A/N: Real life is distracting. I'm late, but at least it wasn't a cliffhanger last time. Enjoy!

Chapter 17

1 day since last feed

The world comes back with a plunge in your gut that can only ever accompany dread, and you're vaguely aware of the tears that dribble down the sharp incline of your jaw. Sue has one hand spread across your chest and your heartbeat thuds so heavily it wobbles upwards through your sternum until her entire palm throbs with it. You're trembling, sobbing, but it hurts too much to care.

"You did this to me," you choke out, knuckles turning white on the arms of your wheelchair. "You turned me into this... this thing."

Everyone around you murmurs their discomfort but you're deaf to everything but him; the man who raised you, the one who nurtured you and took you on hiking trips and science fairs, the one who left you to rot in a basement with a boy who was doomed from the start. He was never good at hiding his emotions and even now you can read the anguish on his face that twists him into something older, something seen the scars of too many fates come to pass, but it doesn't compare to the knives that rip you apart all over again. It never will.

"Brittany, you don't understand-"

"No, I don't understand!" you shriek back, almost stumbling to your feet before Sue's grounding hand pushes you back down. "You knew! You knew John was sick, and you left me there! You made me sick too, and now I'm broken!"

Your hands fumble with your coat until you throw it open, pulling at the neckline of your oversized shirt to expose the smooth, pink lines you had to heal yourself. "You let them do this to me, a-and now my head is b-broken and my body doesn't listen-"

Sue's fingers curl over your bony shoulder as you break off into a sob and you feel the tension in her tendons, the anger that radiates from her skin such like stone. Your rage bounds through your veins and makes the monster in your chest so much louder than usual. It sits in the hollow of your throat, snarling, and you lose the words you want so badly to fling. He steps forward the best he can before Sue's glare cuts him off and he falls to his knees instead, hands clasped almost in prayer.

"Britty," you flinch at the nickname, and he bites his lip. "I didn't have a choice. We were running out of time, and you were the last hope we had. You were – you are – the perfect match."

"You shot me," you whisper hoarsely, curling in on yourself. "I died."

"I know. I... I held you when you did." He swallows, and you see the ghosts of a memory you can find only through fever dancing in his eyes.

"I held John, too," you hiss, "but you didn't help. You let him die."

"We didn't know he would-"

"Yes you did! I remember your face! I m-might have broken brains, b-but don't pretend like I wasn't there!"

Your father rubs his hands down his face, the rustle of his coat stirring memories like a thousand hissing vipers. He murmurs something to his colleagues and they all nod before quietly filing out, taking most of the soldiers with them. Sue glances to yours and gives a subtle nod so they can take up post outside the door instead, ever vigilant.

All too soon you're left alone with him, with only Sue as your anchor. Still, you feel yourself spiraling away.

"Brittany, I..." he runs his hands through his light hair, shuffling anxiously on the ground. "I know what I did was inexcusable. I know. Please let me try to explain."

You remain silent, a tremor in your bones, and he takes a deep breath.

"You were the only match we could find that could take the cure. We thought John could, too, but he was just a little bit different. You remember the world outside, right? After we crashed? Everything was crumbling, so many people were dying... we were running out of time to figure out how to fix this."

"We were on our way to another laboratory when the helicopter fell, and it was too dangerous to walk, so we had to do it then. We'd come up with two prototypes, things looked promising, but we wanted to refine it further. After that, we were stuck with what we had."

He pulls out a sheath of paper from his pocket and you recognize it before he even opens the files; the missing sections of the folder your companions had found, ripped out before you even got to look. Your own face stares back at you, a stranger in another skin.

"There were two samples. They wanted to use you to test the first one, but I'd seen what it did to the blood samples, and I... I couldn't let that happen. You'd die, just like all the others did."

"So you gave it to John instead?" you ask bitterly, frowning. "Let him die instead of me?"

"I knew he wasn't going to survive it as soon as they injected him, Brittany. He wasn't special, not like you."

"If you knew, why give it to him?" Sue interrupts, eyes narrowed. "What was the point of wasting a human life on something you knew was bound to fail?"

"If we would have had time, we could have analyzed what had gone wrong, changed it-"

"Bullshit. You knew you didn't have time."

