Open Sesame

The air smelled stagnant. Old. Of dust that tickled her nose, and of badly filtered disappointment. She frowned. With Harran locked out of the bunker, Zofia had thought it'd taste a little more like hope. Instead, it made her think of a spacious grave, its cold walls burying her alive. Trapping her- and she hated being trapped. Had every right to. Her breathing shallow, she crowded herself against a wall. Pressed her head to it, her burning skin flush to the cold concrete.

They'd opened all the doors out of the receiving area. Had found a locker room, some sort of antechamber leading into a storage bay, and a big security booth. The security booth was were it was at, obviously, since everyone was now in there, having an argument that seesawed between desperation and accusation.

Everyone but her, at any rate. And a quiet Collin, who sat with his back to the wall and his knees up in front of him. He'd been crying. Sort of still was, his breathing all wonky and his eyes puffy and wet.

Should do something, her muddled mind said. Should talk to him. Should help him. She frowned, because she couldn't think past the suggestion.

Inside the booth, Crane had been faulted for Daxton's death. Scott's words. Mostly. He'd been very vocal about his opinion on the matter, and while he'd raved, Zofia had looked to the door to the outside, and thought of how odd it felt to have only a few layers of metal between them and a dead man whose friends grieved him even now.

The thought lingered even now, and she shivered thinking about how they'd have to pass through that narrow hall again on the way back out whenever they felt ready to leave. And how they'd find Daxton there, and how they'd all need to step over bits of him. She shivered. Turned her wrist up to glance at her watch. 06:something. Still dark out. The dials had got smudged. Made it difficult to see, and she wiped at the glass to make it worse.

Scott stormed from the booth first. Broke off towards the big door leading deeper into the bunker. Deeper into their dark, dry grave with its dusty walls. Crane followed right after. Watched Scott go, and then turned on the spot, his eyes scanning for her. They landed on where she'd been trying to become part of the scenery, and with a painfully slow motion started her way.

He's hurt, her little brain informed her, thought there was a trailing thought of Whenever isn't he? and she didn't know it from funny or sad. He moved carefully. Held himself at an odd angle, and his left arm was tugged a little too close to his side. The surefooted forward momentum that carried him tirelessly forward was gone.

But of course that didn't stop him. He'll be dead and still going, Zofia thought, and then cringed. Not an unlikely scenario here in Harran, and not something she ought to be thinking of.

"You okay out here?" He washed up in front of her. Glanced past her to Collin, and then tried to catch her eyes with one of his professional smiles.

She nodded. Smooth, painted over concrete scratched at her skin, because her head wouldn't come off the wall.

"Stay put for me a little longer? We think we found the generator room, Meg and I will go check it out."

She nodded again. Her brain wobbled in her skull.

"Once the light is on, we'll find a room to crash, and you can tell me all about how coming out here was a shit idea, okay?"

Nod. Nod.

"Great. That's my girl, silent and strong." The professional smile turned a little rueful. Crane winked. She almost smiled at that, but he'd turned around already anyway and joined Meghan by the map on the wall.

Meghan was glowering at the thing. Tracing a finger along the glass it sat behind, tracking halls and whatnot, Zofia figured. When Crane stopped by her shoulder, she tapped at a specific spot and he nodded. Right before he flicked his crowbar from its loop, knocked the glass in with the blunt end of it, and peeled the map from the wall.

"Good to go," he said, and Meghan laughed. It was a throaty and grim laugh.

Kyle turned the map in his hands. Left— Right— Down— Up again— because who the fuck read things upside down. Infirmary. Storage A and Storage B, all of which they'd passed a minute before. Kitchen to his… left? He turned his head that way, and the flashlight between his teeth snapped up and found a door that could have maybe-probably-hopefully, led into a kitchen. He grimaced. The flashlight tasted like absolute shit.

"Are we still going the right way?" Meghan walked next to him, a hand resting on the stock of her rifle slung from her front. To the untrained eye she might have looked relaxed. Steady. But the sharp line of her jaw and the tensely corded muscles of her neck told an entirely different story.

