In Elizabeth's apartment.
Setting the herbs and the flowers on the table. Launching coffee, not to drink it, but for the happy song of the machine, the familiar smell.
To counter the nothingness.
Today, nettle soap. Elizabeth loved it, the act of creation, nettles for the soul, nettles for the win. But the process only took two hours, so once it was done, it was still Friday, and not even six.
Six pm, and nothing to do.
Going to bed at six would feel like giving up. Elizabeth needed sun again, and not only for psychological effect, sun was necessary for life, vitamin D, and all that jazz, so she went out on her tiny balcony, then climbed up across the small railing to access the other balcony on her left, belonging to another apartment—empty now, obviously. From there she could reach the security ladder and make her way up. The bag with the safety kit did not make the ascension easier, but—regulations, and these were good ones.
The roof. Two broken plastic chairs had been left on the fissured concrete. Before the evac, some of the night cleaning crew liked to hang there after their shift to catch a smoke. Breaking the rules, certainly, but at the time Elizabeth had not cared. She had loved laying in her bed at night half asleep, soothed by the faint odor of cigarettes, by the muffled, tired voices of the guys—grey range bracelets, lives not worth much, salaries to reflect that. Elizabeth thought of the camps, felt a sense of kinship, and fell asleep.
Now there were no more cleaning crews and the terrace was all hers. And from the way it was angled, you had a bit of a view. Most of it was blocked by the eastern wall of Building Two, but facing west, you could see the slopes.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, basking in the evening sun, before lazily looking around, filling herself with colors. The white and brown outlines of the extinct volcanoes. Oaks, ash trees, beeches, turning golden, the whiter foliage of poplars, the wind hurling the first fallen leaves against the concrete façade of Building Two, nothing to see there, closed windows, metallic shutters, and on ground level a huge metallic door that Elizabeth had never seen opened. Labelled CV-17, in gigantic, red letters. Inside a zombie pen. The zombies were pacing the small area, falling asleep at random intervals, to wake up again at the smallest movement, a whiff of the wind, an animal noise. They were so far down Elizabeth could almost believe they were real people, a crowd, waiting for a concert maybe.
The door was energy protected of course—at night you could see the blue lights flickering at night, a dance of sparks along the metal. Now in the sun, CV-17's blue flickers were almost invisible… Strike that. The blue flickers were totally invisible. Like—
Like there were none.
Like the door CV-17 was not energy protected anymore.
Elizabeth stayed there for a while, squinting. Trying to discern a blue hue, any blue hue. Nothing. But then the sun was still so strong, you could not see much. The zombies were not bumping against the door, though, which was a good sign.
Elizabeth was still worried enough to make her way back and open her official laptop—not the one she used for watching movies, her official, job-related computer. She had to enter three different passwords to be generously allowed to check the status of door CV-17.
"All securities measures, active," the computer assured. "No problem detected."
Ok then. Time to check on the nettle soap, eat something, read a little, sleep.
-XX-
Weekends were the worst. On weekdays Elizabeth had her work, the necessary administrative tasks to keep the Center legally going, and the necessary administrative tasks to slowly close it down.
One year to go. One year before she and Henry Edwards the jovial scientist would be evacuated. Any scientific experiments would be over and the Center would officially close.
In truth, scientific activities were already over; they had been over as soon as the last team had been evacuated. But that was government for you. The budget had been voted for five years; it had not been five years; it had to be five years, or…there would financial consequences of some sort. And as long as there were a minimum of two employees active on site, the Center was still administratively open and that kept everyone happy.
Guess who the two employees were.
Anyway. Saturday morning. Coffee machine. Breakfast. Her bright red coat. The transparent tube and Elizabeth's loyal fans the zombies.
Outside.
This time, Elizabeth was especially prudent and did not approach the fences.
-XX-
- Hey. Beautiful day up here in the mountains. -
Sent to Coulson. Elizabeth just wanted human contact, even a few words on a tiny telephone screen.
