The next day. Forty-two hours left before diagnostic. Elizabeth was turning crazy. She had to go out.
Or, you know, open the mystery red door.
"Knock knock, who's there?"
"Little Red Riding Hood, Grandma. I'm bringing you cake and coffee, with honey. Cafeteria honey. Open the red door."
"Just press the latch," the zombie called out, from the bed where Grandma's corpse was lying, half devoured. "Just press the latch and come on in, I'm too weak to get up. Come on in and give Granny a kiss."
Elizabeth resisted the temptation; she was not a complete idiot. She did not go to the red door, she did not press the latch. Instead, she went outside under the sky. Life teeming around her, fresh leaves and roasted grass. Yes, roasted, it got cold at night but September sun could be fierce, and the grass burned and dried.
Late raspberries, early walnuts.
-XX-
Picnic under the trees. Zombies passed far away, working on their tan.
- A beautiful day up here in the mountains, - she sent Coulson. Yes, the same opening line. Well, it was still true.
The sun on her face. White clouds, blinded by the light. Poppies, very red. Papaver somniferum, not the one cultivated for opium, another kind. You normally would not find them at this attitude, but this was one instance of the consequences of The Event on flora: poppies, mutated poppies, on the slopes, at 4 000 feet altitude.
A change on chromosome 11, and here they were, like a red, sumptuous carpet. No other effect, by the way. They were not dangerous or anything. Just…poppies.
- A fun day here in the Emergency Research Office -, Coulson replied. - Traffic jams, bitter coffee, inane work, hardly offset by the legendary camaraderie and cheer of the scientific community. -
- I can almost taste the irony. -
- But not the coffee. -
- Go to a restaurant for me. Talk to people! Eat fries! I want to live by proxy. -
Another zombie was strolling around, closer to the fence. A good twenty feet away, politely keeping its d. The creature seemed to hesitate, then disappeared behind a line of trees.
- Will do -, Coulson answered, and that could have been the end of the conversation, but.
- Interesting happenstances here in Wonderland, - Elizabeth sent. She wanted Coulson to be aware that things were not right—that she might contact him later, by the proper channels. Just so he knew. Just so she would not feel totally, utterly alone.
- Ok. - Coulson wrote.
He would be waiting for their next "call", she knew.
Elizabeth put her phone back in her pocket. She stretched. She yawned. She raised her eyes.
The zombie. Was.
Inside the fence.
-XX-
Remember the horror movie trope, "the murderer is calling from inside the house!" Well, same, with zombies. A zombie. Singular.
Elizabeth froze. Yep, again, freeze or flight and her body decided to make the wrong choice.
The creature had not sensed her yet, but it was definitely inside, inside the safe zone, inside her picnic area. Elizabeth's brain was running at light speed—a zombie inside, the fence must be down, a part of it at least, certainly on her left, behind the line of conifers, or she would have spotted the breach, yes, the slope led right to it, the creature followed the natural incline—why didn't it get shredded—by the barbed wire—even with the electricity down—ok, must have been several zombies, colliding with the fence—being torn apart by the barbs till the weight of the last one had finally took the whole thing down, freeing the passage, and then this guy—
"Most zombie encounters are survivable. Panic is the great killer," the instructor had stated. "These are slow creatures we're talking about, unless they're in direct contact. So, while every undead incident is dangerous, if you think, if you take the time to reason, you can generally get out of one unscathed."
Ok. Think. And also, move. But—still frozen. Her body, lead. No flashback at least, not like that time with Coulson near the science trailer, fuck, Fuck, don't— Focus!
The zombie was getting nearer. Still in lazy promenade mode. Still keeping its d and unconscious of Elizabeth's presence. The problem was, he—it—whatever, are you really judging grammar right now? The problem was, he was between Elizabeth and the exit, between her and the metallic gate, and if she made a run for it, she would breach the d and he would sense her, and then, bets were off, all of them.
Ok, ok. In her safety kit, the black sharpie, the syringe, the big ass super powerful antibiotics, and the Z-Knife, but Elizabeth was not the warrior type.
