- I am blocking doors in Building Two, - Edwards sent by IM. - We have to finish the job, secure the dangerous areas. Would you join me? The buddy system, and all. -
Elizabeth did not answer.
- Elizabeth, have you blocked the red door yet? -
Elizabeth did not answer. The security system report showed that the red door worked fine, by the way. Thick, metallic, locked electronically, and if you believed the blueprints, there was a lever on the other side. Zombies could not come in. Or out.
- Thank you for our talk yesterday, Elizabeth. It really helped. -
FUCK. YOU.
Thank you, Mr. Save-At-All-Costs-Scientist, for dumping all your despair on me, and feeling better afterwards.
-XX-
Midnight and Elizabeth could not sleep.
She heard shuffling; she sat up in her bed with a muffled yelp, and you know how in horror stories there is a noise, and the main character is spooked but then they think it's only a cat, or the wind, except it's not, it's THE WOLF, but well, in this case it was actually the wind.
-XX-
The next morning, she went to check the red door.
Edwards was right, it was a loose end. It could be dangerous. It could indicate another way in, if—if there were zombies behind. Maybe Elizabeth had dreamed it—the shuffling. Maybe there was nothing on the other side, just empty desks and darkness.
But she had to be sure, so, fine. Coffee, breakfast, the red door. The plan was, Elizabeth would keep her d and listen. Possibility one: shuffling. Then tactical retreat, contacting Edwards and making an informed decision.
Possibility two, no shuffling. Elizabeth would inch nearer to the door, and if only silence greeted her, it—ok, it would not prove anything, but she would feel better.
Except as soon as she set foot in the corridor the plan flew out of the window, on angel wings, never to be seen again, because the red door was open.
-XX-
Open.
Not even politely ajar, no. Wide open. The security system was off, lights had stopped dancing on the side. It meant someone had entered the security code, activated the lever handle, opened the door, then stepped into the unknown and thought, "Hey, why would I close the door behind me? In the middle of Zombie Infested Land? No reason, right? Woo-hoo! Live a little!"
This could not be a zombie. Zombies could not action levers, that was all the point. Zombies could push but not pull, and certainly not make the series of complex gestures necessary to activate even such a simple mechanism.
Only one person had the entrance code.
"Edwards?" Elizabeth called.
On the other side, a dark room. She glanced prudently inside. Nothing lurked there, not in the immediate vicinity at least.
"Edwards?"
No answer. Last time she saw him—God. They had not parted friends. And she had refused to answer his IMs—Elizabeth hurried forward, she stepped inside the dark room, yes, a very dumb-chick-in-an-horror-movie moment, she tried for the light, found the switch, it worked. She quickly looked around.
An innocuous empty office. Innocuous-looking cubicles, innocuous-looking chairs.
"Edwards, are you in there?"
A new step forward. Three other doors, one of them was open. Another step, she was well into the room now, a room where she had heard shuffling and—at last, reason kicked in—oh God what the hell am I doing? She quickly retreated back to the safety of the hall, banging the Red Door shut.
What had she done? Gone into an unsecured room alone, without armor? She could have died. A zombie behind a shelf, like last time—and, THE END.
Think!
The problem was—the problem was. The problem was, Edwards was still inside. Inside, and presumably, what, suicidal? Other explanations were possible, like, he had an urgent use for an extremely important piece of scientific apparatus, something inside that he needed right this minute, but, come on.
She could not leave him. "Yes, you can, yes you can, you absolutely can and must leave him," Coulson would say, not because he was used to abandoning people to the slaughter, "but because you are a civilian, Elizabeth, don't be ridiculous."
-XX-
The way to justify doing a stupid thing is to do it in a clever way. Elizabeth took her time preparing her expedition. After all, if Edwards was already dead, she was in no hurry. If he was hidden in a closet somewhere regretting his decision, he could wait a minute more.
She put on the thicker clothes she had. She studied the ZAs, she chose the best armor of the bunch, she checked it thoroughly. A shining Z-Knife from the reserve, new and deadly. An untouched safety kit, with two of the big ass super powerful antibiotics doses. One for her, one for Edwards.
If. If needed.
If she was not too late.
Elizabeth put on the armor. It could have been her heroic moment, a montage in an epic movie, but her whole body was shaking and she even put the wrong leg in at first.
Finally, she was ready, Z-Knife in hand.
"Strike between the eyes," the instructor said. From Undead-Defense level two. "With all your might. Put your whole body into it."
Sure.
-XX-
The Red Door. (Come on, it totally deserved capitalization.) Elizabeth actioned the lever. Inside, the lights were still on.
She secured the first room. Under the desks, behind the partitions, in the dark corners. She barricaded the two closed doors the low-tech way, with chairs and shelves. Only then did she approach the open one. It was slightly ajar, an average door, no code, no lever, no special security system.
Elizabeth listened. Nothing.
