Chapter 14
thirteen days since last feed
April 24th, 2011
Everything's been in disarray since the disaster with H001N and H002N. No one quite knows what caused it, nor how to stop it – they know we're here, and have seemingly lost control of their mental state. All they do is beat at the door that separates us, groaning so strangely it grates on the ears, but they make no effort to turn the handle or find alternate means of escape. It's as if the god has left the machine, and they're simply... husks. Formerly human, now host to a parasite that destroys whatever rational thought they used to possess. Security are attempting to come up with a plan, but you can see they're shaken. One was almost bitten as they tried the first time, and heaven knows that's more than enough to infect him.
What could have caused such a change? Reanimation is... a folktale at best. A story to scare children with. Surely, there are organisms that render its victim into a trancelike state in order to grow and reproduce, but this is only seen in small creatures like insects and bacteria. A parasite overcoming such a complex being as a large mammal is unheard of. If we weren't all so terrified, it would warrant further investigation.
Though, how did it not do the same to C007F?
Hold that thought, they're attempting again.
…
H001N and H002N have been terminated, but in doing so their brains have been obliterated as a means to stop them. This hinders further research, but the remains of their cadavers will be dissected thoroughly in order to figure out a cause for such a startling change. Dr. Syu wishes to leave, as most of us do, but it is our duty to finish what we have started. One of the guards was bitten, and we have now placed him under quarantine as a precaution. His banging against the walls is causing the rest of us mental distress. How I wish I could talk to my girls and tell them how much I love them now. Who knows what else awaits us?
Dr. Roger Pierce
You blink and rub the grit from your eyes, glancing outside to the sun that creeps over the horizon. Sleep has been a hesitant mistress, eluding you though you try so hard to reach for her, and the silence punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of your companions seems almost mocking. Your body hums like a ill-tuned engine, firing off the wrong cylinders, and the paper under your touch is almost too rough to bear. Even the sun rising over the trees burns your eyes, and you dread mid-day where everything is so glossy and washed away you can scarcely see at all.
The thing keeping you anchored is Shadow – no, Santana now. She reclaimed her title as she held the gun to your forehead, her nature warring with her nurture until one overtook the other. Pressed into your left side, she pinches you against the window and the duality of the two feelings keeps you grounded enough to function. Her breath, hot and sleepy against your neck, rushes through you just as it does her.
In the darkness where no one can see you take her hand, playing gently with her fingers. Such strong hands have seen many hardships, and though they seem petite against your own – your fingertips can curl over hers, slender and long - they are undoubtedly less likely to break. You can still see to the very bones of you, and your cheekbones make stark contrasts in the dimness where shadow throws itself upon you.
She mumbles, her lips mouthing at your skin for a moment, before she shifts her head and you sense her eyes open with the whisper-fine brush of eyelashes. Her confused gaze makes you smile, and you glance around for but a moment before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"What time is it?" she asks hoarsely, bringing her hand up to wipe her mouth before stilling. "Did I- oh god I drooled on you, that's so gross."
Her cheeks burn and you watch passively as she uses her sleeve to wipe at your neck, the apples of her cheeks glowing a brighter crimson the longer time passes without you saying a word. Eventually you clear your throat, barely resisting a smirk at the way she jumps.
"It's okay," you reassure her. "It's not the worst thing that's covered me."
"Still," she grumbles in an almost-whine; sleepy Santana is a new side to her, one far removed from her tough posturing that reigns the rest of the day. Her eyes flicker down to the files and the odd way you're holding your head, neck kinked from so long reading. "Have you slept at all?"
"Not really. I've been looking through these."
"It's dark as shit at night."
The look you give her doesn't need words to decipher. Santana rolls her eyes and stretches; you hear the succession of pops as her spine comes back into alignment.
"Is anyone else awake?"
You listen to the heartbeats, the breathing and the stutters of dreams. After a moment you shrug, settling the files in the door compartment.
"Tina will be soon, but everyone else is sleeping. Rachel is on watch."
She licks her lips, the motion as captivating as it always is.
"I need to go to the bathroom."
You look at her blankly as she stares back expectantly. Her eyebrow floats higher and higher but your expression betrays nothing and eventually she throws her hands in the air, popping the door open.
"That's my way of saying come with me."
"But I don't need to."
"Neither do I."
"But-"
She shoves you out of the vehicle and you squint instinctively though the first fingers of light have barely begun to lick the ground. Rachel's body shifts at the sound, perched upon the roof of the truck, and she rubs at her eyes as Santana emerges after you.
"Good morning, both of you."
Santana mumbles what could be mistaken for a greeting and you wave, stifling a yelp as you're dragged off into the foliage. Her call of bathroom stops Rachel from crashing in after you, and soon enough the vehicles are obscured by a thick layer of foliage. The two of you stop, and the sudden silence that descends upon your shoulders has your neck prickling uncomfortably. She looks down for a moment, embarrassed about her brashness, but comes back up anyway. You're noticing that eye contact is hard for her, in different ways than it's hard for you.
"Hi," she says quietly, wringing her hands.
"Hi," you respond, smiling easily. She can turn from a ferocious tiger to an unsure kitten in the span of seconds, and you wonder how long it will take before you understand it at all.
(Eons.)
You're not sure if you can touch her, not really, but she does it for you; her steps are soft as she pushes up on her toes to deliver a quick kiss to your mouth, leaving you only a second to respond before she falls back to her normal height. You blink, and she laughs at the stunned expression on your face.
"I just kinda wanted to do that."
"I think I wanted to since I first saw you."
Santana smiles so warmly that you forget how you sounded like some sort of stalker, your brain fuzzing over with contentment. The timer that ticks in your head slows like submerged in sludge and your words find your tongue again. You could get used to this sort of clarity, even as your mind whispers things you know shouldn't be there.
"I, uh... this is new to me, you know."
You cock your head to the side, silently asking her to elaborate.
"Being affectionate and shit. I don't really... know what to do. Especially in this fucked up world."
You grab her wringing hands and squeeze them until she relaxes, fingers folding over your own delicate palms. "It's okay. I'm learning too."
The both of you stand there, basking in the electrical current that flows through your joined grasp, before the truck door pulls open. You slide your eyes to the left, breathing in the air, letting it flush through you like water.