Kyle picked the flashlight from his mouth. "I'm pretty sure. This should open up into the rec hall…" And it did, the walls around them parting to reveal a spacious room sitting below a squat ceiling. It smelled of old dust, worn shoes, and furniture polish. A lot of furniture polish. They slowed. Took stock in silence.

"I guess they really didn't expect to need this place," she said. "A pretty expensive storage dump, if you ask me."

Kyle "Yep"ed in agreement. Behind them, the halls had metal chairs stacked in them, and the rec hall was a forest of plastic drapes over clusters of furniture. A plain, beige carpet covered the concrete here. Muffled their steps. Halfway through the hall and he pinched some of the covers off. Found a set of couches, and yawned enthusiastically at them, hoping they'd have this all out of the way soon and he'd get to throw his legs up somewhere. Preferably on something soft and warm, because his back was fucking killing him.

Walking hurt. Standing was excruciating. Swinging his left arm? Downright I wanna curl in a ball and weep.

"You know this wasn't your fault, right? Daxton's death isn't on you, he made a choice back there, and nothing you could have done would have changed that."

Meghan's question herded his thoughts back together. He wanted to nod, but even that felt like too much work at this point, so Kyle settled for a weary, "Yeah."

Wow, that's all you got? Go on Crane, show some respect.

"I could have tried not to get tackled by a Volatile," he added. "Might have made a difference, and you wouldn't have had to lose a man."

"A friend," Meghan said.

"A friend," he echoed, feeling properly scummy for having a mouth that ran on bullshit half the time.

Whatever else that might needed saying set aside for now, they continued on, and he led them through one of the three hallways branching out of the communal area. Their footfalls once again clapped on naked concrete, and ran on ahead of them with faint echoes. A couple of open doors invited them for a peek, the first one turning out to be a set of toilets. The second, showers.

"Hang on a sec," Kyle said, and Meghan listened to him about as well as Zofia might. She followed him inside, their heels clicking on impeccable clean tiles. Empty curtain rails were affixed to the ceiling, and vacant towel racks lined the walls. To the right, above low hanging sinks, mirrors ran the length of the wall. A thin layer of dust covered them, muted the flick of their lights. Working up courage with a deep breath, Kyle stepped up to one of the showers. He willed his dice to shape the fuck up. To land him with a decent roll for once. "Be good to me," he begged and twisted the faucet.

"You honestly believe this works?" Meghan's lips twisted in a sharp, mocking smile, and Kyle shrugged at her. He wanted to pout.

"Give me a break, I haven't had a shower in—" The pipes groaned. Rattled. And he slid back as they coughed up lukewarm, stagnant water in hard fits. It splashed against the tiles. Up his boots. Soaked his pant leg. Kyle whooped as the water kept coming, and the irregular spurts turned to a hard spray. He turned to Meghan with a grin.

"Jesus, look at you, Crane. You're having your private little Christmas down here."

"Hell yeah, I am."

Zofia had all but forgotten that some people liked to talk their grief away. Chase it off with words. Do the right thing, not sit around waiting for it to take root— or pace and pace and pace like Scott did, his boots carrying him up and down the corridor with vigour born of sorrow.

"We haven't lost anyone in a while," Collin said off to her right. He was staring at his knees. "I suppose we were thinking we'd had a good deal back at the Sunset Yard. Definitely didn't think it'd be…" He paused. Raked a hand through his hair. Looked up as Scott marched by again. "Any of them, I guess. Anyone." His mouth turned down. Ugly and quick, and she thought he'd start crying again.

But he didn't. He gathered himself up a little, rubbed his knuckles against his eyes, and then looked at her with a waning smile. Zofia didn't know what to do with the attention, and thinking was hard work, so she slid down the wall and sat. Collin being Collin, and by that definition not her, took it for an invitation and scooted his ass over to her side.

"You know what blows the most?"

She shook her head.

"That we have to do this. Scavenge. Pick Harran's bones, whatever you want to call it. We shouldn't have to, because they should have pulled us out by now. Or at least— I don't know— drop in enough supplies. Instead we're dying, and they don't really care, do they?"

They do care, she'd have liked to say, but it felt a little like a lie. Her teeth worked her lip. Her eyes burnt with exhaustion, and her skin crawled with bubbling heat.