Zombies fell 'asleep.' They shut down, they stayed immobile for hours, days, weeks, without exterior stimulation. Then they woke up for no apparent reason, a stimulus undiscernible by humans, certainly.
The instructor. "There is an official method if you find yourself without a buddy in a possibly contaminated area. The method is called, 'get the fuck out of there'. But if you really cannot, if you must enter the zone, use the Enter-Retreat-Enter-Check method'."
Elizabeth stepped inside, turning on the light. Then she retreated quickly, ready to slam the door in the face of any assailant awakened by her arrival. When nothing moved, nothing stirred from an undead sleep, she entered the room for good and checked everywhere, around, behind and above her.
Nothing. Apparently. Oh, and there were two new doors, both of them open. For Christ's sake, people. In a Zombie Apocalypse, close the doors.
"Edwards?"
No answer. Again, securing the area. Blocking one of the doors, going through the other, following the method.
There was a zombie this time. In the adjacent conference room, clearly visible through the glass. Sleeping. Sitting on a chair, near the oval, grey table, head in his hands. Yeah, buddy, I've been in this meeting too.
Strategy: do not engage. Elizabeth's heart was beating like hell. She walked along the cubicles on her left, keeping her d, a very, very safe d between her and the creature.
Another office, then another. Stairs, going down. Edwards was nowhere in sight. More stairs. Down another level. Repeat. Ground level, and you know what was there?
B-13, painted on the walls, in enormous letters.
The infamous lab B-13 experiments. Elizabeth stopped dead.
She was not supposed to be here. She did not have clearance to be here. She should never have been able to access this zone, really. But…
A large, metallic door, marking the entrance to the labs. To the experiments. To the experimental subjects.
And the metallic door was OPEN.
-XX-
Oh hell no.
Edwards might be suicidal, Elizabeth wasn't. Quest to save the handsome hero: over. Elizabeth began to close the metallic doors, pushing with all her might, it was heavy, some sort of special super solid alloy, and then she realized—no, she couldn't. Because, what if Edwards was inside and she locked him in? She called for him, a last time, no answer. Fine. Bye-bye, everyone. Elizabeth turned on her armored heels. Her adventure in reverse: up the stairs, through the empty offices, safe distance between her and the dozing zombie, closing all the doors on the way. Through the Red Door, to the safety of the hall. Closing the door behind her.
She collapsed on the floor, trembling, tears falling down her cheeks. She had not done anything epic, but she was in shock, a real, certified panic attack.
A way in. She has found another way in, a path between them and the labs.
"Elizabeth?"
She shrieked.
"Why are you wearing the armor?"
Elizabeth tore her helmet off, her hands still unsteady. "Edwards?"
He was standing there, looking—normal. Unscathed. No zombie-related injuries whatsoever, no obvious crushing despair, no rope around his neck.
"Edwards," she stammered. "Why—why—why—"
"Yes?"
"Why did you leave the door open?" He looked at her, puzzled. "Why did you go in there?"
Edwards looked at the Red Door. Then back at Elizabeth.
"I didn't."
-XX-
Three years ago.
The Girl in The Gas Station.
Highways were a governmental and military priority; they had been heavily protected during the conflict. Towns autodestructed, hundreds of thousands of people were being eaten alive by their neighbors, but soldiers held the highways. Armies needed roads for supplies and reinforcements, the capital needed food, gas stations needed, well, gas. People needed roads to flee the dangerous areas; ambulances, medics, first responders needed roads to enter them.
The fall of the road system would mean the fall of civilization, a stern news anchor had stated on TV. Then there was no TV for two years. It came back, though.
A gas station, near the highway; three soldiers protecting it. The war was over and maybe the men were getting a little complacent. The zone was secure for a hundred miles around. Farmland, wheat. Food was precious, almost as much as the roads. Security towers and checkout posts were scattered around the fields. At night, the gas station was the only light for miles—efficient public lighting was still not a priority.
One evening. Two of the soldiers were smoking in the parking lot, the third one was sleeping in his car. A student named Steve was behind the counter of the shop, the tiny gas station shop, where people came in for a soda, a coffee, a snack.
Steve was a chemistry student; this was a side job. (Names have been changed for the protection of the innocent.)
A group of teenagers came out of a truck, talking and laughing. A girl, four guys.
Inside the shop. The four of them, kissing the girl, one after the other. Steve felt ready to intervene, but the game seemed consensual. Then the girl bit them. Each one of her four partners, playfully, sensually, nibbling on their necks, in the crook of the shoulder, just enough teeth to draw blood.
Steve was feeling more and more uneasy.
The girl walked toward Steve; the guys were now laughing, sharing a beer. She leaned on the counter. Pretty, brown hair with bright green streaks, tattoos, a radiant smile.
"I could kiss you too," she said.