He scowls, but you squeeze her hand in support.

"We... we needed someone who had already been exposed to infection to make significant progress. Initially we hoped to give the vaccine to John and then expose him through injection, but it started to turn him instead. Mixing the two would have too much error involved… what if something in the vaccine neutralized the cure? We couldn't risk it."

You swallow, the rush of your diseased blood pouring through every crevice of your body. It makes you feel so dirty, a tainted science experiment gone wrong.

"Everything in your genome pointed to it working, sweetheart, but we didn't have enough time to cultivate it and let it grow to run a lot of tests. When John started showing symptoms in a sterile, controlled environment... it was a perfect match. We let it run its course."

"But it wasn't," you mumble thickly, your thumb tracing the jagged scar of your forearm. "It didn't work."

"It worked perfectly," he counters. "You're alive. Here. That means it was a success, and we can start replicating-"

"No!" you snap, and he jerks back at the sound. "You can't let this happen to other people. I won't let you."

"After we refine it, they won't go through what you did at the lab-"

"No, not that," you hiss, "I don't care about that. I wanted to die there and I did, I got what I wanted. But after, when I woke up. I was dead but I wasn't, I was alive but I wasn't. I wasn't anything."

He looks at you carefully, shuffling forward to take your hands like he did when you were young and didn't understand something important. "Brittany, I know you said your head wasn't right when you woke up. The doctors here, they say the same thing too, right?"

You nod miserably, taking comfort from both Sue's hand slid upwards to palm your neck and his traitor thumbs making circles on the backs of your hands. Though he doesn't have good hands, not in the way Helga or Tina did, you can't help but remember your youth when they were the only ones that could take away the pain.

"Anyone who receives significant brain trauma like you did will have some problems. It's honestly a blessing that bullet didn't do any more damage than it did. There won't be any of that with the new version."

But he doesn't understand and you shake your head, pulling your hands away. Your temples throb and you grind the heels of your palms into the bone to quiet it, the familiar spike of discomfort shooting through your right eye when you press against your now-closed wound.

"The hole only broke my head a little," you mutter, beginning to rock back and forth in your seat. "It was the sick. The sick did this. I have a monster in my head now. I'm a monster."

"Britty, I promise-"

"You can't promise anything!" you yell, shoving him back so he lands with a thud on his rear. "You don't understand, you never will! My head lies to me and tells me to do things, it whispers and laughs and if I don't do them then bad things happen to people I like!"

"I-I eat people," you sob, "I have to e-eat people to l-live because I'm n-not human anymore, a-and I want-"

Sue's long arms fold around you and you cry into her shoulder for the first time in months with a grief that renders you deaf and blind. Your father sits in disbelief but you forget all about him and the betrayal that runs as deep as an underground river, knowing nothing but the scratch of Sue's uniform on your cheek and her long, spindly fingers that run themselves through your hair. The last time you felt this much is when you woke up the first time in the morgue and begged to die again, your mind trying to sort the pieces still functional and those left to rot. Your whole body shakes, fragile and willow-thin, and it takes a long time for you to gather the fragments of your thoughts together again.

Eventually you pull away, eyes raw and red and so very tired. Your father looks like he doesn't know what to do anymore, his helpless hands opening and closing, useless, on the tiled floor.

"You made me into a monster," you whisper hoarsely, "and eventually that might be okay. But I won't let you do it to anyone else."

He looks almost as defeated as you feel, and you see the familiar concentration behind the shine of his glasses.

"If I promised that it would never happen again... would you let us try to make a better cure?"

You lick your salted lips, hesitating.

"I don't want it to be like last time. I want to know."

"You will. I'll make sure of it."

What else do you have to lose? Your humanity disappeared a long time ago.

"Okay."

He lets out a deep, shuddering breath, and you notice all of a sudden how much older he looks. You've only been separated a year, but it feels like a lifetime.

"I'll try to make it up to you, Brittany. I swear it."

"You can't," you say simply, "not anymore. But you can help the others."

He gets up wearily, not bothering to dust off his coat. "We'll try."

And with that, he's gone.

