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.
Three
At the end of the hall, the four of them were ushered into a locker room. It still smelled like sweat and old laundry, like it hadn't been cleaned in a very long time. When they rounded the corner into the room, the four of them noticed where the majority of lockers had been ripped from the walls. The room was large and bare, and up at the front sat a table, where another man in a hazmat suit sat waiting for them.
There were several more tables like his, all lined with viles, rubbers, and syringes in plastic packaging. There were two chairs at each table, and the man closest to Zoey grabbed a rubber off his table stretched it, motioning to the chair with a nod of his head. "Have a seat."
She hesitated only briefly before moving to the chair. She hated needles. The others approached the other tables beyond, each a little less apprehensive than she.
"Can you roll your sleeve up to your shoulder?"
She eyed her arm. "I don't think so."
"I'm going to need you to take that off, then."
For some reason, this bothered Zoey more than it should have, but she pulled the zipper down anyway. Maybe it was because she'd worn that sweater straight for some time, and it had all the sweat and blood on it from the beginning of her ordeal. It was like parting with a security blanket.
Her tank top beneath was stained yellow under her arms, and a putrid smell filled her nostrils once she slipped the sweater off, but the man in the suit didn't seem to mind as much as she did. He probably couldn't smell her hardship through his environment controlled suit, anyway. She held out her arm, keeping her mouth a tight line and keeping her eyes downcast.
The man tied the rubber around her arm, then started to unwrap the syringe.
"You're the first survivors to reach us in a week, you know," the man chatted, pushing the plunger closed. "Didn't think we'd see anymore."
"I didn't think we'd make it here."
"Well, congratulations," the man said unenthusiastically. "Deep breath."
Zoey made sure she was looking away when she sucked in air. Her eyes closed and her nostrils flared when she felt the needle pierce her skin. It pinched a bit, but she counted backwards in her head, just like her doctor used to instruct her when she was little. The ordeal was always over before she reached one.
"That's all we need. For blood, anyway," the man said once he pulled the needle out. He quickly placed a cotton ball on her arm, then taped it in place. "Do you have any recent lacerations from any infected?"
Zoey mentally went over her body. "Yes."
"Good," he replied. "Well, not good for you, I guess. They'll swab you in the next room."
"Okay." she said. Her voice came off more shaky than she wanted it to.
"Hey, it'll be easier than this was," the guy tried to reassure her, but his voice was so flat and uninvolved that Zoey hadn't felt more hopeless since the infection first spread.
She picked up her sweater, throwing her arms back into the sleeves and pulling it on hastily. If the other men just wanted to swab her injury, then they wouldn't need her to take off her sweater again. She just hoped they didn't want her to take off any other articles of clothing.
She continued through the room, towards the back where the showers were. There were even more tables, but different equipment on them. "Ah, hello there," another man said. She studied him, a scrutinizing look on her face. They all looked the same under their suits.
As she sat down in the next empty chair, she realized that they were wearing the suits to protect themselves from the infection. They were shielding themselves from the survivors. They weren't immune.
"So, you have lacerations for us to check out?"
Zoey nodded.
"Where?"
"My left thigh."
"Mind swinging your leg up on the table?"
Zoey lifted her leg up to the flimsy table, her injury facing him. Four shallow scrape marks were visible through identical tears in her pants. The man leaned forward to look at her leg, then leaned back, picking up a swab in front of him and unwrapping it from the plastic. "You'll have to slide your pants down."
She tried not to blurt it, but it slid past her lips before she could stop herself. "What?"
"So I can swab it properly."
Zoey sat dumbstruck on the chair for a second, withdrawing her leg. "You can't do it with them on?"
The man looked at her for a second, then his eyes grew wide. "Oh," he murmured, then tried to make a gentle face. "Don't worry about it, it'll just be for a second. I need to get a swab of the entire area, that's all."
She stared at a nondescript place on the table. "You're safe, really. Think of this as the doctor's office."