"Puck's coming," you murmur quietly; she doesn't ask to elaborate, just nods and stuffs her hands in her pockets. Her shoulders square, eyes becoming dark and hard, and it's almost like another person is standing where she used to be. If you weren't so occupied with the way his scent claws at the inside of your nose, you'd be amazed.
He comes across the two of you and his gaze narrows, darting between the suddenly larger space between you. Your skin burns and you flick your stare away, unwilling to keep eye contact with someone that makes you feel like a monster.
"Lopez," he acknowledges, raising his brows. "You ain't a morning person."
"Neither are you, Puckerman."
"Everyone needs a change sometimes." His eyes drill into your temple, and when you finally bear to look there's something in them you can't quite understand. Emotions confuse you even on your good days, but now there's no hope at all. "Ain't that right, blondie?"
You shrug, looking at a tree over his shoulder. "Change is hard."
He hums his agreement and eventually steps forward, clapping Santana on the shoulder as he goes. "Fabray says we're leaving in a half hour. You good?"
"Yeah," she agrees, but her voice is hoarse in a way you can hear scraping under the syllables, "we'll be back in a minute."
Puck nods and disappears, and in the moments after you hear his zipper go to relieve himself. The two of you look at each other with a frown.
"Maybe Quinn's yelling finally got through to him," she muses, but you can see the doubt in her face. Like a serpent lying in the grass, no one knows the angle until the strike.
Two more weeks. You just need to hold out for two more weeks.
"He wants something," you mumble as you return to the others. "I see it."
"Like what?"
"I dunno yet."
You return to your friends and Santana makes sure to move a couple inches away from you; the instant loss of heat by your side is staggering but you don't let it hurt the way it should, not when you have the memory of her eyes shy and hopeful in the dark. Rachel spots you first, and by the way she places her hands on her hips you know there's a lecture coming.
"There you are! First you go out without alerting anyone else, then Puck leaves by himself... honestly, you'd think safety is an arbitrary thing around here. We have rules in place for a reason."
The tone of her voice makes your head throb and you close your eyes, trying to block out the stabbing headache you sense approaching. Santana's eyes flick to you imperceptibly for a moment before she cocks an eyebrow, tone bored.
"Calm down, troll. With Britts here, there's nothing that could sneak up on us. She's got those spidey-senses."
Rachel sputters for a moment. "Yes, but-"
"But nothing. Now, please stop talking – you're starting to give me hives. I'm allergic to whining."
She gapes and Santana unceremoniously pulls you inside the SUV, sealing you from her. The pain instantly lessens and you shoot her a grateful smile.
Someone rummages around in the trunk and you turn around in time to see Tina pop up from the hold, the crinkle of empty wrappers around her knees. Santana silently holds out her hand and Tina rolls her eyes but delivers a candy bar anyway, turning her attention to you as she chows down on what now constitutes a meal.
"You look kinda flushed, Britt," she worries, pressing the back of her hand to your brow. "Are you okay?"
"It's bright," you grunt, flinching away from the explosion of sandpaper sparks that her touch creates. "It hurts my eyes."
She disappears in the back for a moment before popping back up, pressing a pair of plastic sunglasses into your hands. "They're Mike's, but he won't mind. He owes you for getting all that water."
As soon as you put them on the world dulls and you sigh in relief, your head thumping back to rest on the seat - the headache that's been gnawing at your temples retreats into the shadows that play over your eyes.
"How is Wonderboy, anyway?"
"Way better. He'll be back to normal in another day or two."
"Good. We need at least one competent male around here."
Twin hey!s pop up from Kurt and Artie, and her smirk makes you smile in turn.
"I'll pass on the compliment."
Chocolate wafts in front of your nose, and you crack one eye open to see Santana pointedly holding it up to your face. You frown, attempting to push her hand away, but she stays firm.
"I'm not hungry."
(She studies the slight tremble in your fingers, and you feel yourself starting to ever so slowly splinter apart.)
"Just one bite."
"I'm sick."
Her unimpressed stare makes you flush, looking away.
"You know it's not going to help," you mutter so lowly she can barely hear, but you note the way Tina's head cocks to the side regardless, so shallowly only you realize it.
"You gotta keep up appearances," Santana responds, "or else people will get weirded out."
"They're already weirded out."
"No food in five days isn't right. This is the kind of shit Puck thrives on."
You glance at the bar, sucking your lower lip into your mouth. She senses your hesitation; every day she seems to be more in tune with you while she remains somewhat of a mystery, but you don't mind the way she subtly squeezes your knee with her free hand, careful and cautious to outside eyes but there all the same.
"I stole Finn's box of crackers. I'm okay."
With a sigh you stuff the chocolate into your mouth, relishing the way it gums up your teeth. You may not be entirely human but you still have human urges, and the growl your stomach gives is something out of the gates of Hell. It settles in your chest oddly, like your body's forgotten what it's like to be anything other than empty. The hunger pangs dull ever so slightly, but the fog remains.
"Shit," Artie whistles, "it's like you've got a black hole in your chest."
You frown. "Wouldn't it be red?"
He opens his mouth for a moment before ultimately deciding it isn't worth it, turning back to the front. You notice how he's flicking through the files from the compound, and you have to tamp down the strange, possessive panic that rushes through you.
"I don't know how you can read this all night," he muses, "the writing's so small it makes my eyes water."
"You just have to focus."
"I guess. Found anything new?"
You run your tongue over your teeth for a moment, but the people seated in the SUV aren't ones that make their living selling secrets.
Besides, they'll find out eventually.
"They made the virus."
Everyone stills and their eyes on you are piercing, burning through and through, but Santana presses her arm to yours and you take a breath.
"It was a mistake. They didn't mean to. It just... happened."
"How do you make something like that by accident?"
"I dunno, it's really sciencey. But they did. It started in a dog."
"Did it..."
"It died, but it didn't come back. Only the people do."
Artie rubs his eyes from behind his glasses, looking at the wall of text that awaits him.
"We're going towards the people that caused this mess? If we weren't halfway there, I'd turn back right now."
"What other option do we have?" Tina muses. "It's not like we're doing great on our own."
"We're surviving, that's all we really can do."
"Yeah, but... for how long? We're running low on everything. What we need is a break, but until we get to safety there can't be any breaks."
