12 - The Leavetaking
-December 2008
Ella jerked in her sleep and came awake with a sharp gasp. The nightmare in which she'd been immersed faded almost at once, leaving behind trace evidence of its existence in a fluttering heartbeat. All she knew for sure was that she'd been locked in a room somewhere by herself, and something had been trying to get in. The details faded, taking with them the mind-numbing terror that had accompanied them.
It was just a dream, silly, she thought, and rubbed the crumbs of sleep from her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, she sat up and looked around the classroom they now called home. Outside the window, the night sky had a pinkish tinge, with only but the brightest of stars still visible against the backdrop of night. It would be morning soon. She wondered if her Aunt were awake yet; they had watched more than one sunrise together since coming to the lab. Her mother lay beside her on the mattress, buried beneath her blankets, chest rising and falling in the midst of sleep. Ella held still, watching her for a moment, just to make sure she hadn't been disturbed, then carefully pulled her legs from under the covers.
She swung out of bed, careful not to disturb her mother, and pulled on her shoes. The air in their room was freezing cold, and as she bent over to pull the velcro strap tight, her breath rose up like little puffs of smoke that vanished almost immediately. The smoke made her think of her Daddy's friend, the one Mommy had always made go outside with his stinky cigarettes. Was the man one of the dead-faces now, like it seemed everyone was, except for them? Uncle Peter said the monsters were everywhere now, over the whole planet. She wasn't sure she believed him though. How could they be everywhere? But Aunt Liv had not disagreed, so maybe it was true. She finished with her other shoe, then pulled on her coat and slipped out the door, leaving her sleeping mother behind.
The hallway outside was filled with alternating patches of blackness and grayish light. Ella stood still and listened for a moment, wondering if there was anyone else awake. After several heartbeats, the quiet murmur of voices reached her ears, and then a low laugh coming from the direction of Miss Sonia's room. She tiptoed forward until she was even with the narrow window set in the Francises' door. She liked Miss Sonia. Aunt Liv had told her that she had been a kindergarten teacher before the monsters came to life. The smiling woman reminded her of Miss Lisa, her preschool teacher back in Chicago. Miss Sonia was one of those who would be leaving today. Lately, she had been going to the outside with Aunt Liv and Astrid, finding food and clothes and other things. Things they would need for their journey. Ella had watched their return once, from her hiding place in the wall of cars. Miss Sonia had not been smiling then. There had been blood on her hands and clothes. No one said it, but Ella knew just the same; they had been killing the dead-faces. Another laugh sounded through the door, a man's—Mister Charlie's, of course—and she crept closer to the window.
Their room was pitch dark, or near enough to make seeing inside impossible. Mister Charlie had hung thick blankets over the windows—to block out the morning sun, according to Aunt Liv. She had the same in her room, and Peter also. Ella cast a glance back down the hallway, then put her ear to the door's cool surface. She could hear them better now.
"...your head this morning, honey?" Miss Sonia asked. "You haven't had any more of those migraines have you? I still think you should let Walter look at you..."
"It's fine, babe," Mister Charlie said in return. "Really. I haven't had one in days, not since we made the decision to go. I think it was just stress. And I'll pass on any examinations by Dr. Bishop. The guy's a mad scientist, literally." Ella frowned at his description of Dr. Walter. She liked him. He was funny and kind and told the most wonderful stories, and wasn't grumpy all the time like Mister Charlie was. "There's nothing he can do anyway. It's not like he's got an MRI machine stashed in the basement."
Ella wondered what a migraine was, and an MRI machine. Was Mister Charlie sick? Maybe an MRI was some kind of machine that would make him better. She would ask Dr. Walter, later, after they had left. She wouldn't forget.
"Well, it would make me feel better if you let him, Charlie. Who knows what kind sicknesses the dead are carrying, aside from whatever causes the infection. They are decaying bodies, after all."
"I'll think about it. Maybe when we get back, if they're still happening."
"Fine..." Ella thought Miss Sonia sounded a lot like her mommy, when Daddy was still alive. "Just don't let anything happen to you, mister. I couldn't bear to survive the apocalypse without you, you know." She heard a wet, smooching sound and cringed. They were kissing. Yuck. "Do you think Peter is in good enough shape to go? It's only been a little more than a month since he was injured."
She heard Charlie grunt, then tensed, ready to flee at the squeaking of a mattress. "He better be. We can't afford to wait any longer. The weather's already bad, and it's only gonna get worse. But he's right, we do need someone who knows science with us, and he's all there is."
"I guess. Do you think there's something going on between him and Olivia? Has she said anything to you about what happened when she was out looking for him? They've both been acting strange with each other lately."
"You expect me to know that?" Charlie replied with a chuckle. "No, Liv hasn't said anything—like that. But then she wouldn't. I thought women could sense things like that. Like it was some sort of inborn ability."
"I have sensed it, which is why I asked, buddy," Sonia said. "I think...I think they either hate each other, or they might be—"
"I don't want to know," Charlie's voice interrupted. "It's not my business. I can tell you one thing, though, I don't think they hate each other. You about ready? I want to take a look around outside before breakfast."
"Yep, just let me tie my shoes..."
Ella's stomach did a somersault. They were coming! She pulled away from the door and searched for somewhere to hide. Her five year-old mind wasn't sure what would happen if she were caught listening at Miss Sonia's door, but she did know that it would be bad. Bad enough that her mommy might not let her go exploring anymore, that she might be forced to stay inside Dr. Walter's smelly old lab. And the top floor was still a mystery! From up there, she might be able to get a better look at the library across the big field of leaves. But there was no time to lose. The only place nearby to hide was another classroom across the hall, and she raced to the door and pushed inside.
The classroom was full of old desks stacked high with cardboard boxes. The boxes were full of old books, thick and heavy ones with wrinkled and faded covers that were covered in layers of dust. She had been in the room before, weeks ago. She ducked down as the Francises' door opened and pressed herself into the corner next to the chalkboard. A tall shape moved in the hallway through the window, followed an instant later by a shorter one. Mister Charlie said something she couldn't quite make out and his wife giggled, and then their voices grew quieter and disappeared as they moved toward the front of the building.
Ella counted to fifty in her head, before peeking out into the corridor in time to see the double doors that lead outside swing closed. They were gone. She chewed on her lip, thinking about what Miss Sonia had said. There had been a girl in her preschool, Jolie, who had liked to push her down on the playground. When she'd told Miss Lisa that she hated her, her teacher had said it wasn't right to hate, even someone like Jolie. So how could Aunt Liv and Peter hate each other? And why? The thought made her sad. Had Peter done something bad? She wondered what it could be. He'd been stuck inside for weeks while his shoulder healed. Maybe she should just ask him. He would tell her. They were friends, weren't they?
She hurried to the basement stairwell and flew down the steps without hesitation. It was much darker below, but the lack of light didn't bother her much anymore. She had grown used to it, and could hardly imagine what had scared her so the first time she'd been downstairs. What had looked like bites and claw marks were simply dings and dents from being old. She'd let her imagination run wild, so Astrid had told her. The building was ancient, older than even Dr. Walter, and her mind made up stuff to fill in the blanks. What that meant exactly, she wasn't sure. Could her brain do stuff she didn't want it to? How? The idea was more than a little strange, but Dr. Walter was a doctor and a scientist, so maybe he would know if it were true or not.
There was no one inside the lab, but Dr. Walter's snores echoed in the stillness, even through the walls of his bedroom. She stood inside the doorway and listened. The snoring reminded her of Daddy, and how she would wake up in the morning sometimes to find Mommy snuggling in her bed. He snores too much..., Mommy would say, or, I couldn't sleep, sweetie, your father was too loud. It had never seemed that loud to Ella, though—not like Dr. Walter's, at least—but she woke up with her mommy a lot, so it must have been true.
Out of habit, she glanced over at Gene's empty stall and lowered her head, feeling sad all of a sudden. She had woken one morning to find the cow missing from the lab. Gene had died during the night. Her mother and Aunt Liv had sat her down that same morning and had told her the truth after she'd asked. Mister Charlie had buried her in the field, next to a giant tree. A small pile of dirt and a pitchfork stuck in the ground by Dr. Walter marked her grave. She missed the cow, but even she could tell that it had been getting sick from not eating enough. She wondered if they would all die the same way. After a few minutes of melancholy, she left the lab behind.
Her aunt's room was close, across the hall and down a little way. Ella approached the room slowly, being careful to make no sounds that might give away her presence in the hall. The flicker of candlelight shone through the door's window. Aunt Liv was awake. She peeked in through the bottom corner of the glass. Her aunt was sitting at the end of her bed with a blanket wrapped around her, staring down at something she held in both hands. A picture frame? A candle glowed on the floor next to her, bathing her face in orange light and dancing shadows. She looked beautiful in the candlelight, but different than normal. She wiped a hand across her eyes, and Ella heard a sniffle through the door. Why is she so sad? Ella thought, and all of a sudden felt bad for being there, for watching her aunt cry. Should she leave? Or go inside? She was still trying to make up her mind when a heavy hand closed on her shoulder and turned her away from her aunt's door.
"Ella, what are you doing down here?" Peter said in a low voice, when they were far enough away. He was tall, like her daddy, and towered over her. "I don't think your aunt would like you spying on her, do you?" In the shadows of the basement, she couldn't see his face very well, only hear his voice, and it sounded scarier than normal, much scarier. She was in trouble.
Ella panicked. She opened her mouth, but no sounds would come out. A horrible, icky feeling settled deep in her tummy, a feeling that made her want to hide and curl up in a little ball. "Uh...I—I...wasn't spying on her, Peter," she managed to say, and then the words poured out of her mouth. "I—I promise. I just wanted to see if she was awake...she's leaving today, with you and Sonia and Charlie and...and I just wanted to see her before she left, because she's...she's leaving today..."
The dark outline that was Peter stared down at her silently. After a moment he let out a quiet laugh. The hand on her shoulder disappeared. "You're gonna have to work on that, kiddo, if you intend to make any sort of career out of it," he said, and to her enormous relief sounded like his normal self again. "Stick to some version of the truth and keep it simple. That's how all the best cons are done." Ella had no idea what a con was, and told him so. "Well...it's sort of like...like a trick you might play on someone..." He stopped and chuckled again, ruffling his hand through her hair. "Forget about it. Your aunt would so not be happy with me. Since you're not up spying on your fellow survivors, what are you doing up so early? I don't think the sun is even up yet."
Ella lifted her shoulders. "I don't know, I just woke up," she told him. That was the truth, wasn't it?
"That's better, keep it simple," Peter said. "You eat any breakfast yet?"
She shook her head. "No, not yet. But I'm not hungry, Peter." In truth, there was nothing good to eat. She was tired of cereal with no milk, and didn't even like oatmeal, not anymore. Nor did she care for the beef jerky that Charlie and Peter had found a few days ago. The saltiness burned her lips. She wondered where they had found it all. Her stomach chose that moment to growl.
"Not hungry, huh?" Peter questioned, and turned her toward the lab. "C'mon, Miss Bond, let's see what we can find to eat."
#
"And that's perfect," Ella heard Peter mutter as they walked inside the lab. He stopped at the top of the steps and stared toward Dr. Walter's room, whose snores were still loud enough to be heard. He shook his head and then plunged down the steps to the lab floor. "I don't suppose you have a muzzle, do you?" he said, glancing down at her.
"What's a muzzle, Peter?" she asked, watching as he lit a candle on one of the tables. She followed him over to the food shelves. "Is it something inside you?" She noticed that he moved funny, keeping his hurt arm close to his body. She remembered what Miss Sonia had said. Was he okay to go with them? But then Mister Charlie had said he had to. Why? He had only taken his arm out of the holder-thingy the day before.
"You mean a muscle?" he said. "No. A muzzle is something altogether different." He picked up a box of cereal and gave it a shake. "Cheerios?" Ella wrinkled her nose and shook her head, and Peter put the box back on the shelf with a grin. "All right...I can't say I blame you for that. I was never much of a fan of them, either. I was always partial to Kix for some reason. They were pretty simple as far as cereal went, just little puff balls of grain and corn. Good though, especially if you drowned them in sugar, which my mom hated, of course..." He reached for the box of oatmeal, then stopped when he saw her face. "Let me guess...you're tired of oatmeal too, and probably of everything else we have here, aren't you?"
"Kind of...," she said. "I used to like oatmeal, before. And Cheerios."
"Yeah, I know what you mean." Peter pulled two of the paper packages from inside the oatmeal box and walked over to one of the lab tables. A stack of bowls and forks and spoons and knives were laid out in piles on top of a white towel. He grabbed two bowls from the stack and emptied a packet of oatmeal into each. "I'd kill for some pizza, or for some bacon and eggs. You like bacon?" he asked, walking over to the refrigerator.
Ella nodded eagerly. "I love it!" When had she last had any? It must have been at her house in Chicago. Her daddy had always cooked the bacon, her mommy the eggs. She hadn't been allowed to help with the bacon, only the eggs. The oil is too hot, Ella, Mommy had said when she'd ask, though her father would let her flip one strip over sometimes, when Mommy wasn't around. It had been a game between them. One of the pops had stung her arm once, and Daddy had told her not to tell Mommy. She never had. It was their secret.
"Me too...," Peter said over his shoulder. He grabbed a bottle of water and returned to the table. "Although my mom was a vegetarian, so we didn't have it around much when I was growing up."
"What's a...vegetarian?" Ella wanted to know. The word sounded familiar. Had she heard it before? Maybe on TV.
"A vegetarian...," Peter explained as he poured the water into a funnel-shaped glass cup, "is someone who doesn't eat any meat, ever."
"Really?" She frowned, and tried to picture what never eating meat would be like. No hot dogs or chicken nuggets or hamburgers? Was it for being in trouble? "Why would anyone do that?"
Peter shrugged, and carried the water over to one of the little stands that made fire. "Well, there's a case to be made that it's healthier to eat plants instead of meat," he said, "but it's not something I could ever subscribe to. I'm a meat-eater, always have been. Give me all the bacon and rare steaks and cheeseburgers you can. What about you?"
"I'm a meat-eater, too," Ella grinned, and watched as he set the little glass of water on top of one of the stands. She'd never heard him talk about his mother before, or Dr. Walter, either. She wondered where she was, if she was one of the monsters now. She decided to ask him. "Where's your mom at, Peter?"
Peter's hand froze as he reached into his pocket. His face went still, and Ella could tell he didn't like the question. She almost apologized, but then he spoke before she could get the words out. "She...uh...she died," he said after a moment. His voice was terribly sad, and he looked down at the floor for a moment before pulling a lighter from his pocket. "She's not one of the infected, if that's what you're thinking. It...it happened a long time ago, before you were born." He cleared his throat, then waved her closer. "You want to help me light this burner?"
Ella nodded and moved to his side, thankful her mother was still asleep. Peter showed her how to use the lighter, how to drag her thumb over the little roller thing and press down on the red button at the same time. It took several tries, but she finally got the hang of it. The burner's tip sprouted a blue flame and she jerked her hand away, feeling the heat of it.
"You're okay...," Peter said, prying the lighter from between her fingers. "The fire only burns upward." He put his fingertips near the flame, almost touching it off to one side. Ella inhaled and covered her mouth, but instead of crying out, he grinned and showed her his hand. "You see?" he asked, and Ella nodded, tucking the information away. Peter always told her stuff like that; things she didn't know before.
She sat down on a stool and stared into the blue flame, cupping her chin in both hands while waiting for the water to heat up. Her mind returned to what else she had heard Miss Sonia say upstairs, about Aunt Liv and Peter. Did they hate each other? She turned her gaze from the burner and watched him through the gaps between her fingers while working up the courage to ask him.
When the water was ready, Peter poured some into her bowl and stirred the oatmeal in, until it was thick and soupy. "There you go, kiddo, breakfast of champions. It's the last one," he said, sliding the bowl across the table. "Sorry we don't have anything else, believe me. We're lucky we still have propane to heat the water with. When that runs out, we're all gonna be in trouble."
