Nothing changed, except for the amount of time that had passed and Nick's mind, which chased itself incessantly with repeated words and repeated memories and repeated images. He tried to stave it off by pacing. When that didn't work, he tried other exercises: push-ups, sit-ups, anything to put a strain on his body and give his mind something else to focus on.
It wasn't working anymore.
Nick began to fear being put back into his cell, back where his mind would begin scratching at itself until he wanted to scream. When they'd put him in the holding room to clean, he'd pace near the back wall, trying to be the last to be collected. When it was time for sampling in the treatment room, he'd do his best to distract Sijan or slow her down so he wouldn't have to return as quickly.
He hated it. He hated it more than anything else he'd ever known.
Nothing was helping anymore. Nothing. No matter what he tried to do to distract himself, he always ended up stuffed in the corner of the cell, sobbing in terror and anger and something he couldn't identify anymore. At first he tried to be quiet. Then he stopped caring about that, too. After all, there was no longer a man like Barratt around to silence him.
Most of the time, he just stayed in the corner and rubbed his forehead against the rough concrete wall until his skin was raw. Pain was a good distraction. The only one he had left.
He talked to no-one. Not the doctor or the guards or any of the other carriers. When it came time to go to the holding cell, he just paced, silent. The other carriers feared to approach him. Now even Carter kept his distance.
Nick knew the guards' routine like clockwork now. He knew it better than they did. He knew when they came, when they left, when the food arrived. He knew when he would be taken out for sampling. The routine was likely the only thing keeping him still attached to the rest of the world. Occasionally he'd think that someday, maybe something would be different.
The bitter, taunting half of his brain would remind him:
Hope's just a word with a hole in it.
Nick, having memorized everything about the guards and the ward and the holding room, began to focus on the treatment room in the times that he was there. The walls, the floors and everything in between. His mind was frantic for something different, something he wasn't familiar with. Eventually he started to focus on the quarantine door and what lie beyond it. He focused most of his energy on staring at it while he was being worked on.
The door was electronically locked, and the guards and Sijan used a keycard to get in and out of it. There was a clock on the wall just outside and if he looked hard enough he could see it when the door opened or closed. Nick imagined he could hear it, too. The floor was a soft green color, unlike the off-white of the treatment room. The walls were cream-colored. It was just a hallway outside that went in both directions. The guards and doctor always turned to the right when they went through.
It took two and a half days for him to realize why he his mind was so centered on that door.
He had to get out.
He had to get out or his mind was going to destroy him, eat away at the rest of him until there was nothing left at all. Nick wondered what he'd have to do to get one of the guards to shoot him. He thought that perhaps he could grab for their pistol and turn the gun on himself before they could react.
Then his brain slowly and incessantly turned over all the information it had, everything it knew about the ward and the facility and the schedule and the doctor, and gave him a third option.
And he took it.
In three days, he was back in the treatment room. They didn't seem worried about the anemia anymore. Now they just wanted his blood. Nick sat in the dentist's chair, staring down at his restrained wrist. The guard had left to get Sijan something and ever since had been rubbing the zip-tie against the chair's arm. Most of the cushioning had been worn away by either age or because of others fighting to get out of the chair. He'd managed to work the connecting end of the zip-tie to the underside and he carefully worked on getting it open, one small bit at a time. Every time he got the connector over one of the teeth his heart jumped a bit in his chest. Ten or so. Then he could probably wiggle himself out of it.
He'd never attempted anything before, and he knew she trusted that he wouldn't try. Being silent and terrified for most of his time here had given him an unexpected advantage.
"How is your sampling site feeling?" Sijan asked suddenly. He jumped and went still, feeling his mouth go dry, thinking he'd been caught, but she wasn't even looking at him, she was going through his chart on the counter across the room.
He didn't answer her, but he knew she hadn't been expecting him to.
"If it's still sore, I can take a look at it for you." Sijan turned and looked at him. He stared at the floor and shook his head, listening to her let out a soft sigh. "I don't know why you've been so quiet, Nick. We had such good progress going."
I'll show you progress, his mind snarled.