They give you another minute to gather yourself, sucking your emotions back in through your leaking facade until they can be properly sealed away, before they take you from that blank room. There's a lot of corridors that look the same and squeaking wheels and other patients that pass by, but you're more concerned with the way Sue taps her fingers against your shoulder that shows she's memorizing your path. Just in case.

Your dad isn't around when you're transferred to another hospital bed and hooked up to an array of machines. Blood is drawn to the point where you feel sick and dizzy, leaning your head against the rails, and they clip strange things to the ends of your fingers and sticky pads all over your chest. Now that you remember it feels too much like a flashback. You close your eyes to forget.

You must fall asleep because next thing you know someone's shaking you awake – you have a pounding headache behind one eye and your entire body is shaky, your mouth dry as the golden sands of your home state. Sue hands you a cup of water but reconsiders, gently tipping it into your mouth when she sees your hands tremble.

The doctor introduces himself with a kind smile, but you've learned not to trust appearances; he leads you through the motions of an exam where they tap little hammers against your knees and shine bright lights into your eyes. He actually asks before he touches your sides, and it's the only reason you nod. When his fingers find your ribs immediately, he frowns.

"You're quite underweight, Brittany," he hums, checking something off in his little chart. "Especially for your height."

"She eats a bowl or two of oatmeal a day, sometimes some beef jerky," Sue informs him. She's your keeper now, your guardian while you heal. Crying always leaves you too exhausted to speak.

"Is that all?"

"She throws up if she tries to eat more."

He ruffles through his papers, his frown deepening.

"It says here that she weighed... ninety eight pounds a month ago? There must be a mistake, she'd be dead."

Sue's eyebrow arches. "Do you know anything about her case, or should I find someone competent who does?"

"All I was told was to do a preliminary examination."

"Typical."

Sue makes for the door but your hand circles her wrist, tight like an iron shackle.

"Let him stay."

She studies you, lips pursed, before nodding. For once your judgment reigns supreme. It's a nice feeling.

You spread your hands out to him, bony and long, the scars from your past silvery-fine against your pale skin. The gash you had drawn into your own palm is still there, a bold reminder of your time in the compound, and your first true look at Santana beyond what she wanted you to see.

"I was dead inside for a long time. I was cold. I didn't need food. I'm better than I was, but I'm still sick. I'll always be sick."

He runs his thumb hesitantly over the half-moon crescent embedded in your forearm. The nurse at the other side of the room gasps – you smell her fear. It burns.

"It seems... that there's a lot they didn't tell me."

You smile, but it's crooked and hard.

"You get used to it."

The rest of your exam is run with a strange somberness. You learn that you don't have a lot of reflexes you should have – your eyes don't dilate properly, your ankles don't move when they're tapped with the little hammer, and you can hold something hot without flinching until it threatens to burn you.

"Doesn't it hurt?" asks the doctor when he hastily takes away the piece of hot metal from your palm. It leaves a dime-sized red spot on your skin. You shrug.

"I guess. I don't really feel it."

"Your skin is numb?"

"No. I know it's there. This isn't bad pain."

"What is?"

"When Puck shot me, or when Tina stuck her fingers in my head."

You show him your bullet wounds; though the one in your abdomen is a knot of scar tissue, it doesn't protrude out of the tension of your stomach. Just another scar to add to the canvas. The doctor adjusts his glasses, pressing gently on the area.

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes, if I've been dreaming. But I know it's not real."

"This looks like it was really heavily infected at some point."

You shrug. "Maybe. I don't remember autumn. It hurt, though. Something broke."

"Like... a bone?"

"No, like a water balloon." You make an exploding motion with your hands, followed by a smile. "Sploosh. All inside me. It didn't go away for a while."

He looks a lot more concerned than he should be.

"It's okay, I'm fine now. It doesn't slosh around."

"Brittany, that really isn't normal."

"I know. But everything about me isn't normal, right?"

No one can really argue with that.

"Still," he mutters, scribbling a few things on his chart. "I'm going to recommend an ultrasound, just to make sure everything is healed. It's very rare an infection that severe can sort itself out without complications."