Wasn't like she hadn't heard that question before. Or asked it herself. And it was getting harder with every passing day to come up with an excuse for how the world had pushed Harran under the bed like a child too lazy to clean up after itself.

"I got my name out," he continued. "Or tried to, anyway. We all did, and I think maybe that was a bad idea."

She glanced to him.

"My parents already thought I was dead, and maybe they'd made peace with it, you know? Sort of, anyway? And then they hear I'm alive, and they end up hoping I'll make it out, but I'm pretty sure I won't. All I did was make it worse."

He sniffed. Bumped his head against the wall, and told the ceiling: "Sorry," after which they sat on not thinking much. Which was almost nice, even if her mind limped to thoughts of Crane somewhere in the guts of their cold concrete grave, and her eyes went to the door Meghan and him had shut behind them.

He's okay, she told herself.

Scott paced by. Again. Collin sighed. Fidgeted. And then their grave hiccuped from deep within its belly. Zofia's heart relocated and her breathing hitched, and she had her hand on the radio and was ready to ask Crane if he'd gotten himself killed yet, when her brain caught up and said: Pipes.

That was the sound of plumbing coming alive. Something that, admittedly, she'd also almost forgotten still existed.

The noise had given Scott pause too. And it brought what remained of Collin's group out into the corridor, newly spooked and quite chatty. Scott calmed them with a few words. Pointed to Zofia and Collin, and the group did what groups tended to do. It copied whatever was put in front of it. They sat on the floor, all four of them. Plus baby.

Riley whined in Phobie's arms. Choked out weak sobs. Yeter leaned over to them both, hushed whispers carrying loving words. And Jin wondered loudly if there were bathrooms in here, because she had to go like right now.

Zofia's bladder raised a weary flag. Don't forget about me, it told her.

"That's Eren," Collin said and lifted a finger to point at a stocky boy about his age. He had thick shoulders and arms, and spiky, dark blonde hair matted from the night's excursion. "Jin calls him McG."

Jin also sat real close to McG, shoulders rubbing up with his, and eyes turned to him in a way that gave away private hopes and dreams.

"So. Hey. Want to check out the control room?" Collin tapped his fingers on his knees.

Her legs informed her that We've just sat down, don't do this to us, but Zofia nodded. It had gotten crowded out here anyway. The control room, on the other hand, was wonderfully empty. And neat, as it turned out. A clean arrangement of white on white around polished steel and electronic equipment set into walls and consoles. Most of the computer screens looked dead, and those that weren't, only showed a single blinking line of text. The bunker's sleepy pulse, she thought.

She turned away from the screens. There were boxes fixed to the walls, and her curiosity carried her to one of them. It was locked.

"What'd you find?" Collin joined her with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders pulled up. She glanced at him and noted the lines down his cheeks where tears had washed the dirt off.

"Don't know yet." She hefted her hatchet free. Set the blade into the groove between casing and box door. Unlike Crane, she didn't have magic fingers, and couldn't pick her way into stranger's homes uninvited. He'd tried to teach her. Which had gone about as well as expected, with tangled fingers, lopsided smirks, and something about cat burglars and how she wasn't one. She didn't need to be, anyway. Didn't need Collin's help either, but the boy was all in pieces, and maybe a bit of purpose would help him put them back together.

"Give it a whack?"

Collin blinked. Not at the hatchet, but at where she was holding on to the hatchet's shaft with both hands.

"Oh," he said. "I didn't notice before. What happened?"

She clicked her tongue. Flexed her two good fingers on her left hand, and the stubs with the shortened glove sewed shut around them. "Rais. Come on, whack it."

"Oh—" He swallowed. Nodded. Knocked his fist against the hatchet's blunt back, and the blade sunk into the gap with a scrape of metal on metal. Two slaps of her palm and a little bit of wiggling, and the door popped open wide enough to let her pry it the rest of the way.

Keys. A key box. She craned her neck. Most of them were labelled in Arabic, but some had helpful icons printed on their little tags. Maintenance sort of things. Electricity. Kitchen? Her mouth turned dry. Her tongue turned to sodden cotton. One of the keys came with a Rod of Asclepius on its tag. A tiny rod. And a tiny snake.

And then the world lit up.