"It's all right, Peter," she said, watching as little clouds of steam rose up from the oatmeal's surface. Ella blew on the first spoonful, then tested it with the tip of her tongue, before swallowing it down. At least it was the cinnamon kind; the apple kind tasted really gross. "I know it's all we have. Aunt Liv says that we have to do what we have to do survive, even if it means eating stuff I don't like."
Smiling, he took a bite of his oatmeal. "Well, your aunt is right about that," he confirmed, and then stared down into his bowl, stirring it with his spoon. "She usually is, about most things."
Ella swung her legs on the stool and continued to eat her breakfast. He didn't sound like he hated her, but she still had to make sure. "Peter, are you and Aunt Liv friends?"
"Are we friends?" he repeated, looking up with a frown. "She saved my life, so I'd like to think so." He started to take another bite and then stopped with the spoon raised halfway to his mouth. "Why? Did you hear something different? Did your mom say something?"
"So you don't hate each other then?"
"Hate each other?" He chuckled and shook his head. "That's ridiculous. Why would you think that, Ella?"
"I was just making sure," she told him, relieved that Sonia had been wrong. She'd known it had to be a mistake. "When I was in preschool, Miss Lisa, told us we shouldn't hate people, even people that are mean, like Jolie was."
"Is that so?" Peter grunted and took a spoonful of his oatmeal. "I guess Jolie was a friend of yours?" Ella shook her head, and described how Jolie used to push her and the other kids around at her school. "Well, I hope your preschool teacher doesn't mind me hating the guy that shot me," he said, then added under his breath. "The whole attempted murder thing is a little hard to get past."
"Peter, what's...attempted murder?" Ella asked as the door to the hall swung open behind them.
#
#
"That's ridiculous. Why would you think that, Ella?"
Olivia hesitated with her hand on the doorknob, surprised to hear Peter's voice from inside. It was too early for him to be awake. She'd been half-expecting to have to wake him up herself. Most days he stayed abed until the sun was well over the horizon. Not that I've been keeping track of him, she told herself, listening to them talk through the door. There could be no avoiding him today, or for the foreseeable future.
Finding Ella up already was no surprise; she seemed to be waking earlier each passing day. More than once she had found her wandering the halls before sunrise, or woken to her niece's smiling face at her bedside. She never minded being woken up, of course, quite the opposite. Every moment spent with her sister and niece was a bonus, time stolen after the end of the world. There weren't many left who could say the same about their families. And today she would leave them behind again.
The weeks had flown past since the decision was made to attempt the journey to the Federal Building. They couldn't wait any longer. Peter's shoulder was as good as it was going to get, unless they waited until spring, and that was out of the question. The season was turning, days growing shorter, and the warm ones growing fewer and far between. After daily scavenging runs, the lab was well stocked with food and water. Enough to last several weeks, by her estimate. And she had been outside the perimeter enough with Astrid to feel comfortable leaving her with the task of acquiring more, should the need arise. Which, god forbid, it never would, as long as everything went according to plan. It had all to go according to plan, or splitting the group would doom them all.
Inside the lab, Ella had said something about preschool and one of her teachers, and the tone of Peter's response was typically cynical. Olivia swallowed the expanding lump in her throat. She turned the knob and walked inside just in time to hear Ella ask what attempted murder was, of all things.
Peter looked up from a bowl of oatmeal and Ella spun around on her stool with a wide smile. Walter's snores carried through the wall of her office. Peter wore his new coat, an expensive-looking parka Sonia had found somewhere off campus while out on a run with Charlie. It was a nice coat, all black with red highlights on the edges, and looked even nicer on him. She peeled her eyes away from him and smiled down at her niece.
"Hey, Aunt Liv!" Ella waved, wearing an exuberant grin. "Peter made me breakfast today."
Unlike her mother, her niece was always happy in the morning. The two of us are similar in that way, she thought. It was a bond they shared, watching the sunrise together. The prior morning was only the latest since she'd brought them back to the lab.
"Good morning, you two," she greeted them, walking over to their table. "You're up early today, baby girl. Peter." His eyes narrowed, furrowing his brow into the quizzical expression he wore frequenlty since that day in his room. Or at least, the few times she'd allowed herself to be in the same room with him, and never alone. Some might call it cowardly, but she was stuck in the middle with him, unable to decide how to proceed. She forced her lips into a casual smile. "What are you guys talking about? Did I hear you say something about attempted murder, Ella?"
"My fault," Peter admitted, gesturing with his spoon. "I may have mentioned our biker pal in the humvee in a less than friendly manner." He was eating with his right hand, she noticed, and his left arm, though out of its sling, was buried deep in the pocket of his coat. "...You hungry? There's some hot water left, and I think I saw another packet of maple brown sugar in the box. You want me to get you some before Walter wakes up? It's his favorite, too, you know."
He shouldn't be going, Olivia worried, lifting her gaze to his face. His beard was trimmed jaggedly, and she suppressed a sudden desire to grab a pair of scissors and fix it for him. Clearly his right hand was not up to the task of keeping it in check. Their eyes met, and neither of them looked away. She'd never told him maple brown sugar was her favorite, though from how vehemently he and Walter had fought over it in the past, it was certainly his. She wondered how he had known it was hers, too. Usually she deferred to the others' preferences if there was a conflict, just to keep the peace. "Thanks for getting her breakfast, Peter." She nodded at Ella and gave him a smile. "You go ahead and eat, I can get my own."
In the oatmeal box she found a plethora of the universally-hated apple packets and a single maple brown sugar. She grabbed a bowl and spoon, and found a beaker of hot water on the table near the Bunsen burners. As she prepared her bowl, the two empty packets Peter had left behind caught her attention; one was cinnamon, Ella's preferred flavor, and the other was one of the apples. Her eyes were drawn to the apple packet like a magnet. She cast Peter a covert glance, watched him take a spoonful and swallow methodically. Almost as if he felt her gaze, he lifted his head and she quickly looked away, feeling her cheeks grow hot. She carried her bowl to the table and took a stool next to her niece.
Ella was nearly finished with her breakfast, but from the remnants left in the bowl, she appeared to be eating the cinnamon flavored variety. "Is that the cinnamon, sweetie?" Olivia asked, watching Peter in her peripheral vision. "That sure was nice of Peter to give you the last one. Did you tell him thank you?"
"Thank you for getting me breakfast, Peter." Ella gave him an adoring look that spoke volumes as to how much time the two of them had been spending together. Rachel was right about him; he was good for her. "Did you know that the cimmanin is my favorite kind?"
"I thought it might be your favorite, kiddo. You're welcome," Peter said, smiling down at her.
"I'm gonna go play with Legos," Ella announced, and hopped off her stool. She hurried to the play table, where all the vehicles and contraptions she'd built over the last few weeks lay scattered across its surface. "Do you want to build something with me, Peter?"
"Sure, I'll be there in a minute, kid," Peter agreed. "One last time before we go." He cast a glance Olivia's way, then began collecting the dirty bowls and spoons.
Heat suffused Olivia's cheeks. Her heart ticked a beat faster. She looked down and spooned up hurried mouthfuls. He always treated her differently than the others. Always. Even when they'd been at odds at various times over the course of their relationship, he was always a gentleman. Was it just gratitude for her having saved his life? She swallowed and took another bite. No. He had recovered her things on his own, long before she'd saved his life. There was more to it. He'd been deferential to her, almost from the very beginning, back when he'd decided to stay in Boston. Even when he'd had every reason to leave. Just because she asked him to.
She eyed him through her lashes as he moved away from the table, taking his and Ella's bowls with him. Something was growing between them, and had been for a while—maybe since the moment she'd met him in Iraq. She couldn't pretend to be blind or ignorant to it. Not any longer, not after what had happened in his room. She had initiated it. And it was a tremulous thing, a flower sprouting in unfertile soil. The question was whether or not she wanted it to take root. Did she? She had before, despite her better judgment, and had been happy for a while, until it all had been snuffed out by an infected's bite. Any one of them could die without warning on their journey. Just as John had. Wasn't it better to be alone, and not take the risk of losing someone again? That was the easy way, the path of least resistance. Peter would never force the issue, of that she was certain. She watched as he cleaned the two bowls out with a paper towel, holding them in place awkwardly with his left hand.
Or, she could take a chance and let things proceed as they would. She could risk more heartbreaking loss and devastation, and just perhaps, if she were lucky, there could be more. The flower might bloom into something beautiful, something full of hope, something worth fighting for, worth surviving for. The bowl Peter was working on slipped from his left hand. It tumbled to the floor with a hollow crash. Walter's constant snores stuttered, and then resumed at their languid pace.
Olivia hid a smile behind her hand as he stooped to retrieve the bowl, then felt bad for doing so at the way his jaw clenched. His shoulder still troubled him, that much was obvious. According to Walter, such an injury normally required several months to heal properly, not a mere five weeks, and a loss of some motor function was not unheard of. He should be staying here to heal, she thought again, keeping her eyes on him. But they couldn't wait any longer, could they? They may have waited too long already. The harshness of the Boston winter was almost upon them.
The bowl slipped from Peter's hand again and he mouthed a silent curse, frustration plain on his face. Olivia had seen enough. She slid off her stool and moved to his side. It was the closest she'd allowed herself to be to him since the moment in his room. "You don't have to do that," she said, smiling up at him. "Let me get it. It's only fair..."
He glanced down at her briefly, then shrugged and resumed cleaning Ella's bowl. "It's all right, I can do it."
"Peter..." She laid her hand over his, and heard the sharp hiss of his breath. "There's no need. Let me help you." For a moment, she thought he would insist. Like any man, he could be stubborn when he wanted to be, and he more so than others. Especially when dealing with Walter, who thankfully was still asleep.
Peter looked down at her with a self-deprecating smile. "Fair enough," he said, and ran his good hand through the thick waves of his hair. It grew shaggier every day. "I've never been a fan of doing the dishes anyway, even when I wasn't an invalid."
Olivia snorted and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "You're hardly an invalid, Peter." She nudged him in the side with her elbow. "If you're that bad off, maybe you should consider staying behind, and letting Astrid go in your place."
"Do you want me to stay behind?" His voice was casual, but the question hung in the air between them. In the background, Walter's snores and the plastic tinkle of Ella's Legos filled the interval of silence.
Of course I want you to stay behind, she thought, wiping the last bit of oatmeal from Ella's bowl. The rational part of her knew that he could take care of himself, even with his bum shoulder. Everything he'd gone through the night he'd been shot proved that, a thousand times over. But the other part of her, the part that wanted to fix his beard and trim his unruly hair, that side of her wanted to keep him out of harm's way, just like everyone she cared for. She froze at her involuntary classification of him, hand outstretched toward the last bowl. Had she just made up her mind? She kept her eyes downcast when she finally replied. "It...doesn't matter what I want, Peter."
"It matters to me."
At his quiet tone, Olivia met his gaze. He regarded her calmly, but there was a hint of something else, deep inside their cobalt depths. The gashes on his forehead from his misadventures were healed. Pink scar tissue ran in a jagged line above his brow. She could keep him safe, this time. "...Then I think we both know that if circumstances were different, there's no way in hell I'd let you go," she told him in flat voice, and dropped her eyes back to the dishes. "You can barely even lift that arm yet, and it's your left arm. But...this was the hand we were given, and we all have our parts to play. That's what we decided. Even Walter agreed...and I thought he never would."
Peter chuckled and the tense atmosphere dissipated. "I'm not sure I'd call it agreement," he said with a crooked grin, "so much as resignation. In the end, I think it was the prospect of new research opportunities that made up his mind. Between me and his research, I'm not sure I'm number one."
"I doubt that very much, Peter," she said, shaking her head. "You weren't here when I had to tell him you'd been shot." Or to see the hope dying in his face when I did, she added silently, hearing again Walter's lamentations in the basement storage room. No, his research was most definitely not more important than his son.
His grin faded. Before he could say anything more, Astrid and Rachel walked into the lab, followed by Charlie and Sonia. Peter gave her a little nod, then left her alone with the dishes. Olivia's gaze followed him to the Lego table where he sat down next to Ella, much to her delight.
"Good morning, guys," Astrid greeted them, walking down the steps to the recessed floor after the Francises. The junior agent's pistol peeked out from under her maroon coat and a pair of ear muffs dangled from her left hand. She had taken late shift in the van the night before.
"Hey Liv," Rachel grumbled, looking as if she'd just awoken. Her disheveled hair lay in tangled golden knots over the patchwork blanket thrown over her shoulders. "Ella, how many times have I told you not to sneak out of the room without me in the morning? I don't like you wandering around down here alone."
"But Mom, I stayed inside...," Ella said without looking up from the structure she was building. She glanced over at Peter. "Peter was with me the whole time, weren't you Peter?"
Peter cleared his throat and met Olivia's gaze before answering. "More or less, Rachel...," he replied, and massaged the back of his neck, a clear sign he was holding something back if she'd ever seen one. She wondered what it was. "I found her in the hall outside the lab, a little while ago. I think she just wanted breakfast. I got her some oatmeal."
She watched as Rachel regarded her daughter with a set jaw. Her sister was a tough mother, but she never stayed angry long. After a moment, she sighed with resignation. "Thank you, Peter," Rachel said, smiling sweetly in his direction. "You're a lifesaver." She and Astrid pulled up stools at the Lego table and looked over Ella's work. "What are you building this time, sweetie? Is that a church?"
"No, it's the library across the field, silly," Ella answered in a tone that was awfully tart for a five-year old. Olivia waited for the inevitable explosion from her sister, but none came, and Ella pressed a block into place and lifted a little rectangular structure for her mother's inspection. "See, Mommy? It has a green roof and the giant windows and..."
Charlie and Sonia approached, pulling Olivia's attention from her niece's explanation. "You eat yet?" he asked, holding up the variety box of oatmeal packets. He took a peek inside the box and frowned, no doubt finding its contents disagreeable.
"Yeah, we just finished up," she said, and passed them each a clean bowl. "What's the weather like out there?" From the pinkness of their cheeks, she suspected she wasn't going to like the answer.
"Oh, it's just peachy...," Charlie muttered, tearing one of the packages open and dumping its contents into a bowl. "Almost Floridian, in fact."
"My husband's trying and failing to be amusing." Sonia patted her husband on the shoulder. "What he really means is that it's fucking freezing out there, Olivia," she mouthed silently. "I'm not lying. How far do you think we'll be able to drive?"
"No farther than the Charles, if that...," she said, dropping her rag on the table. It was about what she'd been expecting. Her classroom had been an icebox upon waking that morning. She could only imagine what the first floor must have been like. Maybe she could convince Rachel to move down to her room while she was gone. "Whichever route we take, the bridges are all going to be blocked, or just missing altogether. Peter and I saw several that had been collapsed by the military. We'll have to see what the conditions are like across the river before we see about getting another vehicle."
"So it's time, then," Walter's voice said suddenly from behind. "You're really going to leave us here?"
She turned to find Walter standing in the doorway to the office. His snoring had stopped at some point, but she'd missed it in all the commotion. He was fully dressed, at least, which was a good sign. Other mornings they hadn't been so lucky. The knee-length tweed overcoat he wore exposed a pair of tan slacks and the collar of his flannel shirt stood out above the coat's floppy lapels. With the bright orange stocking hat covering his head, he looked fairly ridiculous, but quite warm. He looked past her to Peter, and a tremble fluttered his lower lip. She hoped he wouldn't break down in front of everyone; that sort of thing was contagious.
"Good morning, Walter," Olivia acknowledged him, leaving Charlie and Sonia behind and walking over to him. She noticed Peter rise from his stool out of the corner of her eye. "Today's the day; just like we agreed two weeks ago. We can't afford to wait any longer."
"I...suppose it was inevitable," Walter said softly. He swallowed and wrung his hands together in manic fashion. "The time has...flown past, and Peter's shoulder isn't much better than it was then. Is there no way you can wait a little longer? Perhaps waiting another two or three weeks, just to make sure that he has some of his mobility back would be best, don't you think, Agent Dunham?"
"Walter...," Peter started, stepping beside her. "We've discussed this a thousand times already. Unless you're planning on making the journey for me, someone with some kind of scientific background has to go. We're trying to save the human race here. How would you feel if there was a lead on a cure at the Federal Building, and we missed it because there was no one there to recognize it for what it was?"
