Happy Friday! I ended up splitting my next segment into 2 separate chapters because it was getting hella long. Enjoy a double update! (Chapter 6 should be up within 12 hours of my posting Chapter 5.)
Chapter 5 - The Professional Phones Home
"What are you gonna do with that?"
The government helicopter has arrived, and Leon is watching skeptically as Sherry loads several vials of blood from the survivors onto a test tube rack before slipping the whole thing into an insulated bag. "Less risk of breakage this way," she explains, picking up the cooler filled with B.O.W. samples in her other hand. "Trust me—I used to spend quite some time in the lab myself."
"I meant the blood, not the rack," clarifies Leon. "Didn't they already run them here? There was nothing unusual in the samples."
"Nothing unusual that they found. I figured a full workup down at our labs might uncover something the hospital tests don't look for. Doesn't hurt to be safe when dealing with new B.O.W.s."
"Fair enough," Leon concedes. The elevator dings. Sherry enters first and he follows closely with the gurney. He's grateful for the canvas wrapped around the B.O.W. corpse; the combination of a confined space, that pungent fish-market smell, and a stomach recently filled with a hastily scoffed ham sandwich would have proven disastrous.
They take the stairs from the top floor up to the roof, where the chopper is waiting for them. Sherry rejects his offer to help her up, so he doesn't feel too bad copping a laugh at her undignified clamber on board, one that promptly turns into a sheepish grin when she turns and shoots him the stink-eye. Once all the samples are loaded, she gives the pilot the all-clear to ascend.
"Good luck here, Leon," she radios him as the rotors pick up speed. "I'll call in as soon as we find any leads. Don't lose your head again over what we talked about, okay? You'll be alright. I know you will."
Watching the helicopter lift up and away, he hopes she's right.
"Sherry's on her way to the lab," Leon informs Hunnigan once he returns indoors. "Guess it's just me running this circus now."
"Didn't you hurt your shoulder? You should've hitched a ride back on that chopper instead of Sherry."
"Nah, she wanted to help process those B.O.W. samples. I'd be about as useful as a boat in a desert," he replies. To keep her occupied without releasing her from their watchful eye, the officials overseeing Sherry's well-being had allowed her to work as a lab technician in her late teens, a few years before she took up the offer to become an agent. Leon's always thought it was a little cruel of them to give her a job in the same place she'd been experimented on for years.
Hunnigan tuts. "I don't want you risking yourself in the field one-armed."
"I've completed plenty of missions 'single-handedly' before," Leon points out.
She sighs. "That pun was subpar at best, but you're not going to change my mind regardless. Just stay put for now. I'll call in with updates once the BSAA finish moving base."
"Right…" The rapidly worsening rain and the storm in the forecast have prompted the BSAA to transport their equipment from the empty lot outside the town to the recreation center, where they'll regroup with the teams overseeing the remaining survivors. With the ongoing ruckus in the streets, it would likely be a while before they can finish setting up.
"Take a break, Leon. Keep an eye on that survivor in intensive care in case he wakes up. It's too bad we couldn't fly him in for observation in his state."
"Will do," says Leon. "Get back to me as soon as you have something. I'd hate to have to spend all evening twiddling my thumbs."
"Don't you need two thumbs to twiddle them, Mr. Single-handed?"
Damn. Perhaps his habit for sarcastic comebacks is rubbing off on Hunnigan a little too much.
He drops by the second-floor ward where Tulling has been committed. The soldier lifts a hand in greeting upon seeing him. "How're you holding up?" Leon asks.
"Could be better, and I presume it's the same for you," Tulling chuckles. "What a way to go down, huh? I mean, you put all that training to good use to defeat those damn B.O.W.s, and then you take one wrong step and fall down some stairs…" He looks down wistfully at his sprained knee in its brace.
"Hey, no one's judging," Leon grins.
Confined to bed rest, Tulling offers to watch the schoolchildren so Leon can wander freely. Between moving supplies and exterminating the B.O.W.s still crawling ashore, the BSAA have no vehicles to spare to reunite them with their classmates, leaving them grounded at the hospital until further notice. "I had them go downstairs to call their folks, so you might find them there. I already informed Carter's family since he's still out," the BSAA operative tells Leon. His rescuee, fresh from the operating room, is lying all bandaged up in an adjacent bed, sleeping off the anesthetic.
Sure enough, Leon finds the remaining two kids in the lobby, Michael blabbering into the reception desk phone, Tilda settled in the waiting area with a book on her lap. Though still puffy-eyed, the boy seems to have temporarily gotten over the trauma of being left on his own as he talks to some unknown person Leon can only assume is one of his parents. He even waves hello when he spots Leon approaching.
When Michael finally hangs up and trots back upstairs to Tulling, Leon half expects Tilda to come up for her turn, but she doesn't budge from her seat, and in fact seems to be making a point of being engrossed in her reading. He crosses gingerly over and sits beside her. When she looks up, no longer able to comfortably ignore him, there's a furtiveness in her eye that worries him more than he cares to admit.