A sharp noise zapped through the room. Tickled her nose with the sceent of ozone and burnt dandruff. The ground gave a quick, hard shudder. Lights pinged on all around her, stung her eyes and made her flinch. Screens flicked on. Computers whirred alive. The air hummed, and a gentle draft nipped at her sweaty neck.

"They did it!" Collin rushed to the computer. "Ha! Look at this, the whole place is coming on."

Zofia turned on the spot, clenched her right hand into a fist. The little key dug into her palm, and her stomach tethered itself tightly to her spine with dulled excitement. She told herself it was because Crane would be coming back, and she'd be done waiting. Not because of the key, since that would have been ridiculous.

"Those have to be security feeds. Look, that's Scott. Here, a garage door— and that's a kitchen—" He'd have probably kept going, mapped out the whole bloody place. But a shout from outside froze them both. Phoebie.

"The door! The door is opening! Scott! Scott!"

Boots thundered past. "Get away from it!" Scott shouted, and everyone piled back into the control room.

"Oh shit oh fuck," Collin scanned the controls. "Can we close them from here? I can't read any of this. Yeter!"

Zofia stepped away. Swallowed her heart back down (slipped the key into a pocket), and tugged on her bow. Call Crane, her brain whined, but that'd not help. He was too far away, and that left her halfway out the door with an arrow nocked before she caught up with what she was doing.

Inside the control room, everyone had an opinion. "What does this do?" — "No, no. Here, this is it." — "Are they closed yet?"

No. No, they're not.

Scott was in the hall with her, his rifle trained at the door inching open. There were shadows dancing in the gap. They had fingers. Teeth. "Whatever you are doing, hurry the fuck up!" he hollered.

One Biter fell through. Squeezed itself into the light, pulling the dark along with it, and a lot of sticky red and bits of dried rot. Scott cursed, his finger on the trigger of his rifle, but no shots tearing the thing up. His weapon had jammed. She recognised the rush of trying to get it to fire, but the Biters didn't care. They kept coming, with three more falling through before the door finally stopped moving.

"What did you do! " Yeter yelped inside.

The door began to close with one Biter stuck halfway in it.

"Closed it!" Collin screamed back, his voice shrill.

"Weren't you listening! I told you that's a lockdown!"

"We didn't have time—"

—to stand around and stare. Zofia shrugged the words from her shoulders and focused on the nocked arrow instead, and her hand kissing her cheek. A routine motion of draw and take aim. Inhale and exhale. Let the arrow fly, the bowstring snapping back with a quick bite at the air. She was relatively close. Four paces away from grasping fingers— easy. Biter number one crumpled with an arrow jutting from its chest. Number two was only three paces away, so she got it in the head. It twisted and fell, and the other two tripped over it. She lowered her bow ( Don't waste arrows, ) and let it snap against her side. Brought the hatchet up, her palm wet and sticky, the gloves itching like mad.

Scott rushed by. And while he ignored her, right along with the Biters, she went on to follow the motions of a year spent not dying. Because Zofia hadn't always needed Crane. Had been perfectly fine on her own, honest. One Biter grasped for her. Slow. Stupid. Clumsy. She kicked its head aside before it could sink its teeth into her ankles. The other one tried to get up, and she got it with a side swipe of her hatchet sinking sharp edge first into its skull. Watch your feet, Crane taunted in her head, and she did, skipped over the fallen body trailing her hatchet and blood dripping from it. The other Biter was back on its feet. Lunged for her. Still slow, so she wove back and let it grasp for empty air, its fingers a breath away from catching cloth. Her hatchet landed in its neck. Once, then twice, until her arm ached and her breathing came in uneven, laboured gasp.

But the Biter fell, and her hatchet almost along with it, because it had got too heavy with the last swing.

Up ahead, Scott turned to her, a trail of red goop telling her where he'd hauled the last one inside, pressed it to a wall, and put his machete through it. He offered her a nod. Appreciation, maybe. Or a Thanks, next round is on me. Which was a little unfortunate, since she'd stopped drinking about when she'd found out it led to regrets and tears and put a frown on Crane.

Zofia returned the nod. Reset her grip on her hatchet, and went to find something to clean it with.

The generator beeped.

"Beeping is good?" Kyle frowned at the thing, and Meghan shrugged.