"But son, what does that matter if I lose you again? What does any of it matter?"
"I'd say it matters quite a bit to everyone else, wouldn't you?" Peter replied. He caught her eye then, and Olivia gave him an encouraging smile before he turned back to his father. He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "I have to do this, Walter, and you have to let me, injured shoulder or not. Okay? There is no other option."
Walter's mouth worked, and then he nodded with reluctance. "I...I understand," he agreed, "Just...just try not to get shot this time, or...or..." He stepped forward suddenly and pulled Peter into an embrace.
Olivia sensed Peter's uneasiness at the close contact. It was in the stiffness of his back and the way his arms were rigid and outstretched behind Walter's back, as if he were unsure of what to do with his hands. Before long, however, he relaxed, folding his hands inward on his father's shoulder blades.
The sight brought to mind the day she'd brought Peter back from Iraq, and his reunion with Walter at St. Claire's just before his release. I thought you'd be fatter, Walter's first words had been. Peter hadn't found the comment amusing, and hadn't been shy about telling him so in withering fashion. Then, Walter had reached in and tried to examine one of Peter's eyes, which had drawn a violent reaction that had revealed the true nature of their relationship. The two of them had come a long way since then. As had she.
"I'm gonna be fine, Walter," Peter said quietly.
"That's what you said last time...," Walter whispered, "and look what happened."
#
The others were already waiting when Olivia finally emerged from the Kresge Building, shielding her eyes. After the darkness of her classroom, the starkness of the noontime sun was blinding. She wore her black winter coat and thick gloves, along with a scarf and her beanie—a treasure she'd found just the other day, stuffed deep inside one of the coat's pockets. Her backpack lay heavy on one shoulder, crammed full of water and food, spare clothes and ammunition. In the hollow of her other shoulder, rested the solid weight of Peter's crowbar—or, more accurately, her crowbar, as he was in no condition to make use of it for the foreseeable future. Inside her coat, the comforting presence of her FBI-issued Glock completed her kit, and the others were similarly equipped and attired. Even Sonia, who, prior to the advent of the apocalypse, had never fired a gun in her life.
She hesitated on the top step leading down to the quad. A crisp wind whistled through the trees on the quad, over the rows of cars and trucks, and into the narrow gap that lay between the Kresge Building and the outer fence. She shivered as the wind fought to pierce the wool of her coat. It was fucking cold, as Sonia had so eloquently stated. A light drizzle the night before had left thin patches of melting ice dotting the concrete walkway, from the building all the way to the van-gate. Over the outer wall, the roof of the maroon Oldsmobile in which she'd driven Peter back to the lab was visible. The faint humming of its engine reached her ears beneath the whispering wind. White puffy plumes of condensation rose up from its rear-end and dissipated in the thin air. Over the last two weeks, Charlie had siphoned enough gas from surrounding vehicles to fill its tank with more than enough to make the journey.
"Are you coming or going, Liv?" Rachel asked from the doorway behind her. "'Cause I'd love it if you didn't have to leave again. If none of you had to. And so would Ella."
Olivia looked back at her sister, at Ella standing at her side. "You know that I have to go, Rach. This is just too important. C'mon, you two." She led them down the steps to the others, who were waiting at the open doors of the van.
"You ready?" Peter asked as she approached. He had foregone a stocking hat for a navy, Red Sox ball cap that Walter had produced from somewhere. "The Eighty-Eight's all warmed up. Should be nice and toasty."
She gave him a reluctant nod, then stepped across some invisible chasm on the sidewalk. A chasm that separated those who were going, from those who were staying. She ran her gaze over her family, re-imprinting their faces and the moment in her memory. A longing to be on the other side with them tightened her throat into a knot, but duty made no considerations for family or personal wishes. The job had to be done, and the task fell squarely on the shoulders of those best suited to accomplish it. Walter stood on the other side also, arms huddled around himself. He had eyes only for his son. Astrid was stationed next to him, with one arm hooked through his, whether for his comfort or hers, it was hard to say. Seeing the entirety of their little group together, the reality that she was leaving, that she might never see any of those staying behind again, struck home with a barbed point. Her heart ached at the sorrowful look on Ella's face; she tried so hard to be brave, but she was still only a little girl, not even six years old yet. Olivia's eyes began to sting and she swiped the tears away with the sleeve of her coat before they could fall.
"I... I guess this is it," she said, pinching her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She couldn't cry here. It would only make everything worse.
Rachel nodded slowly. "I guess so...," she confirmed, and pulled Olivia into a tight one-armed hug. There was a frantic edge to her embrace, that spoke of love and sadness, but mostly of fear. The feeling was reciprocal. "Take care of yourself, Liv. Can you do that for me? I can't do this thing without you."
Olivia nodded onto her shoulder. "I will," she promised in her ear. "As long as you do the same. Don't get too frustrated with Walter, he means well. And don't take any pills he gives you, not unless you run them by Astrid first. I love you..." She released her sister and dropped to one knee. "Come here, Ella."
Ella moved forward. Her pinched lips curled into a frown. "Goodbye, Aunt Liv," she said in a quivery voice that dropped to a whisper as she went on. "Do you have to go? Why can't you stay here with me and Mommy?"
"Sweetie, you remember my job, don't you?" Olivia placed a hand on either of her shoulders. "And how your mom used to say it was important? Well it's still my job, and it's still important, now more than ever. So I...have to go. Do you understand?"
"I think so," Ella nodded. A tear rolled down her cheek and she snuffed her nose. "But I'm scared, Aunt Liv."
"I'm scared, too, sweetie," she said, catching a glimpse of gold from inside the open neck of Ella's lapel. Her mother's necklace. She lifted it from inside her coat and held it up. "Do you remember when I gave you this? What did I tell you?"
Ella stared down at the cross of gold, then lifted her eyes. "That your mommy gave it to you," she recited, "and that it would keep me safe."
"That's right," Olivia dropped the necklace back inside her coat. "If you're ever scared, you just hold on to that, and think about what I said, okay?"
"Okay..." Ella agreed, then threw her arms about Olivia's neck and squeezed. "Bye, Aunt Liv. I love you."
Her cheeks were ice-cold against Olivia's neck. It was amazing how slight she was, how fragile. How could she be leaving them again? She had sworn to herself that she would not, and yet here she was. The knot in her throat grew painfully taut. "I love you too, baby girl..." she choked out.
Ella pulled away and looked up at Peter with a morose smile. "Bye, Peter," she said, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
"See you later, kiddo," he replied, and ruffled her hair. "Take care of Walter for me, will you?"
She nodded, and after Peter, it was the Francises' turn. Ella hugged them each about the waist in turn, though Charlie's was noticeably less enthusiastic. "Bye, Sonia. Bye, Charlie."
"Bye bye, honey," Sonia said, looking down with kind eyes. "Stay safe while we're gone. I want you to practice you're reading while I'm gone too, okay?"
As a former teacher, the two of them had been spending much time together, working on basic skills such as reading and writing. Ella was already fairly proficient at both for a child of her age. "I will," she said, then stepped back inside the circle of Rachel's good arm.
The others all exchanged their goodbyes, except for Peter and Walter, oddly enough, who merely eyed each other with mirrored stoicism. Or not so oddly, she thought, all things considered. Afterward, there came a moment of tense silence, filled only by the gusting wind and the rumbling of the Oldsmobile on the street outside. The two groups stared across the gulf at each other. There was nothing more to say, no further goodbyes that needed airing. Walter abruptly tore himself free of Astrid's grasp and hurried back down the sidewalk toward the Kresge Building without looking back. Peter watched him go, lips pursed to one side. She thought he might call out or go after him, but he did neither, and she looked away before he noticed her regard.
"Well...you guys should get going," Astrid said as Walter disappeared inside the building. "I'll keep an eye on things here."
"Thanks, Astrid." Olivia gave the junior agent a warm smile. "Hopefully, we shouldn't be gone more than a few days. No more than a week." Hopefully. If all went according to plan. It has to, she prayed silently.
"Make sure Walter doesn't burn the place down while we're gone," Charlie added with a gruff laugh. He pulled open the van door and climbed inside.
Peter chuckled and reached for the backpack at his feet. "Now if only that weren't a distinct possibility," he quipped, slinging the bag over one shoulder. He followed Sonia into the van, leaving Olivia as the last to go through.
Astrid grunted, and glanced back at the Kresge Building. "Don't you worry about that, Agent Francis," she called after them. "I've got Walter under my thumb."
Olivia eyed the darkened interior of the van, and the waiting vehicle through the open doors on the far side. The others were piling inside. She steeled her resolve, then approached the open door and ducked inside. Before passing through, she glanced back and met her sister's melancholy gaze. Silent communication passed between them; wordless pronouncement of love and sadness and fear. "I'll see you in a few days, Rach," she promised. "And you, too, Ella. Thanks again, Astrid."
The junior agent nodded and swung the van's door shut. Before sliding out the other side, Olivia took one last look back through the window. They were heading back toward the Kresge Building, with Astrid holding Ella on her hip, who looked back and waved. Olivia's vision blurred, and she pressed her hand to the window, dragging the pads of her fingertips downward on the glass's smooth surface. Goddamn whoever's responsible for this, she thought, watching them until they had climbed the steps and disappeared inside the building. Someone, a person, or a group of people, more likely, had to be responsible—or their chances of finding a way to fix it were slim at best. She thought of something Peter had said once, something about the cause of the infection being natural, such as the Earth passing through a strange region of space. What chance did they have of finding a cure if it was something like that? Something natural and random, like an asteroid strike in the distant past?
We're not extinct yet, Olivia told herself, turning her back on the Kresge Building.
She climbed out of the van, making sure to lock the door behind her. Outside their perimeter, the street was clear, as it had been for the last month, to the east and west, north and south. There was nothing, no movement at all other than slowly swaying tree limbs and the tumbling leaves. Could all of the infected have just up and walked away? Why? It hardly seemed possible...yet, the evidence stood before her. She had seen it with her own eyes, and had never been one to argue against facts. The slight revving of the Oldsmobile's engine drew her attention back to the present. She was standing in the middle of the street.
The others were already in their seats, with Charlie behind the wheel. She dropped her pack and crowbar into the open trunk alongside the others, then slammed it shut and slid into the backseat next to Peter. As the car accelerated away from the curb she twisted around in her seat, staring out the rear window at the roof-line of the Kresge Building, the brown van-gate, and the wall of cars and trucks just visible over the top of the outer wall. The wall of cars disappeared first, sliding out of view, then the roof-line, and finally the brown van, only after it had dwindled to a dark smear on the horizon.
Olivia settled back in her seat, and watched the vacant Harvard University buildings slide past outside the window. I will see them again, she thought. It was not a promise, but a certainty.
#
The whole of Cambridge stood silent and abandoned, a relic of a past age, like the ghost towns of the American west. Instead of tumble-weeds blowing in the wind it was leaves—leaves everywhere. Cambridge had been a wooded township. The leaves covered every flat surface, sometimes drifting into massive piles up and over the parked cars, against the houses, the storefronts. There was no real color left in them, no autumn reds, yellows, or oranges left. All of nature had dried out. Turned brittle. Skeletal tree limbs danced and swayed to the wind's gusting music. The drab brownness of it all, the staleness, the totality of the unnatural stillness left a sour feeling in Olivia's stomach.
She supposed it was being in a city, in a purely human creation. Out in the country, where nature still held some sway over the land, the lack of people—of motion and movement and sound—would be far less apparent. In her mind's eye, she saw the former residents; the families, the women, men, and children on the sidewalks, in the stores and shops they passed by, playing in the yards, on their bicycles, young lovers out on a stroll, fingertips entwined. Everyone was gone, vanished off the face of the earth, with nothing left to show for their existence but empty husks. They passed another shattered storefront. The blackness of its interior seeped out onto the sidewalk. This is the carcass of humanity, she thought, leaning her head against the window. It's all decaying, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. Until there was not a soul left.
Closing her eyes, she tried to shake herself free of her morbid thoughts. Charlie and Sonia tittered softly in the front seat. They spoke of trivial things, nonsensicalities that only couples who measured their time together in decades could pull of with such ease. Not that she had much experience with such niceties; the majority of her relationships had been measured in months, not years. She thought of John and their short time together, and of the man sitting next to her.
As if the thought had summoned him, a hand touched her thigh. "You okay?" Peter's voice was quiet, pitched to carry not much farther than her ears.
Olivia lifted her head from the window. Concern was written across the furrow of his brow. The sight of it stirred something inside her. She tried not to think of his hand on her cheek, the feathery brush of his lips against hers, if only for an instant. Now was not the time. "Just thinking...," she said with a slight shake of her head. After a moment, she elaborated. "What do you think it's like outside the city? You think there's any large groups of people left anywhere? Any government? Civilization?"
Peter shrugged and glanced out the window. They turned a corner, and the charred remains of a day care center slid past, followed by an impeccable discount fabric store, untouched by damage whatsoever. He grimaced and turned from the window. "Hard to say. It's more than possible, I guess." His voice lowered an octave, and he leaned across the gap between them. "You remember what we saw from your apartment that night?" he said in her ear. "There's certainly someone out there. I'm not sure I want to meet them though." His hand drifted to his left shoulder, where it massaged the gunshot wound through his coat. "Especially not after what happened on the bridge. Maybe it's just the cynic in me, but, I get the feeling that most of the ones who've survived, they're probably more like the bastard that shot me, and less like you. It makes a sick sort of sense, I'm afraid."
The shaft of light they'd seen; she'd all but forgotten it with everything that had happened afterward. As far as she knew, none of the others knew anything about it. She had looked for it on her turn at watch several nights, but it had never shown up. Why hadn't they told them? Wait. What had he said? "Like me?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "And what does that mean, exactly?"
He gave her a lopsided grin. "One of the good guys...," he chuckled, drawing an over-the-shoulder glance from Sonia. "Or girls, in your case. You know what I mean, Olivia."
"You act like you're not one of us, Peter," she said just above a whisper. "The good guys, I mean."
Instead of making some sarcastic remark as she expected him to, his face clouded with an emotion Olivia couldn't put a name to, at first. Was it doubt? She studied his troubled eyes. No. She realized he didn't think of himself that way—as one of the good guys. It wasn't doubt she saw, but a sort of self-loathing. What had he had done, she wondered, during the years spent as a vagabond, drifting from place to place, for him to despise himself? He'd been a grifter. She wanted to tell him that she didn't care about whatever he'd done before. It was the past. All that mattered was that he was trying to be a better man in the here and now, with her, with Ella, even with his father. She wanted to say all that and more, but it wasn't the time or place.
"Am I?" he asked softly after a moment. "You...didn't know me, before."
Before either of them could say anything else, the Oldsmobile rolled to a stop. "If you two are done whispering back there," Charlie said. "I think we've come about as far as we can."
Cheeks burning, Olivia looked up and found his eyes narrowed on her in the rearview mirror. She ignored his questioning look. "Already?" she asked, straightening and turning away from Peter in one motion. The intersection ahead was blocked by a massive pile-up, vehicles joined together in eternal embraces of rusting, twisted metal. At least ten cars. "That was quick."
"Well, I wouldn't be getting my hopes up just yet," Charlie said. "We still have a ways to walk until we reach the river."
Peter leaned forward, squinting out the front windshield. "Shit. You couldn't get us any closer? We're still like ten blocks away, at least."
Charlie shook his head and exchanged glances with his wife. "Unlike you two, we've been watching the side streets," he explained. "They're all jammed, just like this one. We could probably backtrack a bit, maybe come in more from the north, but I don't know that it would save us any time. What do you think, Liv?"