"Someone's gonna break," you nod aloud. "It's coming."
"Girl," Artie shudders, "don't say things like that. You're always right."
"No one's going to break," Kurt interrupts. "No one here is dumb enough to put the group in jeopardy."
"Britt's black eye says otherwise," Tina points out, and you curl back into your seat.
"That was... fine, maybe. But he seems calmer now."
Santana snorts. "Puck's default mode is asshole. Every so often he goes into super asshole, and then it crawls back down to tolerable for a few days. It never lasts."
"Is it sad that I long for the days that he was tossing me into dumpsters?"
"With all the shit we've been through, Twinkle Toes, I think that's a reasonable wish."
"He could throw you into a pile of bodies instead?" you offer, and raise your eyebrows when you hear four simultaneous groans of disgust echo throughout the small space.
May 18th, 2011
It's official. The trials have been terminated.
Dr. Syu gathered us together one night, as tired and stressed as we all are, away from the prying eyes of the military brutes that patrol the halls. None of us have been sleeping very much – the cries from the subjects are deafening even through closed doors, and when we do dream we just see the faces of those we had to terminate. Whatever we are dealing with – we've tentatively named it Renovaenum after the rebirth of the body – is too volatile to allow it to thrive; diseases like anthrax have at least a chance of recovery, but this leaves nothing but death and reanimation. There is no survival, and from what our rudimentary theories have summoned, there is no cure. It simply mutates so randomly that catching up to it seems impossible. The more sophisticated it becomes, the quicker it is to kill.
We presented these facts to Dr. Boroyan, who reluctantly conceded that we are dealing with something more dangerous than we initially thought. Though he is the leader of this group, he himself is not aware of exactly who authorized this study. A heated meeting with the head of the military goons later, and we are packing our things in preparation for departure, the lab sterilized and samples terminated. Our boss, so to speak, wished for one remaining sample to be delivered into his care, but none wish to take the chance. Dr. Syu has slipped him a neutral sample of the common bird flu instead, and some files have been omitted. As a scientist, I had always told myself the pursuit of knowledge would trump all, but... I now believe there are some things that should be left alone.
Before this, we were tasked with the dissection of H001N and H002N. Though their brains were obliterated, their bodies were still intact, and we had to conduct the autopsy in full biohazard gear. Even a quick glance shows how abnormal their physiology is: this lab is sterile and prevents flies from feeding on the corpse, but bacteria should begin to rot the flesh just moments after death. Though it was over a day since their "first" death and hours since their "second", there was almost no decay present in the tissue. It smelled much like one would expect, but had an underlying... sourness to it that was unusual. Perhaps this reaction is what keeps the flesh intact? It would allow the body to be mobile for much longer than one would expect – the exact timeline is unknown, but skeletization would be delayed for months, perhaps even years.
After a thorough examination, both of the body as a whole and singular aspects, the subjects were sealed away until they could be properly disposed of in an effort to prevent contamination. It's unknown how long Renovaenum can survive outside a host, but none of us wish to volunteer and find out.
Dr. Waters and I do not see eye to eye on this aspect, and I know now that he has been sponsored by an anonymous party to keep this experiment running. Despite our objections, he was the one to prep the terminated subjects for disposal, and I fear what he has done while there was no eye to watch him. Dr. Syu mentions strange phone calls in the middle of the night in lowered voices, but it is no longer our concern. All I want is to return home to my family.
We leave at the end of the week after some final paperwork. If I ever see this place again, it will be much too soon.
Dr. Roger Pierce
You jolt awake from the strange stupor you had fallen into, your head pounding like a drum. The papers scatter on your legs and you swallow, shoving it into its folder and pushing it away, grimacing as your dry fingers catch on the pages. Even through your sunglasses the world is sharp, looking like the touch of the upholstery could cut you open to your diseased heart. Breath rushes from you like the fetid swamp gas that bubbles under the calm, placid surface of bog water.
Santana opens her eyes as your neck cracks; a quick glance in your direction has her frowning, subtly brushing her fingers along the knuckles of your unhappy hands.
"Too sharp," you grunt, squeezing your eyes shut. "Everything hurts."
"I know, Britt," she murmurs quietly, carefully edging away from Kurt, whose breath makes pretty impressions on the window. His pulse beats feather-light in the junction of his neck and every part of you trembles with the urge to expose it to the world.
It's been seventeen days and you're slowly losing your mind.
Whatever grip you thought you had on humanity is warped, twisted and crippled; your dreams are filled with blood and animals lurking around corridors, their too-human eyes gleaming in the dark as their fangs glint from non-existent moonlight. There's always a kill, always, and you watch an animal that turns into a person devour you while you can do nothing but watch and feel those phantom hands delve into the depths of your abdomen, ripping apart the seams you've tried so hard to heal.
She's saying something, and it's with herculean effort that you tune back in just in time to hear her say something like "we're almost there". But... there's at least another week of sitting in this disaster waiting to happen, listening to their blood and breath and bone, craving them so much it erases the good parts of you. If there are even any left.
You grip her hand and beg with your touch when she startles and tries to pull away at first.
"You're the only thing that keeps my mind here," you swallow, nose pressed to the open window, "please don't go away."
Santana studies you, over and over, counting the cracks in your mask, before settling back down with her fingers laced between yours. They build bridges together, day and night and day again.
You don't know how long you sit together, trying so hard to focus on her touch, but the saliva that pools involuntarily in the hollows of your mouth makes it hard to think about anything other than the hunger.
I'm not gonna make it, you want to whisper, but you've lost your words somewhere along the way.
Eventually you rumble to a stop and kick the door open, almost throwing yourself out of the space with too many smells all clashing together. Santana watches you warily, never wanting to get too close in public; Tina touches your shoulder and the snarl you give her has you covering your mouth, the monster laughing in your gorge. It sounds like the thing in your dreams that lies in wait to rip you apart until you're nothing more than broken sinew between its teeth.
"What's wrong with Blondie?" Puck asks and a headache starts anew, booming through you like cannons. Despite the way Tina looks at you, eyes cautious and concerned, she scowls.
"None of your concern, Puck."
"Whatever. Satan, come here for a minute?"
You're in too much pain to listen to their conversation and Tina tries again, careful to keep her distance. You vibrate like a tuning fork, every one of your muscles playing a different symphony. The sound is deafening.
