All of Paris was at her feet.
In the growing light of the dawn, Christine pulled out her binoculars to scout the surrounding streets for signs of life. Signs of life... right… she scoffed to herself. The phrase echoed the unrelenting hope of the Girys. It had been more than three months since Christine had seen Meg and her mother, but she could still hear the warmth underscoring the steel of Madame Giry's voice.
"They cannot help what they are, any more than plague victims, Christine. For that reason, if nothing else, you should pity them. Never let your guard down, but if you do not retain compassion for their suffering, your humanity is as good as lost anyway."
Fat lot of good that's done, Christine responded as she crossed the rooftop, scanning the Rue Scribe, then the Rue Gluck. She moved on to check the Jacques Rouché and Auber views. She saw nothing but deserted streets this morning. A few columns of smoke, presumably from funeral pyres, rose slowly in the east. Despite her cynicism, Christine did her best to remember that the afflicted were victims, too. They were ill-robbed of their agency, their humanity, their voices. She shuddered. Compassion and survival were uneasy bedfellows.
She climbed the statue of Apollo holding his lyre aloft and gazed down the length of the Avenue de l'Opera. It was empty. Her part of the world was quiet this morning. She sighed in relief as she slid down to the roof of the Palace Garnier. It would give her time to do what she needed to do. Christine hoisted up her rucksack and slung her shotgun over her shoulder. She had to get moving; there was a busy day ahead.
Christine spent the rest of the morning going through the different stores hidden in the various levels of the opera house. They weren't really hers, but at this point they were no one else's, either. The opera house had been a stronghold for a few weeks, but the group hadn't been able to hold out against infection from within. Within days, the several hundred in the opera house were dead or afflicted themselves. So much death in the middle of such an opulent setting; it reminded Christine of a gothic horror story. Word that the Palace Garnier had fallen spread quickly through the city's survivors. The dead had been pulled from the building and burned in the hope that it might prevent the spread of infection. Whether through superstition or fear, no one else had tried to fortify the building. Christine, having no better options available while she waited for news of the Girys, had moved in. For the past two months, she had been there alone.
She had always loved the building, had hoped to perform here someday. That dream was long gone, but she still took comfort in the statues, the gilded woodwork, the painted ceilings. It helped to know there was still beauty in the world.
Rations first. Someone at one point had found- or stolen- a large cache of MREs and hadn't lived long enough to make use of them. She loaded her bag with as many as she could possibly fit. Next, she made her way to the stock of ammunition, and loaded a discarded duffel with as much as she could carry. She moved downward through the opera house, picking up medical supplies here, rolls of tie line there; she had to be prepared. Until now, she had been able to get everything she needed upstairs. Yesterday, however, she had turned on the taps over a bathroom sink only to hear the roar of empty pipes. She needed to find water. She needed to find the lake.
The darkness she had expected. The cellars, however, seemed to stretch on forever and were far more labyrinthine than she had imagined. Christine made her way slowly through the musty, winding passageways. At one point, she passed the remnants of a fountain set into the stone, but only a small trickle of water flowed from its mouth. Some time later, she passed cavernous rooms in which sat the massive furnaces once used to heat the building. She had a fleeting fancy that she was descending through long-abandoned circles of Dante's Inferno, but she shook the thought away; nothing could be more like hell than what had happened above ground.
She continued circling into the earth. The dark and the silence warped her sense of time, making it impossible to tell if she'd been walking for twenty minutes or several hours. She pressed on, afraid if she stopped to rest, she'd get turned around. If she kept heading forward, she was bound to reach the lake sooner or later. Once she'd found it, she could see if there were any faster ways in and out.
As she walked, Christine found herself alone with her thoughts, without the benefit of distraction. There was no sign of the afflicted down here, no sound but her own footsteps echoing off the stone, and nothing to see but the inky blackness crowding the steady beam of her flashlight. It was hard to believe it had been less than a year since the first outbreak. Authorities were initially uncertain if the virus had occurred naturally, or if they were dealing with a biological weapon. Christine had never learned if they ever found an answer; the infection had spread far to quickly. The virus began with flu-like symptoms, followed by a rash and swelling of the face. Eventually the inflamed skin began to tighten, dry, and slough off, giving the infected the appearance of walking corpses. The disease progressed into muscular convulsions; the pain invariably led the afflicted to scream until their vocal cords ripped. The lucky ones died. The entire cycle took five days at most. It doesn't really matter, anyway, she thought. Knowing the cause won't bring anyone back. Panic had quickly set in, and attempts at quarantine had made things worse. It hadn't taken long until the first sign of illness led to parents abandoning their children or people refusing to open their doors as they watched friends and neighbors collapsing in the street. The entire world had become one of fear, suspicion, and swift, violent death. Christine had been fortunate to find a home with Meg and Madame. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed the sorrow that threatened to spill over. She missed them. She hoped they were safe. They had to be, even if they hadn't come back. But maybe they did come back, and you had already left. They were still out there, Christine knew it.
She let her mind wander in this way for some time. The air was gradually growing cooler and unmistakably damper. She had to be close now. She picked up her pace, ready to be anywhere other than this endless series of stone rooms and passages. As if in response to the idea, her stomach growled loudly. She giggled, then felt the laugh die in her throat.
The corridor had opened up into a vast cavern, lit with a faint blue glow from an unseen source. Stretched out before her was the lake, calm as a sheet of glass. Finally, she could rest. She bent to fill her empty canteens, praying that the water was good, and that her day's work hadn't been a waste. As she stood, She heard a soft sound behind her. Startled, she spun round, her light falling across a cadaverous face.
In an instant, her hand went to her shotgun, only to find it caught in the strap of the canteen she had just filled. She struggled frantically to free it, and brought the gun to her shoulder, only to realize with horror that where there had been a face there was now nothing. She smelled a sickly perfume before a cloth clamped over her nose and mouth. A sense of langour quickly seeped through her, sapping her strength and soothing her panic. If this is how I go, at least it's not painful. As she eased from consciousness, a haunting, rich, all-too-human voice crept round the shell of her ear.
"I was wondering when you'd get here."