Olivia pretended not to hear his little dig, and twisted in her seat, taking in the view from all sides. They were stopped in a wide intersection in the eastern part of Cambridge, north and west from the Longfellow Bridge, where they had decided to try to cross the river first. It was one of the eastern most bridges over the Charles in Cambridge, and a direct route to the Federal Building. The area was mostly commercial, with medium-sized office buildings dominating both sides of the street. In the distance, stood a tall, monolithian structure, topped by a giant sphere-shaped object; some sort of weather or radar equipment, she supposed. The tower had a grayish exterior, with a grid of rectangular windows on its wider dimension, and was as smooth and as featureless as concrete on its narrower side. It was a familiar building, the tallest in Cambridge and part of the MIT campus, if her memory served her right. She eyed the gaping hole in one of the upper floors, then lowered her gaze to the street. Nothing moved ahead of them, among the parked cars, nor in the broken windows of the surrounding office buildings. The horizontal bar of the stoplights in the intersection bounced rhythmically in the wind. If there were any infected in their immediate vicinity, they would have heard the car and been on their way.
She met Charlie's waiting eyes. "We might as well walk from here. We'll take a look at the bridge, and then go from there. Agreed?"
"Sounds good to me," Sonia said over her shoulder. She pushed open her door and got out. "This car stinks to high heaven..."
Charlie shut the engine off and followed his wife outside, leaving Peter and herself in the car alone. He appeared less than happy with the decision to get out and walk. "Coming, Peter?" she asked, glancing over at him with her hand on the door handle.
"Have I ever mentioned that I hate the cold?" he asked as the trunk lid opened behind them. "I've told you that before haven't I? In fact, there's not much that I hate more."
"Nope. Never. C'mon, it'll be fun." She shoved open her door and got out.
"Fun?" he called after her. "You're starting to scare me, Olivia..."
#
The walk as it turned out, was not so fun after all. In the corridor-like spaces between buildings, the cold wind tore at her coat and bit at the fabric of her jeans as they moved eastward toward the Longfellow Bridge. The iron crowbar on her shoulder felt like a bar of ice through the thin cloth of her gloves. Olivia found herself switching hands frequently, and shoving her free hand deep into the pocket of her coat, scrounging for what little warmth she could find there. She noticed the Francises doing the same with their matching aluminum baseball bats. Sonia had played softball in college, and had a deadly swing. Of the four of them, Peter was the only one with no weapon on his shoulder. A simple long-bladed knife hung from a sheath on his belt. It was all he could manage with his right hand—and that poorly, so he claimed. She worried about him, about what might happen if they were surrounded again. Two hands had been a requirement for survival outside the boathouse.
That isn't going to happen, Olivia thought, eyeing him askance as he walked at her side. He'd produced a pair of black sunglasses from somewhere, and they looked very nice on him, she had to admit. She turned away from him before her glance could turn into a stare. They would be careful. They had to be careful. Methodical, with no foolish mistakes. It was the only way they were all going to make it back alive.
The streets were still and silent. They moved forward in short bursts, staying low and keeping their eyes peeled on the dark places in which the infected might secrete themselves. Broken glass crinkled under the soles of their boots. Clumps of sodden trash— mostly sheets of blank printer paper, from the look of it—decorated the sidewalks. It was everywhere, as if paper had rained down from the sky. She glanced up at the fractured office buildings, imagining what concussions had rocked the area. She'd probably even heard them, back at the lab. There certainly had been no shortage of explosions. The mangled remains of cubicled office spaces were outlined in more than one shattered window. What had been the point of any of it? she wondered, returning her gaze to the street.
Just ahead of them, Charlie stopped all of a sudden, pulling his wife down next to a parked car as a furious baying broke out somewhere to the north. Olivia sucked in a breath at the noise; it had been months since she'd heard a dog or a cat, or any household animal for that matter. The out-of-place sound seemed fairly close, possibly less than a mile away, though it was difficult to tell the distance with corridors of buildings reflecting the sound back at them from competing directions. She pulled Peter into a recessed store entrance.
He cocked his head and listened with narrowed eyes. The howling died out almost as soon as it began. "I haven't heard that in a while," he said, peering to the north. "Sounded big, like a Rot or some kind of Sheperd, or maybe even a—"
A flurry of barking erupted once again, somehow more desperate than before. Intertwined with the barking was a guttural roar that was ferocious enough for a mountain lion, though that seemed unlikely given the location. She'd never heard anything like it. It's probably a wild cat or a raccoon, she reasoned, Or maybe even a fox or a coyote. She recalled hearing something about increasing coyote sightings on the outskirts of Boston before the outbreak. The competing howls of animal rage ebbed and flowed. Abruptly, the dog's tenor changed, turning from anger to high-pitched squeals of pain that lasted for an instant only. The empty silence that followed put her hackles up.
"What the hell was that?" Peter's voice was a whisper.
Olivia swallowed and shook her head. "I have no idea. It sounded like some kind of wild animal," she replied, scanning the northern side of the street and feeling decidedly uneasy. Are there bears in Massachusetts? she thought, watching as Charlie and Sonia rose slowly to their feet.
"In Boston?"
"I don't know, Peter...," she said, shrugging her shoulders. Her hair felt as if it were standing on end. Who knew where animals were anymore? There had been no humans around for months. The earth's greatest predators had vanished in the span of several weeks, and that had to have caused some lasting effect. Maybe they were expanding their territories, moving into areas previously untenable. She shifted her grip on the crowbar, feeling its heft. It was not reassuring, nor was her pistol's weight on her belt. "Let's not stick around to find out."
"I'm right behind you," Peter said, following her out of the recessed entryway.
Charlie settled his baseball bat up onto his shoulder. "So that was a little weird, don't you think?" he said as she joined them. "Haven't heard a goddamn dog for weeks, and then we have world war three erupt on our doorstep."
"No weirder than anything else that's happened, Charlie," Olivia countered, adjusting the beanie's position atop her head. "Although...I feel better that we didn't try coming in from the north. We should go. I was hoping to be over the river by now."
"What was that second one?" Sonia asked with a frown. Her eyes roved the surrounding buildings. "It didn't sound very nice. Was that even a dog?"
"If that was a dog, it was definitely more Cujo than Lassie," Peter remarked, absently fingering his shoulder. He'd been touching it a lot, Olivia noticed. She wondered how much pain he was in, and if he would tell her the truth if she asked. "Not something I'd care to encounter with anything less than a deer rifle, or even better, a tank."
"It doesn't matter," Olivia said, though she silently agreed with him. Whatever it was, it had sounded big and unpleasant. "It's nowhere near us, and we've only got a couple more blocks until we're at the bridge. Let's go."
There was no further discussion of the strange animal they had heard, but it lingered in the back of her mind as they crept forward, more alert than before. As they drew nearer to the bridge, the lines of traffic became less orderly, more desperate. At a fork in the road, four lanes converged into two, and chaos had ensued. Cars and trucks were packed together in a tight wedge from sidewalk to sidewalk. Fenders were rumpled, door panels crushed. Trampled bodies lay in heaps in what gaps there were between the vehicles, and on the sidewalks up against the buildings. Some still moved and twitched. The sour stench of death permeated the area. They moved further into the cloud. The drivers must have climbed out the windows to exit their vehicles, she realized. Dark stains dotted the pavement. A single shoe was wedged beneath the front tire of a white Cadillac, with a foot still inside. The attached leg disappeared beneath the vehicle's frame and quivered grotesquely as she moved past.
She could envision what had happened; the mad rush to leave the city, only to find themselves trapped, infected in front and behind. Had they fought amongst one another before the freshes had overtaken them? Before the freshes had eaten them, and in turn, created more, spreading the infection exponentially. What about the infected girl she and Peter let leave the scene of the accident? Had she been the sole source on this side of the river? How many deaths lay at her own feet? Undoubtedly thousands, tens of thousands, maybe. The number kept her up at night, huddled alone under her blankets. That small part of the whole was her fault, despite what Peter and Charlie had said. She should have been quicker to realize the direness of the situation. Walter had told her.
"Well this looks like it must have been a great time," Peter commented, grimacing down at the shoe and leg as he moved past. The leg continued to twitch as it disappeared from view. "You think any of these people woke up that morning thinking the world was gonna end?"
"I know I didn't," Sonia said. "I didn't even know anything was wrong until I turned the news on that first night." She glanced at Charlie and shook her head with rue. "I was waiting for your call, honey. You never did."
Charlie grunted and scrubbed a gloved hand through his dark hair. "I was a little busy at the time, babe," he said in dour tone of voice. "Trying to stay alive, avoiding being eaten. You know how it is. John and...I were at ground zero, at Boston General, freshes everywhere. They were like fucking locusts. I still don't understand how it could have spread so fast."
"I know now," Sonia said quickly. "I'm not blaming you, Charlie. I never did, not even for an instant." She gave him a peck on the cheek. "I knew you'd come for me, though. I always knew."
Olivia watched their interaction, thinking of John, of what little he'd told her of the chaos at Boston General. She had not known. Part of her had held out small hope, but mostly he had been dead in her mind, until the three of them had walked up to the wall of cars back at the lab out of the blue, looking like they'd been through hell. She and the others had had it easy in Cambridge. With the warning Walter had given them, they had started building the perimeter wall right away, and not a single person had even tried to take shelter in the Kresge Building.
"What did you end up doing, Sonia?" Peter asked after they were clear of the wreckage. "How'd you avoid getting eaten?"
"I didn't leave the house," she replied with a shrug. "I kept the lights off, the doors locked, and minded my own business. Everyone else on our street up and left. I watched them all go from my bedroom window. Most of them didn't even take anything with them—just what they were wearing. I think they thought it would be over in a few days, and they could just go back to their lives." She let out an uneasy laugh. "You know, I never even saw one of the infected until we were on our way to the lab. Except for on TV, of course, and those didn't even look real then. It was like something out of a movie. For a little while, a part of me thought it was all some kind of hoax. I mean, this is real life, right? Who knew George Romero had all the answers?"
"Ah...a fellow Romero fan, are you?" Peter grinned, and fell back a step, to walk beside Charlie and his wife. "Which one was your favorite, the black and white or the color version?"
Olivia stopped listening to their banter as the street began to widen ahead of them. She increased her speed, sensing that they were nearing the river. The east and west lanes split apart, dividing around a wide block of weathered concrete that rose up from the asphalt. The mass of concrete bore the barest resemblance to some ancient pharaoh's tomb, ancient, large, and imposing, with protruding columns topped with curling ornamental stonework. Sparse vegetation shot up through the cracks around the edges, adding to its weather-beaten appearance. She took the eastward lanes around the concrete sarcophagus, running her fingers along the crumbling cement until it came to a sudden end, dropping off at the subway line emerging from underneath—coincidentally, the same line she and Peter had explored on the way to Brighton. She had forgotten that the Red Line rose from below street level here, and crossed over the Charles down the center of the Longfellow Bridge before dipping back below ground after a stop in Beacon Hill on the other side.
She leaned over the guardrail and peered down into the blackness of the subway tunnel, thinking of Peter and her insane plan to seek out the undead that day in Harvard Square. Had they really done that? What could she possibly have been thinking? And why hadn't he tried to stop her? He did try, a voice reminded her. You didn't listen, remember? Yet he had gone with her anyway, despite clearly not wanting to go, and had nearly been killed alongside her for his loyalty. Would he always go with her into the dark places? Would he always have her back? A faint smile curled her lips, and she found herself wanting to explore the idea, wanting to find out.
Her eyes followed the two parallel lines of track until they disappeared under the curved archway of the concrete overhang. What had happened to the massive horde of infected? Was it still down there, waiting for some unwary explorer to stumble into their midst? She hoped to never find out. Several bodies lay across the tracks below, limbs twisted unnaturally, obviously crushed from a fall over the guard rail. Were they infected? She stooped for a handful of gravel and rocks and tossed them over the edge. The rocks showered down on the corpses, plinking off the metal rails and wooden supports. The noise was slight, but enough. The bodies began to stir. Sullied fingers reached out, scratching, clawing futilely at the air for a hand hold. A pair of high heels scraped a track through the gravel and bits of broken glass. The heels' owner lifted its head and snapped its teeth at the air.
"What's down there, Liv?" Charlie asked, walking up beside her. "Infected?"
Olivia glanced back at Peter and Sonia. They had lagged behind a little, and were having an animated discussion about something or other. Horror movies from the sound of it. She looked back at Charlie and nodded. "I think they fell over the guard rail."
"Or they were thrown over," he added, gazing down on the slithering corpses. "Check that out." He pointed out a red-bricked, four-story building across the street.
She saw nothing out of the ordinary at first, just another bombed out building, but then noticed the symbol above and left of the entrance, all that remained to give a clue of the building's former occupants. A red cross, just above and left of the entrance doors, which looked as if they had been forced open. The two adjacent structures were untouched by fire, or any form of damage that she could see, other than a few broken windows. "That was the Red Cross building. You think there's still anything worth taking in there?"
Charlie let out a grunt at the question. "I doubt it. Maybe whoever was inside there...," he said, twisting to look back as the burned building receded behind them. "Maybe they didn't feel like sharing. And somebody else wasn't too happy about that."
"So they trapped them inside and burned the building down around them. That's lovely." She shook her head at the depravity men were capable of. None of it was news to her; she'd witnessed it firsthand when she was still a little girl.
"That's my guess," he shrugged, and looked disgusted. "Maybe they waited outside, just to make sure nobody got out, or to deal with those that did."
Olivia didn't know what to say to that. It was as good an explanation as any, and only reinforced Peter's assertion of the kind of people most likely to have survived. She looked back at him. Peter had seen the infected on the subway rails below, and was regaling Sonia with tales of their experience in the Red Line. The two of them seemed to be becoming fast friends, she noticed. Not that it was a surprise. She looked over at Charlie walking next to her. "They seem to be getting along pretty well," she commented as a bubbly laugh of disbelief erupted behind them. He was at the part where they were running for their lives through the dark.
He eyed her sideways for a moment before replying. "You were right about him," he admitted finally. "I was wrong. Your sister told me about what happened on the bridge before he got shot. Why didn't you tell me that part?"
Tell you that he faced a similar choice to the one you made and found a different solution? Olivia thought. No thanks. She shrugged her shoulders instead. "I told you he saved her life. What more was there to tell? That should have been enough."
Charlie looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat. "I guess you can't teach an old cop new tricks," he said under his breath. He inclined his back at his wife and Peter. "Did that really happen? You actually went down into the subway looking for them? Why am I just now hearing about this?"
She felt a singe in her cheeks, and it was her turn to be uncomfortable. "He's...exaggerating," she deflected, brushing a stray hair from her eyes. "there weren't that many of them." If anything, Peter was downplaying the severity of what had happened, but Charlie didn't need to know that.
"Is that right? Maybe you're the one I should be worried about, Livvy."
The group continued on, following the concrete guard rail of the subway line, which rose in a gentle incline until it was level with the street. Soon the buildings fell away from the sidewalk. A wooded area sprang up to their right, bisected by a winding footpath. An assortment of wooden benches lined the path, all with a view of the river, which flowed past silently beyond the copse of trees. Sparkles of sunlight on the water reflected through the bare branches of the oak and maple, honeylocust and ash. Beyond the trees was the bridge abutment. Matching stone towers sat on either side of the street, squat and pointy, the little towers were replicas of their much-larger counterparts at the bridge's apex. Most of the bridge itself was hidden from view by a slight rise in the street's elevation, and the long line of cars—all lanes headed west, out of the city.
Across the river rose the Boston skyline, a patchwork mishmash of structures with varying shapes and sizes that scraped the sky. Hancock Tower stood out above the treetops to the south, the most prominent building in the area, tall and wide but narrow on its edge and covered with a mirror-like exterior. A vertical gap ran the full height of its narrow side, giving the famous building an appearance of being two separate buildings squashed together. The skyline as a whole looked different, somehow. Gritty, was the word that came to Olivia's mind. A near uniform, blackish tint gave the looming structures a harsh, gloomy aspect. Ash and soot from the firestorms. She and Charlie came to a stop at the front end of a Fed Ex delivery truck parked halfway on the sidewalk, blocking off a pickup truck that had attempted to skirt the line of traffic. The driver's door of the pickup truck hung open, listing in the wind. Had a scuffle ensued?
She glanced at Charlie, who scanned the far side of the river with wooden intensity. A vein in his temple pulsed, a muscle in his jaw flexed. Peter and Sonia approached. No one spoke as they eyed their destination. A chilly wind that took her breath away blew in off the river, carrying with it a subtle undertone of rotting fish. She shivered at its prickly bite, and noticed Peter doing the same.