"What can I do to help?"
For a moment you almost give in and lurch forward, but the part of you that still remembers how to be human keeps you rooted to the spot. Sweat rolls down your temples and you shake your head, wiping at your suddenly wet eyes.
"You can't," you rasp, carefully sitting down. The grass on your hands makes your jaw ache. Everything's just wrong. "No one can."
"Are you sure?"
A shadow passes by, taking its time to disperse, and the scent of an unwashed body tickles your nose. They all smell the same at their core; a meat sack filled with blood and bone that moves the same and breathes the same. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if they all die the same too. It seems to be a theme.
"Keep me away from Finn."
Her eyebrow raises, but she doesn't try to ask questions.
Santana starts to make her way towards you and you smell her long before she arrives; while the others smell like blood and sweat and the feral desperation of survival, she's things you can't put into words. An infinite number of impossibilities, folding over and over on themselves – a galaxy you can taste, a nebula you can touch. New forms of life budding somewhere far away, completely oblivious to the way she creates a universe underneath the juncture of your ribs. It spreads outwards, gnawing, eating away at you in a different way that the hunger does. You wouldn't mind being consumed by this instead.
She sits and you roll the laces of her boots between your fingers, the rough contrast sending fireworks through your head. She sees your unspoken question in the slight pull of your shoulders and sighs, casting a wary glance to Tina.
"What am I gonna do, cry to Mr. Schue?" she asks with such sarcasm it drips off the end of your nose; Santana's eyes turn into daggers but you tug on her lace, diverting the anger that sometimes seems to scream through her like a banshee brought back from the dead.
"Whatever. Britt obviously likes you, but you gotta keep this on the down low."
"I kept my mouth shut when she made us bleed into a cup and then smeared it on herself. What else do I have to do?"
"Point taken." Santana shifts again on the tree stump she perched on, and if not for the dangerous glint in her eyes she seems dainty in her movements. "Puck's asked me to watch you."
You glance up, and through the sliver she can see above your sunglasses, they both cringe at how bloodshot your eyes have become, like twin autumn moons made bold and bright.
"Why?"
"Because Finnocence is obvious as fuck, probably. Recon is hard when you're a walking kitchen appliance."
You almost expect Rachel to pop out of the log and scold her, but she's seated firmly on the top of the truck, giggling as Finn gently tugs on her legs. It makes you feel nauseous, almost. Santana reads your expression and agrees whole-heartedly if the grimace that twists her lips is anything to note.
"What are you going to do?"
She looks back at Tina, her eyes narrowing briefly as she stares to the horizon where the sun has managed to claw its way into the sky.
"Feed him a bunch of bullshit, probably. He's so desperate he'll take anything."
Tina's eyebrow arches in an almost perfect impression of the revered Fabray quirk.
"Tone down the voodoo, Chang One. The bad mojo is just pouring right from your faded goth-punk hairstyle."
"Why are you being so nice?"
Santana's eyebrow matches hers and the steel between the two of them threatens to shred you down into ribbons.
"I'm sensing a rant coming on."
"A few days ago you wouldn't even look at Britt, let alone talk to her, and now you're lying to Puck so that he doesn't go even more crazy? Call me paranoid, but I don't buy it. You only switch sides when you want something."
"Excuse me? Since when are you capable of writing a biography on my life?"
"I've known you since fourth grade, Santana! People don't just change overnight."
"Yeah, well... it's complicated. Keep your combat boots out of it."
"Uh, hello? Sitting right here. I'm in it, whatever it is, whether you like it or not."
The bickering continues and their voices ring like gongs inside your head, making your eyes vibrate so viciously you can barely see straight. Their voices barely rise in volume, but an entire orchestra is playing inside your head until your arms shoot out on instinct to make it stop – one hand grabs Tina's wrist and the other grabs Santana's, but the heat of their skin is too much and you don't even have the strength to warn her before you vomit thick, dark blood all over Tina's boots. She curses and darts away and the space goes deathly silent, your coughing like a gunshot repeating over and over as you wipe at your mouth.
"I've never done that before," you mumble absently, swallowing the sourness that always chases the copper in your blood.
Santana crouches down and hooks your sunglasses enough to look you in the eye, her knee pressing hard into the wasted muscle of your thigh. "You okay?"
"I dunno," you reply, spitting. "Better."
"Was that..."
"Mine," you finish, nodding. "You were too loud."
"Sorry."
"Looking at Finn and Rachel made me feel sick too."
Despite herself she laughs, looking over to the pair who watch you like an animal about to howl at the sky. "Hear that, manhands? It was your blatant canoodling with a cinnamon bun that made her sick."
"Cinna- hey!"
"Let's get you in the car."
You feel Mike's presence hovering behind you, ready to catch if you falter, but Santana helps you up and keeps close as the two of you scoot into the SUV. Hidden in the tinted windows you briefly press your forehead against her shoulder, sighing out a breath that reeks of blood. She hands you a mint, but the flavor is too much to stand and you reluctantly spit it out of the window.
"At least I have something to tell Puck," she tries to joke, but you know she's more nervous than you. You feel it in every subtle tremor of her hands that she tries to hide, the soft clench of her jaw. She tries to be strong because she doesn't know how to be anything else, but she hasn't learned that sometimes showing fear isn't bad at all. You've seen it enough on the faces of the dying, that one last burst of light before it all disappears into the void death makes of all of you.
(You? You've forgotten how to fear. It's just something that used to be, next to all the other emotions the hunger is slowly edging out. There's nothing left except the hole in your chest and the way Santana puts a band-aid over a sucking wound, ineffective but stalling all the same.)
"He knows I'm crazy."
"There's a difference between being crazy and being sick. Crazy... that's something the group can deal with. But sick? Not anymore. Second chances don't happen."
Even as she says it her fingers brush the scar on the inside of your arm, probing, almost to reassure herself that it's still there. It's strange – your dreams make you remember how much you wanted to die, and yet here you are. Those that want it the least always receive it in the end.
Your vision swims a little, and you gesture to the files by your side. "Read them to me?"
She hesitates only for a second, her eyes flickering to the congregation outside, before reaching over and pulling them from their little pouch. You smile as she pulls out her cracked glasses, slipping them over her nose with a practiced patience, seemingly unbothered by the one lens that has fractured to give her a million partial stories instead of a whole. Her cheeks color when she notices your unwavering stare, but you gave up apologizing for things a while ago.