No answer.
Three zombies were strolling along, too far to sense her. The danger distance—the d—was ten to twenty feet, the info laminated and hung on the inside of every Center apartment door, like room prices in hotels. A fox approached, appearing from the bit of woods devouring the ruins of the abandoned hamlet west from there. Elizabeth held her breath. Foxes were still rare, such a sight was lovely, pulling her from the grey fog of the endless weekend.
The fox studied the zombies, then strutted along and disappeared.
Elizabeth took a selfie. Standing at the foot of the tree, clad in her elegant red coat, angling the phone to catch the zombies ambling in the background. Could be a mood piece, or a government ad, a colorful warning poster for tourists going unprotected into the forbidden zones. The photo came out great, if she could say so herself.
Sent. To Coulson. Phone back in her pocket.
The three zombies were walking down toward the Center.
Which…did not matter? Did it? Zombies were attracted by human structures, because of the unconscious memories previously mentioned, also, a sort of hive mind at work, scientists said.
The slope would naturally lead the zombies directly to the C-17 door.
Didn't matter either. The Z-Pen barriers were sturdy. The C-17 door was very sturdy. It could sustain the onslaught of—hundreds of creatures? Thousands?
A text. Coulson, commenting on her selfie.
- Little Red Riding Hood Against the Zombies. -
- 'Against' is an exaggeration, Elizabeth replied. I did not act against the zombies in any way, shape or form. I watched them from afar, made wellness products and completed Oh So Important Administrative Tasks. -
- Little Red Riding Hood AND all The Zombies. Where is the wolf? -
The three undead creatures were still in view; another had appeared, strolling melancholically uphill.
- In this story, we won't be lacking for wolves.-
- But Little Red Riding Hood always wins. Or does she? I don't remember the story, it's been a while. -
- There are many versions of the tale; I choose the happy one. - Elizabeth was sitting down now, her back against the sycamore. Her phone in her hand, the sun on her face, buttercups and clover at her feet, and some of the yellow, popular kind of taraxacum, which was just a fancy way to say dandelion, if you wanted to feel educated. The leaves made a good salad. A bit bitter.
- Happy hunting then, Elizabeth. Or gathering. -
She did not answer. Their conversations were generally short; trading these texts with Coulson was expensive. Also, illegal. Also, a lifeline.
Another zombie was strolling down toward the main building. That made four.
Elizabeth's eyes followed him for a while. Then she stood up and resumed gathering walnuts.
-XX-
Scientists did not call them zombies. "Experimental subjects", Edwards had said, but scientists were assholes, with their red range bracelets, their highest rating on the Official Caste Evaluation and their "I'd rather you call me 'sir', little puny admin, it's the LAW."
"Experimental subjects," come on. Like zombies had not been human beings once. Alive and full of joy, before the Event and all the goddamn fun that followed. Now, maybe Elizabeth was unfair, maybe scientists needed this dissociation from their tasks. Nobody wanted to be the one experimenting on "things that were people," that was a meme, by the way, "things that were people", the expression crashing through every social network nine years ago till it was embedded forever in the collective unconscious.
-XX-
Back for lunch.
Elizabeth went up to the Level Two cafeteria, to see what frozen food was still down there, maybe to cook, and to bask in the phantom echo of hundreds of people talking, laughing and gossiping around the huge metal tables.
When she stepped into the gigantic space Edwards was there, bowl in hand, staring at the cereal stand.
-XX-
"Hi," Elizabeth said. Better be polite, when you were one of the two only human beings in the world. Symbolically speaking. There were at least four billion people still alive on the planet, from nine billion before. Yes, humanity took quite a hit. But hey. Still alive and kicking.
Edwards did not answer. First, Elizabeth thought he was ignoring her, but when she got nearer she realized he hadn't heard—he seemed lost, his gaze unfocused.
Great.
"Hello, sir," she repeated, pretending it was the first time she addressed him. Edwards started a little, he looked at her, a second passed before he seemed to recall who she was and the mood of their previous encounter.