He waited until she turned away again, then went back to work. The hard edge of the plastic was digging into that soft spot under his thumb, already raw and red from how much he'd been pushing at it. If it started bleeding, she was going to panic and then he'd be back in his cell and he would panic. He wasn't going back there. He wasn't going back there. Not today. Never again.
A noiseless shift came of him getting the connector past another tooth. Nick swallowed uncomfortably and kept going. Just a little more and he could get his hand out.
The quarantine door beeped and opened. Nick stopped again, feeling his chest tighten. No, no, no, don't come in here. He tried to keep the passive look on his face as he watched the guard enter and step up to Sijan's side after glancing over to him on the chair.
"Uh, Doctor...? There's been a bit of a..." the guard dropped his voice to speak to her. His radio crackled but it was muffled.
Nick went back to the zip-tie again. Whatever they were talking about, he couldn't hear it, and it wasn't important. Another few notches and he'd be free. He watched the other two, not breathing, as he got past one, then two, then three. He stared at the guard's back and begged fervently in his head that the man wouldn't turn around as he eased the ball of his hand over the edge of the plastic tie. It was loose — finally loose enough for him to slip out of. He licked his lips and swallowed again, shoving his hand back in. His heart was pounding in his throat.
Don't look over here don't look over here don't look over here—
The guard grunted at something Sijan said, then straightened up with a thin sigh. "I don't think so. They want everyone to stay where they are for now," he told her, then turned back to the door. "You okay with him?" the guard asked, pausing halfway across the room to give Nick another glance-over. He sounded nervous. That, or Nick really couldn't read people's voices anymore.
"Yeah, no problem," Sijan spoke brightly, without a second of hesitation. "He's never given me trouble."
"All right." The man said, nodding; he did whatever the doctor asked without arguing. "Just stay here. I'm sure it's nothing." The door beeped, opened, and shut, and he was gone.
Nick felt like he was about to puke. He wiped his face with the arm hooked with the IV and let out a long, low breath.
Sijan turned toward him. "Don't worry about that. Just a bit of an altercation in the cafeteria. He'll be back in a little while." She was smiling again; he could tell by the wrinkles around her eyes.
Nick wanted to smile back, but he couldn't figure out how to do it. He watched her, instead, as she went back to his chart. As she turned her back on him. Nick stared at the back of her head, then looked over to the door. How far away was that guard by now?
It didn't matter. One way or the other, he was getting out of here.
He carefully slipped his hand out of the restraint and moved his fingers to the IV line coming out of his other arm, running a finger over the plastic tubing. The line was pretty long. Nick looked back at Sijan; she was bent over the counter, writing in his chart, distracted. He grabbed the line with both hands and pulled it. It stretched but did not break.
Nick sat up and scooted to the edge of the chair. His feet touched the cold floor.
Sijan either hadn't noticed he was moving, or trusted him enough to let him do so. It was a mistake. She shouldn't have put any sort of faith in him. Because he wasn't stable, because he could not stop his mind from howling in fear and terror any longer—
Because Barratt was right. He was a carrier, a monster. He could not be trusted.
There wasn't much space between the two of them now. Nick walked up behind her, holding the IV line in his hands. Close, so close. He could smell the cheap soap she must have used that morning.
For a few silent, buzzing seconds, he hesitated. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to do it.
She started speaking. "Nick, do you—"
Then he acted, lunging forward with the IV line, hooking her around the neck with it and pulling her toward him. The chair she'd been sitting in toppled to the floor. She did not weigh as much as she looked; that, or Nick was stronger than he thought. He yanked her back toward him, pulling the line tight, then looping it around her neck twice more, not letting it get caught up in her mask.
She managed a gasp, a gurgled, "Nick—" but he cut her off by tightening the line, silencing her words, stealing her breath. He held her against his body, and she bucked and struggled, but she had given him too much strength, and couldn't fight him off. His hand and arms kept rigid as he half-lifted her off the floor, listening to her shoes scuff on the linoleum. Her fingers came up and clawed at his arms. He did not release her.