"Seems to work." She swept the room with a critical glance, her arms folded below her chest. That pushed the round bits up, he noted. Stop noting, Crane. Damn, you need to get laid. "Lights are on. Boiler is running. I think we did it. Good job, soldier. If you were in my unit, I'd write you a commendation."

He snorted. Cracked a grin that wobbled its way over his lips, and wanted nothing more than to limp back up those stairs to the main level, and find the Paper Tiger to complain to. Meghan acknowledged his misery with a lazy wink, patted his arm on the way past, and he hauled himself after her and into the stairwell.

Halfway up there— Come on, knees. You can do it. —his radio came on. "I need to talk to Meghan," Scott said. Kyle didn't argue, but his curiosity sharpened his ears enough to pick up the "We have trouble, boss." leading the call. But Meghan didn't break into a run, and while his fingers clenched into fists to stretch the glove taught over his knuckles, he stopped himself from jogging up ahead.

Meghan listened. Her brows pinched. Her lips pursed. A distant, focused look drifted on ahead of them, and by the time she handed the radio back to him, she looked like any other weary soldier ready for the bunk.

"The suspense is killing me." He rubbed at the back of his nape. Squeezed. And regretted it all a moment later when a muscle spasm ripped along his spine. "You gonna fill me in?"

She sighed, smacked her lips together. "First thing the bunker did when we got the power on, was opening its doors back up."

Kyle's stomach dropped. Zofia. Her radio. Scott had her radio, because she was dead, and— he'd picked up speed, made it two quick steps before Meghan snatched for his elbow and towed him back.

"Ease up on the throttle. Everyone is fine, they managed to get the doors closed before more than a few Biters could get through."

She's okay. His steps slowed. He remembered breathing. "And the trouble?"

"The doors are closed."

"What?"

"They panicked, so they must have hit the wrong button, and now the place is on lockdown for seven days."

"Ah," he managed. Ah. Ah, Shit. His wrist turned up and his timepiece stared back at him. Click-click-click the gears in his mind went. "Can't we just, I don't know, release it?"

"That defeats the purpose of a lockdown, I presume. But Eren and Yeter will try to work around it, and who knows. Maybe they'll crack it open. But if they don't…" her words trailed off and her eyes cut to him. To his hand. His wrist. The patch of skin above it with the bite mark itching at the attention. "Daxton had the Antizin, and he's on the other side of that door."

Barring anything going horribly tits up, the math landed him with a few days to spare. "I'm good. We're good."

She nodded. "Okay."

Okay. The sort of Okay that came with we're not going to have to put you down. Okay, so you'll live. Mine won't.

"That kid— Collin? He's bit, right?"

"Mhm."

"Who else?"

"Daxton. Akif. And Eren. This is goddamn shit, Crane. At best, the boys have five days before they need another dose." Meghan ran her long fingers down her face, scraped nails against her chin. "I'm going to lose them too."

Kyle shook his head. "No, you're not," he told her. "We got this."

Zofia's heart fluttered, told her she'd turned the wrong corner. Opened up the wrong door. And that she was horribly inconsiderate not taking her shoes off, leaving dirty footprints on the impeccably clean floor. She glanced down her front, at her boots caked in grime and blood. Pushed her toes up. Set her heels down. Wove back and forth uselessly while the rest of her glitched through the roof.

From up there, she watched that dirty stick for a mongrel that might or might have been her (plausible deniability and all), stick her nose close to the shelves lining the medicine storage cage. She read the labels, one by one, while her eyes burnt and her ears hummed. There were stacks of small cardboard boxes. Long ones. Short ones. And fat plastic bottles, with equally fat caps, and bulbous glass vials neatly standing at attention in their designated rows.

So. Bloody. Many. She wasn't ever going to run out. Her right hand darted up. Fumbled for a cluster of pill bottles with shaking fingers— and knocked into them when a rap at the cage door yanked her back into her own skin.

Crane had found her. Probably because she'd left a trail all the way to the infirmary. Or because Collin told him where I went. Which didn't, in fact, make the boy a traitor. Just a good lad with his heart in the right place, who'd just had found out he'd be going raving mad soon and forget about everything good in life.