He bumps his glasses back onto his nose, giving his hand for you to shake. You decide you like him.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

When he leaves the nurse gives you pitying eyes and you shrink a little in your seat, glancing automatically to Sue. Her nod is faint, almost imperceptible, but there. You let them wheel you away further in the labyrinth, the distinct thud of her boots always following behind.

You flinch when they put the gel on you but you're soon enraptured by the grainy images on the screen – living in a place that didn't have electricity makes you easy to distract. When the wand floats upwards, pressing underneath the slight swell of your breast, you can see the distinct pulse of your heart on the screen. Its sound, an underwater piston, is music to you.

"It's pretty small," the nurse frowns, peering for a closer look. "I'm surprised you don't have circulation issues."

"It stopped working for a long time," you mumble, never taking your eyes from the screen. "It only just woke up."

You feel her eyes on you but the wand moves down regardless, past your chest and against your belly. The image blurs here, a mess of blue and black shadows, a glimpse into the yawning abyss that so often devours. It's void of the movement your chest cavity brings.

She leans forward until her nose is almost against the screen. You feel her unease as a palpable thing that crawls across your body.

"What is it, scrubs?"

"I'm... not sure," the nurse mutters, pressing deeper until you wince. It's all one blob of darkness to you, a glimpse into a place you were never supposed to see. "Did you ever get a kidney removed, Brittany?"

"I don't think so."

She hums, leaning back. "Well, I can only find one."

"What do you mean, you can only find one? Organs don't get up and walk away."

"There's the stem where it should be, but it's just... gone." The wand presses under your ribcage, and there's a phantom pain of falling and crawling through the mud. "And the other one is really small, too. Like your heart."

"Something exploded inside of me," you offer, "like a grenade. It hurt a lot for a while but eventually it stopped. Everything stopped, really."

Everyone eyes the screen for a moment and the nurse rubs her hand over her forehead. "Maybe. We need to do more testing."

"Not today you don't." Sue's arms are around you before you can blink and you find yourself being deposited back into your wheelchair – you give her a sour glare but she's always been very good at ignoring your annoyance. "That's quite enough for now."

"But we need to-"

"You'll need to pick sutures out of your lips if you keep talking." Your wheels unlock, hands firm on the handles. "I have authority around here, Nurse Joy. Pack up your needles and go home."

You turn to her when you wheel out of the room, eyebrows raised.

"I can walk."

"It's much more effective than watching you slowly hobble out like a one-legged kangaroo."

Sometimes you really miss Helga.

You're in the middle of a game of checkers with one of your soldiers when your dad comes into the room. The piece you were holding clatters back to the board – his eyes flicker to the doorway and give you a sympathetic grimace, promising to come back later and finish the round. You don't hear him, but you notice his warmth leave your side of the bed. They're nicer here, less willing to run from you.

The doctor from before smiles and you manage to give a faint one back, crooked in all the wrong places. He has pictures tucked under his arm and bustles about the space in an attempt to diffuse the tension. It doesn't work. The nurse from earlier scans the room, noticeably relaxing when she doesn't find Sue skulking in the corner.

The pictures are pinned against a wall and the doctor draws up a chair – you notice his last name is Martinez and it sounds too much like something else.

"These are the results of your ultrasound, Brittany," he begins, soft and slow. "Did they tell you what we found?"

"I'm missing a bunch of things."

"You could say that. A lot of the things inside you are the wrong shape, or in the wrong place. Some of them aren't even there at all."

"Like my kidney, right?"

"That's right." He bumps his glasses up on his nose again – you wonder if he's not used to them. "We think the bullet might have grazed it and opened a wound which let it get infected. It went through your intestines, so there would have been a lot of bile around, which isn't good for any healing organ. You said it burst?"

"Yeah, when I fell down. Like there was a water balloon in my stomach. It stayed like that for a long time before it went away, but then my body sort of collapsed because I had no food."

He and your father share a glimpse, the latter like it physically pains him to hear the bland, factual retelling of your time spent wandering.

"I haven't heard of kidneys exploding, but... appendixes can do it, so why not?" he flashes an easy smile and points at the general array of other photographs, shadowy caverns and organs that have failed you time and time again.

"You're in pretty rough shape, I'm afraid. From what we can tell, the liver has taken on a lot of the work that your kidneys can't because the other one is small and poorly functioning. I've actually never seen that happen before – you've grown entirely new tissue to cope with it. It's amazing."

