Little Red Riding Hood and All The Zombies

by Laure001

Elizabeth lives in an abandoned scientific Center, alone, with 84 000 zombies. Well, that's kind of an exaggeration. First, the zombies do not live with her, they are outside the Center—mostly. And second, Elizabeth is not exactly alone. There is another living human in the building, an obnoxious, haughty, unpleasant man who is going to make her existence so much more difficult...

7. Chapter 7

Edwards closed his eyes. "That was close."

"Much, much too close."

-XX-

I am so never telling Coulson about this, Elizabeth thought.

-XX-

Thirty months ago.

A picnic outside of the Center. On the slopes, inside the fenced areas. Elizabeth and all the members of the entertainment committee; their group had official permission for the outing.

And there was a clown, yes, a clown, and an…incident.

"You'd have done the same thing," Elizabeth protested afterward. "Come on, Coulson, you'd have come back for him too. There was time. There was, there was time, how could I know the two zombies would—"

"This is why," Coulson said, hard and cold. Like ice before the poles started melting. Like underneath his unflappable, wry exterior, Coulson was a very dangerous man. "This is why it should have stayed a military operation. We should never have allowed civilians into the Center."

"Oh, brilliant. Brilliant idea. And who would do your dirty work? The cleaning and cooking and, the hum, admining? Also, your precious scientists, they're not military, are they?"

"Ms. Moore, we'll start with a three weeks suspension…"

So not 'Elizabeth' anymore, not when Coulson was in a mood. "You're not even military, Coulson. You're not? Anymore? I think?"

"… Three weeks during which you'll repass both security certifications—in the mornings. During the afternoons, you'll get Undead-Defense level two, and First Specialized Aid, and Chemical Initiation. Only A+ grades will be deemed acceptable."

"You're kidding."

"You get one answer wrong. One answer wrong, and you're repassing them all. Fail twice, and I will have you fired."

Which, in insight, would have been a blessing.

-XX-

Now.

Both zombies, oozing on the floor. Elizabeth was shaking, but if they turned back now, their brush with death would have been for naught. The way in, they had to find the way in, so she and Edwards kept to the plan, closing the door then going through the other one to the left, through a series of empty corridors, securing the offices one by one.

Down two levels, and Edwards was right: they found it. The way in. A hole, where there should have been a brand-new glass bay instead. Leading to a half-constructed terrace.

Yes, a big hole in the wall, the mountain breeze coming in, and everything. On Level Two, so in theory too high to be accessible to any evil carnivorous creatures, except the construction work had been abandoned during the evac, bulldozers and heavy looking machines just lying there, near a huge mound of sand. A mound leading to the half-finished terrace and to the hole.

Hard to climb, but not impossible.

Mystery solved. The two zombies they just fought had gone up the artificial sand dune, then found their way inside, very slowly, through the malfunctioning doors, thank you system failure.

Elizabeth and Edwards just stayed there for a while, watching. Night was falling. Zombies were wandering down below, around the sand, near the bulldozers, looking eerily like workers on a break.

They went back upstairs to get material, they nailed the doors shut all around the room, isolating the construction area. It took three more hours. The moon was up. Outside, owls cried, nocturne animals ran invisible in the woods.

Down on the ground the zombies lazily took the rounds, regularly freezing in their standing comatose state before being woken by the branches shivering in the wind and starting a new promenade.

The stars were shining. The sugary fragrance of the Scots Pines, the distinctive shapes of the Fireweed flowers. Chamaenerion angustifolium. Bright purple, not that you could see their vibrant hue in the darkness. They found a deep blue one and thought it had been affected by The Event at first, like the poppies, but no. It was just another kind.

Back inside. Their task done, Elizabeth and Edwards found their way back to the grey and the white of their safe zone, closing and barricading everything in-between. They retreated into the accounting room and secured that door too, and then, plan successful, job done, they wandered aimlessly till they found another cozy, already secured office. HR, this time.

There they crashed into the state-of-the-art comfy armchairs and just—stared into space.

-XX-

"You know what we need?" said Edwards, after a while. "Alcohol, that's what we need."

Elizabeth decided that she could not move another limb. "But to get it we'd have to go down to the cafeteria."

"Not exactly." Edwards stood up. "I signed my employment contract here in this room. As you can imagine, my profile was very much in demand at the time... I thoroughly negotiated my conditions, and when we finally came to an agreement, Mr. Bergman walked to the—to this cupboard here and… A-ha!"

Edwards triumphally presented a bottle of whisky, only half-empty, good brand, too. He found two white mugs with the Center logo and poured each of them a generous dose.

The whisky was delicious, amber, glittering in the artificial light like—Elizabeth was all out of simile—but, you know, color. Color was good, and also, the whisky. Did we mention the whisky was delicious?