Crane was scowling at her. Of course he was. Zofia's hand curled around the edge of the shelf. She looked at him. Stood her ground while he marched up to her (still moving slowly, still a little off, still hurt), and went right for the shelf himself.

"Found what you're looking for?" He went for the glass vials. Pinched one between his fingers, and presented it to her with a hard edge in his eyes. "What about some morphine to go?"

She winced.

"Here," he stepped up to the opposite shelf. Dug packaged syringes from a plastic box, and tossed them her way. They knocked around the shelf, skidded through the bottles and the packages. One or two fell off.

Then he stared at them for a while. Then back at her. And the scowl crumbled off him. His shoulders sagged and he swallowed hard, right before he was around her, and Zofia got a faceful of stinky shirt.

"Sorry," he told her hair. "But you drive me fucking insane."

She sniffed. Very stinky.

"I have a headache," she mumbled into his chest. The arms around her peeled away, allowing air back in. Crane hrrmed with conviction, moved around her with one hand never leaving her hip, and dug through the shelves. Once he'd found what he'd been looking for, he presented it to her with an almost proud little grin. Ibuprofen, the label said. Zofia accepted it. Glanced up, half expecting him to grow a bushy tail and start wagging it.

He didn't. But he did give her a rueful smile, right before he snatched up two of the syringes and tucked them into a chest pocket.

"Where's your Antizin?" he asked.

"Hm? On me, why?" She fished for it. Like she'd done two times since she'd heard about the lockdown, checking that the padding hadn't given way and she'd leaked the suppressants into her clothes.

He took it. Squirreled it away.

"Much as I like our new friends," he said, "they have Bitten. And Bitten get scared, and scared people get stupid. I'd prefer to be the one they get stupid with." His finger tapped against the syringes he'd taken.

"They won't make it, you know. Which isn't fair. I like Collin."

His brow rocked up. "So all it takes is a blunt and you're friends?"

"Crane…"

He smirked. Tapped the syringes he'd pocketed. "Don't worry, I'm way ahead of you." And then he had his arm around her again, and was pulling her from the room. The cage got closed again. Locked up. She'd left the key in there, and he took that too.

Muppet.

As if he'd read her mind, Crane squeezed her a little closer as he walked her out of the Infirmary. He turned left. Deeper into the bunker, not back to the control booth.

"Where are we going?"

"Shush," he chided. "It's a surprise. You'll love it, trust me."

Zofia bristled. "Your surprises usually reek. And you reek too, by the by."

"You're pretty ripe yourself. Wanna take a shower?"

"Very funny, Crane."

"No, I mean it. This place has working showers. Hot showers."

Her feet glitched a little. "You're joking."

"Showers are no joking matter, baby."

"Don't—" call me baby.

"We have toilets too," he interrupted. Added, "They flush," with a wink, and Zofia gaped at him.

"Where," she whined, well aware of how desperate she sounded.

"Right this way. Now, go on and tell me you don't love me. I fucking dare you. Say it."

Zofia's lips tickled with a smile.

"Go on. I wanna hear it. Say Crane, you suck. I hate you. "

"I hate you," she echoed, the words feeling about as loopy as she felt. Loopy and desperate, with a mad giggle driving them from her chest. A long overdue giggle, and an out of place one that didn't belong with them and the death down here in their concrete grave.

"Mmhmm," he mocked. " I hate you, Crane. You're the worst and I totally don't want your babies and— Ouch! What'd I do now? Come on, I'm wounded. Be nice—"

Zofia let him carry on. Let his words roll over her and accompany her down the corridor. The jokes and the teasing and the gentle bits in-between. She latched on to it all, and tried very hard not to listen to the voice at the back of her head. the one that asked her if that hall didn't look a lot like a green mile might, one that'd been stretching on forever and might have come to its last stretch.

Taffer Notes: I like it? I don't? Mostly don't? There were pieces to move around, a stage to set, and I hope you've enjoyed the awkward shuffling of things in place.

Finally, I was forced to settle for a time frame on how frequent Antizin shots are required once the suppressants are in your system. There's conflicting information in how Dying Light plays itself, so I went with an average of 5 to 7 days before a full dose is needed to keep the Virus suppressed.