"What?"
"I like your glasses."
"They make me look geeky."
"They make you look..." your tongue struggles for the words, running your nose against the sharp incline of her jaw, "soft."
"That's not what I'm after, Britt."
"I wish I could be soft like you."
Her expression falls into something you can't read, her free hand splaying along your spindly ribs as if she could protect your brittle bones from harm. Though she weighs more than you, little gestures like the off-beat rhythm she taps out against your xylophone ribcage makes her seem so small.
"You will be," she promises, and flips to the page you left off.
You don't believe her, but you let her want it enough for the both of you.
June 2nd, 2011
It's good to be home.
Dr. Roger Pierce
"Sup, freak?" Is the greeting that rouses you out of a slumber punctuated by blood leaking from the walls of an unknown prison, a box of faceless facades and a single window facing you, the ever-watchful eyes present yet invisible on the other side. You hate them, in a strange, detached way. They remind you of all you've forgotten you had to leave behind.
You blink, eyes flicking around to eventually land on Puck's face. He sneers and goes to shove you out of the way, but you bare your still-bloodied teeth and he retracts his vulnerable digits. "Leave. I need to talk to Satan."
"Fuck off, Puckerman," she mumbles sleepily, as if on reflex, turning over to press her forehead into your arm. He scowls and drives his heel into the tender meat of her lax calf, relishing the flinch it draws from you as she yelps.
"The fuck was that for?"
"I need to talk to you."
She scowls, putting the glasses she'd forgotten to take of in her bag. He watches her every movement suspiciously, staring at the red marks on the bridge of her nose she inconspicuously tries to rub away.
"Then talk."
"Alone."
Santana sighs, long-suffering in a way that speaks of many similar occasions, but as she goes to get up he shakes his head.
"Blondie can get out. Ain't that right?"
You chew on your lower lip and you feel Santana's hand tighten against the small of your back, obviously unwilling to let you leave alone after the scene yesterday. Your fingers ghost along her wrist in reassurance though you feel every bit as shaky as she thinks, gingerly sliding from the seat so you don't have to touch the coarse fabric of his sweater. Wherever his scent lingers itches like ivy blooming just under the surface of your skin. He abruptly slides into your seat and closes the door, leaving you scratching absently at the precarious swan-arch of your neck.
You think Santana says to go find Tina, but Quinn finds you first.
Her footsteps are deliberately loud and you've locked onto the sound long before she appears behind you, circling widely as one would a frightened animal. Though the comparison isn't flattering, you're grateful anyway.
"You're going to make yourself bleed."
Your hand snaps back to your side, but the red marks remain. She watches you with pursed lips, her stare a million needles pricking at your hair follicles, gouging pieces of you out with every second that passes. You watch her watch you in an endless loop of irritating feedback.
"You're getting worse," she says it so casually it could almost be an observation of the clouds that form dragons behind you, but every little imperfection blares loud and clear; the sunglasses that droop, the tremor in your fingers, the hunch of your shoulders. You cave in on yourself, fracturing from the inside despite the scaffolding put as a ramshackle barrier. They try, but just as the sun always sets you'll always be sick.
"Yeah."
"Does Santana know?"
"Everyone knows."
She sighs, running a hand through her lion's mane. If it didn't make your jaw ache you'd try and touch it.
"You're not going to make it, are you?"
Someone telling the truth is jarring and you gape at her for a moment. Santana always dances around it, prodding at the certainty with the hope that it won't wake up, but you know better. Blind optimism isn't her strength to begin with, and you see it cracking day by day, creating channels in the ceiling just like your internal structure. It's fitting that you'd crumble together.
Quinn doesn't need to know what it is, maybe she doesn't want to, but ever the pragmatic leader she strives to understand.
"No."
She nods, shifting her stance. Restless. Just like you.
"How will I know?"
You give a humorless smile that skews your mouth oddly, corners sewn together. It reminds you of your sister – the one they took away, not the one you never had to start with. "You will."
The two of you stand in silence and the strength with which her brain works makes you dizzy and disoriented. Her body may be a well-oiled machine, swift and nimble from the years of training it to perfection, but it's her mind that's the dangerous knife – you've long forgotten what it's like to feel clear, to follow your thoughts in a way that make any sense at all, but Quinn refuses to do anything else. You see it in the way no movement is wasted, no word careless. It must be exhausting, holding yourself so strictly that nothing slips through your fingers.
(It's why her and Santana fit so well together, like the meld of metal and mirror meshed into monster skyscrapers that so dominated New York. When Quinn climbs too high Santana is there to ground her, steadying the knee that would wobble. You know the feeling – her hands have been holding you upright longer than you want to admit. They're stronger than they look.)
"Britt, I've been reading the files-"
A presence to your left, and you don't glance away from Quinn as Santana comes up to you, her eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare. You feel the tension pouring off her, the residual irritation that always comes after dealing with Puck.
"What's going on?"
Quinn looks at her, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
"Nothing." She turns, glancing over her shoulder. "Catch you later, Britt."
You wave as she leaves, choosing not to acknowledge Santana's eyes drilling into your skull for the moment. Eventually, her impatience gets the best of her. It always does.
"What was that?"
"What?"
"Quinn being all mysterious and shit."
"She was just being nice."
"Quinn being nice is like me being nice. It doesn't happen."
"But you're nice to me."
"Well, that's..."
You leave her sputtering, waving to Tina who wonders why your smirk stretches so wide it hurts.
August 25th, 2011
As I pick up where I left off, I can't help the sense of dread that envelopes me. These familiar halls seem more constricting this time, more lifeless than before. I see the reluctance in the hard set of Dr. Syu's mouth; she shows me pictures of the pit bull she rescued from a shelter in the spitting image of C007F, a gentle giant that protects her three year old. The longing in everyone's eyes to return home is palpable, but our job becomes more critical than ever.
