This is a round robin story by the ladies of the Writers' Hangout. If you are interested in writing a chapter, drop us a note.
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London, England - seven years after the Red Flu began
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Rachel Scott stood before the familiar door, digging through her pockets for her keys. It was silly, really, that she was here at all. She hadn't planned on stopping, far too busy dealing with the continued fallout from the virus to take the time to visit her pre-pandemic apartment. After all, as Thomas Wolfe would say, you can't go home again.
And yet...
Something had drawn her here, today. Something that made her cancel her scheduled meeting with the Prime Minister, claiming a matter of critical urgency, even though she knew that the woman would be unbearable the next time they met. Something that caused her to insist upon her personal escort remaining on the ground floor as she ascended to the fifth, although she had no doubt that they had already cleared the building and would not allow anyone in or out until she reappeared.
Rachel dug though her bag, searching for her keys, certain that they were here somewhere. Almost seven years had passed since the last time she walked out that door, closing it behind her and tossing the keys into her bag. She could clearly remember the anger, the desperation she felt when Parliament refused her request for a ship. They left her with only one option, and it was a long shot, but it was her only chance. The momentous relief she felt when the Nathan James finally left Norfolk with her and Quincy on board was second only to the day when she discovered the cure.
I need you to come with me now...
Tears burned her eyes as she thought of Quincy. She still missed her friend's caustic wit and keen mind. Keeping her sharp, pushing her to excel. Not afraid to question her the way that people were now. Ten years they had worked together, side-by-side in the lab, reaching the point where spoken communication was almost unnecessary. Until it all fell apart, trust destroyed in a single moment, a desperate act by a desperate man. Rachel still wondered, on occasion, why Quincy hadn't trusted her enough to tell her what the Russians had done, to ask for help. And yet, even as she considered the question, Rachel knew the answer. Ultimately, were the choice between the mission and Quincy's family, they would not have made the same choice. And, his judgment clouded by emotion, Quincy simply could not see that a third option was possible. At least Kelly and Ava were safe, prospering even, both remaining in Norfolk and working to continue Quincy's work. His self-sacrifice in Baltimore not completely futile.
Something jiggled in her hand and Rachel pulled out the keys, finally, feeling a measure of success as she inserted them into the door and turned the knob. As the door swung open, she almost expected to see Michael sitting before the fire, reading a newspaper. He used to read dozens of them, skimming really, searching for nobs and bits that interested him. Rachel used to complain about how they piled up while he was gone, demanding that he cut it down to a week, perhaps two. After all, what was the point of reading three-week-old news? But Michael would simply laugh, kissing her nose and telling her that she didn't understand his process. And then he would be off. Just as he had been the last time she saw him, days before she left for the States, heading to Beijing. Wanting to be the first on the ground, in the thick of it, breaking the news on the virus as it occurred.
No chance for a proper goodbye...
Not that there was confirmation of Michael's death. Not officially. But Rachel had no need for a piece of paper to tell her what she already knew. Beyond the fact that he was in China, a known hot spot, the server that she created for him with all of the information on the virus, the one that only he knew the password to, remained untouched. Michael would never have been able to resist the temptation to access such restricted material unless he were gone.
Rachel entered the dim room, groping for the lamp, the action automatic. At the twist of a knob, light flooded the space. Revealing not devastation, as she half expected, but neglect. A layer of dust so thick that she left footprints as she moved into the entry. The stench of food so old that it smelled of dirt rather than decay. And a deafening silence. So different from the buzz of her and Michael's computers, often left running twenty-four hours a day.
Stepping towards her desk, Rachel surveyed the disarray. Things tossed around willy-nilly. This was as she remembered, at least, the pages sitting where she had left them as she prepared her presentation for her last-ditch attempt to convince the Americans to provide passage to the Arctic. Rachel had told herself that cleaning up hardly mattered when she was preparing to never again see this apartment, see London, see England. An impossible task, of course, preparing to leave a place - a life - forever.
Hardest thing about goodbye is all the things you didn't say...
Rachel found her hand rising to her lips, a smile growing as she remembered the day that Tex spoke those words. All the times the man, somehow, knew exactly what to say. One of her regrets now, as it were, was not recognizing his acumen earlier. Fooled by the deflection, the teasing and flirtation that he used as a shield. They had trusted her, not only Tex but the entire crew, and in return she had lied to them and put them at risk, denying them even the opportunity to say goodbye. For the good of humanity, yes, and she stood by her decisions. But she could also recognize the cost, each member of the crew conscripted rather than volunteering for their task. Still, Tex's face when he introduced her to Kathleen, the joy shining in his eyes upon learning that his daughter was alive, had been a balm on her soul. A reminder of why the mission continued, of what was at stake.
Straightening from her desk, Rachel turned towards the bookcase. Filled mostly with research materials, but also holding the occasional picture. She stretched her hand out to pick up the one of her grandparents. Blurry both from age and dust, she could still make out the form of a ten-year-old girl standing between them, face too solemn for her years. A little girl already too familiar with loss and hardship. Just like that child in Louisiana - Lottie. And, as reliable as clockwork, the thought of that day, of the first trial of the contagious cure, lead Rachel to memories of Tom.
Rachel recalled his anger at learning of Neils' death, justified as she could now see, although she did not regret her actions. But also, Tom's support. The way he turned the Nathan James away from the coast of the United States in order to give her the time to complete her mission. How he asked his crew to volunteer for the vaccine trial. Those nights when he joined her on the deck for a cup of celebratory tea.
I'll see you when I see you...
But, of course, then she had left, and he had left and never the twain shall meet, as her grandfather would have said. To spread the cure. To deal with Peng's machinations. To tackle the red rust. To deal with the fallout of Tavo's coup. Her work in the laboratory kept her isolated from all but a few. Tom's work in the field kept him constantly moving.
Yesterday she would have said that none of that mattered. Because the mission was more important than her, than him, than Tex or Michael or Quincy. Yet, today, Rachel found her mind slipping back to those days on the Nathan James. Exhausting. Stressful. Filled with anguish and guilt and fear.
But also...
Friendship. Camaraderie. Loyalty. Tom and Tex and Kara and Rios and even Bacon, listening to ramble without interruption, providing aid in whatever form that they could. She had been part of a family, one not created by blood but by something far stronger. A family, Rachel recognized with a twinge of regret, that she had pushed away and neglected for so long that only memories remained. No different from the picture that she held in her hand. Voluntarily, yes. Necessary, yes. But still a sacrifice. A loss that she found herself mourning more and more as time passed.
Rachel returned the frame to its spot on the shelf. Turning in a circle, viewing the apartment where she lived for over ten years, she wondered what exactly that she was hoping to find. What it was that drove her to come here today. As she surveyed the contents of her past life, Rachel realized that this apartment no longer felt like home. No, that designation had been overtaken by another. Not by a place but by a group of people. Thomas Wolfe, it turned out, was correct.
You can't go home again...
The knock at the door startled her, surprise quickly followed by annoyance. She had been here for less than thirty minutes. Surely a small break was not too much to ask after her years of work, of dedication. Stomping towards the door, Rachel swung it open, planning to deal with the interruption as quickly as possible.
Only to stop short as she realized who stood before her.
"Hello Rachel."