"Was it like this when you left?" Peter asked as the wind slackened.
Charlie's face was tight as he shook his head. "No. We made it out just as the bombs were starting to drop."
"Where'd you cross over at?" Olivia inquired, running her gaze over the river in both directions. Trees blocked the view to the south. To the north and perhaps a half-mile away were the Museum of Science grounds, situated on a thin, man-made stretch of land that spanned the river from bank to bank.
"On the Washington Street Bridge," Charlie replied. "We found a bank not far from the river on the other side and rode out the worst of it inside the vault. By the time it seemed safe to come out...we couldn't even see the city anymore..." He paused, and pressed two fingers to his temple, applying pressure. "It was just black smoke...smoke everywhere. And infected."
"Well...at least the infected aren't a problem at the moment," Peter remarked, stepping past them toward the bridge. "Let's go. The Federal Building isn't getting any closer just standing here. Maybe we'll get incredibly lucky, and it'll be clear the rest of the way."
With an unspoken agreement, they followed him out onto the bridge, moving in a single file line. The sidewalk disappeared, leaving only a narrow walkway between the guard rail and the outside lane. The road sloped upward gently toward the bridge's midpoint, where four stone-block towers were arranged in a quadrangle. The domed peaks of the first two towers grew steadily larger. Faux arrow slits were cut into the towers' side at irregular intervals, giving them a medieval look. Frigid winds whipped in from the east, snaking through the gaps between vehicles with a chilling efficiency. Olivia nearly lost her beanie to one particularly strong gust, just managing to grab it as it started to lift off. Peter was not so lucky, however, and his Red Sox hat was ripped off his head, setting his wavy hair free. He cursed and made a feeble attempt at grabbing at it, but the hat's destiny was out of his hands, literally and figuratively. She watched Peter's reaction with muted amusement as the ill-fated hat tumbled into the dark waters below and disappeared. Her amusement was short-lived. Moments later, the Longfellow Bridge ended abruptly, barely a quarter of the distance across the river's span.
"Well shit..." Peter said, stopping near the edge of the broken concrete. "So much for being lucky. Wish we would have noticed that before walking all the way out here..."
Olivia stared down at the roiling water below, and over at the other edge, seeing the telltale blast points. The missing section was at least one-hundred feet wide, she judged, from supporting pier to supporting pier. There was no way they could have seen the gap sooner, short of walking down to the waterfront beforehand; the bridge's own curvature and the abandoned vehicles had hidden the break from view. Unlike the other two bridges they had seen demolished, there was no sign of the displaced vehicles, structural steel members, or concrete decking below in the water, though from the violence of the swirling eddies in the current, it was all there, just below the surface. Goddamnit, she thought, turning her back on the break.
"What is it?" Charlie called up from the rear. "Why are you stopping?" Olivia realized they would have no view of the bridge ahead, yet, just as she had not.
"Fucking bridge is out," Peter announced. "The gap's gotta be at least thirty or forty yards wide. We're gonna have to find another way."
"Are you shitting me? Son of bitch..."
Sonia squeezed past Olivia and peered over the edge. "Why would they do that?" she asked with a frown. "Why destroy all the bridges? Were they trying to keep people from going downtown?"
"Who the hell knows?" Charlie's voice was grim. He spun on his heels, searching the river to the north and south.
Sonia's question cast a shadow across Olivia's mind. The others' discussion of favorable alternative routes faded into the background. Were they trying to keep people out, or infected in? Why destroy the bridges, instead of barricading them off? The answer came to her a moment later. A barricade could be moved, eventually, with enough effort. They had wanted something permanent, something that couldn't be moved. Why? She searched across the gap for anything moving on the other side but saw nothing. As before, the bridge's curvature blocked most of it from view. It wasn't until she cast her gaze further, to the far bank that she saw them—infected meandering through the trees at the river's edge. They were little more than stick figures at that distance, but they were there. Their stutter-steps were unmistakable. She thought she saw others then—many others—beyond the tree line, walking the road that followed the river's path, but the tiny shapes were too distant to be sure.
"Let me see your binoculars, Charlie," Olivia said, propping her crowbar against the guardrail. She held out her hand.
Charlie's eyes narrowed, but he let his pack fall from his shoulders. "Did you see something?" he asked, unzipping the backpack's main pocket and digging through its contents. He pulled out a pair of binoculars with a cord wrapped between the lenses and held them out.
"Maybe..." She lifted the binoculars and focused on the far bank. A plethora of sailboats, most burned to the waterline filled her vision. Beyond the sailboats was the far bank and the line of trees. Infected by the score wandered at random near the water's edge. She shifted her view to the right, following the river bank to the south. The stream of undead never stopped or thinned until the view of the shore was cut off by the next bridge downriver, which had a section of its span missing three-quarters of the way across. Chunks of rubble and partially submerged vehicles stood out in the water below, and infected roamed the remaining stretch of bridge above. She shook her head at the sight, and wondered why they didn't wander off the edge into the river; several were perilously close to doing so, yet turned at the last moment. Some instinctual shred of awareness, perhaps? There was still so much they didn't understand. She put the unanswered questions out of her mind. They needed to be smarter from here on out, and that started with not blundering forward blindly.
"What do you see over there, Olivia?" she heard Peter ask.
Olivia lowered the binoculars and handed them to him. "Infected. They're all over the far bank, just past what's left of those boats," she told him, and then turned to Charlie. "I think we need to get a better look at the area before we go any farther. I want to see if there are even any bridges left that are still standing." She looked past him, eyeing the structures on the Cambridge side of the river. "Maybe one of those apartment buildings?"
"I thought we always avoided buildings like that...?" Sonia questioned, looking worried. "That's what you told me, honey—that they were deathtraps."
Peter passed the binoculars back to Charlie. "I think Olivia's right," he said, inclining his head in her direction. "We need to find some high ground." He pointed a finger south over the river. "The Harvard Bridge is out also. I thought about maybe finding a boat like we did before, but the docks down at MIT look like they've been bombed to hell and back. All the docks I can see on both sides of the river look that way."
Charlie sighed and met his wife's gaze. "I don't like it, but I guess we don't have any choice, babe." He shivered, and blew into his palms. "I sure as hell ain't swimming across—not in this weather."
There was a moment of silent communication between Sonia and her husband, and afterward she nodded and shrugged as if the matter were settled. "All right. Where should we go then?"
Olivia was about to suggest a tall hotel building they'd passed earlier, but noticed a slow grin appearing on Peter's face as he stared off to the north. "You got an idea? I know that look, Peter."
"Oh yeah...," he said, showing all of his teeth. "I know just the place. It'll be perfect."
#
They headed northeast on a one-way street parallel to the Charles. Olivia was up front with Peter, with the Francises trailing behind. No one had spoken since they'd left the bridge behind. On their right was a thin line of trees and then a sidewalk with a handrail that guarded a short drop to the river's edge. On their left, a continuous line of squat office buildings. Empty vehicles were parked at random on both sides of the street in uneven, broken lines. Car doors hung open on rusted hinges, as if the occupants had been forced to flee. The pavement was littered with trash and leaves and more than a few suitcases, abandoned in their owners' haste to leave the area. A persistent wind stirred the leaves and trash in delicate tumbles, scraping and scratching softly on the pavement.
Where had everyone gone? She still couldn't imagine how everyone could have been turned. They had to have fled the city. She thought of the beam of light in the night sky, and again wondered what they might find at its source. Sanctuary? Civilization? The light had not appeared again, or she simply had been unable to see it from the lab.
Her elongated shadow stretched out in front of her at an angle, reminding her of how quickly daylight was fading. The time had flown by. Sunset would be upon them soon, no more than two hours away at most. The subject had not come up yet but it would; Charlie had already cast a worried eye in the sun's direction. They had left the lab much later than she'd intended—past noon, by her estimate. Walter had prolonged their departure with various tasks he claimed couldn't wait, though why he needed Peter's help organizing the basement storage room at that moment wasn't clear. She suspected he was merely stalling, gaining a few more precious moments with his son and supposed she couldn't fault him for that; she had spent every moment with her sister and Ella. None of that changed the fact that it was going to be dark soon, however, and a decision would have to be made. She cast a glance over her shoulder. The sun's reddish globe hovered just above the horizon. Make that less than an hour, she thought, amending her previous estimate.
"Where exactly are you taking us, Peter?" she asked, glancing up at him. They had passed by several office buildings back near the bridge she thought were tall enough to get a good view of their surroundings, but he had never given them a second look. "It's gonna be dark soon."
"I know, it's just ahead," he said, thrusting his hand at a gathering of buildings on the next block. "You see the one that's shaped like stair treads?"
Olivia nodded, seeing the odd-looking building in the distance. It was familiar, in a passing sort of way, as if she had seen it before, but its strange construction hadn't registered. She could see the resemblance to a set of stairs, with each tread being an apartment's private balcony. The building grew narrower at each floor until the top floor stood alone, overlooking those beneath. She guessed that lush plant life normally decorated the balconies like a terraced garden, but only withered plant-life remained with the onset of winter. It was an elegant building, and with the wide view of the Boston skyline across the river, the rent would not have been cheap. As they drew closer, she noticed what looked like a large communal balcony several floors above the street level, again heavily gardened with evergreens. Miraculously, the building seemed to be untouched by any damage.
"You've been here before?" she asked as they came to a stop in front of a pair of recessed doors centered beneath a pearl-white lattice archway. The two doors had deep cherry frame, with rectangular panes of glass set horizontally in matching wooden grids. The door handles were shaped in golden semi-circles that formed a whole when the two doors were shut, as they were now. They were garish and vulgar-looking, in her opinion, not at all like the simple lines of her building in Brighton.
"Not inside, at least," Peter said, glancing back at Charlie and Sonia. "But I've always been curious. I remember watching when they built this...from right over there." He nodded back toward the river. "I think I was like ten years old and rode my bike here. The condos and apartments in here cost a small fortune, or did. None of my former...acquaintances, were the sort of people that lived anywhere near a place like this."
She had to smile at the image of a ten-year old Peter, watching the construction in fascination from the seat of his bicycle. Did he have a lot of friends back then? Or had he been a loner like herself, watching the other kids play from a distance, unable to summon the nerve to join them; always feeling different—like an outsider. It was a question for later, when they were alone. Other matters took precedence. "I see...," she said, grinning faintly and peering through the glass doors. It was difficult to make out anything through the tint. "I thought it might be something like that." The doors were still whole and opened outward, so no infected could have wandered inside, though that was no guarantee the inside wasn't crawling with them. She had seen it before.
Charlie and Sonia approached. "This it?" he asked, looking up at the penthouse high above.
Peter nodded. "Yep. Fifteen floors or so. Should be plenty tall enough to get a good view of the area."
"You know, I recognize this building," Sonia said, staring up at the layered balconies with interest. "I saw it in one of those Boston real estate magazines. There were supposed to be some pretty nice apartments in here—very luxurious and very expensive. I'm talking three to four thousand a month."
"Why do I get the feeling that had something to do with why you brought us here, Peter?" Charlie asked. "I'm pretty sure we passed buildings that were taller than this one." His voice was gruff, but not overly irritated. Olivia took that as a good sign; he really had turned the corner regarding Peter Bishop.
Peter chuckled and scratched at his beard. "I'm not gonna lie, Charlie, that may have had something do with it," he replied with a smirk that Olivia found contagious. She covered her mouth before any of them could see. "But there's also this," he continued, "the sun's gonna be down soon, and while I may have built the red head lamps so we can travel at night, it's not something I particularly want to do again, not unless we have to. Especially considering what we may be heading into. So I figure if we're gonna crash somewhere, it might as well be in the lap of luxury, you know what I mean? Sure as hell beats the lab..."
Charlie snorted softly, but a faint smile creased his lips. "I guess..." He eyed the building entrance, fingering the handle of his baseball bat. "What do you think, Liv?"
"I think we should check it out before it gets dark," Olivia told him, and then put her own words into action. She moved under the archway and reached for a door handle. Locked. Cupping her hands, she squinted through the tinted glass at the shadow-filled interior. As expected, it was dark inside the building. Her own reflection stared back at her from another set of glass doors; an entrance vestibule. What lay beyond was anyone's guess. She inserted the angled tip of the crowbar into the gap below the lock and pressed her weight against the curved hook. The wooden door frames groaned and then splintered open with a crash, shattering a single pane of glass opposite the lock. Shards of broken glass showered onto the brick-work at her feet. She winced at the noise and glanced at back at the others. "We don't know what we're walking into...," she said softy, squeezing the cool metal of her crowbar. Her gaze lingered on Peter's face. "Try not to get separated."
"I'll take point," Charlie offered, and stepped past her into the vestibule with his baseball bat gripped in one hand. The interior doors were unlocked and he cracked one open slightly, enough to get a glimpse through the narrow gap. "It looks clear, but it's pretty dim inside. Stay close by me." His gaze rested on his wife as he spoke.
Sonia followed her husband inside the building, leaving Olivia alone with Peter. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and she smiled faintly before ushering him by her. He drew the long knife from his belt as he passed. Though he mostly complained about his right hand being less than stellar, there was no sign of impairment in his grip.
She followed him inside, narrowing her eyes at the dimness of the apartment building's interior. The doors opened into a long corridor with high ceilings. At the opposite end was another pair of glass doors. The front entrance, she realized; they had come in through the back. In between was an ink-like darkness at the building's center. Charlie and Sonia waited just ahead, peering ahead toward the far tinted glass. Not liking the look of what lay ahead, Olivia grabbed her headlamp from her backpack and fit it in place, and the others did likewise. Peter's eyes glittered with irritation as she helped him fit his elastic band over his head, but he made no comment nor did she. He despised being an invalid; she knew it, and he knew she knew it. No words were needed, only acceptance. She was going to protect him, whether he liked it or not.
Charlie headed down the corridor, throwing the beam of his light out ahead of them. Their footsteps were silenced by plush carpeting that glowed pink under their headlamps. No one spoke as they moved forward. She listened for any out-of-place noises but heard only Peter's light hitches of breath. A faint odor of putrescence hung in the air. The scent grew stronger as they moved toward the center of the building. A pair of matching doors appeared out of the darkness on either side of the hall. Each led to a short flight of steps down to first floor apartments. Both hallways were clear of infected and they moved on, deeper into the blackness. They came upon a small kiosk containing a grid of mailboxes behind a wide countertop. A concierge's desk. She heard Sonia's sharp intake of breath ahead of them and saw the source of her surprise a moment later.
A dead man wearing a suit stood in the back corner of the kiosk. In front of the counter lay a formless mass of ragged clothes and torn, graying skin lay sprawled across the carpet, unmoving. Olivia wondered how long it had been standing there...waiting for some unfortunate soul to pass by in the dark.
"I got it..." Charlie hissed and moved toward the infected with exaggerated care, keeping the red light directed on its gaunt face.
He had never had reason to use one of the headlamps before, Olivia knew. Perhaps he doubted—just as she had—that they worked as well as advertised. He stepped behind the counter, bat upraised. When Charlie was within five steps of the creature it stirred and came to life. Before it could do more than growl, he crushed its skull with a grunt of exertion. The infected pitched to the side and fell against the desk, knocking over a plastic something or other. The mound on the floor stirred at the sound, and Sonia brought her bat down in a vicious arc on a circular lump that Olivia could only assume was a head. The crunch was wet and horrific. A plume of foulness filled her nostrils, and bits of rotten flesh splattered across the carpet. She saw a reddish-black morsel attach itself to Peter's boot like wet clay. He cringed and kicked it aside, and then stepped around the body after Sonia. Olivia followed. They crept through the darkness toward the light of the front entrance, passing by closed doors along the way. None led to a stairwell upward.
At the front entrance, the corridor ended at a tee, with doorways to additional first floor apartments. "Make a right," Peter called softly ahead to Charlie. "The east wing will have the best view."