A month ago, Dr. Waters had attempted to move a specimen that he had kept away from the rest of us by truck in order to deliver it to... whomever he was working for. Foolish, I know, and even though he was wearing full hazard gear, it didn't stop the volatile remains of H001N and H002N from flying all over a busy intersection when his vehicle was struck by an oncoming car. I can only imagine the rotting mess that created, handled by people who weren't equipped to deal with it. He was killed instantly, and I find it amusing in a morbid sort of way that he is not alive to witness the true horror that his actions caused. It spread quickly, as most epidemics do, and before the state had the common sense to quarantine the area most of the town had been eaten away by the disease. Not that I blame them... unnecessary panic is as dangerous as the virus itself in most cases.
Sadly, this isn't the case this time. He made it all the way into Indiana when he was struck, so at first I didn't pay attention to the news reports. A mountain out of molehills, Susan always said, but when I got the phone call I knew otherwise.
If that wasn't enough, this time, it's become personal. As a precaution the military board had run blood screens on all of their employees – or should I say laborers? - and reluctantly gave the information back to us at our request. We had noticed, before terminating the experiment, that H001N and H002N had reacted at different rates to the injection. Could this be a cause of something that could lead to a cure? We hunted down the possible causes (it is a miracle what one can do with unlimited funding at their fingertips) after an exhaustive search, and found that even I carried the possibility of a gene that could be promising.
Except, I wasn't a prime candidate. My eldest child was.
I flat-out refused at first, but as the problems continued to spread outwards from Indiana, reaching like a modern-day version of the plague, I was overwhelmed and out of options. Who knows how long it would have taken to find another human being with the exact gene she has? How fast could we advance with her blood in our laboratory? It took almost no convincing my dear, sweet daughter, but Susan almost divorced me on the spot. I promised to bring her home, and I'll be damned if that isn't what I do.
Dr. Roger Pierce
You hang your head out of the window like a dog with a scent caught in its nose, sucking in the air that's always laced with rot, begging it to take away the cloud that fogs all but your most basic functions. You aren't sure what time it is, leaning outside until your tongue goes dry like old parchment and your lips split apart, but you doubt you'd even be able to make sense of it anyway. Your bones creak in their girdles and you pray for something that could take away the pain.
"Britt, you should come inside," comes Tina's voice, faint over the wind rushing in your ears, but you pay it no heed. No matter what you do you can't erase the words seared into your brain, tattooed with ink made from your own blood, and even now you tremble with the possibilities.
December 8th, 2011
I'm writing this with haste as the situation has grown so dire we must leave our little haven. Food has stopped arriving, and we go now to the source in hopes of continuing our research. The world outside has gone into ruins; riots, looting, fear. The pandemic they thought could be controlled has swallowed entire countries, and we are no exception. I fear for my family, but those who control this place assure me that they have been evacuated to a safe haven on the north coast of Canada, where the air is so cold that flesh without a heart to sustain it cannot thrive. I pray they are right.
We are running out of options. We have a few prototypes, if you will, rudimentary injections that are untested and unchecked, but it is all we have managed to procure in the few months of being here. My sweet, sweet Brittany wishes to go home, not understanding why we keep them inside like dogs, and my heart breaks whenever I have to turn away. This place makes me think like a scientist rather than a father, and I loathe it all the more.
We board the helicopter for Manhattan in an hour. Hopefully we make it on time. Only... only subjects H008N and H009N are left, and I pray we don't lose them too.
He even forgot to sign at the bottom, but his face bursts into memory like the flower of an invasive vine, choking you with knowledge you wish to bury again. Flashes of time pass before your closed eyes with a suddenness so dizzying your head hangs, and though months are still missing from your head, you remember the lab and the white-washed walls that never changed, and all the needles and the people with hard faces and the friends who disappeared one by one-
Someone grabs you by the shirt and yanks you back inside – your gasp is full of their scent and the monster screams, tearing at its restraints, the metal creaking and bending until you hear the groan of gears in your head. You don't even notice you're soaking wet from the rain that had begun to pour, but your hand flies to your pocket to make sure that the last few pages you ripped from the files are still intact. You remove any trace of yourself from the lines, but even you can't forget yourself entirely.
"Jesus woman, it's freezing out there," Artie grunts, closing the window, and you resist the urge to whimper. Your breath creates awkward, jagged patterns of condensation while the searing heat of your skin heats the glass against your cheek. Santana touches your forearm and you hear the distinct swallow of her throat as her fingers burn.
"Stay with me, Britt," she murmurs lowly, but the only thing you know is Kurt's constant shifting against the seat, his crossing and uncrossing of legs showing the slightest sliver of flesh between his sock and pant, or the graceful arc of his neck. His alabaster skin reveals the network of veins that run underneath like the subways where the woman died. You ache down to your very soul.
Tina notices your mouth dropping open to pant harshly, anything to vent this heat away from your head. She exchanges a glance with Santana and the two of them say something lost, swirling into nothingness. You swallow, your throat sticking closed.
"Maybe we should stop," Tina tries to say casually, but Artie and Kurt groan their disapproval.
"We stopped a few hours ago," Kurt argues, flipping his hair from his eyes – the movement wafts his sweat towards you and you begin to tremble, your eyes dilating until everything is washed out and impossible to distinguish. "We're only a few days away, we should keep going."
"I really need to pee."
"Tina," he sighs, leaning forward – his head tilts in a mischievous manner, a smile quirking at his lips. "I know you can't get enough of Mike, but please give the rest of us a break."
She sputters and you're frozen, locked onto the fluttering pulse the motion exposed. Your sunglasses slip from your nose, clattering onto the seat, but the pain barely even registers. He frowns, turning towards you.
"Are you- oh my god, what's wrong with your eyes?"
Santana crosses one arm over your abdomen, gripping against your opposite hip, sweat rolling down the strained expanse of her temples as she feels the tremor turn into a violent shake. "Don't do it, Britt."
"Does anyone see that?"
"Kurt," she snarls, her voice hard like the knot of your jaw, "back off."
"No, seriously," he replies worriedly, leaning forward the slightest bit, "is she-"
Twenty days is too much.
You lunge forward with a violent scream, hands flashing forward to rake across his face. He darts out of the way but you've clamped one hand around the back of his neck in a grip so tight you feel his vertebrae crackling under your fingers, lips curled back to expose teeth that part, desperately trying to yank him forward. He shrieks, plastering himself to the far door, even as Santana throws herself against you, her knee pinning your hip and her shoulder shoved unapologetically against your throat. Everything is rushing, roaring, and the blood pounding in your ears overrides Tina's panicked shouts to pull over.
