed people to stay indoors, to stock up on non-perishable food items, and for everyone to wash their hands frequently. Healthy hands save lives. With us live in the ATL 5 news chopper is CEDA Chief Public Health Agent, Dr. Everett Jennings. Dr. Jennings, what can you tell us about this epidemic sweeping the Southeast?" Dr. Jennings was a bold-faced man with a shock of gray hair above his wrinkled forehead. He spoke directly at the camera with a rich Southern tone. "Mark, a lot of people in Atlanta are beginning to panic over this flu. As a medical expert, I want to tell everyone watching this to remain calm and ride this thing out in their homes. Infection seems to be spread through direct contact with bodily fluid. This 'green flu' as it is being stylized is nothing more than a beefed up vase of influenza. Still, people should remain cautious and practice good hygiene. Frequent hand-washing and isolation from any infected individuals will prove to be the safest course of action. We are conducting field research to try and find a cure for this before it spreads much further." The reporter cut in to ask a follow-up question. "The hospitals are beginning to fill up quickly, what is your advice to people who may have come in contact with this infection?" "Stay indoors and drink plenty of fluids. Most importantly, stay calm. The infection does not appear to be lethal." "Where did this disease originate? Is it tropical, domestic?" "Mark, I can't really discuss the details of our ongoing research; however, we have started to see a strong correlation between infected individuals and contact with livestock and certain processed meats, but we just can't be certain at this point." The reporter had not received the answer he had hoped. "Thanks Doctor. Stay with Atlanta 5 for more updates on this developing story." "Ya see," Rochelle spouted. "THIS is the story I've been waiting on all my life. We HAVE to get to Savannah before someone steals my story of the century." A bad feeling rose in Jacob's stomach and an even greater feeling of annoyance with Rochelle rose in his chest. "Fine, go cover your stupid story and get sick with the rest of them," he shouted, capturing the attention of the few patrons in the Burger Tank. Boobi was rounding the corner with the coffee pot to refill his cup, but she decided to let the situation defuse before she made things worse. "And what are you going to do," Rochelle's voice cracked with frustration, "go back to Cleveland or cower off home to Memphis?" Jacob had hoped for just that after seeing the news report. "You can't just leave a beautiful little girl like me to deal with all these sick hillbillies." The other customers had shifted their attention from the television to the mounting tension coming from the far table. Jacob was red with anger. "I wouldn't wish you upon those good people any day of the year!" Rochelle's jaw hung for a second. She lunged across the table and delivered a swift open-handed smack squarely across Jacob's stubbled face and in the process capsized an entire bottle of deep, red ketchup onto her white Eyewitness 10 shirt. "NOW LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!" Jacob rubbed his face where the red was beginning the shine on his face. Rochelle similarly tended to the red splotch on her shirt, dabbing at it with a thin napkin, smearing it more than cleaning it. "Just pay and get in the damn van," Rochelle barked. Bobbi hid behind the kitchen doors until she heard the door of the ladies' restroom slam shut. She made her way to Jacob's table and gave him the bill and a few words of encouragement. He paid Bobbi, left a handsome tip and shuffled through the door and into the van. For a second he contemplated leaving Rochelle in the depths of Georgia. Would serve her right to have to ask these folks for help. Jacob was a man of soft character and removed the thought from his mind as Rochelle stamped out of the Burger Tank, looking more like a gunshot victim than the prudish television anchor he knew. "Don't leave yet," Rochelle snapped, "I have to change shirts." As she rifled through her luggage bag in the back of the van, Jacob mulled over the option of putting the van in reverse and backing right over her. Yet, again, his good nature struck the notion from his mind. After roasting in the van for far longer than he had wished, Rochelle finally emerged from the restaurant wearing a neon pink tee-shirt. "Depeche Mode," Jacob asked, reading the print on Rochelle's shirt, "What's that?" "Only my favorite band of all time. Sheesh, culture yourself some. Besides, it's the only thing I had left." Jacob was plenty cultured. He reasoned that perhaps Rochelle may have been a bit too cultured. He put the van into gear and pointed it towards the interstate, merging onto the southbound lane.