Every second felt like an hour as he waited for a guard to burst through the door and shoot him. Nobody came, and slowly, the thrashing body in his arms began to grow weaker. He breathed into the back of Sijan's head, smelling the faint floral fragrance of soap in her hair. His eyes were stinging, but there was nothing there to irritate them.
She twisted, her body spasming as it panicked, desperate to release the pressure and breathe again. Sijan got one foot on the ground and shoved them both back, nearly tossing Nick into the chair, but his bare feet on the linoleum gave him greater purchase.
Sijan was making hollow noises now, strange sounds that he'd never heard before in his life. He pressed his mouth against the back of her head. Her hair was damp because his face was damp, because there were tears running down his cheeks; there had been for quite some time.
"Shh," he hissed, and sucked in a shivering breath. "Shh."
Her fingers, scratching at his hands and arms and her own neck and face, eventually fell slack. She slumped in his arms. Nick held her tightly, not moving. She wasn't making any noises. All he could hear now was his own ragged breaths, his own soft sobbing.
Nick finally let go. His joints and limbs felt stiff from holding their position for so long. Sijan dropped forward onto the floor and he followed her, falling to his knees and letting the IV line go slack.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. She gave him no answer. "I'm so sorry, Heather, I'm so, so sorry."
He stared down at her body. She was so still, except for one small strand of her hair that was slowly sliding off of her temple. It was like he was staring at a photograph. He detangled the IV line from around her neck. She didn't move, didn't take in a miraculous gasp of breath. Her face dipped down to the floor.
The room was silent. Everything was silent. Nick lifted his head and stared at the door — not the one that returned to the ward, but the one that went in the other direction. No guard had entered to shoot him, like he'd expected — like he'd hoped for. He was still alive.
Nick slowly lowered his gaze back down to the IV line in his arm. He wrapped his fingers around the plastic end in his vein and yanked it out, watching the collected blood come free from the IV and make a paint-stroke on the floor. A thin trail of blood ran sluggishly from the small, open wound, down his arm, and dripped onto the floor. He watched it and the little puddle it made for a few seconds, and then he got to his feet. His movements were jerky, but not out of fear. He was not afraid, not of what might happen to him. Any outcome was better than rotting in the cell. He was not going back there.
With a small shake of his head, he went to the cupboards and started opening them. On one shelf he found a collection of sterile surgical tools. One of them was a scalpel attached to a handle. He took it and unwrapped it, pulling off the plastic blade guard and letting it drop to the floor. It made a small noise as it fell to the linoleum. Next he went and bent down beside the doctor's body, pulling the electronic keycard from her pocket.
He held the scalpel tightly as he moved to the door, pressing his ear against it and listening for noise. There was nothing but a soft hum; probably soundproof like the other quarantine door, back in the ward. He shoved Sijan's keycard into the slot and watched as the red door lock light turned green. Nick held his breath as he slowly pushed the door open a fraction, just until he could see outside. It was heavy, but moved quietly. Warmth brushed against his face. Why did they keep the quarantine ward so cold?
He was expecting immediate gunfire, but he could only hear some distant mumbling static. Nick peered out and saw the hallway, lined with its green linoleum. A few chairs. Some signs warning against contamination.
A loud and sudden voice, too close, hurried and nervous, right on the other side of the door:
"Doctor? We need to finish up in here right now. They've called a c—"
Nick flinched back, retreating into the treatment room. He expected his chest to tighten with panic, for his whole body to turn cold from fear, but it didn't happen. Instead he only felt numb and hollow. He moved to press himself against the wall on the other side of the door, keeping a firm grip on the scalpel.
The door began opening, and the voice spoke again.
"Doctor Sijan? Are you o—"
Nick watched the taller form enter, and then stop dead at the sight of the doctor's body crumpled on the floor. One of the guard's hands immediately dropped to his radio, the other went for the pistol at his side.
The scalpel was cold in Nick's hand. He jumped forward, scrabbling for and grasping the guard's hair, yanking his head back, listening to the bewildered cry of surprise and sudden dry gasp as he dug the scalpel in deep under the man's exposed jaw and across his neck. It went in so easily, like the Charger back in Pennsylvania, and came out just the same.
