The air always feels fresher outside a Quarantine Zone. Joel rolls his shoulders as he walks, shaking out the tightness. A late summer storm is blowing through, drumming the shoulders of his coat with fat rain drops and plastering his hair to his scalp in moments. A boom of thunder rolls over him and rattles the nearby windows. It's good scavenging weather; the sound of the storm confuses the clickers and leaves them vulnerable.
Like that one up ahead, for example. From the husk of a bank, something that used to be a man emerges, its fungal-plated head rocking and clicking. It doesn't "see" him, though. He lets his pipe drop into his hand, takes a few running steps, and then swings it into the side of the thing's face. It screams as it dies . . .
Wait, no, clickers don't scream like that. His head snaps up and he jumps back just as two screaming runners charge out the door in its wake. One trips over the clicker's body, but the other is on top of Joel, snapping and clawing, and the pipe is still stuck in the damn clicker's throat. Joel knocks the runner back with a right hook, grabs his revolver, and buries three shots in its chest. The other one, too, is just three feet away and quickly recovering. His next two shots whistle past its ear, but his last bullet gets it right in the eye, dropping it.
No time to stop and think. The gunshots will have drawn others. He snaps the pipe out of the clicker's neck, leaving behind the spikes he'd bound to it. He takes off down the street at a run, his feet kicking up puddles, not stopping until he reaches a sheltered alley half a block away. There he pauses, panting, and peers out from behind a rusted dumpster. Yeah, he's kicked the anthill now. A dozen or so infected have poured out into the street and are milling about. Their alarm cries are drawing more, but they don't seem to have seen him. Joel backs down the alleyway and hops a chain link fence. He can detour around them, though it'll take him down streets he's not quite as familiar with.
He jogs the next few blocks, but pauses to shiv two runners that were lurking by an old McDonalds drive through. No reason to risk them blindsiding him on his way back. The rain is lightening, but the wind is picking up, catching at his soaked clothes. There's something freeing about being out here with no one's back to watch but his own, breathing in the ozone-laced air of the storm rather than the sharp sterility of the operating room. Still, he's on the clock. He cuts into an old shopping center that runs the length of the next building over.
He barely glances at the dark maws of abandoned shops - all of these stores were cleared by the Fireflies or other scavengers long ago. Most of the skylights in the food court are broken, and rain streams through to settle in dirty puddles on the cracked tile. Joel's mind is already on the grocery store. The mess hall is nearly out of salt and sugar. He can restock that and grab a few cans, maybe scout the other aisles a little . . .
A flash of movement in an old jewelry store catches his eye and his face hardens. Damn stalkers. They'll make a nuisance of themselves sooner or later, so he might as well deal with them now. He reloads his revolver, holsters it, and settles his grip on the pipe. He lets himself pretend that he's just doing what he's got to do - that his blood ain't quickening at the thought of a fight.
He jumps through a shattered store window and finds two stalkers huddling behind the display cases. The closest one looks like it might've been a woman once. He swings the pipe down on its head once and a bit of blood splashes out, twice and he can feel the bones of its skull starting to crack, three times and the dead skin splits open and brains splatter in all directions. The other one lunges at him and snaps his head around with a hard blow, but he jams the butt of the pipe into its gut, then swings up between its legs. He has no idea if stalkers still have . . . anything down there, but this one screams and rocks back, which gives him plenty of opportunity to crack the pipe across its face, breaking its neck.
He doesn't even have time to catch his breath before he hears the telltale clicking. As soon as it reaches his ears, he vaults over the nearest counter and drops into cover, but it's too late. A clicker charges around the corner. He breaks the pipe across its face, but all that does is drop it back for a half a second. It lunges at him again and he has to jump back. The window behind him still holds a lot of shattered glass, but gashing himself on that is better than staying put and getting gnawed on by a clicker. He throws himself backwards into the corridor outside, feeling glass shatter around him and lodge in his thigh. He lands on his back and skids across the uneven tile, pulling out his revolver. Three bullets catch the stalker in the neck just as it springs through the window. It's dead before it hits the ground.
That's two fuck ups in one day. Joel growls and pushes himself to his feet, but he knows he won't be quite as lucky in his escape this time. He can already hear the clicking - can see three or four more infected emerging from the ruins of stores ahead. Maybe if he books it back the way he came . . . but, no, he'd have to detour an extra couple of blocks just to get to the far side of the street. Besides, this building was cleared just a couple weeks ago. There can't be that many of them.