"Sorry," she said, then went to unbuckle her pants. Her hands were shaking slightly. For some reason, she felt she would have been less nervous to face another horde. She picked herself up in the chair in order to slide her pants down, then lifted her leg back up onto the table.
"Okay, this'll be quick and painless..." he said, wetting her skin down with the wipe. After a few swipes, Bill, Francis and Louis walked from around the corner, and Zoey felt her breath hitch. She could see them glance at her then quickly look away. Her face felt hot.
"I was wondering," Zoey said, trying to distract herself, "if not many survivors come through here, why were all of you sitting here waiting for us?"
"We got the call you were coming in," he replied coolly, continuing his work on her leg. "Besides, we run routine tests on the people here every couple of days, so it's nothing out of the ordinary."
"How many people are here, anyway?"
"Well, including the military and the research staff, I'd have to say... maybe around sixty. Well, closer to sixty-four, now."
"There," he muttered. "We're done."
Zoey swung her feet to the ground, then stood quickly, sliding her pants back up and refastening them. She tried to look at the others from the corner of her eye, but they all had their eyes averted. They were probably just as embarrassed as she was.
"Showers are at the end over there," the man with the swab said, pointing past the last set of lockers. "They'll take your clothes from you before you go in."
"Oh. Do I... get them back?"
He laughed gently. "Of course. You'll get them back after we wash them."
She felt a headache coming on. I've walked from one lion's den into the other, she thought. She didn't want to deal with these researchers, nor did she want to surrender anymore of her things to these people. Zoey felt angry that she was forced to trust all personnel in the stadium after less than ten minutes.
"Go on, they're waiting."
And they were urging her into their turbulent pace. She gave the researcher a less than friendly look before she made her way towards the showers.
The others were at the tables ahead of her. As she walked past, she watched Bill closely, feeling somewhat sad. He'd taken off his torn camouflage jacket and pulled off his ruined white tee-shirt so that the man could swab the half-healed gash on his back. The skin hanging off of him as if he was wishing it would fall off. The worst though was his eyes: they were heavy looking, with a hint of pity in them when he looked at her. Zoey had grown a hard outer shell over the weeks, so she would have normally resented this. "Bill, what're those puppy dog eyes for?" she would ask harshly. But everything he'd said since boarding the helicopter had made her feel anything but angry. Now she felt uneasy.
She made her way down the hall, and she could see the shower sign at the end. She knew she shouldn't have expected any better, but it seemed the shower would be communal, and there'd be no privacy for her. When she got down the hall, though, she caught sight of two more men in hazmat suits waiting for her; each held a plastic bag in their hands.
"Evening," the man on the left said. Zoey realized that her hands were balled into fists and her toes were curled in her high tops. The man shifted the bag in his hand, then said, "We're going to need your clothes for sampling."
They were silent in the hallway, both men staring at Zoey as she stood like a statue. "Don't I have a place to change?"
The man's eyes darted around behind his plastic mask, and the other man looked to him, as if he wasn't expecting her to retaliate in such a way. "There's nowhere else to go."
Zoey stared at them, her face quite unreadable to the men before her.
"We'll turn our backs, if that makes you feel better."
Zoey studied the man's voice. He sounded annoyed almost, as if he hadn't the time for pity or empathy, like he'd been through this situation several times before, and didn't wish to put the effort forth to be caring and comforting anymore.
She looked at them incredulously. "Well?" she said.
They glared daggers at her as they turned on their heels, turning their backs from her. Zoey closed her eyes, and with a wavering breath, she unzipped her red wind breaker with a shaky hand.
She'd heard of people having anxiety disorders where their hands went numb, but she didn't think it would have felt this cumbersome. It was as if a heavy blanket was draped across her shoulders and tight rubber bands were tied around her wrists. Zoey shrugged her jacket to the floor, and it hit the old linoleum with a splat, as if the dirt, grime and blood had turned it into ooze. It took a little effort and courage on her part to grab the hem of her T-shirt, but once she did, she pulled it up over her head quickly, letting it fall to the floor in a pile with her jacket. After that, she worked like a blur, nearly tearing off her clothes to get them off of her as quickly as possible.