"You have to know how to improvise. Use what you got," Coulson had said, that time in the science trailer, after her—let's call it her peculiar reaction to danger. Use what you got, well what Elizabeth got here was familiar terrain, a pair of good legs to run, sticks and stones (will break zombies' bones), roots, and…brambles.
Elizabeth slowly rose. She walked, the opposite way, farther from the exit, farther from the gate, putting lots of wiry roots between her and the creature. Think tactical. Deep breaths.
Ok. Time for the grand gesture.
"Hey!" She waved her arms. "Pal! Comrade! Waiter! Over here!"
Yes, zombies reacted to noise, human voice especially. Not always, not when their auditory system was damaged, but this one looked pretty intact.
The zombie froze. He turned. And oh God, oh God, terror was rising, reason evaporating, because the creature looked so human, he was human, he had been, with his brown dirty hair and his thick glasses and what had been a beige button-up shirt, a classy one, too—looking right at her, his eyes invisible behind the thick lenses—
Looking right at her.
He began to walk, pretty fast. Toward her. Zombies did not run, but this was already pretty scary, Elizabeth's heart going a mile a minute. She stepped backward, being very, very careful.
"Also, watch where you put your feet," the instructor said. "You don't want to fall down, ok? Do not panic. Do not stumble."
Panicking, this ship had sailed, and Elizabeth was in it. But stumble she would not. Two new cautious steps backward. The zombie was getting nearer, his teeth stained with blood, stay focused, another step backward and then around the roots and the thick, tough brambles, good, good, now stay behind the brambles, Elizabeth waved and called again, ok, Mr. Beige-Shirt zombie, come here, walk straight ahead please, do not go around the obstacle, just straight ahead into the mess of—YES, God he was so close, but YES, his legs got stuck in the brambles, the flesh beginning to tear, he was still advancing though, much more slowly, the skin around his tibias being peeled off but he was still trudging forward…
Elizabeth ran around it, around him, around the brambles, and made for the exit as fast as she could. The slope was in her favor, but if there was one (zombie) inside there could be several, so she made herself stop just after the trees before lunging for the exit. Think. Look around. Take on your surroundings. She was right, the fence was down on the left, something or some things stuck in it, too far to see; Elizabeth took another thorough look around, nobody else, nothing else, now she turned around to check behind her and yes, here he was, Beige-Shirt zombie, fresh out of the brambles and ambling toward her again, freakishly close and freakishly silent—Elizabeth forced herself to walk, not run, it was too tricky with the mud and the stream.
To the gate, to the gate, do not stumble…
Open the metal latch. Check. Go through the gate. Check. Close it, close the fucking thing; Elizabeth's hands were trembling, the zombie was right here, it body slammed the metallic surface with all his undead might, and the gate would have opened, you know, it would have just flung open if Elizabeth had not secured the latch in time, another two steps backward, watching the guy frothing and scratching and biting and trying to get at her through the metallic bars…
Not today, buddy.
And then, he Called.
Elizabeth has seen it, of course. In Orientation. In countless How-To-Survive-in-Hostile-Territory videos. In documentaries. In cheesy movies. And around her, twice a day, on the other side of the glass, while she was walking along the transparent tube, but somehow it was not the same. The creature bent its head back as far as it could, it opened its mouth and it screamed, although no sound came out, no audible sound, but Elizabeth knew what was really happening, everybody did.
Ultrasounds, a lot of pheromones, other zombies "heard" it somehow—"heard" was obviously not the right word—but they heeded the Call, they hurried to join their friends, the Call could reach to a quarter of a mile, might not seem far, but it was enough. Just imagine, you're stuck in a house and a nice group of three undead creatures is blocking your door. Three, that's manageable, but one of them Calls, and here they come, and now there are ten, or thirty.
Let's just say your day was fucked, and generally, you were too. …Something so eerie, inhuman, about the process…
Do NOT freeze. Not now.
Think. The zone Elizabeth now was in was safe—in theory. If another fence had not been fallen. She checked around her quickly, everything seemed under control; behind her, the zombie Called again.
Elizabeth ignored it. Back to the Center. Through three different fenced zones. Each time, checking the fences and the gate. Through the transparent tube, through the zombie pens.
We'll get you, did they sing, their faces smudged onto the glass. We'll get you, one day.