And just like the Charger, blood spurted from the guard's throat, painting the floor, the treatment chair, and Sijan's body. Nick kept his fingers entwined in the man's hair, his other hand gripping his jaw, fingers digging into the scalpel wound, yanking him back toward the floor as he waited for the body to stop struggling. The guard was making dry gurgling noises, scrabbling at his throat as if he'd be able to put everything back in, eyes wide and confused.
It only took a few minutes for it to be over. Nick dropped the body unceremoniously, listening to the guard's mask clack against the floor and his own strained panting. There was blood everywhere. He looked down at his own hands, wiped them on the soldier's uniform, then paused and collected the dead man's pistol and taser. The pistol's magazine was full. He wasn't sure how to use a taser. He'd figure it out.
Letting out a shivering breath, he turned back toward the door. His mind was quiet for the first time in weeks. He tried to hold onto it. The feeling was euphoric.
Nick shoved the scalpel and taser in the pocket of his threadbare pants and gripped the pistol tightly as he stepped out into the hall. He thought his first step toward freedom might feel different, like everything would suddenly change and he'd be normal, his brain would turn back on and he'd be Nick again. The only change he felt was the temperature of the air around him; slightly warmer.
The clean corridor stretched on ahead of him. Empty. A small office alcove to the right, empty. There was a computer on the desk that wasn't running. He walked down the hallway, bare feet making soft noises against the floor.
There were no men with guns. There were no automated turrets or security cameras or heavy barricades. It was just a small office lobby, empty and quiet. Nick couldn't believe how abandoned it looked. Where were all the soldiers? All the technicians? Wasn't this place supposed to be full of people escaping the Infection?
Nick heard a crackle of noise from the treatment room — a radio, either the guard's or Sijan's. He heard a voice but couldn't discern words. All he knew was that they weren't going to get an answer, and then they'd come to investigate why.
He kept moving down the hall, steeling himself for someone to come out of the door at the far end and start shooting at him. There were signs plastered up along the pale walls. He stared at one of them for a long few seconds before his mind remembered how to read words and text and he was able to figure out what it said.
'WARD B: QUARANTINE
ENTRY AND EXIT WITHOUT MILITARY
ESCORT STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
KNOWN INFECTED BEYOND THIS POINT.
WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR AT ALL TIMES.'
Nick already knew what that was all about. He glanced over the next sign, which was handwritten and pointed further down the hall.
'WARD C: LABORATORY
KNOWN CONTAMINANTS BEYOND THIS POINT.
WEAR PROTECTIVE GEAR AT ALL TIMES.'
It didn't sound pleasant, but it was the only path he had. He wasn't going back to his ward, not while he was still breathing. The door was solid, without windows or any other distinguishing writing or signs on it. Nick still had Sijan's keycard. He brought it up to the lock and stuck it in, listening to the affirmative beep as it opened for him.
Warmth spread across his face as he pushed the door open a crack. He re-gripped the handle of the gun. It had been a long time since he'd held one, but even with shitty aim, he knew it was going to get him the hell out of here. Even if it meant turning it on himself before they got to him.
Nick took a breath and opened the door the rest of the way. Bright fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, illuminating a wide room filled with machines. None of them were running. There was nobody here, not that he could see.
Confusion filtered through his mind as he stepped inside, glancing around at the machinery and tables. Some of them were so old they were rusted, and some were still covered in cellophane wrap used for the transport of newly-manufactured goods. They were all dead and silent.
He looked back at the door he'd come through. Had he missed a hallway somewhere? Weren't they supposed to be doing research here?
Anxiety began creeping up on him again. It wasn't supposed to be empty. There were supposed to be soldiers, and people yelling, and gunfire. He was supposed to be dead by now.
Nick swallowed and wandered a little further into the laboratory. There were papers and folders strewn haphazardly over the tables. Vials and tubes lined up on racks. He saw an overturned chair and felt his eyebrows tightening down. A few more papers lay on the floor.
They had left in a hurry, wherever they were. He felt his stomach turning over and over. Maybe they had seen him coming. Maybe they did have cameras. He hadn't seen any, but really, that didn't mean a damn thing. They weren't back in ancient times, despite what it felt like. Technology was still available and it was still just as advanced as it had been before the Infection.