"I'm done," she said, wrapping her arms around her awkwardly, trying to cover her nakedness. She pointed her eyes to the ground, and she could see that the men didn't turn around again. She felt slightly relieved at this.
"Go on ahead, then," one of them said flatly. Zoey stepped between them cautiously, as if they were two highly explosive pillars that would go off at any second. When she entered the next room, she paused.
The shower heads had been torn from the walls, and hoses extended from the nozzles that protruded from the wall. At each hose, there were two people. She could see different faces through each mask, but essentially they all looked the same. They all stared at her with the same blank, unperturbed faces as the others had.
"Step into the circle please," the man nearest to her said, waving an arm over. There was a woman standing with him, but it did little to make her feel more comfortable. Like the doctor's office. She never had to stand naked in front of a panel of people at the doctor's.
Zoey stepped forward tentatively, keeping her eyes trained on the taped-on circle surrounding the drain on the floor. All she wanted to do was run away, but she knew she had nowhere else to go. More likely to delouse us than let us have showers. Zoey stepped into the circle and watched the pair holding the hose, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. She was furious.
The man turned to the wall to twist the tap on. Water spurted from the hose, hissing sharply from the high pressure.
"This might sting a bit," he said, and lifted the hose.
Zoey was nearly knocked back by the force of the water spurting at her, and she had to reposition her feet and throw her arms in front of her to block it, abandoning her attempts to cover herself up. She spurted, choking on some of the water that got into her mouth. The man waved the water up and down her body, giving her the sensation of being clawed by an infected.
"Turn," the woman shouted over the din of the hose, and Zoey tried to shoot her a scorning look, but failed to do so when the water lashed at her eyes. She turned as ordered, and the water beat down on her back like a whip cracking at her skin. Fuck! she cursed mentally, gritting her teeth.
The hoses were turned off, and Zoey turned to face them, heat in her eyes. "Why the hell was the pressure so high?"
The woman who replied appeared bored. "We need to ensure any and every trace of the infection is cleaned off."
"And I obviously can't do that myself," she bit back.
The woman blinked slowly. "Weneed to ensure it, ma'am. Towel?" She motioned to the towel cart sitting near the exit. Zoey drew her lips into a thin line before heading towards the cart, marching by each of the researchers, no longer caring about the fact that she was naked.
"We'd rather wait until the lady's done, pal," Francis said harshly from the hall where Zoey had entered. She looked over to where the two men with bags stood (the bags now filled with her and her friends' clothing) apparently arguing with Francis. Another strike of embarrassment coursed through her, and she closed her eyes briefly, regaining her self composure as she snatched a towel off the cart and dried herself off.
There were scrubs in plastic packaging on the bottom of the cart, and once she was dry, Zoey tossed the towel carelessly to the ground and swiped a package into her hands. She ripped open the plastic and pulled the clothes on, her movements heated.
"For researchers," she said, as she pulled the top over her head, "you've got a pretty piss-poor grasp on the notion of ethics."
Without turning towards the researchers, Zoey stormed from the room out into the adjoining hall. She passed a few doors before turning the corner into the main hallway that led to the diamond and the player's pits. There was a concession stand there, and two men in plain garb with face masks worked behind the counter. She could smell the roast beef that had Francis giddy like a school girl. The men glanced up at her momentarily, then attempted to avoid eye contact and continue working on the sandwiches they were making. Zoey realized that her breaths were coming in huffs, and that her face must have been glowing with anger. She ran her hands over her hair, then leaned against the wall next to the exit, trying to calm herself down. She could hear the hiss of the hoses from behind her as her friends were no doubt receiving similar treatment.
Her hair was still pulled back into a ponytail, but the band holding it in place was lopsided, having been blasted to the side from the hose. She pulled it out and gathered her hair together again, retying it properly. He heart rate had slowed, but her anger had not dissipated. But there was something worse underneath it all, for she realized that there was nowhere else to go anymore. For the first time in what seemed like years, Zoey was shaken.