"Do you think my blood did this?"

"What do you mean, sweetheart?"

You cut your dad a look, shuffling a little further up the bed and away from him. Dr. Martinez awkwardly adjusts the collar of his shirt as your father visibly deflates.

"Kidneys clean you, right? Your blood? But if it's too dirty, it'll just make them sick and die too. Maybe it's doing that to my whole body."

"Why do you think that?"

"It smells... wrong. Like there's something else there. A shadow."

Dr. Martinez sits back to mull it over while your dad tries to explain why this couldn't be a possibility, but the science talk makes your head hurt and you're over it before it even starts. You can tell he's delicately trying to sidestep your "condition" for the sake of his partner, but Dr. Martinez is having none of it.

"Roger, look," he interrupts, "there's obviously something going on here you don't want me to know about. I don't care about your history. But she's sick, and keeping things from me isn't going to help her get better."

"It's a top-secret research project, David. I can't discuss it without clearance."

"Really? Because I thought she was your daughter."

There's an agonizing moment of silence where your father goes red from collar to hairline, reminiscent of your tendency to blush with your entire body. The soldier guarding the door clears his throat, anxiously shuffling on his feet. You twist your fingers together.

"All I can say is that she's the first person to live through an infection," he gets out through gritted teeth, his knuckles clenching on the bars of your bed.

"I didn't live through it," you retort, crossing your arms, "I just came back."

Dr. Martinez holds up his hands.

"We don't need to argue details. That bite on your arm, it's a zombie bite?"

You nod.

He blows air through his nose and rubs between his eyes, slumping a little in his seat. You've seen that look too often – the dawning of realization that he's taken on a task far greater than he thought. The impending exhaustion weighs on the mind far more than you'd think.

"Well," he says after a long moment, "I guess we have to start small. Getting you up to a good enough weight for surgery would be a start."

Your entire body goes cold and prickly, shaking the bones of your neck apart. His mouth moves for a few more moments before he notices your stare, sentence trailing off into a frown.

"Surgery?" you ask, whisper-soft, like it dares you to speak any louder.

"We can't let your organs stay like this, hon—Britt," your dad explains, twining his fingers. "There might be complications. More infections."

But you remember the phantom hands inside of your belly, shifting apart your organs to make room for things that cut and pinch, cold metal picking your veins apart and not bothering to patch them back together. Your body was a masterpiece and they splashed filth all over it, letting it heal ugly and misshapen, destroying what wasn't theirs to take. Your entire frame starts to tremble until the earthquake in your marrow rings every bell inside your head.

"Not again," you mutter, your hands clenched fists in the sheets. "I'm not letting you ruin me again." One hand floats up to your scars, pressing against the pink line that paints your sternum. "You did it once but you had your chance. No more hands."

"What if you get infected again?"

"Then you give me medicine, and if it doesn't work, I finally get to sleep with no memories."

The willingness to die is a close friend, more comfortable than it's ever been; it paints itself on every face of the sick and shambling, lurking in the shadows cast beneath the eyes of survivors. Even here, in these sterile white walls, you hear it whisper into the night.

Dr. Martinez taps his pen against his thigh. "Roger, can I ask you to leave for a minute?"

"What? Why?"

"I want to ask Brittany some questions."

"I'm the lead on this project, David. Whatever you're going to ask is important to our success."

"You might be the lead, but you're emotionally invested. As her physician, I'm going to insist."

They lock stares for a moment but after a moment your father shrinks under his stare, grumbling as he hauls himself to his feet. The door clicks behind him and your shoulders unwind, falling from the protective hunch by your ears. If he notices, he doesn't comment.

"Brittany," Dr. Martinez sighs, putting his notepad down, "I want to help you. I don't care about their project. As far as I'm concerned, we got into this mess in the first place trying to play God, and now they're doing it again trying to reverse it. I just want to make sure your body is going to be healthy."

Your eyes run over his face curiously. He's seen a lot of people die – their memories bite at the sharp hinge of his jaw and run in the veins of his eyelids. The familiarity of it is like looking into a mirror.

"What do you want?"