Charlie nodded and they turned the corner, moving down another hallway, shorter than the first and bathed in darkness. The first signs of the building's inhabitants became apparent. Articles of clothing were strewn about; shirts and undergarments and slacks, remnants from an upended suitcase lying in the center of the hallway. A pair of pink slippers was stationed side-by-side on a doormat; a cloud of death lingered outside the apartment door. Olivia checked the door knobs as they passed, but all were locked tight. The silver gleam of metal resolved into a pair of elevator doors as they neared the end of the hall. To the right of the elevators was the door they'd been looking for—the emergency stairwell.
"Be careful in here," Charlie whispered, loosening his pistol in its holster. "There ain't gonna be much room to maneuver if we come across any infected." He opened the door carefully, shining his light inside the doorway before entering.
Inside the stairwell it was blacker than black. Olivia followed Peter up the first flight of steps, around the intermediate landing, and up to the second floor landing and the entrance to the second floor apartments. She cracked open the door and looked around, sweeping her light to the right and left. The corridor was empty and silent. At the far end, a square of yellow sunlight fell across the carpeted hallway, cast by an open apartment door. She stared at it for several moments, wondering whether it was worth it to investigate. As she made up her mind to leave it alone, a shadow moved across the patch of light. She held her breath, keeping her eyes peeled for further movement.
It happened.
Another silhouette crossed the light, moving in the same direction as the first. They weren't alone—but then again, she already knew that. Hunting down every one of the undead was impractical; the building was simply too big. So she pulled back, letting the door swing quietly shut, and then hurried after the others. Peter was waiting for her at the fourth floor landing, where the stairwell came to an end.
"We have to find another way up," he whispered as she climbed the last few steps. The door was propped open by his foot. Red headlamp beams flashed in the hallway outside. "What took you so long? You find something?"
"There were infected on the second floor," she reported, noting the worry etched across his face.
"How many?" he asked with a note of alarm.
"I didn't get a good look. They were inside an open apartment. At least two, for sure."
Peter's hand closed about her forearm. "I assume they didn't see you...?" She shook her head and he let go, sighing with relief. "That's good. 'Cause these doors all swing into the stairwell."
Olivia smiled, and he pulled open the door and led her out onto the fourth floor, where two separate red beams marked the Francises waiting further down the hall. Their flashlight beams illuminated a narrow table sitting nearby against the wall.
"What's the matter?" Charlie said as she and Peter joined them. He spoke softly, his voice pitched not to carry far.
"Nothing to worry about up here. A couple of infected on a floor below," Olivia said just as quietly. A faint odor of rotting flesh hung in the air. She searched for its source but there was nothing in view. Oppressive darkness lay outside their cone of light. From what little she could see, the fourth floor was similar in shape to those below, though the carpeting was gone, replaced by hardwood flooring of varying shades of cherry. Abstract oil paintings lined the hall in between apartment doors. The paintings looked expensive, though she was no expert. For all she knew they could have come from Wal-Mart, though that seemed unlikely. The low table was covered with a thin cloth, and held three white vases with delicate filigree stenciled on the outside. Wilted flowers hung limp over the vases rim. Someone's job had been to care for them—someone who was undoubtedly dead. She shook her head, and wondered if the opulence level would continue to increase with every floor upward, culminating in the penthouses on the top floor. "Which way do we go?"
Peter squinted into the surrounding blackness. "I say that way." He directed his light off to their left down the corridor past a bank of elevators not far away. "At least, the tallest part of the building is that way. There's gotta be a stairwell back there somewhere, and not far from these elevators. It'd be a code violation for there not to be," he explained, giving Olivia a wink, at which she rolled her eyes.
"Makes sense to me," Sonia offered quickly before anyone could object. The older woman frowned and looked around with unease. "We should keep moving. I...I don't really like standing around in here. Gives me the willies—like we're in a tomb or something."
"Can't argue with that, babe," Charlie said with a grunt. "This place creeps me out, too..." He turned on his heels, and his elbow grazed one of the vases, wobbling it on its base.
"Charlie, look out!" Olivia whispered hoarsely. The vase tipped dangerously toward the table's edge.
With a curse, Charlie saw what he had done and reached out in a desperate attempt to stop its fall. What happened next was a chain reaction of ill-fated events, proceeding one after another in horrifying fashion. A strange stasis surrounded Olivia, and the others also, it seemed, who could only watch as chaos unfolded between one heartbeat and the next.
In his haste to stop the vase from falling, Charlie's baseball bat clanged off the edge of the table. He flinched as a sonorous peal echoed down the corridor, knocking over another of the vases and dropping the bat at the same moment. Olivia watched in stupefied fascination as both vases exploded on the hardwood floor in a thousand pieces of splintered porcelain, and the aluminum baseball bat rang like a gong, bouncing several times and before rolling away. An imaginary ringing continued unabated in her ears, long after the metallic echoes faded away. That wasn't good, she thought, scanning the darkness outside their circle of light; it seemed to press inward. Charlie backed away from the remaining vase on the table, hands upraised with dismay. Sonia stared at her husband, mouth stretched open in disbelief.
"Son of a bitch..." Peter uttered in the aftermath. He gazed down at the mess of decayed flowers and the rolling bat with a stunned expression. "So much for being quiet... Why don't you shout next time, Charlie? Just to make sure they can all hear us."
"Fuck off, Bishop," Charlie spit in a hard, but quiet voice. He reached for his bat, giving Peter a furious look. "You think I meant to do that?"
Olivia recovered from the sudden shock and stepped between the two men before anything else could be said. "Hey. That's enough, both of you...," she hissed, sending a piercing glare Peter's way. "It was an accident. Let's just find that other stairwell before—"
She broke off, spinning around as the stench of death intensified, wafting over them. Shuffling footsteps sounded in the corridor behind them, back near the stairwell down to the first floor. An instant later, an infected woman in a ragged, low-cut dress stumbled into view, and then several others behind it—men and women, all impeccably dressed in similar attire. Were they attending a dinner party? she wondered distractedly. More ragged outlines moved in the blackness behind them, a long line that appeared endless. Their tired groans filled the air. Had they been seen yet? There was no way to tell, though in several seconds it wouldmake no difference; the infected had certainly heard the ruckus and were coming to investigate. The entire building must have heard. They had to get away. The close quarters, being surrounded in the dark—it was the nightmare scenario. The undead reached the stairwell, blocking off their retreat. Should they fight their way back to the lower levels? She backed away from the approaching undead, pulling Peter with her by the arm of his coat. He didn't resist. Keeping her voice low, she urged the others onward. "Go. The other way. Now!"
"How will we get back down?" Sonia whispered. Charlie glued himself to her side, shooting frantic glances in all directions. "We'll be trapped in here..."
Olivia threw a glance over her shoulder. The infected were fading into the blackness behind them, but still following. Peter trotted at her side, with Charlie and Sonia just several yards in front of them. Their footsteps clattered on the hardwood floor louder than she would've liked, but there was no avoiding it. "We'll find another way down," she promised as they retreated past the elevators.
The corridor turned to the left just ahead. They rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. A wall of gaunt faces and gnashing teeth moved toward them, blocking their path. Their gold-filled eyes burned with a pinkish tint under the light of their headlamps. Behind the initial group, more infected stumbled in their direction, ten, twenty, maybe more. Their silhouettes were a squirming mass against the backdrop of several open apartment doors, far down the corridor.
"Oh shit..." Peter muttered under his breath. He stepped in front of her.
Olivia moved forward and shoved him to the side. What was he thinking? While it might be noble of him—from some strange and inexplicably male point of view—he was the one who needed protecting, not she. "Where's the other stairwell?" she asked, searching the nearby doors. She prayed Peter was right, that it was close by, and that she hadn't just sentenced them to death by pressing onward. "Where is it?"
"There!" Charlie pointed out a sign next to a wooden door to their left.
The stairwell was closer to the approaching infected. Abandoning any attempts at stealth, they rushed toward the closed door. Charlie and Sonia reached the doorway first. He threw himself against it, sending the heavy door slamming back against the wall inside the stairwell with a resounding boom, and disappeared inside with Sonia right behind him. The infected in the hallway lurched forward, homing in on their location. Olivia calculated their speed; it was going to be close—possibly even a tie. A desperate shout echoed from inside the stairwell.
Charlie. Oh god...
Peter plunged through the doorway just ahead of her and disappeared. Hands curled into claws reached out, grabbing at the air between them. They brushed against Olivia's hair, gnarled fingers tugged at her coat as she slipped in front of them into the darkness of the stairwell. She slammed the door shut in the face of the nearest infected, a groping male still wearing a pair of spectacles that reminded her of Walter for some reason. She thought it might be the hair. Instead of latching closed, the door bounced open. In panic, she threw herself against it as fingertips curled around the wooden edge at eye level. A great pressure pressed against the door, forcing it inward. She strained against the mass of undead, pushing with her shoulder, but the soles of her boots slid on the slick concrete of the stairwell. The door moved an inch, and then two. She couldn't hold them. The clamor on the other side of the door grew louder. She perceived other sounds behind the frenzied adulation for her flesh: heavy footsteps, grunts; the ring of a baseball bat on metal; feminine shriek echoing from above; Peter calling her name. The door continued its inward travel, inch by inch. An arm reached through the opening, and flesh cold like ice felt along her face, fingernails scratching, gouging. Repulsed, she twisted her head away from the reaching fingers, but they dragged along her cheek back to her ear and took hold in a crushing grip. Thoughts of her encounter with Greg's corpse flickered through her mind, and how she had let her hair rip free in order to escape. A stinging thread of fire spider-webbed across her scalp as the hand began to pull. Tears stung her eyes, and Olivia bit back a scream, trying to shift the crowbar to her other hand. Before she could manage to do so, the long blade of a knife flashed in her headlamp and sank deep into the forearm of the infected clutching her. The heavy blade cut through the decaying skin and muscle with ease, down to the bone. The hold on her ear vanished, and then Peter was beside her, pressing his back against the door. Together, they forced it shut.
"Sorry...I thought you were behind me...Olivia..." he panted. His face was tight with strain, pupils dilated until only a hint of blue remained. "You know...I'm beginning to think this...this may not have been one of my...best ideas..."
Olivia snorted a laugh out through her nose. "Yeah...you...and me both..." she said between shaky breaths. She heard more shouting up the stairs; her name, Peter's. They had to get up there. "The door won't latch. I think the catch is locked open."
"Of course it is, that's perfect. They're probably all like that. I think...there are some in here...with us, up above."
The undead surged against the door, forcing it open for an instant before they were able to push it back in place. "...We're gonna have to run for it," she assessed, looking over at him, at his left arm, still thrust deep inside his coat pocket. "I'll go first and clear the way."
Peter met her gaze, and for a wonder, she didn't flinch away from what she saw in his eyes. Perhaps they mirrored her own. After a moment, he gave her a reluctant nod. "All right... I'll see you on the other side, Olivia Dunham."
Olivia pushed down a tightness in her throat. This isn't the end, she told herself. "Stay with me, Peter."
She filled her lungs, and then pushed off the door and charged up the steps into the blackness above. A bobbing red circle at her feet told her that Peter was following—not that she needed the confirmation. The sudden volume increase from the infected below was confirmation enough. They were in the stairwell, below for sure, above...possibly. She took the steps two at a time, holding the railing with her free hand. The coldness of the metal bar numbed her hand after a while, but she hardly noticed. Several floors up, she came across a body lying crosswise on the landing. An infected; the side of its head caved in by a powerful blow. She passed it by without slowing. Up and up they went, until her thighs and calves began to burn. They passed other bodies on the way, skulls crushed in similar fashion. The ringing of metal and undecipherable voices continued to trickle down from above.
The door leading out of the stairwell pushed opened as she crested another floor—the eighth, from the little sign mounted on the wall—and she found herself face to face with an undead man wearing no clothes. Its flesh was mottled and gray. Olivia had only an instant to notice this oddity before it became aware of her and charged, fingers stained maroon with blood reaching for her throat. She batted the hands aside and thrust the crowbar's tip through one of its yellowed eyes.
"Ugh...what the hell?" Peter exclaimed, cringing when he saw the naked corpse a moment later. They couldn't help but notice the corpse's extreme endowment, and the savage-looking bite dangerously close on its thigh. "Now that's something I didn't need to see. How does that even happen?"
Olivia had no answer for him. Before she could even begin to formulate a reply, the door began to swing open again, revealing a multitude of infected in the hall outside through the widening crack. Peter threw himself against it, slamming the door shut with a thunderous boom. "C'mon, Peter!" she shouted. There was no longer any point in trying to remain quiet—the building's occupants were fully aware of their presence.
They raced up the stairwell. She could hear them now; infected above and below, and to the sides. They were being surrounded. Like they had been outside the boathouse. Bodies careened down from the floors above, bursting into the circle of her light. She thrust and stabbed, parried and riposted the incoming infected, slowly working her way up the steps. She sensed more than saw Peter behind her, finishing off those she knocked aside with the heavy blade of his knife, crushing with the soles of his boots. They struggled onward, carving a path ever upwards. Her arms began to tire, fingers cramped in a death-lock. It was a measure of her exhaustion that she lost track of what floor they were on. Tenth? Twelfth? She wasn't sure. Time proceeded in blurred flashes of darkness and red light, of snapping teeth and the rise and fall of the crowbar, seemingly alive in her hands. Blood spattered her face, foul and bile-inducing—in her mouth, her eyes, slicking the octagonal surface of her weapon. Suddenly, there were no more in front of her. The stairwell above was clear and they had a moment of respite. Surely they were close to the top. She leaned on her knees and sucked in a ragged breath, feeling as if she'd just run a marathon.
Then something prickled the back of her neck, a trace ill-intent that sent a shiver of fear racing down her spine. She spun around, searching for Peter. He was on the landing below, squatting over an undead boy who'd been no older than twelve by her estimate. Its shorter height had thrown off her blow, and she had only grazed the top of its head and merely knocking it on its side. Bodies littered the concrete all around him, some her work, others left behind by Charlie and Sonia, of whom there was still no sign. His knife flashed, sinking into the soft skin under its chin, but that was not what had drawn her attention. She frowned, searching the darkness for the source of her uneasiness. Peter rose from his crouch, looking around for another target among her leavings. What was it? What had she felt? The prickle of fear intensified, became gut-wrenching; something was happening, or about to. She could feel it. Most of the bodies on the landing were still, but not all. He bent over another and prepared to drive his knife home.
She saw it happen in a blur stop-motion. Out of the blackness, an infected woman clawed its way onto the landing, scurrying forward on its stomach. It was right behind him. He doesn't see it! She stumbled down the steps toward him, trying to call out but she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. He didn't see it! Peter yanked his knife free and stood. A coil tightened somewhere deep inside her, a knot of tension that built up in layers upon itself, a crank winding tighter and tighter. She had to stop it. She couldn't lose him, not when she might have just found him. He gazed up at her with a tired smile that slowly turned into a questioning frown. The infected woman slithered forward, zeroing in on the back of his leg. She wasn't going to make it. Its mouth opened.
"PETER!"
Olivia found her voice at the last instant, while, simultaneously, the coil inside her released all at once. As if the force of her shout held some kind of substance, the infected woman's head inexplicably snapped back with an audible crack, then lolled to the side, neck obviously broken. Peter spun around the her shout, dancing to the side, leg flying out in a desperate kick at the flailing dead woman, but it was already tumbling back down the steps.
Stunned, she followed its progress to the landing below. The crack of its neck breaking reverberated through her skull like a bouncing pinball. What was that? What was that? Her mind raced. Something had...happened. She had done something. Her shout had...affected it, somehow. I felt it. That's impossible. She felt herself falling into that dark place again, like the night on the bridge. When she had gone to that other Boston. Something impossible had happened then, too.
"Well, that was disturbingly close...thanks for the...warning." She became aware of Peter standing next to her, eyes fixed on the dead woman. Had he seen what had happened? His face flickered with confusion as he glanced between the infected woman and herself. She had a sneaking suspicion that he sensed something was amiss. The infected was pulling itself up the steps again, head dangling like a pendulum between its shoulder blades. "They're nothing if not persistent." He shook his head, then appeared to notice her state of shock. "Hey, you all right?" A furrow of concern ran across his brow.