"Have you called your family yet?" he asks her.
She shakes her head.
"Michael's all done with the phone now. You can use it."
She acknowledges his words with a nod, but makes no move to get up.
"Um… I think you should call while you can. There's a storm coming, and it might take down the phone lines."
"Mm."
"Wouldn't you like your stepdad to know you're safe?"
She shrugs.
"Tilda…" Something's not right here. "Is everything okay? Do you… do you need help with the phone?"
"I know how to use the phone," Tilda mutters, a little indignantly, but she adds nothing more.
He considers her reticence with growing concern. "Did something happen at home?" From the way she avoids his gaze, he surmises he's right. "Listen, just because you're mad at someone, or someone's mad at you, doesn't mean they've stopped caring about you. I bet your stepdad is worried sick right now. It doesn't hurt just to check in with him." She's unconvinced. "If you don't want to talk to him, how about I do it for you instead?" he offers.
"Fine…"
Reluctantly, she gives him a name and a number. As he waits for the call to connect, she resumes her reading pose, her head bowed so her thick dark hair falls over her face. The first attempt goes to voicemail. It isn't until the third ring of the next that Tilda's stepfather picks up.
"Is this Charlie Turner?" Leon inquires after introducing himself.
"Might be. What do you want?" answers a voice that is as grating to his ears as it is to his nerves.
"I'm calling about your stepdaughter, Tilda."
There's a long silence. "Oh. Go on, then, I suppose."
It is at that instant that Leon decides the man can go take a flying leap.
He bites back his distaste long enough to relay Tilda's status and the plan to evacuate tomorrow. Charlie Turner sounds like his mind is somewhere else the entire time. Leon may as well be TV noise in the background, instead of someone conveying vital information about a family member. Their conversation lasts barely two minutes, but by the end Leon's already lamenting the impossibility of sticking his hand through the line and giving Charlie a sound lesson on paying attention. Hanging up, he lowers the phone with a grunt of disgust.
Tilda's eyes are downcast, her bottom lip drawn thin. She knew this was coming, Leon realizes. Apparently, getting blown off by her stepfather is much more than a one-time occurrence.
"Do you want a hug?" he asks gently.
She leans in and he wraps his arm around her. She's shaking, and tinier than he expects, her scrawny frame belied by oversized, ill-matching clothes—hand-me-downs, he suspects, and his ire toward Charlie surges. He pats her head consolingly, earning himself a bewildered stare that's quickly covered up by attempted aloofness at his gesture.
"I'm sorry about that, Tilda. I shouldn't have pressured you to speak to him," he says.
"S'okay," she mumbles. "It's over with."
"Is he always so… distant?"
She nods. "Ever since my mom died."
He draws her in for another hug, feeling her tense briefly in surprise before she relents and slackens against him. "I lost my parents when I was little, too," he confides to her. "Eventually you learn to carry on. But it's never the same again."
She circles her arms around his lower back, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence when he hums his appreciation. Her mirroring of his embrace reminds him just how touch-starved he's been. A lifetime of losing close colleagues and acquaintances compels him to keep his current teammates at arm's length, and the only still living friends he considers true have their own lives to lead, most of them in other parts of the country. Alcohol, the one constant in his recent days, makes for a terrible companion. And Ada… so much time has passed since they last met that he hardly even remembers how it feels not to miss her. What a bizarre twist of fate this must be, for him to find solace in holding her daughter.
For one serene moment, all is well with the world—then that niggling voice in the back of his head reminds him he's not there to waste time enjoying physical contact with small children.
"I have to go," he says, regretfully, once the self-consciousness fully kicks in. When they separate for the second time, it's like ripping off a limb he didn't know he had. "I've got work to do. You should probably go back up to Tul—er, Fred. He'll be wondering what you're up to."
"Fred can't walk because his leg is hurt," Tilda states, not so much to make a point as to simply report her observation.
"That's right," replies Leon, "which is why you have to be nice to him, alright? Don't give him any trouble." He grins impishly. "And don't let Michael do that either. Keep an eye on that kid, will you?"
Encouraged by his implication that she is somehow better than her classmate, she nods eagerly. "Will you come back?" she asks as he stands up.
The question halts him in his tracks. "Do you want me to?" he sputters.
Color rises to her cheeks. "I would like that."
Gazing at her hopeful face, he thinks of Charlie Turner's unsavory disposition and the cold dismissiveness she can look forward to upon returning home. A little girl deserves more than cruel apathy from the one remaining parental figure in her life. Why shouldn't Leon spend some time to indulge her while he can?
"Then I'll see you later," he says softly, and the elation in her shining brown eyes nearly melts him to the marrow.
If you happen to be catching this at a time when this is the most recent update, please check back soon! Chapter 6: The Professional Has a Secret Rendezvous should be up shortly, barring a bomb going off at my place or power/internet outage.