You almost break free, throwing yourself against Santana's desperate hold, but the squeal of the SUV as it skids to the side knocks you sideways, and moments later you fall through air as someone yanks open the door you're pinned against. Santana falls heavily on top of you, air rushing from your lungs with a pained grunt, and the two of you roll over and over in a battle for dominance.
"Stop fighting," she hisses into your ear, voice strained where you've clamped one hand around the wide spread of her collarbone to keep her away. "I'm not going to give up."
"Let me go," you snarl like an animal, bucking, but she slithers a leg across your back and twists until you're leaning back in her hold, an arm crossed over your shoulder and another looped between your breasts, pressing you back against her warm, solid weight. She's so close, her pulse beating against your back... if you twist over, you could just... just-
"It'll be okay," she whispers, tightening her grasp, and you suddenly realize what you'd been thinking. Between her comforting presence soothing you with nonsense things and the rain that washes away their scent, the madness starts to fade. You're aware of your pants clinging to your skin, filthy with mud and water, Santana's heaving chest pressing against your back, the millions of eyes that watch the two of you as you sag in her hold, pressing your face so hard against her neck you will yourself to disappear.
She strokes your hair, swaying you from side to side, and you feel tears prick at eyes that can barely see. "I'm sorry," you whimper, fisting her shirt in your hand, "I couldn't do it. I couldn't."
She doesn't say anything – can't say anything – but holds you closer as booted feet come running from the truck.
"What the hell is going on?" Quinn snaps, her voice equal parts confused and angry, but her vicious scowl immediately subsides when she spots the two of you on the ground. Her shoulders slump ever so slightly, like she knows this is the end of the line, and only hisses a little bit when Puck and Finn shove her out the way.
"She attacked me," Kurt mumbles blankly, touching at the red lines that streak down his face. "Her eyes were just... wrong and she lunged at me. I thought I was going to die."
"Nobody is going to die, asshole," Santana snarls but everyone can hear the tremble in her voice.
"Can someone please inform us what the hell is going on?" Artie asks, hanging from Mike's back. "That shit was scary, yo."
You sniff slightly, wiping at your face. "I guess they should know."
"What? Britt, no-"
"What's the point? It's over."
"What's over?" Rachel implores, throwing her hands in the air. "I must insist, that for the safety of the-"
Whatever she's about to say is cut off on a gasp as you roll up your sleeve, exposing your forearm to the group. A ripple of distrust goes through and almost everyone takes a step back; only Quinn, her eyes dark and calculating, stays where she is.
"You're infected?" Finn nearly squeaks, his hand flying to his mouth. "Fuck, dude, that means I am, too."
"Shut up, Finn," Tina commands, gaze devastated. "There are bigger problems right now."
"It looks kinda weird," Artie comments, squinting at your arm. "Like a scar."
"It is a scar."
Everyone has something to say but you lock eyes with Quinn, begging her to understand. "I've been like this forever. I don't... I don't remember not being like this."
Your tongue fails you and you grunt your frustration, the hand that goes to strike your temple caught and pinned by Santana who continues your story.
"She woke up in the morgue with the bite. It healed itself eventually, but it did something to her. The zoms don't recognize her as prey. In their eyes, she's one of them."
"Because she is one of them!" Puck snaps angrily, his hands balled into fists. "She tried to fuckin' eat Kurt, Satan! How long were you gonna sit on that little piece of info?"
"It's not mine to tell," she retorts, eyes narrowed. "We figured we just needed to focus on getting to the encampment."
"Of scientists who probably did this to her?" Artie shudders, wiping mist from his glasses. "This idea gets worse every day."
"You promised to watch her, not to play house!"
"I promised I wouldn't help you put a fucking target on someone's head, dipshit! You think I'd tell you something that would give you even more motive to be a douchebag?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"There are no fucking sides, Puckerman! It's us against the world!"
He runs his hands through his hair and disappears back into the truck; cold and wet, you gently push against Santana's hands, nodding to her silent question. The two of you stand, a pair of raggedy children, your hand finding a steady perch on her shoulder. A silence envelops the group, so thick and sudden it suffocates.
"So... what does this mean?" Mike finally asks, his brow a knot of worry.
No one seems to have an answer. You swallow, a shiver running down your spine.
"If I don't eat, it's only going to get worse."
Rachel frowns. "But you always say you aren't hungry."
"Not for that."
Strangely, it's Finn who thinks it first.
"You eat people?"
The group collectively takes another step away, and you suck your lip into your mouth. "It's the only thing that makes it go away."
"Oh my god, that's disgusting."
"How does that even work?"
"She's gonna eat one of us."
Various responses ring out across the road and you wrap your arms across yourself, suddenly self-conscious. Santana rubs a pattern into your shoulder-blade but it's too late for consolation, not when you have eyes looking at you the way Mercedes is.
"You killed Sam," she whispers so softly you barely hear it, but it hits like a knife all the same.
"No, I didn't-"
"You killed him, a-and then you ate him. Our Sam. Our big, bubbly-"
"I didn't eat him," you plead, stepping forward a pace, "I promise. I couldn't."
But she isn't hearing any of it, a hand drawn over her mouth. You know exactly what kind of scenarios could be playing in her head – they're the very ones you see when you're tired enough to sleep. The dreams always come.
You shiver again and Santana ducks into the SUV to get you a jacket; you're suddenly alone against the group, so very small and sad.
"She could be useful," Quinn finally says, running her narrowed eyes along your frame. "Recon, scavenging, anything. She's zom-proof."
"Quinn, she ate our friend," Finn stresses. "We should leave her here with the other zoms."
"I don't think she did," Tina retorts, crossing her arms over her chest. "What does she have to lose at this point if she's lying? You've already made up your mind."
"She says it doesn't get better until she eats," Mercedes hisses fearfully, looking at you like you're a monster come to light, "she's gonna go for one of us next. She tried it with Kurt."
The boy touches his face, the thin lines that weep red, and looks at you almost apologetically. It takes too much effort to understand so you just push it away.
"I, for one, think we should keep her in the back, but bring her along," Rachel's voice breaks through the general rabble. "Quinn is right. She could be very useful. We've narrowly escaped twice because she heard them approaching."