"A liver sample. If I can prove that it's working for your kidneys, we won't have to do actual surgery."

"Are you sure?"

"Well... no. The human body isn't supposed to do this," he takes your hands and you let him – his skin is surprisingly dry, chapped from hours of work, "but you said you weren't human anymore, right? Maybe we can see if that's true."

You run your thumb over his knuckles. "They've already taken pieces of me. I don't know how much I have left to give."

Your spine aches when you remember the needle they pushed into it, suctioning a clear fluid from the depths of you to spin in a little machine and examine under microscopes. Sometimes you're reduced to nothing more than a test animal. You see it in the way they look at you, afraid you're going to lunge but desperate to find your secrets. It's only a matter of time before they start taking things you don't want to give.

Dr. Martinez is different. Careful and considerate, always asking and hoping. Your body isn't property here.

"Okay," you concede, "but can... can you find Sue?"

"Of course." He flashes an easy smile and the nurse startles to her feet along with him. "Go find Master Sergeant, please. She'll have our heads by tonight if she wasn't here for this."

"Should I let Dr. Pierce back in?" she asks as she's about to leave, a residual grimace from being tasked to find her personal tormentor.

Dr. Martinez glances at you, taking in the barely-there shake of your head.

"No. I think he's done here for today."

The guards standing by the doorframe get the message, drawing up straighter still.

When she leaves he bustles around the space, drawing up a tray of tools and rummaging around in the cabinets. Clinking bottles follow his foray and he eventually pulls two from the plethora of half-empty flasks. A rather large needle joins them. You swallow.

"Doctor..." he catches your gaze and grins reassuringly, patting the instrument.

"Don't worry, I'll numb you up. You won't feel a thing. And please, call me David."

He's inserting a small needle into the back of your hand when Sue barges into the room, the nurse stammering apologies behind her.

"What's this horseshit I've been hearing? You're overstepping your bounds so hugely that people in China can see your gloriously trimmed beard as it crosses the line of inappropriate conduct!"

You catch her wrist with your other hand, your thumb pressing into the network of veins that run just underneath the surface. "It's okay, Sue. I told him he could."

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, brows furrowing. Delight floods through you as you leave her speechless. Such a rarity.

"But you hate doctors."

"I told them I'd help, right? Besides, I hate scientists the most. They're worse than doctors. Everything they do feels like an alien invasion."

Sue's eyebrow floats halfway to her hairline. You'd elaborate, but something cold flushes through your arm and you stumble on your words. Your entire body shivers as it courses up your neck and behind your eyes.

David's grin is sheepish. "It's less stressful for everyone when they don't know it's coming."

"Dunno whas comin'?" you mumble, your hand that had tightened into a fist loosening until it falls limply by your side. He replaced your muscles with putty without telling you and it's the most exquisite feeling you've ever known. Everyone is shuffling around you but you settle back comfortably into your own skin, eyes hooded. A low buzz hums in your ears.

Something is wiped onto your belly but you're too lax to shudder – your mouth hangs half open and if you listen carefully you can hear the whistle of your breath in your lungs. Has it always been this bright in here?

You're going to feel a pinch, and there's pressure on your abdomen, the nurse guiding your right arm under your head. Your skin breaks with undeniable tension, just like your insides so long ago. Your heart stays sluggish and steady. Sue smirks at the glassy expression that's taken over.

I'm so used to you being expressionless I'm not sure if this is funny or weird, she muses, but you can do little more than mumble back. David shuffles from where he's sitting and the needle-thing jostles inside of you. You barely notice.

His face swims into your vision.

Britt, I'm going to take a sample of your kidney too, okay?

"M'kay," you slur, rolling your head up to the ceiling. Another memory creeps into your head – haloing lights and a chair just like this one, people touching all around, but the pain you know was there is shrouded in a haze of apathy. "This hap'end before," you smile dopily, trying to lock onto Sue's face but passing it by accident, "I 'member now. Daddy put th'hole in m'ead."

She frowns. A biopsy?

You listlessly roll your head from side to side, the room spinning. "Bang." Somehow you curl your fingers into the shape of a gun, but it flops back to your side. Everyone in the room shares an uncomfortable glance.