The "SAVANNAH 20 MILES" sign disappeared in the rearview mirror as the van sputtered down the interstate. Rochelle had kept silent ever since they left the Burger Tank fifty miles ago and Jacob had been grateful for every second of it. The van was just cool enough to tolerate; both Rochelle and Jacob dreaded leaving the air-conditioned interior whenever they were to arrive in Savannah. As the Spanish moss drooping from the trees greeted the news duo closer to the city, the number of abandoned cars on the shoulders of the road grew. Jacob's fear of the worst was taking root in him, yet Rochelle looked on with what he assumed was her senseless ambition to make it big as a reporter. In the dusty rearview mirror, Jacob caught a glimpse of several brown vehicles rapidly approaching them. The closer the vehicles drew, the more peculiar they appeared. A fleet of military jeeps, armored vans, camouflaged personnel vehicles, and trucks mounted with heavy guns sped past them and vanished into the distance ahead. "I hope you're happy," jabbed Jacob. "You do know that we have to stop by a mall or something so I can find some more suitable clothes," Rochelle retorted. Jacob rolled his eyes again and huffed. The abandoned cars flooded the sides of the road, obstructing parts of the right lane in some places. When the van came into view of the Savannah, Georgia exit, Jacob had to carefully maneuver the vehicle around cars strewn on all sides of the interstate. "Oh, Jacob, look!" Jacob braced for something terrible as he looked at Rochelle, saying, "WHAT? WHAT IS IT?" Rochelle pointed from the passengers' side window at a billboard. VISIT THE HISTORIC LIBERTY MALL. 2 MILES ON RIGHT. "We have to stop, Jacob. I am NOT going on camera dirty, sweaty and in this shirt. Knowing he would be fighting a losing battle if he argued, Jacob took the exit and steered the van into the grassy median. Cars blocked the majority of the road ahead. Rochelle would have insisted he bulldoze through them if it meant she could get to that mall. The parking lot of Liberty Mall was strangely empty. Tents had been erected, CEDA trucks interspersed between them and a military truck near the food court entrance. Ahead, a jack-knifed tanker truck blocked their path; the rest of their travel would have to be on foot. Jacob knew what lay head, but decided to let Rochelle learn for herself that the mall was closed. The closer they walked to the mall entrance, the more clearly the sound of shouting could be heard. As Rochelle and Jacob rounded a corner of hedges, a monstrous line of people snaked from the mall's side entrance, through the village of tents, and onto the empty road. "This better not be the line to get into Kappel's." Rochelle smirked at Jacob after her remark and made a beeline to the head of the line. A foul stench pervaded the air the closer she drew to the tents; she blamed this on the poor hygiene of Southerners. Jacob trailed behind her taking in his surroundings with horror. Just as she passed the first set of tents a man in a green biohazard suit confronted her. "What are you doing back here? The line is that way." The CEDA agent clutched a large vial of green fluid in his left hand while pointing across the parking lot with his right hand. Jacob stepped forward and abruptly asked, "Sir, what is going on here?" "The infection has gotten out of control. We are evacuating healthy people out of the city. That line is for screening." Jacob's face flushed as his fears were confirmed. Rochelle interjected almost instantly. "So you're saying that the mall is closed?" "Lady, shopping should be the last thing on your mind right now. I would suggest that you get in line with everyone else if you know what's good for you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do!" Offended, but seeing her argument snuffed, Rochelle turned to Jacob for an alternative. Yet, Jacob was fixed on a thick plume of rich, black smoke billowing from a distant building. "Holy shit, that hotel is on fire," Rochelle exclaimed. "This is the story I've been looking for! Come on, let's go check it out!" Jacob was paralyzed with fear. The only thing he wanted was to be back home with his family in Memphis. Far from burning buildings, far from sick people, far from Rochelle. Rochelle grabbed his arm and attempted to drag him toward the van, but Jacob did not budge. "What the hell are you doing? Come on, we have a story to catch," spat Rochelle. Jacob paused briefly, staring at the line of people before he turned to Rochelle and said, "It's your story, you catch it. Catch it before it gets away from you, catch it before it burns out." His frustration was paramount. "Go film that burning building, go make yourself famous, go run into that hotel. I don't care! Take the camera, and the microphone, and the cables. Take them all because I won't be needing them. I'm joining the CEDA evacuation." Rochelle was surprised by Jacob's bold reaction, but she could not let the story that may define her entire career just slip through her fingers because of her coward co-anchor. "You always were more of a bitch than I was. You tried to be a better reporter than me, you've always been jealous of my abilities. I DON'T NEED YOU, I'M ROCHELLE DOE AND I AM THE ONLY PERSON WORTHY TO BE ON EYEWITNESS 10 NEWS!" Her words were acid. Burn they did, but Jacob's resolve remained absolute. He watched with a multitude of feelings as Rochelle took the van keys from him, started it up and backed the news van into an alley and onto a side street.