"She probably drew them there," comes Puck's tone, hard as slate, and all of you turn at once to see him scowl. "Zombie lovin' bitch. Knew you were trouble."
"It's too late now, Noah," Rachel sighs. "What are you going to do about it?"
"What I should have done a long time ago."
You see the metal glint as his hand moves, but you don't know enough to dart out of the way as his finger pulls the trigger and a flare of heat ejects from the muzzle like the flames of a fire gone awry. It's more of a pop than a bang as the pistol jerks his arm in a recoil, and there's a sudden, strange pressure in your abdomen that has you staggering back a few places. You blink, ears ringing from the noise, and your left hand floats down to your belly in disbelief. It comes back red.
There's yelling and cursing and a flurry of motion where Santana tries to scramble out of the SUV to you – Puck raises his gun to fire the finishing shot but Tina nearly tackles him to the ground, going down in a tangle of limbs. You want to say you're alright, that it doesn't hurt, but as you try and walk to them you find yourself unable, your legs failing and collapsing under you like wooden puppets without masters. Your knees hit the wet earth and you aren't sure how you got here, really, even when you try and right yourself but your body refuses to stand. The blood roaring through your ears has taken on a different tone – flighty, panicked, and it's when you try and breathe deeply that the first spike of pain hits you so completely you can't think of anything else at all.
Your attempt to stop the bleeding is pitiful, pressing your slippery hands to a wound that weeps your sour, tainted blood into the earth. It doesn't bleed as a torrent, but you feel it pooling inside of you, flooding the spaces between your diseased organs; the monster in you is oddly silent, lending its presence only enough to stop you from screaming. Still, your palm pressing against the broken flesh is enough to draw a whimper, coming again and again until it turns into a moan you've only heard when people die.
It seems to break something in Santana; she's crying out your name, kicking and fighting to escape Mike's grip, but he's not letting go while Puck still holds a weapon. The world fuzzes until you lose your balance and hit the ground with a wet thud, gasping as the agony spreads outwards until it nearly paralyzes you. You writhe in the mud, curling into a ball so tight it shifts your insides, doing your best to block out the cacophony of chaos that swirls around you.
Still, you hear the sick ones coming, drawn to the gunshot that still rings in your ears. You try and warn them but your voice is a wheeze, severed and silenced.
Eventually Puck gets up, and his booted feet are a flash of darker brown against the landscape. They stop by your head, stamping your blonde tresses under his weight, and the invisible pressure of a gun against your temple has memories flooding back so rapidly it makes you nauseous.
You roll onto your back, gasping, looking up at his face twisted into a grim smile. Water drips from the curve of his nose and you know you've seen Hell now, seen it in the way he glowers down like he's won. "We should have killed you the first night," he spits, leveling it at your forehead. "No one so fucking stupid can survive without being trouble."
Blood wells between your fingers and your eyes float from his face to the gray, gray sky, water droplets spattering across your skin. Santana is still screaming – no, crying now – and the sound hurts you as much as the gunshot. You tilt your head ever so slightly, watching her boots struggle against Mike's. I'm sorry, you want to say, I didn't mean for you to get hurt too, but it's getting too hard to even keep your eyes open.
Another pair of feet come into your vision, smaller this time. Quinn places a dainty hand on Puck's forearm, and in every motion you see a lifetime of manipulation.
"It's not worth the bullet," Quinn murmurs, skating down to cup his fist. "Leave her."
"I want to finish her off." The eagerness in his tone makes the tips of your fingers go cold and dead with a dread you scarcely remember.
"She's going to die anyway."
"It's not enough."
"Puck, you can't take out what happened on-"
"I can do whatever the fuck I want!" he snarls, violently gesturing to you. "I won. She can't cause any more shit to go wrong."
You close your eyes for a moment, hearing fading out to the wheeze of lungs approaching your position. It's not long now, and the fog in your head clears enough to shift your hand from the muck, weakly palming at Quinn's pant leg. Puck sneers, but she pushes in front of you before he can kick it away.
"Zoms," you mumble faintly, eyes flickering back before you can stop them. "Go."
You don't want to die alone, but you don't want to take them with you either.
Quinn purses her lips before nodding, flinching a little as Santana's furious yelling changes targets. You're not sure what she's saying, but you are sure you don't want to know. Thinking hurts too much now. (Not like it didn't before.)
"Get back in the truck and let me finish it."
"I want to do it," he growls, but she shakes her head.
"We don't have enough time. They're coming."
"I'll be quick."
"You'd mutilate her and then Tina would kill you in your sleep. You've done enough."
The end sentence is hard but weary, resigned to a fate she was reluctant to live through. He looks at you once, smirk disappearing into something unreadable, before he nods.
"Fine. But use this."
He unbuckles the axe from his belt, the thick blade cold and wet with summer's rain. Santana's voice cracks and you swallow, rolling your head to the side – her eyes are the abyss that you've felt calling in your chest, dark and yawning and so very unhappy. Within a glance passes a lifetime of regrets yet to be realized, and if you could think at all you'd want to chase them away.
"Everyone get back in the car," she commands, voice cold, and you distantly hear three simultaneous no's as they do so without being prompted twice. Mike manhandles Santana into the SUV, and you sigh sadly as she disappears from your sight for the last time. Her yelling, more raw and broken than you've heard anything before, follows you.
Quinn crouches down by your face, brushing a stray strand of hair from your eyes.
"I'm sorry, Britt," she says softly, "I never meant for this to happen."
You stare up at her, lips mouthing silent things. She hushes you, gently pressing your jaw closed. Instead, she reaches into her back pocket, carefully slipping something into your own.
"If anyone can survive this, it's you," she promises, hefting the axe up over her head. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the split second of pain before silence, but it thuds down a mere millimeter beside your ear. You blink your eyes open, shaking off the water that pools in the hollows. Your body goes lax and pliant, bleeding your blood into the earth, but Quinn smiles sadly and pulls the axe from the ground.
"Don't disappoint me."
And then she's gone.
…
My sweet girl, my life, my heart, I'm so sorry for what we did to you. A father is never meant to take away the life of their child, no matter the circumstance. I only pray that your death will find you in a better place than the Hell that has become of this world, and I will spend every moment of my days grieving for my choices.
We thought you were the one.