"Ms. Moore," he answered coldly.
"I apologize for encroaching on your elegant solitude, sir," she said, trying for amiable irony. "And I do not think you should eat those," she added, waving at the containers of cereals.
"Did you go out again?" was his non sequitur answer, his tone disapproving, and Elizabeth felt a new and improved wave of frustration.
"I did." Maybe Edwards was waiting for her to elaborate but Elizabeth stopped there, a polite, perfect smile on her lips.
"Are you insane? Eighty-four thousand experimental subjects in the wild, just on this side of the mountains, and you go gallivanting in the fields picking flowers?"
"It is my job. Sir."
He frowned. "You're an admin."
So, he had researched her. "Hybrid job. An admin, and a S-12. It's one of the reasons I was left behind, left here I mean, to study the impact of the phenomenon on local plants."
"There is no impact. Or none that matters. It has been established."
"Indeed, and I was part of the team who proved it. It is still in my job description, though. To keep 'interacting as much as possible with the local ecosphere' to see if anything changes. As part of the Citizen Watch."
"That doesn't make sense."
Honestly, it didn't. Truth was, the Witch had left Elizabeth behind because they needed to leave someone, and her job looked good if there was an inspection. But Elizabeth did not want to admit it to Edwards, and of course, he would disapprove of her use of 'The Witch'—even if scientists said it, she heard them, Mary used it in the cafeteria all the time, "The Witch ate all my comp time, the Witch didn't fucking log all the fucking work I did this fucking weekend," and so on.
"Still my job. Now I am going to do some cooking. See you later. Sir."
The huge industrial kitchen opened on the other side of the high metallic shelves. Behind Elizabeth, the characteristic noise of cereals tumbling into a bowl. Was Edwards really eating ten-month-old muesli?
Why not, she thought, searching the massive freezers for onions, meat, and vegetable, nuances of brown and purple, tints of grey and translucent white. The muesli would just taste a little dry, the raisins with this awful taste they got when they were old. And there was an abundance of long conservation milk, boxes and boxes of the stuff lined in all the cafeterias, enough to feed two humans for centuries, if you were very much into milk.
As for her, a stew would be great. Home cooked, feeling like real food, real life. (Strategies.)
While everything was defrosting, Elizabeth glanced through the shelves. Edwards was sitting on one of the communal tables, eating, with what looked like a cup of coffee—coffee machines everywhere, too.
The man was barely a few years older than her. His attire was impeccable, black trousers, a button-down shirt, it looked ironed for God-fucking-sake—who ironed their clothes when there was no one but zombies around? (Strategies?) The reglementary black Kevlar collar above his shirt, leaving the least amount possible of skin exposed. Elizabeth had several collars too, in matching colors to go with her clothes, and a red one for her coat. He was wearing his inside gloves—his were black.
Elizabeth began the actual cooking, yes, with her gloves, it was regulation, she did not notice them anymore. The stew smelled good. Maybe Edwards glanced at her too, through the shelves, once or twice, not that there was a lot to look at, sensible clothes, sensible shoes, collar, gloves, skin a little sunburnt.
After a while, he left. Elizabeth divided the stew into four parts, froze three, and took the last one home.
-XX-
That night, she woke up with a start.
No suspicious noise. No howling in the wind. Just her unconscious at work, her survival instinct, telling her— Screaming at her—
Telling her to check.
Elizabeth had great respect for her survival instincts, they had been of invaluable use to her since the age of thirteen. In the camps, and, during, you know. Before.
She rose up. She got dressed. She stepped onto the balcony. No, no, not a dream, she actually did it. In the deep of the night, across the railing to the left, then up the ladder, and onto the roof.
She looked down towards the Z-pens. The CV-17 door.
No blue sparks.
The door was not energy protected anymore.
Elizabeth got back to her apartment. She checked her computer again.
"All securities measures, active. No problem detected."
Liar.