The HR office was—surprisingly not depressing. There were plants, real ones, green and healthy, some automated watering system certainly at play. Dark wood desks, a thick burgundy carpet, a solid shelf with books. Framed pictures on the walls, a camaieu of blues and greens. And Elizabeth's chair—

"HR always has the best chairs, right? The best of everything?" she asked drowsily. "And this is only one of the secondary branches. Imagine their offices in Building One."

Edwards raised his glass. "The mind does boggle."

"Velvet chairs incrusted with diamonds. Plated gold desks. No, no reason to be cheap! Solid gold desks. Angels singing in the background, naked servants bringing delicacies on sapphire trays during legally enforced breaks..."

"Sapphire trays?"

"You do not like sapphire, sir? "

"See, you are being insolent," Edwards lazily replied—no reproach in his voice. "You rarely use 'sir,' and when you do, it is at the weirdest time, as if to underline the absurdity of the custom."

"Your analysis is perfectly accurate. Sir."

"You saved my life." Edwards seemed thoughtful. "I did not—I had not realized this thing actually bit me. I had not even noticed the armor had been torn up."

"Our equipment is…really crappy," Elizabeth commented, before laughing, because the word 'crappy' hardly seemed appropriate in such dramatic circumstances. What would be the right expression? Criminally crappy? She served them both a new generous dose of whisky.

"They left us," she finally stated. "They abandoned both of us here in hell. Because if they didn't, the Center would officially be closed and their research budget would not be renewed… So, the fact that we stayed behind, that two employees are still working, that the place is officially functioning, it saves them—I have no idea. Millions?"

"Between fifteen and twenty million a month."

"Ok. But they don't leave the lights on, not most of them. They cannot spring for two state-of-the-art body armor while leaving us literally, in the literal use of the word 'literally', in the midst of eighty-four thousand zombies."

"Maybe more. I know I am the one who gave you the number, but we obtained new statistics last year. See, the refugees from—" Edwards stopped, then sighed. "Sorry, need-to-know. But please, do continue. It was shaping up to be a fine rant."

"Rant over. We are saving them a fortune, and we—our lives have no value."

"They don't," Edwards confirmed. "Our lives do not matter to anybody. That is why we have been chosen, after all. Unmarried, no living families…"

"We matter to Coulson."

Edwards's smile was bitter. "I doubt that."

"His job is to keep us alive," Elizabeth said. More whisky. "I was the youngest of my office," she explained after a pause. "The one with the less seniority, and with a blame in my file. I had no—I have no… No living family. Or friends, really. None, hum. Alive. So when they had to make a decision…"

"It makes sense, that people with spouses and children would be prioritized for the evacuation. Or people with close connections."

"Practical, horrible sense."

"So, Ms. Moore… What was the blame about?"

"Oh no. You first, sir. Tell me why you have been chosen—apart from the lack of family ties. And then I will tell you about the blame."

Edwards took another sip of whisky. "People do not like me much."

I cannot see why, was an almost irresistible reply. But 'humor should never be unkind,' Nawal always said. When she was, you know. Alive.

"Personality conflicts should not be taken into account for such a crucial decision," Elizabeth commented instead.

"They should not. If people followed the rules," Edwards added, with a glare at Elizabeth who laughed and raised her glass in response. "Imagine," Edwards continued. "Three possibilities left. Three scientists in our—in lab B-13. All unmarried or unpartnered, who could be ordered to stay. And it had to be one of us, because—"

Because of the famous, or rather the infamous, lab B-13 experiments. Elizabeth nodded.

"The first one, Yassine," Edwards continued. "He was—he is—always funny and…very much like you, in fact. Then there was Tara, but when—" Edwards stopped talking for a while. He was very pale. "When there was an incident at work, Tara took the blame, while she did not have to. And she did a rousing, warm-hearted speech about team cohesion and keeping hope—despite—well. We just had to take—a difficult—series of decisions. I was the one—I made the decisions."

Edwards seemed lost. "Anyway," he said after a while. "When it's time to choose who to leave behind, do you pick the funny one, the generous, charismatic one, or me?"

Silence. They both drank.

Edwards forced a smile. "Now, what was the blame about?"

-XX-

Elizabeth told him the clown story. Edwards shook his head, half amused, half horrified. He was still pale, shock and exhaustion; it was late, so late, they were so tired.

Also, the whisky.

Their respective apartments were now both in secured zones, if you decide that doors blocked by chairs, shelves, tables or archive boxes a secure place does make.

"Who knows. Maybe we sealed their only way in," Edwards said with uncharacteristic optimism, when they left, each for their respective homes.

Maybe.

-XX-

The next morning.

This is your second warning.

We have not received your completed reports owed by Thursday, 5pm, nor have the necessary daily administrative tasks been checked. If you are sick, or unable to work, you are to file a request for sick or emergency leave and wait for it to be approved. If you do not file such a request, and your tasks are not completed, and additional information is not given, you will be considered as having abandoned your post.

The Center being subject to MMR (Modified Military Rules), after three warnings, we will consider you a deserter and proceed accordingly, including penal pursuits and the obligation to restrain the necessary resources.