David withdraws the needle and puts a thin row of stitches into your side. Pieces of your flesh sits on the tray and it's impossible to tear your eyes away.

This is your liver, he motions to a brown chunk, no bigger than the nail on your smallest finger, and this is your kidney. It's smaller than your liver, drier. It's withered like a fruit left too long in the blinding summer sun.

"Gross." Your tongue is too thick and you close your eyes, letting them rearrange your limbs. There's the click of the door and the familiar rush of your father's scent – if you could, you'd recoil. Your brain has taken a complete disconnect from your body, reminiscent of when you first woke up so long ago.

There's fighting and yelling but you don't bother to open your eyes. Sue will take care of everything.

Someone places you gently in a wheelchair and the sounds become fainter and fainter until you can't hear them at all. The pulse of Sue's heartbeat is one you recognize, and you let it lull you into a strange suspension between worlds, not dreaming but never quite awake.

There was a lot of yelling the first few days.

Sue recounts episodes where David and the scientists almost came to blows, white coats flapping and glasses thrown to the ground. His files remain hidden to their eyes no matter how much intimidation they scatter onto the broad stretch of his back. Your stitches itch – nobody else is allowed to play tetris with your organs. Your father takes it as a personal offense.

It's satisfying.

"I'm bored," you grumble, throwing your head back on the pillow. Sue looks at you through unimpressed eyes.

"You don't have the mental capacity to be bored."

"I'm restless," you correct with an eyeroll, shifting your legs. "Sitting all day makes my hips hurt."

"Go for a walk, then."

"They don't let me go anywhere."

Sue sighs and mutters something into the ear of a guard. He salutes and scurries off, clutching a piece of paper she slipped into his palm.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you I've found your little misfit posse."

A blank stare. Her eyes roll again. Don't they get tired?

"The Glee Club. Turns out they did find their way here."

Your heart stutters and you find yourself leaning forward.

"They're here? Where?"

She beckons you to the window and you scramble out of bed. Unlike the strict, unforgiving lines of the hospital, the fences that keep the outside world away are winding, bending to the constant presence of the forest. Their love of rigidity is seen in other places – the neat placement of the barracks to your right, the square block of brick Sue says is the command center.

True to nature, the farmland that has near the front of the base is more lax, plants reaching out of the strict lines that so dominate everything else.

"There," Sue points, just over the barracks. Little houses rise out of the snowy ground, hunched and unhappy. Smoke sputters from their tiny chimneys. "Refuge housing. They didn't have enough room in the barracks.

Excitement stirs and the pain in your hips dissipates. Your fingers clench on the windowsill.

"Can we go find them?"

The soldier comes back and nods to Sue, who smirks.

"You can. You're free to wander."

You stare after her as she crosses the room to wave a heavy coat at you.

"What? They've been nervous about your... unrest. Keeping you cooped up is another step towards a full-blown zombie meltdown."

There are too many things wrong with that sentence to argue, and you numbly slip your arms into the coat. It settles like a patchwork quilt, huge on your bony frame. Boots are next. You feel like a marshmallow.

"Aren't you coming with me?"

"Not right away. I'll let you get over your whole goopy reunion first."

Somehow you find yourself standing in the cold, alone, your feet planted firmly in the snow. Wind curls around your cheekbones and you spend a moment relishing the unfamiliar sensation, how it makes your head ache just behind your ears. Despite the persistent sound of the base that never ceases, it doesn't disturb the quiet inside of you.

The walk is slow. Your muscles are still uncertain and your bones shaky. The pads of your feet are thin, and though your boots cushion your meager weight, it's still uncomfortable. You accept it all, welcome it like an old friend.

Refuge housing is little more than a cluster of tiny houses pushed together with a single window and no second floor to speak of. Some of them are even joined together. Most are occupied but some are dark and quiet, not yet accepted any survivors into their depths. (Or have they lost those they used to shelter?)

Your hands shake when you reach the ones Sue mentioned. Their chimney smokes but the curtains are drawn. Footprints mar the path leading up to the door, multiples that slush together. They're bigger than yours.

Your knuckles hit wood; breathe once, twice, three times. Your stitches throb.

The door opens.

"... Britt?"