He puts his revolver away and swings his rifle down from his shoulder, thankful that the Fireflies at least provide him with a good stock of ammo. He hops up on one of the food court tables just to give himself a bit more of a vantage point and sights the first infected. The BANG of the rifle rings out far louder than his revolver had, and the clicker crumples to the ground. He takes down the next, and the next, but they're too close now, and charging at him. He drops the rifle, grabs his shotgun, and blows off two runners' heads in quick succession. There's almost a dozen more charging toward him, though, and this corridor is a shooting gallery, but if he doesn't do something to even the odds, it's gonna turn into a charnel house.
There are two Molotovs tucked in his pack for emergencies. Joel decides this qualifies. He grabs one, lights the wick, and pitches it at the largest clump of infected. Three of them get taken out in the initial spray of flame, and one of the burning clickers plows into a runner, lighting it on fire as well. Their screams echo against tile floors and concrete walls, confusing the other clickers. Joel hops down off the table and retreats a few steps. The survivors keep stumbling towards him. Mindless idiots. He picks off one, then another, then a third. Only a clicker and two runners get close enough to make it interesting.
The clicker grabs him by the shoulder and tries to haul him in, but he uses its momentum against it and buries a shiv in its neck. That's not quite enough to drop it, so he finishes the thing with a shotgun blast to the chest. A runner knocks him to the ground, but he drives up with the butt of his shotgun once, twice, a third time and its jaw rips halfway off its face and it drops with a croaking scream. His next shot catches the last runner in the thigh, turning its leg into so much pulverized meat. It crumples to the ground even as he rolls to his feet. Shockwaves travel up his leg as he stomps on it, but with the second stomp, its skull splits like an overripe melon. Stupid bastards, for thinking they can stop him . . .
A stinging pain catches him in his left side and the air around him explodes with a yellow mist that sears his lungs. He staggers away, coughing, and takes shelter behind an overturned table. From down the corridor, he hears a roar and the slow thud of heavy feet.
Bloater. After all this, a fucking bloater.
His face hardens. Well, he's taken out plenty of its kind, and this ought to be no different. It can't fucking stop him. He pops out of cover, sights down the rifle, and unloads a shot into its swollen head. The bullet barely rocks the bloater, but its answering spore bomb catches Joel square in the chest, knocking him back and making him cough until he's sure his ribs will crack. He rolls to his feet, stumbles to take cover behind a corner, and grabs his last Molotov from his pack.
He's a moment from lighting it when another coughing fit doubles him over, and this time he thinks his rib does crack. The pain is piercing for a moment. Blinding. And in its wake, it leaves clarity.
"What happens if she wakes up and you're not there?"
What the fuck is he doing? He can't take out a bloater with one Molotov, and even if he could, he'd only be drawing more of 'em. Why the hell is he risking it all over some dumbass scavenging run to a grocery store? Even if . . . no. It ain't worth it. The infected are an enemy he can fight, but that don't mean he can win.
Bloaters are slow. This one will never catch up with him. He puts the Molotov away and sprints back the way he came, not pausing until he emerges into the rain, bruised and battered, empty-handed, but alive.
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Blue stitches stand out like bruises against the pale white of Ellie's scalp. Joel can't tear his eyes away from the little half-moon incision. The braids above and below look dried and stiff - a consequence of the chemicals they used to scrub, one of the nurses told him.
Joel sits on a stool by her side, her hand enveloped in his. Her face is still. It's been nearly an hour since they rolled her out of the operating room, forty-five minutes since a nurse removed the breathing tube and declared that she was recovering normally, and she's still not awake. Joel had intended to charge straight up here the moment his Cordyceps test flashed negative at the gate, but he'd been waylaid by Mia and Nancy, who'd informed him in no uncertain terms that he was not going into their clean room in bloody clothes reeking from spore bombs and smeared with bits of infected. They hadn't quite been able to force him into the showers or onto their exam table to have his wounds stitched, but he'd washed his hands, arms, and face, allowed them to pick the broken glass out of his leg and slap a bandage over it, and redress him in blue scrubs.
Now, it's looking like they needn't have hurried. Ellie was tossing and turning a little while ago and seemed to be trying to mumble something, but her eyes still haven't opened, and she's lapsed back into a deep sleep.
Joel lifts his eyes, trying to keep the panic out of them. "Shouldn't she be waking up by now?"
Jerry sits on the other side of the bed, scribbling notes in a thick manila folder that Joel recognizes as Ellie's medical record. He glances at the blinking screens behind the bed - EKG, pulse ox, EEG, and other monitors Joel can't begin to recognize. "She's stable. It was a big procedure. She just needs a little more time."