Up ahead, the streets were blocked by police. Rochelle let down her window and forcefully barked, "MEDIA. LET ME THROUGH!" at the officer. Much to her surprise, the cop flagged her through the blockade. Rochelle threw the van into park a street away from the flaming Hotel Vannah. She quickly brushed a powdered makeup on her cheeks, snagged the recording equipment and dashed across the street to a crowd of people, CEDA agents and military personnel huddled under a tent. A green and white CEDA trailer sat adjacent to the tent with men in biohazard suits rushing in and out of its doors. Rochelle balanced the camera atop a dumpster, grasped the microphone tightly in her hand, and drew in a deep breath before pressing the RECORD button on the camera. She steadied the camera on the flames licking the south face of the hotel. She could feel the searing heat of the inferno over the sweltering Georgia summer. Quickly, Rochelle positioned herself directly in front of the camera. "My name is Rochelle Doe reporting live from Savannah, Georgia for Cleveland Eyewitness 10. I'm outside the historic Hotel Vannah, which as you can see is engulfed in flames. The infection has swept across the South and Savannah has experienced the worst of it so far. Behind me you can see the army and agents from the Civil Emergency and Defense Agency, or CEDA. They are trying to treat, quarantine, and evacuate people from this burning building." She saw in her peripheral vision a man in a white suit. She motioned for him to come over to her. She hurriedly switched the RECORD button to OFF, asked the man a few questions and then returned the camera to RECORD. "Nick, here, was one of the first people to flee the burning building. Nick, tell me what you saw." Nick was a square-jawed thirty-something year old man in a white suit. "Well, I was at the bar in the hotel when two or three cooks from the kitchen ran out into the lobby covered in blood and screaming something about monsters. Next thing I knew, the whole lobby was full of smoke and I was stumbling for the door." Rochelle looked puzzled after the suited man mentioned monsters. "You said the kitchen chefs were injured and screaming something about monsters. Do you have any idea what they meant?" Nick smirked and gave a silent burp before responding. "I've been hearing stories all day about sick people attacking other people, but those cooks were hurt really bad. I honestly don't know what happened to them, but better them than me." Rochelle paused the recording yet again, scooped up the camera and walked toward a CEDA agent to question him about the infection. Before she reached the green, space-suited man, the soldier outside the tent received a distress call on his radio. "Whiskey Delta, this is Papa Gator. We have a 1201 at the Liberty Mall evac. Requesting all lambs to be transported here immediately for final bird flight. Be advised that carriers are to be grounded. Repeat: ground all carriers." The soldier quickly responded in their coded military lingo. "Roger that Papa Gator. Lambs are topside at the Vannah ready for bird flight." Nick caught up with Rochelle and spun her around before she got any closer to the tent. The expression on his face had changed from the lackadaisical smirk from earlier to a frown of concern and immediacy. "Look, I've got a bad feeling about all this. I've been around cops long enough to know the gist of what they say on the radio. We need to get to that rooftop." Rochelle still had not fully grasped the seriousness and depth of the situation in which she found herself. Nick could tell immediately. "I know what I saw in that hotel. These sick people are turning and attacking folks, killing them! This is not just a flu!" He frantically tried to make her see the urgency of their dilemma. He was almost ready to give up and leave her behind when they both saw a crowd of people, dripping in blood stumbling their direction. Rochelle watched helplessly as the blood-soaked beasts preyed on the people outside a nearby tent, ripping flesh from bone. She needed to be convinced no more.

Rochelle and Nick sprinted to the doors of the hotel. Rochelle was wide-eyed as Nick barricaded the door behind them with a table, one of the lobby lounge chairs, and several luggage carts. "Up the stairs," Nick shouted at her. "But the building is on fire! You want to run up into a burning building?" Rochelle was hysterical. Nick coolly replied, "Trust me, we stand a much better chance against those flames than whatever those things are outside." Reluctantly, Rochelle followed Nick up the stairwell on the right on the lobby. As they ascended the narrow steps, a plump, black man burst through the stairwell doors on the third floor just as Rochelle stepped in front of it. The resulting blow knocked her square on her ass and she lay there dazed until the robust black man helped her to her feet. "Sorry 'bout dat, sweetie. Let's get you up." Rochelle rubbed her head and patted her bun of hair. "The purple and gold football jersey that the large man was wearing had a faint smell underneath the smoke that reminded her of the Burger Tank. All three were confused as two started to ascend the stairs and the other started to descend. "Where is ya'll goin,'" questioned the black man. Nick took no hesitation. "Whatever is down there is a hell of a lot worse than what's up here. There's a rescue on the rooftop." Once Rochelle steadied herself and the fat man made the decision to join them, the trio continued to scale the stairs until they heard a distant shout for help on the fifth floor. The smoke was growing thick and flamed leaped across the end of the hallway as they opened the door in search of the yelling. The first door on the left from the stairwell vibrated as an unknown male voice yelled and pounded on the door from the other side. The black man put his mouth to the crack between the door and the wall and bellowed, "STAND BACK, BOY!" With a splintering smash, he kicked the door in, where an athletic young man in coveralls tied at his waist crouched behind a table. "Get yo ass up, we gotta go!" The black man helped pull the fellow from the burning room. Rochelle immediately caught a whiff of motor oil issuing from the guy they had just rescued. The country boy they just rescued made his way up instead of down, the direction the other three had assumed he would have went. "That chopper sounds like it's 'bout ta take off!" Soot covered his face and he spoke with a Southern drawl that made Rochelle queasy. Together, the four continued to scale the stairs, the heavy, black man stopped frequently to catch his breath. The country boy sprinted up the stairs without looking back. As the three men and one woman opened the emergency exit of the roof access door, a strong gust of wind blew the door shut. Nick and the black man pushed on the door and the four survivors forced themselves onto the roof only to find a helicopter pushing off from the helipad with no chance of it returning.