Note: I do not own VALVe or any of its affiliates. Consider this a disclaimer to the characters/themes/what have you presented in this story.
Nor do I own any rights to Coca Cola products.
Two
"Welcome to Ripken Stadium," the pilot yelled over his shoulder, trying to carry his voice over the din of the helicopter blades. Zoey, Francis and Louis looked up from the floor to the doors, observing the sight outside. They landed somewhere in the outfield of the baseball diamond, and they could see armed guards in masks strolling amongst tables covered in supplies and cots on the edges of the field. The fence around the stadium was lined with cement reinforcements and barbed wire, and a couple of makeshift watchtowers stood here and there along its length. The stands were empty, save for a few people sitting in the seats, wrapped in wool blankets and eating from ration packs. The four survivors would have been excited to see this sight, but those small few words from Bill was enough to dispel their victory. Zoey didn't even feel like their two and a half weeks of trying to make it to the hospital was even worth it anymore.
One of the pilots held out a hand for Zoey, and she looked up, surprised. She hadn't even realized they had approached—something she would have been berated by Bill for ("You need to keep you backs to the wall and your eyes everywhere else."). She placed her pistols down on the ground, then took the pilot's hand.
"We have to confiscate those," the pilot affirmed. "No civilians are permitted weapon possession in the stadium."
"Sure," she murmured, nodding her head and letting his hand go. Her head pointed towards the ground, falling like lead, and she tucked the stray strand of hair from her eyes behind her ear. "I understand."
Bill climbed down slowly after her, the obvious strain in his joints and muscles showing in his face. Louis and Francis jumped down after them, and two men came forward to take their guns from their hands. Louis looked a little taken aback, like he was still trying to figure out what happened, while Francis had the expression on his face like he'd just been separated from his lifelong friend.
"No guns permitted to civilians inside the stadium," the man repeated to Francis, and they walked away with guns in hand. Zoey looked to him, and felt a little amused that he seemed so hurt. When she caught Bill dropping his cigarette in the grass and snuffing it with his boot, though, the somberness returned. Even the way he moved reflected his melancholy.
"We'll have you move to the lower corridors and get you signed up," the pilot said to the group, but looking at Zoey. He pointed to a door embedded between the lower stands by one of the pits. "You'll be asked to fill out some forms, then you'll go through some tests before they get you to the showers."
"They?" Zoey asked.
"Research team," the pilot replied. "Everyone that passes through here goes through the tests. Trying to understand the infection, you see."
Zoey nodded, and the pilot patted her on the shoulder, leading her forward. She followed the soldier, and her companions fell into step at her side. She wasn't used to seeing them without weapons in their hands while they moved together. Even when they slept in the safe houses, everyone held their guns like they were teddy bears.
"Huh, showers my ass," Francis muttered. "More likely to delouse us than let us have showers."
"I wouldn't doubt it," Bill said in his usual growl.
Zoey looked at Louis, who walked next to her. He gave a sidelong glance at her, playing with the loose knot in his tie.
"See anyone in the stands you know?" he asked.
Zoey scanned the seats briefly. They were far away, but she was confident she'd spot someone she knew right away. "No," she replied quietly. She'd accepted long ago that everyone she knew was dead.
"You smell that?" Francis asked, breaking the silence and tilting his nose into the air. "I smell roast beef. They've got fucking roast beef!"
"Cool your jets, Francis."
"I haven't had a decent meal in... three weeks, man. Feels like ages. Fuck, I need me a juicy, fat, American cheeseburger—"
Louis pushed open the large double doors into the hall. The corridor was a stale cement colour with pale green fluorescent light giving it a sick, unwelcoming feeling. Zoey caught sight of her hands in the light—they looked grey, just like the infected. She stuffed them in her pockets.
"—so when this is all over, it'll be a round on me, back at Staley's."
Zoey laughed, but it was disheartened. She couldn't be cheerful anymore. "So you'll be on call in two years?"
Francis eyed the back of her head quizzically, then chuckled. "Oh, right. Don't worry, kid, there'll be a Coke in it for you."
"Thanks, Francis."
"Excuse me," someone called from an adjoining hall, and the four of them stopped. A man in a white hazmat suit called to them from a crappy looking folding table. There were pens and forms stacked on the top. "You need to fill these out, please."
They slowly made their way over to the man, and he sorted out four forms and pens for them to grab. Zoey eyed his appearance with concern. Why is he wearing that?
"Make sure you sign the top and the bottom," he said, pointing to the X'd lines on the page. "Otherwise, I can't let you through."
The four of them grabbed a paper each and began to fill it out. It seemed like a basic form you might fill out at a doctor's office for a record, or at some retail store for a membership. Zoey got halfway through, then paused.
"I don't know my social security number," she admitted, looking to the man in the suit. She tried not to look pleading, but she probably did anyway. He gave her a look of mixed sympathy and annoyance, and he waved a hand.
"Just skip over it."
Last name, first name, address, postal code, phone number. It depressed her knowing that none of those things held any importance anymore.
"Hey, why d'you guys need this info anyway?" Louis tested.
"Keep track of the civilians in the stadium," the man replied simply.
"I just mean... is my insurance info really that important?"
The man sighed. "It's so that we can do a number of things: security check, medical history, those sorts of things."
Louis eyed the signature line warily, then signed it. After Francis finished, he dropped the pen down on the table gruffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"That's all I got," he said, shuffling his boots. The man picked it up, looked it over, then shot Francis a dirty look.
"All right, move along."
Francis strolled along around the table down the hall. The others finished their papers soon after, then followed after him.
"That was a crock of shit, wannit?"
"No kidding," Bill growled.
"Think they're doing more than a background check?" Louis whispered.
"I think they're profiling," Bill said slowly. Zoey looked between her three companions.
"Profiling for what?"
Bill looked over his shoulder at her only briefly, then looked away before replying: "Survival of the fittest."
Zoey chuckled skeptically. "All right, old man." Despite her outward disagreement with Bill's paranoid assertion, she couldn't help but feel she was being dragged a little further down by his somber mood. She suddenly longed to be outdoors again, fighting and running for her life. But she couldn't exactly justify why.