Olivia nodded, still too stunned to speak. What's happening to me? "Peter, I...I..." she whispered, putting a hand to her head. A wave of dizziness sent her staggering against the railing. Her legs wobbled dangerously, suddenly unsuited for the task of holding her weight.
"Olivia...?" Peter reached out a hand to steady her.
Lights flashed in the stairwell from above, glints of red that refracted strangely in her vision. She blinked, trying to clear her head, which felt like a balloon on her shoulders, attached by a string and just as empty. Accompanying the lights was the rush of footsteps. Charlie's voice called out. She heard her name, and Peter's, and then she was looking up at him. She was sitting down. No, she was on her back. What was happening? The stair treads were blocks of ice through the thin fabric of her jeans. A voice called her name again. She felt a hand cupping her cheek. Peter's face loomed large in her vision, tinted red. Peter..., she thought through a fuzzy haze. I'm so tired... Her eyes refused to stay open. We have to keep going... We have to... Peter's face flickered, and then darkness swept her away.
#
She woke to the sound of a door closing, and then of voices. They were close, yet distant somehow. In another room?
"... mean she just collapsed? Like she fainted?" She recognized the gruff tone at once. Charlie. "I don't understand."
"I mean she just collapsed...mid-sentence," someone else spoke. Peter. He was okay. Something relaxed inside her. "I'm not sure she fainted..." She heard a strange something in his voice. "It's probably just exhaustion—Olivia's been going nonstop since this whole thing started. It was bound to catch up with her at some point."
"What should we do?" A feminine voice. Sonia. "It's been almost an hour..."
"Nothing we can do, and considering we were planning on crashing here anyway, I say just let her sleep."
Over an hour. Olivia forced her eyes open. No. I'm fine. I can sleep later. She stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Where am I? The apartment building. A bedroom. Thick blankets covered her to her chin. The blankets were heavy, and warm enough for an oven. The mattress beneath her felt like something out of a dream, toeing the fine line between softness and firmness in divine fashion. She flexed her toes, noticing a distinct lack of footwear. Above her, a ceiling fan with carved leaves for blades was frozen in place. Across the room was a wide window, casting a paltry light. Sunset was giving way to darkness. A long dresser sat against the wall to her right, above which hung a mirror in an intricate frame of sculptured metal. The wall on the other side of the bed had two open doors, one which led to a walk-in closet, and the other to a short hallway that ended in what looked like a large family or living room. Through the fading light she could see Peter, outlined against a sliding glass door, and the Boston skyline beyond.
What am I going to do with you? she thought, studying his profile for a moment through the open door. How did she really feel about him? Things started coming back to her, their mad rush up the stairwell, the infected woman who'd caught him unaware. It had been about to sink its teeth into his leg. And I...did something, didn't I? Touched it, somehow. It was impossible. No more impossible than the dead rising or a man that can vanish into thin air, she thought to herself. Or falling into another world... She couldn't think about that now; other matters took precedence. Namely, the plans they needed to make, the route they would take into the city. Whether or not she was developing a peculiar form of madness, or experiencing waking dreams or hallucinations were problems for another time.
She sat up, tossing the mound of blankets aside, and inspected herself in the mirror. Her face was clean, the blood and grime she distinctly remembered dripping in her eyes, wiped away, hair pulled free of her ponytail. The holder sat on the dresser next to her things; coat, beanie, and gloves, all carefully arranged. Her boots sat side-by-side on the carpeted floor beside the bed. Someone had tucked her in. Sonia again, she suspected, recognizing a woman's touch in the efficient placement of her belongings. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and considered grabbing her boots, but then decided against it, relishing the feel of the plush carpet through her socks; it had been ages since she'd felt such. The strange dizziness she'd experienced in the stairwell was mostly gone, and she crept down the hall to the family room, passing by another bedroom and an office, followed by an open bathroom door along the way. The apartment smelled faintly of vanilla, and struck a chord of homesickness as she stepped out into an expansive family room.
Charlie noticed her first. His eyebrows shot upward. "Liv! You're awake."
"Hey..." She moved toward them, returning Sonia's smile of surprise.
Peter turned toward her with a look of relief. "How are you feeling?" She could almost feel him weighing her movements, cataloging her condition. "You had scared me for a minute there... What happened?"
Olivia shrugged and pushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ears. From the intensity of his gaze, she wasn't sure if he was referring to her having passed out. "I'm fine. A little tired, maybe. I'm...not sure what happened. I just...got really lightheaded, all of a sudden. Maybe I haven't been eating enough lately. I feel fine now though." She avoided his searching gaze and looked around the family room, taking in the austere decor of the apartment. White was the prevailing color; carpet, walls, leather sofas arranged opposite each other. A narrow coffee table made entirely of glass sat in front of a gas fireplace with a wide television mounted on the wall above. The sliding glass door opened on a private balcony with a spectacular view across the river. Her crowbar sat against the wall next to the door to the hallway. "How did I get up here, anyway?" she asked, gazing out at the city.
"Charlie and I carried you, honey," Sonia replied. "With Peter giving us words of encouragement, of course, and opening doors along the way. We had just made it to the top when we heard your shout. You were only a few floors below us."
Charlie nodded in agreement, looking uncharacteristically guilty. "It's my fault we got separated, Liv, I thought you two were right behind us. By the time I realized you weren't, we were too far ahead, with infected above us and below."
Olivia shook off the apology. "Doesn't matter, Charlie. It's nobody's fault. And we did all right, didn't we, Peter?" she said, giving him a sideways glance. He had wandered over to the balcony door and was staring out over the city. His right hand massaged his left shoulder absently.
Peter let out an amused grunt without turning away from the window. "Sure, though to be fair, you did most of the work," he clarified. "I just cleaned up the mess."
"What's it like outside this apartment?" Olivia asked, turning the subject to safer territories. "How easy is it going to be to get out of here?"
"It ain't good," Charlie answered with a grunt. His face was grim. "We cleared most of this floor, but the stairwell is still packed with them."
"I think the entire building followed us up here, Olivia," Sonia added, looking and sounding worried. "Getting out isn't going to be easy."
"Actually, that won't be a problem at all, Sonia," Peter disagreed, turning from the glass door. "I've got a plan. It's part of why I suggested this building in the first place, just in case something like this happened."
"Oh yeah? And what's that?" Charlie said.
Peter tapped the glass door behind him. "These balconies are all offset, like a set of stairs, all the way down to the ground, more or less. We can just climb down to the street."
"Climb down? From a fifteen story building?"
"You say that like it's strange or something," Peter said with a chuckle. "Go look if you don't believe me. Even I could do it, and that's with only one good arm, Agent Francis."
Charlie eyed him doubtfully, then slid open the glass door and walked out to the balcony, with Sonia following close behind. The glass door slid shut behind them and Olivia found herself alone with Peter. Did he suspect something had happened in the stairwell? She longed to ask him, to tell someone what was happening to her, but couldn't summon the nerve or figure out how to bring it up. Not with sounding crazy, at least.
Instead, she sat down on one of the leather sofas and scrunched her toes in the thick carpet, letting the resistance ease her tension. Her mind lingered on the moment in the stairwell, replaying the instant when she'd seen the crawling infected about to take a chunk out of his leg. It was impossible, and yet she'd felt something. Something tangible. Energy was the only word she could think of to describe it; her energy. It had built up and then released in some indescribable way. The strange and sudden weakness she'd experienced had followed mere seconds later. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Maybe it didn't. Maybe her mind was cracking. She rubbed at her eyes with increasing pressure, until colored spots danced in her vision. This can't be happening. It can't have happened. She had to have imagined it. When she looked up, Peter was sitting on the adjacent couch. He wore a speculative look, eyes narrowed, the deep crease between his brows prominent.
"Are you sure you're okay, Olivia?" he said after an interval of silence. His voice was quiet, serious in a way she wasn't sure she'd ever heard before, absent all traces of his typical humor and sarcasm. "I wasn't kidding earlier, you know, you did have me worried for a few minutes." He grunted, and raked his fingers through his hair. "Actually, for more than a few minutes. Anything like that ever happen to you before?"
Yes! Olivia shouted in her head. I fell into another world! She took in a deep, shuddering breath and lowered her eyes to a spot on the floor. "Um..no. Nothing like that. I...I'm fine, really." Tell him! She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come. The glass door slid open, accompanied by a blast of cool air. She exhaled with relief at the interruption.
"I hope you're not afraid of heights, Liv," Charlie said, walking through the gap between the couches. He peeled is gloves off and tossed them on the coffee table. "'Cause that's gonna be a hell of a climb, but...I think it'll work."
Olivia put a smile on her lips. "Heights aren't a problem for me, Charlie. Did you get a look at any of the bridges over the river?"
"Nah, it's too dark to see much of anything. We're gonna have to wait until morning."
"Well, I'm glad that much ado about nothing is settled," Sonia said, glancing between them. "Now, I'm starving. Anybody checked the kitchen yet? No offense, Peter, but I don't think my stomach can tolerate any more of your and your father's...jerky, today."
"None taken," he replied, chuckling, and scratching at his beard. "Once Walter insisted on taking over, it became his baby. According to him, Gene would have wanted it that way."
Olivia grinned despite her former anxiety as Peter and the others filed out of the room. That had been a day to remember, with Walter all but in tears while overseeing the butchering of Gene alongside Peter. Rachel and Astrid had taken Ella on a walk, then put her straight to bed without allowing her downstairs to witness any of the carnage, and there had been plenty. She, Charlie, and Sonia had been covered in cow's blood from head to toe. Their clothes had to be thrown away. Peter's shoulder hadn't allowed him to participate to any great degree, and he'd remained relatively blood-free, though he had offered plenty of advice. Apparently, he had once worked at a meat processing plant, which she had a hard time picturing. Peter, the butcher? She wondered if there were any occupations he hadn't done at one time or another.
"You coming, Liv?" Charlie's voice from around the corner interrupted her musing. "There's some good stuff in here."
"I'll be right there," she replied, knees cracking as she rose to her feet. She fended off a wave of unsteadiness that dissipated after several heartbeats. Food sounded good—particularly food that wasn't Gene, of whom they had brought plenty.
#
It turned out, the apartment's former inhabitants had left the pantry well stocked with an assortment of non-perishable food items; from a large amount of canned tuna, to crackers and a massive jar of honey-roasted peanuts. In the refrigerator were bottles of water, Gatorade, and to the surprise of everyone, several untouched six-packs of beer. They dug in with a fevered gusto, and she immediately felt her strength return at the sustenance—perhaps it had been a lack of food, after all. She hoped fervently it was so.
Later, Olivia found herself seated beside Peter on the couch opposite Charlie and Sonia, nibbling on the remainders of the peanuts. A red and orange fire flickered inside the fireplace under the television. In what proved to be a stroke of luck, Sonia had made the discovery of the night; that the gas fireplace still had pressure in the lines. The fire provided some warmth, enough to raise the temperature in the room to a somewhat tolerable level. On the coffee table between them were a plethora of empty glass bottles and crushed aluminum cans. Outside, the sun had long since sunk below the horizon, leaving only the moon's light to navigate the apartment. She fell into her typical rhythm for such social situations, listening and observing more than talking, smiling at the banter, the exchange of stories, and a string of jokes told by Sonia that had her sides aching. She put what happened in the stairwell out of her mind, to be dwelt upon later.
An alcoholic haze descended, and for just a little while, she could imagine that things were normal—that this was her apartment, or Charlie's, or even Peter's, in some other reality. They might be having a dinner party, with drinks and who knew what else afterward. Rachel might be in the backroom with Ella, putting her down for the night. Was John there? In her head, he might be; he'd always enjoyed being the life of the party. Though he certainly would have had more than a little competition in the form of Peter, whose nomadic, less-than-legal lifestyle provided an excellent backdrop for all manners of tales, some of which she was sure he was exaggerating. He must have been; if he'd been living such a life, why would he have given it up to remain in Boston? Whatever Broyles had been paying him, he had to have given up much to stay.
She observed Peter's profile over the rim of her beer as he regaled them with a tale of some Iraqi oil magnate whom he'd been running a scam on, to the tune of over half a million dollars if his story was to be believed, much to the astonishment of Charlie and his wife. Sonia's eyes were wide open with disbelief, and Charlie wore a look of scandalized amusement. It pleased her to see Peter and Charlie getting along, and a camaraderie—if not quite a friendship—developing between them. As the story went on, she realized it must have taken place just prior to her meeting him. Had he really left that much money on the table? He had never mentioned it, not that it would have made the slightest difference to her; she had been determined to see him come back with her. And he had still chosen to stay.
You're not so bad as you like to think you are, Peter, she thought, popping several peanuts into her mouth and then swallowing them down with a mouthful of beer. Not by half. A faint smile ghosted across her lips.
The hour grew late and the fire began to flutter before finally going out. "Well, I've had enough...," Charlie announced, standing up with a tired yawn. "It's been fun. You ready to hit the sack, babe?" At his wife's nod, he pulled her to her feet, then stared down at them with a look that was unreadable in the faint light. "Well...we'll see you kids in the morning. Good night, Livvy, Peter."
"Good night guys," Sonia said over her shoulder.
"Good night," Peter and she echoed simultaneously as they disappeared down the hallway.
The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone in the family room with a thick silence. Olivia took another sip of beer and fell back on the cushion. She wasn't sure of the time, but her internal clock told her that it was still well before midnight, and not quite her bedtime. If she went to bed now, she would just lie awake, possibly for hours. She watched as Peter took a long pull from his beer, finishing it off in several large gulps. He threw a glance her way and caught her stare. A mischievous grin crooked his lips, which she found herself matching.
"Hey, give me some of those...," he said after a moment, nodding toward the jar of peanuts squeezed between her thighs. Olivia passed the jar over without a word and he upended a handful into his palm, then tossed several into his waiting mouth. He held up his empty beer can. "I think there's a few left in the fridge. You want another? It's my treat."
"Your treat, huh..." Olivia rolled her eyes, and her head followed suit. "Sure, I'll have another, but you don't have to get it for me."
Peter snorted and shook his head. "Olivia, I get that you're a big, tough FBI agent who doesn't need anyone's help, with anything, but I think just this once, it'll be okay if you let me help you. You did pass out while standing up not too long ago. Remember that?"
Olivia regarded him steadily, uncertain whether or not she should be offended. She decided to have a little fun with him. "So I'm big now?" she asked, putting as much ice into her tone as possible. Her cool demeanor broke after a heartbeat and laugh bubbled up from her chest. How many had she had? Five or six? Seven? She'd lost count at some point, a clear sign of her deteriorating sobriety. The state of her bladder alone was sign enough, if nothing else.
"Definitely a poor choice of words," he chuckled, moving away from the couch. "I'm getting it. Don't try to stop me, Dunham." He disappeared into the kitchen, and she heard the refrigerator door open, followed by the clinking of glass. "You want a can or a bottle?" he called out.
"Bottle, of course," Olivia said with a chuckle. Who preferred cans over bottles if given the choice? She rose to her feet, steadying herself on the arm of the couch. "I gotta pee, Peter. I'll be right back." She headed toward the bathroom without waiting for his reply. The hallway was near black, but she accomplished the task with minimal difficulties.
On her return, she found the family room empty, and the sliding door cracked partially open. Peter was out on the balcony, outlined against the night sky. Waiting for her. She watched him unobtrusively through the glass for a moment, letting her mind wander where it would. They would undoubtedly talk...and perhaps more than talk. Their collision seemed inevitable and she was tired of fighting it, tired of feeling guilty about John; he was dead, and would want her to move on. Probably not with Peter, of course, but move on just the same. Whatever happens, at least I won't be alone, she thought, then buttoned her coat.
Utter silence greeted her as she stepped outside, sliding the door shut behind her. The temperature was frigid, and the concrete surface of the balcony felt like ice through the fabric her socks. A constant, gusting wind seemed to find every gap through her coat, chilling her to the bone. The sky was perfectly cloudless and stars numbering in the billions rippled on the river's surface. The moon stood straight overhead, bathing the balcony in an incandescent radiance. She shivered and stepped up beside Peter at the railing, huddling in close in an effort to use him as a windbreak. He passed her an open beer without comment, and continued to stare out over the river at the city. Olivia took a sip, noting the deep crease above his eyes. She wondered what was on his mind, what he saw out there on the water, or if he even saw any of it. He hated the cold—he'd admitted as much earlier that day—and it seemed odd to seek out its embrace now.