Joel nods shortly and drops his head. God, if something went wrong . . .
Her brow furrows. She slowly turns her head to the side and groans blearily. Her eyes crack - first one, then the other.
Joel squeezes her hand. "Ellie? Can you hear me, baby girl?"
Jerry is standing, his notes set aside. He lays one hand on Ellie's shoulder and uses the other to check the pulse in her wrist. "She's disoriented. Try not to rush her."
Joel nods and tries to force his pounding heart to slow. "Ellie . . ." he whispers, "You're okay, kiddo. You had a big procedure, but you're okay now. You wake up when you're good and ready okay?"
Her eyelids flutter and start to slowly track across the room. Her eyes catch on Joel and stick for a minute.
"Ellie?"
Her left hand twitches in his. Her right arm swings up towards her head. Jerry catches it and pushes it back down. "Take it easy, Ellie. I know it's sore, but don't touch your incision."
She blinks a few times, her head rocking back and forth.
"You're alright. It's all gonna be okay."
She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a broken croak. Almost a click.
"Here," Jerry lifts a plastic cup, "Ice chips."
He slips one between her lips, but she just lies there with her mouth half-open. Joel gently presses her lips together and seals them with a finger. Her throat works slowly as the ice melts. After a minute, she licks her lips, opens her mouth, and coughs. She seems more with it. Her eyes slide slowly from Jerry's face to Joel's. Her fingers tighten on his.
"Ellie," the doctor says cautiously, "Do you think you can say something? Just a word or two, when you're ready."
She blinks and nods - just the slightest incline of her head. She opens her mouth but can't get out more than a muffled groan.
"Take your time. Have a little more ice." Jerry lifts his eyes to Joel's and Joel can see relief there. "Wernicke's Area is intact," he murmurs, as if Joel's supposed to remember what the hell that means. He just nods.
Ellie sucks on her ice chips for another minute. This time, she doesn't need to be reminded to close her mouth. Her eyes are less clouded, and Joel can see her face start to set with determination. Her lips part.
"Ooo . . ." her face creases and she tries again, "Eh . . .ore . . ."
Joel's heart is trying to beat straight out of his chest. He lifts his eyes to Anderson's. "Doc . . ."
"It's okay. It might just be the anesthesia. Give her a minute."
Ellie seems almost winded from the effort. She takes one quick breath, then another. "Ohhh . . ."
"Oh, God . . ."
"Give her a minute, Joel. You're scaring her."
He swallows and forces the fear from his face because if he's scared, it's nothing to how Ellie is feeling. She meets his gaze and nods. Purses her lips and swallows hard. "Oo . . . y-uh . . . Youuu." She takes one more breath and something like triumph flashes in her face. "You . . . you."
"Yeah? What is it, baby girl?" He leans close so she doesn't have to raise her voice.
"You smell . . . like spores. You smell like spores."
The words are rough and hoarse but unmistakable. Relief punches a laugh from his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."
"Wha' happened?"
"Nothing to worry about. I went out on a run, did something dumb."
She snorts. "Always tryin' to be the fucking hero . . ."
"Y'know, you might be the first person to ever accuse me of that."
She smiles a little, like she's still remembering how. Her eyelids flutter. Anderson peels one back and shines a light briefly in his eye. Whatever he sees seems to reassure him. He nods and stands. "I'll do a full neuro check in an hour. For now, take a little time. Just don't tire her out." He squeezes her shoulder. "You did good, kid."
She beams like it's the best compliment she's gotten in her life, and Joel's relief is suddenly darkened by foreboding. He pushes it away. She's done it. She did everything they wanted. They won't need her anymore.
They won't.
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Joel stares down at the latest subject - the latest volunteer. Cold and pale on a metal slab, with just a sheet covering his lower half. This one looks young. He must've been a kid on Outbreak Day. He might not've even remembered before.
Across the room, Jerry is slumped at a metal counter, dictating into a recorder with a voice that sounds broken. "Within two hours of transdermal inoculation, the subject developed a high grade fever and bullous pemphigoid dermal reaction at the inoculation site. The reaction was progressive, and exceeded Subject Zero's natural dermal response within two hours of the onset of symptoms . . ."
The autopsy is over. The young man's chest has been stitched back together in a Y-shaped pattern. His heart still sits in a metal scale, slowly dripping. On the counter behind Joel, an array of clear plastic bags filled with flesh and bloody fluid show just how little of him is still left inside that stitched-together skin.