A slamming noise snapped his attention away from his thoughts. Nick moved before he even knew where the sound had come from, squeezing himself under a table, next to a trashcan overflowing with crumpled paper. His mind went back to a waterlogged office complex and the tapping noises of ruined bone on linoleum. It was something he didn't have time to think about.
Two voices started shouting, making him flinch and crouch lower, trying to avoid being spotted.
"Over here, over here!" A man, voice loud, rushed, on the edge of panic. "The doctor's still down in the ward!"
A woman that sounded unfamiliar. "W-wasn't David with her...?"
"I don't know! We've got to get her out of there. Leave that door open; it might be locked down when we get back."
Nick listened as heavy, booted footsteps crashed through the laboratory, to the door he'd entered from. He could hear radios blaring with hurried words and the owners of the two voices panting as they rushed to the door. They didn't see him, or didn't think to look for him, because after a few more seconds the door beeped and they were gone.
He knew he didn't have much time before they found her, found out what he'd done. Nick scrambled out from underneath the table. There were two other doors: the one those two had come through, and another on the other side of the lab. He chose the latter on impulse, mostly because there was no lock, knowing he was going to get himself lost in this damn facility, but he wasn't going to go wherever they had come from.
Nick opened the door and threw himself inside without really thinking about it. It was unlit, and he got forward a few feet before hitting a wall, knocking something over, and realizing he'd put himself in a very small room that was probably used for storage.
Panic clawed immediately at his mind and he went back for the door — it was just like his cell, dark and cramped, he was trapped again—
The voices returned, on the other side of the door, in the lab. Nick's hand froze on the doorknob.
"Jesus Christ," one of them was screaming. "Christ!"
The other — the woman — was loud, panicked. "Are they that fucking smart, Pete?!"
Nick's heart was in his throat. He could feel the dark, tiny space pressing heavily against him from all sides, suffocating him. Biting back a noise that was trying to come out of his throat, he slid to the floor. They were definitely going to come for him now. It would only take a few minutes before they figured out where he'd gone, and then it'd be over. They wouldn't keep him now, not after what he'd done. It'd be a quick shot to the head and they'd dump his corpse in an incinerator.
His eyes were stinging again. He'd gotten farther than he'd ever thought possible but it still wasn't enough. He wanted out. He wanted to be outside again, he wanted to leave this place behind, he wanted...
He needed to get to Maine. He needed to find them.
Nick picked himself up. The gun was still heavy in his hand. If they wanted him, they were sure as hell going to get him. He clicked the safety off. At close range, he'd at least be able to take one of them with him.
"Forget about it!" one of the voices was shouting. "We gotta get the fuck out of here before the lockdown."
He listened carefully, pressing his forehead against the freezing metal of the door.
"But—but they haven't sounded the alarm yet!"
"It doesn't matter. They've already started contamination procedure. We got to get to Ward E before—"
A loud wail started up and Nick's instinct knew exactly what it was before his mind could consciously identify it — an alarm. He crouched back down against the door, although he knew the sound wouldn't hurt him, he knew what usually followed the sound.
"Oh God, they've started the lockdown."
"The contaminant must've turned."
Nick lifted his eyes though he couldn't see with them as the word brushed against his mind. Contaminant.
There was a zombie somewhere. Someone had gotten infected.
Which was why he hadn't been shot the second he stepped out of the treatment room. There was something else going on, probably all the way on the other side of the facility. And he was expediting his own death by walking into the jaws of whatever had happened out there.
No, he could find another way out. If they were well and truly distracted, he could—
"Wh-where are you going?!"
"Getting some better protection. We need to pass D before E. Hell if I'm getting contaminated myself."
They kept coming until they were right on the other side of his door. Nick scrambled back, hitting the wall behind him. The terror he felt from being in the dark, small space got infinitely worse. He struggled into an upright position, fumbling with the pistol, hoping to God that the chamber was primed. The doorknob rattled.
As soon as light hit his eyes, he flinched his face away and he fired. The gun barked in his hands, recoil sending tremors through his whole body, but he kept shooting, hearing screams, hoping they weren't his own. His vision struggled to adjust to the light as the pistol went dry, and it was clicking uselessly in his hand.