"What is it, Peter?" she said softly.
"You know, we missed Thanksgiving the other day." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, I noticed." She hadn't wanted to make a big deal out of it since no one else had mentioned it. She had never celebrated it in any meaningful way anyway, except for the odd occasion when Rachel had been in town. He had spoiled most holidays for her, long before she'd reached her tenth birthday. "Was that a big holiday in your house when you were young?"
Peter snorted as if she'd said something amusing and finally turned to face her, leaning up against the railing. "No, not really. I think my mom always found it a little bit vulgar, considering what was really being celebrated. Walter always enjoyed it though, at least the turkey cooking part of it. I'm sure you can imagine how that went."
Olivia giggled, nudging him with her shoulder. "Yeah... As bad as I'm picturing?"
"Worse, probably," he replied, flashing her a wide grin. "Imagine my father, turkeys, and lots of experimentation. Pretty much full-fledged disasters more often than not. And we never even had any guests. What about you? What were holidays like in the Dunham household?"
She took a long sip of her beer, stalling for an answer. Should she tell him how she had spent more than one of her Thanksgivings cowering in a closet alongside a crying and hysterical Rachel, while her stepfather had raged outside? How he had beaten the shit out of their mother for burning the dinner rolls? Or how about later—after she had taken matters into her own hands and ejected him out of all their lives at the business end of a snub-nosed thirty-eight—when her mother lay dying in a hospice bed, body riddled with cancer. She'd spent both Thanksgiving and Christmas in a hospital room that year. Should she tell him about those things? And what would he think if she did? Would it be sympathy in his eyes? Or horror, after she admitted what she'd done—and how she felt no guilt for having done it, and indeed would do it again, given the chance? She could already see Peter's face; the way his eyes would widen, or perhaps he would lick his lips and then lean away from her, never looking at her the same way again. It had happened before. She took the easy way out.
"Our holidays were...average, I suppose," she said, leaning forward over the railing. Below, the building spread out before her, in a staircase of balconies all the way to the street. A wide rooftop garden sat between the two wings, several floors above street level. She wished she could have seen it in the summer, when all the flowers were in bloom, the rows of hedges trimmed neatly into some semblance of order. "Nothing to write home about."
She felt Peter stir beside her. He replicated her pose, resting on his elbows, letting his beer dangle over the balcony below. "That bad, huh?" he said in a subdued tone. "I know what that's like..."
With a start, Olivia peered up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness; she thought she'd been fairly circumspect. The moon was at his back, his face cast in shadow, unreadable. The contours of his face were recognizable though—the hard panes of cheekbones, the curl of hair at the nape of his neck. He was thinner than he had been—they all were. "What gave it away?" she asked.
"Nothing, really...something I recognized in your voice, maybe." He paused, taking another drink before continuing. "My mom and Walter, they had their share of...problems. I used to listen to them argue, sometimes. It was always worse in the winter, around Christmas. My mother...she...she was an unhappy person...no matter what I..." His voice hitched, and he cleared his throat. "...Well, anyway, she used to drink a lot, even more so around the holidays."
Olivia nodded slowly, getting a clearer picture of him in her mind, of what his childhood might have been like. There was much to read between the lines, and there was more than one kind of abuse. "What happened to her—your mother?" She had never asked him about his mother before, indeed had always had the sense that his mother was the last person he wanted to talk about. But...that was then, before what had happened between them.
"She...died." His voice was flat, emotionless. "After Walter was sent to St. Claire's, and I...left Boston for good."
He blames himself, she thought, for whatever it was that happened. It wasn't so surprising. Many kids thought they themselves were the source of their parents' strife. She, at least, had been spared that fate. "I'm sorry," she told him truthfully.
Peter sighed and lowered his head. "It happens to the best of us," he said, and then emptied his beer in long pull that tilted his head back. When he was finished, he made an awkward throw with his right hand. The echo of the bottle shattering on the balcony far below was small and inconsequential.
"Yeah..." She gazed across the river at the jagged outline of the city. The surreal, utter blackness where there should have been a cascade of lights gave her the chills. "My mom died when I was fourteen. Breast cancer."
"What about your father? What was he like?"
Olivia peeled back one corner of her bottle's label, the paper wet with condensation. "My real father was an enlisted man, and died in a helicopter accident when I was almost four..." She tried to pierce the veil of time and summon a clear image of his face, but he was only an indistinct shadow. "I don't remember much about him, his smile, a vague impression of his laugh, my mom crying when word came of his death. Rachel was still an infant at the time. I did have a stepfather for a while, though..." She hesitated, seeing the stunned look on her stepfather's face again in her mind's eye—as she always did when she thought of him; the outraged disbelief, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he collapsed in slow motion. And then she had squeezed the trigger again. How different would her life have turned out if things had gone differently—if she had pulled the trigger a final time, or not at all? "And, well...suffice to say, he was a real bastard. He used to hit my mom, hit me...when I was nine he...disappeared, and we never saw him again."
She felt Peter stiffen for a moment, but then he relaxed and shook his head slowly. "Sounds like a real piece of work," he muttered. "Men like that, they deserve whatever happens to them—something extremely painful, with any luck."
"I can't argue with that," she whispered to the rising wind. After a few minutes of silence, she hooked her arm through Peter's, and turned him away from the railing. "Let's go inside, Peter...I think my toes are frozen solid."
He glanced down at her shoe-less feet. "That's because you aren't wearing any shoes, 'Livia," he said bland voice. "You do know it's winter out here, right?"
"How perceptive of you, Peter," Olivia smirked, giving him a little jerk toward the door. "You learn that at the special school for geniuses?"
"Ouch..." Peter chuckled as she led him back inside the slightly warmer apartment. "Touché, Dunham, touché."
In the family room, she glanced between the vague outlines of the kitchen and the hallway back to the bedrooms with uncertainty. For having passed out from extreme exhaustion just several hours ago, she felt surprisingly wide awake; sleep would be a long time coming. Perhaps it was the cold air. Beside her, Peter shifted uneasily in the intervening silence. She was acutely aware of his presence at her side, of the sudden spike of tension in the room. She realized she was holding her breath, and let it out in a slow stream. "You...uh...you want another beer?" she asked, swallowing, and letting go of his arm.
Peter froze for an instant, then scratched at the side of his neck. "Well...we should probably get some sleep, don't you think?" He took a half-step away from her, looking between the sofa and love seat, then met her gaze through the darkness. "I mean, we're gonna have a long day tomorrow...but...if you want to..."
"No. No, you're right..." She nodded quickly and looked away to hide her rising disappointment. He was right, but for some reason she didn't want the night to end—the normalcy of it all was addicting. And that was what told her that it had to end, and the sooner the better. Priorities had to be kept in line. "We should get some sleep. Who knows how bad it will be tomorrow."
"Then...I guess I'll take one of these couches," he offered, pressing his hand into one of the cushions. "Seems comfortable enough, better than what we have at the lab. You see any linen closets back there?"
Olivia shook her head. "No, but there were a lot of extra blankets on the bed I woke up in. You uh...you can have a few if you want."
Peter agreed and they crept through the darkness down the hall, past the bedroom Charlie and Sonia had taken. He stopped at the restroom along the way, and Olivia continued on, feeling her way into the bedroom, where she pulled up the blinds and shoved the curtains aside to provide some illumination, enough to raise the light level a hair above pitch black. While she waited, she examined the blankets—there were no less than five layers—and decided she could part with at least two of them. She grabbed a handful and started to pull them free, but then stopped, torn, stuck in a moment of numbed indecision.
Their intersection was drawing closer, the collision inevitable. Olivia could sense it on the horizon, its impending approach, speed increasing with every moment that passed spent together. Is this what I want? she asked herself. Some small part of her thought of John, and was consumed with guilt; it was far too soon, and John had despised him. Another part of her voiced numerous abstract reasons why it was a bad idea, though she recognized them as her typical self-doubt when it came to men and relationships in general. But there was another voice, equally strong, that demanded she finish what she started that day in his room at the lab; their lives were too short, too precarious to waste another day, another minute. That she had felt inexplicably drawn to Peter—practically from the very beginning, and despite her feelings for John—was undeniable, though she'd done a good job of it for a time. He was a good man beneath his layers, loyal to his family, to those he cared about, almost to a fault—even with Walter, though he would never admit it. Like herself. Either of them might be dead tomorrow...and he would never take the initiative in the way John had; it wasn't his way. She let the blankets fall from her hand as shadow that moving in the doorway, resolved into Peter's outline.
"Hey." He leaned against the door frame, making no move to enter the room.
Olivia swallowed. Her heart felt as if it might burst from her chest. Surely he could hear its pounding—she could hardly hear anything else. She had felt the same way with John, just before she'd finally given in to his advances. Only this was far worse—she was the one doing the advancing. "Hey." Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady.
"So that was kind of fun tonight...," he said in a voice pitched low. "For a while there, it almost felt everything was normal, you know? That the world hadn't ended. Of course, reality had to kick in at some point, but it was nice while it lasted." Olivia nodded, but couldn't summon any sort of response—she seemed incapable of forming complete thoughts. After a moment, he cleared his throat and sighed. "Uh...I guess...I guess these are the blankets?"
"Um...yeah." She motioned vaguely toward the bed. That's all you've got? she berated herself. Say something else, anything else!
Peter hesitated, then stepped into the room, a featureless silhouette moving through the shadow. She could feel nervousness poring off him in waves as he stopped at the foot of the bed and reached for the blanket on top—a thick comforter that looked black, but could have been any dark color. Knowing he was nervous also should have been comforting, but it wasn't. He started to pull the blanket loose, bunching it in his arms until it came free. Then he took a backwards step toward the door. He was going. Say something! she commanded herself. Her mouth opened but no words were forthcoming.
"Well...I'll see you in the morning. Thanks for the blanket." His silhouette turned to leave. He was leaving! "Goodnight, Olivia," he said over his shoulder.
"Peter..." she managed to gasp in a hoarse whisper, half reaching after him.
He stopped outside the doorway. "What's wrong?" There was a note of alarm in his tone.
Olivia's hand lingered in the air between them. She forced the words out, one after another. "Do you...do you want to stay...with me?"
His breath hissed, and then there was utter quiet for several agonizing heartbeats. "...In here?" he asked, sounding as if he were having trouble breathing.
No, in Charlie's room, she thought, somehow feeling dazed and giddy at the same time. "Don't make me say it, Peter."
"I think I have to..."
He was covering himself, leaving a back entrance for escape if things went south. Was it a habit? An instinct? Who was it that hurt you, Peter, to make you doubt yourself so greatly? She wanted to know—that, and more. There would be an even exchange of information.
"You know what I mean," she countered softly.
A silence fell between them, and tension she could have cut with a knife. The rushing of blood and her hammering heartbeat filled her ears. Olivia forced herself to look away from his outline, and let her coat fall to the floor before slipping underneath the covers. She lay on her side, burying her head in the soft pillow, and waited for whatever would happen next. She had stated her intentions, and whatever followed was up to him. Her eyes came to rest on the nightstand, on a picture frame she hadn't noticed before. Two people, faces hidden in shadow. The silence stretched out, becoming almost painful. Had she been wrong after all? Her cheeks began to burn. Oh my god...
Light footsteps sounded on the carpet. Were they coming or going? She couldn't tell. Holding her breath, she listened as a slight scuffing filled the air. What was he doing? She resisted the urge to look; he had to choose her—uninfluenced. The noise stopped. And then the opposite side of the bed dipped, the mattress springs creaking slightly as he slid under the covers next to her.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Olivia...," he whispered in the dark. "Are you sure about this...about me? What would Charlie say?"
Grinning at the palpable wave of relief washing over her, Olivia exhaled and rolled over to face him. He was close, within reach, but not close enough to be imposing. It was just like him, ever mindful of giving her space. Some of it would have to stop of course, or they would never get anywhere. She reached out and touched his face, running her fingers through the scruff of his beard, eliciting a slight gasp which some part of her took note of. "I don't care what Charlie would say," she told him. "And I'm not really sure about anything, Peter, not anymore. Not after what's happened to me, not everything we've seen together. But this...thing between us, I know you've felt it, and...I...I don't really want to fight it anymore. Do you?"
Peter's teeth flashed white in the moonlight. "Sweetheart...I never did want to fight it."
Olivia's lips curled into a broad smile at the endearment. He'd called her that before, under far different circumstances. She'd been a different person back then, and so had he. "Call me that one more time...I'd really like that," she breathed, leaning into him, reaching for his lips.
The kiss was tentative at first, probing, lips dry from the cold. But this time, there were no interruptions, and for the moment, no more talking was required. There were only the two of them, the give and the take, an intoxicating blur of heat and wetness, and the taste of Peter in her mouth, his smell filling her nose, and all along the length of her, softness and hardness, all boiled into one. His hands were on her waist, then under the hem of her shirt, searing her flesh with their touch. She sighed and rolled onto her back, never breaking contact with his lips, and settled his weight on top of her. Where she had been cold before, she was burning up now, toes curling from the heat. She wanted more. She yearned upward, pushing back against his weight, sliding her hands into the back of his jeans and pulling him deliciously against her.
Then, without warning Peter gasped and fell to the side, groaning and hissing a string of low, barely audible curses under his breath. Olivia shot up straight, breathing hard, and utterly confused. "Peter?" she hissed. "What's wrong? What happened?" He was on his back, squirming in a patch of moonlight, in no small amount pain. His right hand clutched at his wounded shoulder. Of course, she thought, coming back to her senses. How could I have forgotten that?
"Shit...," he panted, sitting up next to her after a moment. "That really hurt..."
"Are you okay?" She reached out, putting her hand on his good shoulder.
He nodded, and shook his head ruefully. "Would you believe I forgot all about being shot?" he said, peering over at her. "And that my arm can't support my own weight yet, not without feeling like I'm being stabbed in the shoulder, at least."
Olivia considered. "I suppose I could take that as a compliment...," she said, suddenly finding the situation highly comical. The two of them seemed to have nothing but bad luck. She fell back on her pillow and giggled, which quickly escalated into a fit of stomach-wrenching laughter. She covered her mouth in an attempt to stifle the noise. When the fit subsided, she found Peter staring down at her with a mixture of wounded pride and amusement. She smiled up at him. "I'm sorry, Peter, I shouldn't be laughing at your pain."
"No, you shouldn't, Dunham," he agreed, then chuckled and fell back on the pillow next to her. "But I can't blame you, I would laugh at me if I were you... Sorry I spoiled the moment, by the way. That was unfortunate."
She searched under the covers for his hand. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Peter," she said, twining their fingers together. "... and we should probably get some sleep anyway, like you said before. There'll be other times—you can count on it."
"Tell me again why we haven't done this sooner?" he asked, scooting closer to her side of the bed.
Olivia turned on her side, pressing her back up against him. It felt good doing so, great even. Why hadn't they done it sooner? She had no answer—for him or herself. Perhaps she just hadn't been ready. They were doing it now, and that was all that mattered. She closed her eyes, relishing the feel of his arm around her waist, the wisps of breath on the back her neck. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she let herself relax, letting her guard all the way down. After a while, Peter spoke behind her.
"What did you mean earlier, Olivia," he murmured into her hair, "when you said something had happened to you? What'd you mean by that?"
Olivia experienced a brief moment of panic and froze. Of course he wouldn't forget that. She had the feeling that where it concerned her, he wouldn't forget anything, ever. Reluctantly, she twisted around to face him, noses inches apart in the darkness. His breath caressed her cheek. She had to be honest with him, if they were to have any hope of making something out of what was between them. And that started with telling him the whole truth, about everything that happened. It might even feel good to tell someone.
She started her story at the bridge the night he'd been shot, with an infected woman stumbling out of the night, and left nothing out.