"Thank you for the offer, but I'm at work." Which was a silly answer, Steve told the journalists later, but he was—yeah.
"Doesn't matter," the girl replied, going around the counter, still smiling. "I'll never tell. You're gorgeous," she added, and see, Steve, he was not bad looking, but not that irresistible—he said to the journalists, later.
Steve stepped back. The girl took a step forward. Steve grabbed the shotgun from behind the counter and pointed it at her. "Step back."
"I had no valid reason," he said later, during the debriefings. Just—yeah.
"Hey there, cowboy," and other assorted nonsense, from the girl. Smiling. Hands in the air, like a peace sign. Like Steve was nuts.
"Hey asshole, way to overreact!" one of the boys protested from the back of the shop. "Cathy's just being friendly!"
"Yeah, are you, like, a religious nut or something?"
The teen's neck was still bleeding as if he'd been bitten by a vampire. Steve was hypnotized, momentarily distracted by the blood, and she jumped on him.
The girl. She jumped. Snarling.
Teeth barred.
Steve fired—he didn't remember much after, he said, except the girl was on the floor, her chest half torn out, still writhing; the guys were screaming or weeping; one of them called for help. The soldiers came running, they arrested everyone. But when Steve told his story, they called the medics and the expert strike team, and it turned out, that yeah. The girl was contaminated.
Three days from turning, they said.
The others—the boys—they were innocent. They did not know, but the girl, the Girl in the Gas Station, as she was known afterwards all around the world, she had infected them all, and it was too late for them, much too late.
-XX-
"There is someone else here with us," Elizabeth said.
Edwards shook his head. "No."
"Someone opened that door."
Edwards hesitated before repeating, "No."
"You are lying."
"I—it's just…"
"My clearance level?" Cold rage, that's what Elizabeth was feeling. "Edwards, I swear to God—"
"I will explain. I will. But can we— Why don't we secure the perimeter first? And let's secure…" Edwards gestured toward the Red Door. "Was it really open?"
"Yes. Someone used the lever."
"Let's…block everything, first."
They made a quick and efficient team. Securing their safety perimeter, checking that nothing or no one had entered through the Red Door, or to be exact, that no one or nothing was still inside. Then, barricading the Red Door with planks and nails; Elizabeth was standing guard while Edwards went for the supplies. At last, they finished nailing the fucking thing shut, and Edwards told her about the Frankenstein monster.
"Don't you want to go to the cafeteria first? We could sit down and…"
"No. Tell me now. Sir."
A pause.
"Do you remember," Edwards began with some hesitancy, 'The Girl in the Gas Station?'"
-XX-
Three years ago.
"That Gas Station Girl thing? It's a lie," Duy said, at the dinner table. Their usual group of friends, pizza time, wine, Building One, Karima's apartment, one of the dinners she threw before she resigned from her post one day and just left, without saying goodbye to anyone, not that Elizabeth was bitter, not at all.
"It's not true," Duy continued. "Come on, the story's crazy. The virus compelling someone to…to willingly contaminate other humans? It didn't happen."
"It's totally true," Churchill countered, helping himself to the biggest slice.
"The government officially denied it."
"Oh, if the government denied it." Churchill smirked. "It's a brand-new virus mutation," he whispered with the self-satisfied glee of the Bearer of Bad News. "The period of grace, when you've been bit, before the physical transformation, before you turn all 'grr, grr grr'... It's three weeks, right? Maximum?"
"Two to four," Mary answered. Playing with her magenta bracelet.
"Well," Churchill whispered happily, "it seems that now, thanks to the virus… To the mutation… Now the guy, the infected guy, during the contamination time, he can turn, like, evil."
"Or the woman," Karima protested.
Churchill scoffed. "Yes, please. That's really the time to be feminist."
"It was a woman!"
"'Evil'… 'Evil' makes no sense," Elizabeth protested. "'Evil' has no scientific meaning."
Churchill sighed. "Ok, the virus turns the guy into a sociopath, then. A narcissistic asshole with murderous tendencies. Better?"
Mary took a deep breath. "This is an absurd rumor, and patently false. An urban legend," she stated. "They tested and retested. There is no virus mutation."
"But then why…"
"The girl was nuts. She was infected, she knew it, she just—she snapped. She knew she was going to die, and… Like those people in the 19th century who got syphilis and who willingly infected others? Because…because they were nihilistic assholes, not because 'syphilis made them do it'—Coulson, help me here!"
"This is just a media frenzy," Coulson confirmed. "That girl, in the gas station, she was evil if you want, but just…regular human evil. No medical explanation necessary."
And Elizabeth should have known, she should have guessed. Mary's magenta bracelet. Coulson's brick bracelet. Nuances of red. She should have known, but of course she trusted him.
She trusted Coulson implicitly.
Coulson had looked at everyone. He had looked at her, at Elizabeth, right in the eyes.
"It's just a rumor. There is no mutation."