Nick panted on the floor, keeping his face turned away, waiting for the returning fire of another gun, but he only heard soft groaning. It wasn't himself. He hadn't been shot. Nick dropped the empty pistol and stood back up, blinking rapidly as he figured out what had happened, what he'd done: one of the two guards lay crumpled on the floor, dead. The other, the woman, was only winged, trying to drag herself away from the storage closet. The alarm was still blaring.
He stepped over the dead body and caught up with her. She tried to turn over to face him, but he'd hit her in the shoulder and low in her chest, and she was bleeding out.
Nick took her pistol from its holster before she could get to it and stood over her. She stared up at him, breathing heavily, raising her uninjured hand in an attempt at defense. A drop of spit mingled with blood trailed down her chin.
"Please—" she began, and coughed, spitting blood out. He'd gotten her in the lung. She was bleeding into them. "Please..."
He only wanted one thing from her. "How do I get out?" The level of calm in his own voice startled him.
She shook her head, sobbing. "Help me..." He could barely hear her past the noise of the alarm.
"I can't. How do I get out?" he repeated, staring down at her. She pawed at his leg with her uninjured arm and tried to talk again but it came out as a gurgling sound instead. Nick let out a breath and turned away from her, moving back to the other guard he'd shot. He bent down and took the boots off of the body, pulling them onto his own feet. They were a little big. He didn't care. If it was still snowing outside, he wasn't going to get far without them.
The woman was still crying on the floor. Nick ignored her the best he could, grabbing the additional magazine from the dead man's pistol and shoving it in his pocket next to the taser. His fingers brushed against cold metal and he remembered he still had the scalpel with him.
A thought buzzed through his mind, guided by the frenzied half forged by the cold and dark of his cell. He stood back up and walked back toward the woman, and his feet felt abnormally sluggish and heavy. Shoes were something he'd have to get used to again.
Contaminant, that half of his mind whispered, and without another second's thought he drew the scalpel down his own palm. He squeezed his hand into a fist, watching his own blood drip out between his fingers and onto her. She seemed to have the presence of mind to understand what he was doing, and she started panicking, wiping at herself, as if his blood were something she could simply brush off.
Nick didn't feel the pain from the cut, but he did feel the smile tugging at his face.
"Sorry," he murmured. He wasn't.
She was sobbing loudly, still pawing at the blood on her, and Nick knew she would inadvertently mix it with her own, and then this fucking facility would have another problem on its hands. He let out a breath and shook his hand slightly, feeling a bit of a sting now. There was a box of thin paper towels on a table and he grabbed some and pressed them into the wound before turning away from the guard, leaving her where she lay.
The alarm sounded like it was coming from every direction at once.
Over the intercom, a dull male voice began to speak. It didn't startle Nick as much as it should have.
"Warning. This is not a drill. Contaminant confirmed in Ward D. Proceed to Ward E until further notice. Wards B through D have been compromised. Lockdown in effect. Do not travel through Wards B through D. Repeat; do not travel through Wards B through D. Continue to Ward E until further notice."
The man repeated his message and then the intercom went dead. The alarm continued, wailing rhythmically. Nick looked back at the guard; she was trembling on the floor. He couldn't tell if she was near death or near Infection. It didn't matter to him.
He looked back to the door the guards had come in through. There was a chair stuck in it, leaving it cracked open. Nick glanced over at the entryway to his ward. The red light on the lock had gone dead.
Were they going to leave the others there? Or would they save them, too?
Nick turned the keycard over in his hand, feeling nerves creep up on him. The nagging fear of going back there began to dig into his brain again.
But he couldn't just leave the others there. He couldn't. Swallowing his fear, he moved back to the door to the ward, sliding the keycard in. There was no response. He tried again and again, but nothing happened. It was dead.
He slammed a hand down on the cool metal and let out the sob building in his throat.
Hope is just a word with a hole in it.
"Sorry, Carter," he breathed, and he wiped his face, and turned away.
(A/N: Turn the page, wash your hands.)