Best regards,

Obnoxious Petty McRightfulness,

Human Resources, military affairs and collaborations, Emergency Research Office, Lost Area 7.

Surely, this was an empty threat. Shutting off electricity? What about the Very Important Experiments Edwards was certainly working on? What about, 'if the Center closes, we'll lose fifteen to twenty million a month?'

Nah, that made no sense.

- I will take care of it - Coulson said, when Elizabeth texted him.

He did. A few hours later, Elizabeth received a new mail, telling her that considering the extraordinariness of your situation, blah blah.

-XX-

The next morning. A grey morning. Grey skies, grey walls.

-XX-

Strategies.

Office. Hot coffee with two little bags of honey, yes, two. If ever there was a time to splurge.

Defrosting a piece of her walnut cake. Maroon with traces of rose gold. Each bite a tiny morsel of resilience. The yellow and red flowers on her desk, from last week. Holding steadfast. Good girls.

Edwards had given her his most recent handle and they now communicated by IM.

Speaking of messages—no official answer from Coulson after their emergency extraction request. And when Coulson did contact her, four days after Zombie Adventure Day, it was on their unofficial, illegal phone again.

- Hi Elizabeth. How's the weather up there in the mountains? -

Translation, "I haven't forgotten about you, but I'm not contacting you by official channels because of…reasons."

- Stormy. What about you? Any fun gossip? - As clear as she could be in asking for an update.

- Gossip will have to wait, unfortunately. -

Well, damn.

- Well, damn. -

- Fighting the Wicked Witch of the West - was Coulson next text.

See? The Wicked Witch of the West, often shortened into WWW, or just "the Witch". That's how the Center employees called HR when there were too many files to fill, too much administrative nonsense. The meaning had then evolved to represent all Center authorities—the complex network of military VIPs and hotshots of the Science Secretary of State who haphazardly ran the place. Coulson had to wrangle the Witch daily. Elizabeth did not envy him.

- Stay safe - she sent. He answered the same, and to her surprise, twenty minutes later, a red light appeared on her work computer.

Coulson wanted to talk.

"No fever," Edwards said when Elizabeth asked about his shoulder on their way back to the System Room. "No swelling. You caught it just in time." The antibiotic shot had been administrated less than forty seconds after the possible contamination—as it was supposed to be. Still, the news were good to hear. "I took the test," Edwards continued. "Well, two of them. Both negative."

Three minutes later, Coulson's voice resonated on the radio.

"Mr. Edwards, Ms. Moore, we have managed to reboot part of the security system, as you should see when you run the diagnostic again. You should find that only one of the protocols was malfunctioning. We hope this alleviate your worries."

Coulson's voice was strange. Cold, official. More official, like he was being listened to. He was always listened to, that was why their radio communications were so formal, but this, now—Coulson wanted Elizabeth to know he was definitely not alone.

"When is the extraction?" Edwards asked. His voice very neutral.

"An emergency extraction had not been deemed necessary at this time."

Silence stretched. Edwards looked furious. Elizabeth just felt cold.

"Do you realize, zombies are already in? They have crept inside the fucking building, because of problems in your security system." Such spite in Edwards's voice. "They are already in. Just three days ago we—"

Elizabeth stepped on his foot, hard. Edwards jumped and glanced at her. "We, we saw two of them," he added after a pause. "In the accounting department."

"You have to lock them in, following procedures. Do not engage them."

"Thank you for your fucking advice—what if they feel us? What if they Call, what if they destroy the doors? What then?"

"Thanks to the update to the system, most doors should be secured now, Mr. Edwards. Put Ms. Moore on the line."

"You idiot—"

"Put Ms. Moore on the line, please."

Coulson's voice could radiate authority. Elizabeth stepped forward; putting her on the line just meant entering the range of the microphone.

"Mr. Coulson."

"Ms. Moore. Do not engage the creatures, do you understand me?"

"Understood, sir."

"Thank you for your attention. Communication over."

The lights went off; Coulson was gone. For a second there Elizabeth thought Edwards was going to punch the computer—not that she would have blamed him. Instead, he turned to her.

"Why did you not want me to say we confronted the creatures?"

"We broke the rules. There would be another blame on our files; they could use it as a pretext to—I don't know, push back the extraction date, or—deem us mentally unstable and restrict our privileges, or…I don't know, ok?"

Edwards punched something then—not the console, a desk, and he did not punch it as much as strike it with the flat of his hand. The desk had no sense of drama and refused to break. Edwards swore, shaking his hand. It could have been funny, maybe it was, but Elizabeth just felt—grey.

"So, Coulson's job is to protect us, right?" Edwards spit. "Our lives are valued?"

"No emergency extraction at this time."

"So?"

"He's still working on it." Still wrangling the Wicked Witch of the West. But she did not want to share the existence of the secret phone. That fragile, silver connection was hers, and hers alone.

"You are crazy. You are all crazy," Edwards said. He turned on his heels and left.