" . . . Thirty-four hours after inoculation, the subject stopped responding to verbal stimuli and began showing aggressive reactivity characteristic of prodromal limbic involvement . . ."
He has some early fungal knobs protruding through his forehead, through split skin. One blood-red tendril twines out of his nose. They'll have to cremate him, once the doctor has all of his samples. Can't have him sprouting spores right here in the morgue.
" . . . all physiologic measurements within expected parameters for natural infection throughout the observation period . . ."
Joel belatedly wonders when the last time was that he thought of an infected as a "he" or "she" rather than "it." Probably since Pittsburgh. Sam.
" . . .Time of end stage neural degeneration: zero two fifty-two. Time of euthanasia: zero two fifty-four."
Jerry clicks off the recorder and sets it gently down. He lifts a pen and jots a few more notes on a tin-backed clipboard. Tucks the pen away and stares, unseeing, at the chart for almost a minute. Then, all at once, he springs up from the stool and throws the clipboard across the room. It bounces off a steel cabinet with a metallic clang and falls to the ground, crumpling the pages.
Joel stoops, picks it up, and smoothes out the notes. He sets it on a nearby counter without even trying to read the doctor's chicken scratch. Jerry is panting for breath and staring at Joel like he hadn't realized he was there.
"Marlene told me you were down here." Joel says simply.
Jerry nods and rakes a hand through his hair to straighten it. "She told you." He doesn't mean his location.
"Yeah. After how things were going yesterday, I expected it."
"Did you tell Ellie?"
"Just came from there."
"How much did you tell her?"
Joel presses his lips together. "That it didn't work. That the test subject died. Didn't tell her it was her Cordyceps that killed him. An' I'd appreciate it if you didn't either."
Jerry nods, looking away. "She's a smart kid. She could figure it out if she wants to."
"Maybe she won't want to."
Anderson sighs. He's moving like an old man, though he's younger than Joel. He steps close to the slab and draws the sheet over the young man's ruined face.
Joel lets the false peace reign a second longer. Then, he speaks. "What now?"
"There are . . . other theories. Other avenues we can explore."
"You said there were only two possibilities. Either it's her immune system or it's her Cordyceps that's special." Joel gestures to the dead man. "It ain't her Cordyceps."
"There must be some kind of . . . middle road. Some specific interaction between her immune system and this particular strain . . ."
"Doc! How much longer are you gonna beat this horse?"
"What do you want me to do? Just give up?"
"What the hell are you gettin' by continuing?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe a chance to save humanity!"
"You've had lots of chances! You've taken lots of chances! What the hell do you have to show for it?"
"You're over the line, Joel!" His voice is suddenly icy, and Joel falls silent, the memory of his threats looming large in his mind. Jerry pauses just a moment, waiting to see if he's cowed. "We're not giving up - not yet. I've been working out some contingency plans. Experimental trials."
"Experimenting on her, you mean."
"If there was another way . . ."
"But, there is. You can stop. Tell Marlene and all the rest that you're very sorry, but this little kid doesn't have a magic cure in her brain." He pauses. "When's it gonna be enough, Jerry?"
For a moment, the doctor's face wavers. Then he straightens. His face settles into composure. "This is bigger than one child. Too many people have given their lives for this, just for us to turn back when we're this close to a breakthrough. Their sacrifices won't be in vain." Jerry lays his hand gently on the test subject's shoulder. He doesn't even seem aware that he's doing it. He looks Joel square in the eyes. "The tests will go on. I'll talk to Ellie tomorrow. I'll send you some literature on what to expect. I . . . I wish there was another way. But, there isn't."
And Joel wants to scream at him. He wants to do worse. Half of him wants the satisfaction of pummeling Anderson until he's blue and bloody while the other half just wants to snap his neck quick and never again have to be scared of what he'll resort to next. He grinds his teeth and stops himself. If he does anything they'll take Ellie away from him. She'll never know what happened to him; he'll never know what happens to her. It's the only thing worse than what they're going through now. He bows his head in a show of submission.
Jerry steps past him and is halfway out the door before Joel decides that he can't leave it at that. "Y'know," he says, his voice cautious and intense, "You talk a good game about sacrifice. About the greater good. But, it occurs to me that I'm never gonna see Abby down here on one of these slabs."
Jerry spins with fire in his eyes. He seems ready to lunge at him. Joel holds his hands up, placating. "That wasn't a threat, doc. I'm just sayin' . . . you're a father. You've got a daughter of your own. Think about what you're doing."
Jerry's breath hisses out of him. "I do," he whispers, "Every day, I do."
He turns and leaves, silently.
tbc