Guys, I love you all. Your comments and your speculation really make my day!
Now… Remember when I said this story was dark?
-XX-
Now for the real field trip.
Down three levels. Outside, it was still night. Somewhere, daisies and mutated berries were sleeping.
Everyone was lying.
Elizabeth suited up. Z-Knife. Safety kit. Armor.
She opened the Red Door and stepped inside.
-XX-
A sensation of déjà vu. Last time Elizabeth had entered the place she was in a state of panic; now she was calm, determined. Enter-Retreat-Enter-Check method. Keeping her d from the napping zombie in the conference room. Closing carefully each and every door.
And soon here she was again. B-13, painted on the walls, in enormous letters. A large, metallic door, marking the entrance to the labs. To the experiments. To the lies. To the experimental subjects.
And also, you know.
To Frank.
-XX-
Fourteen months ago.
The sun had not set yet, the light was still golden on the peaks. On the other side of the fence, a zombie was trying to climb a rock and failing, then trying again, to no avail, Sisyphus at work. The creature could keep at it for hours, for days even, till it'd fall at a slightly different angle, and decided it would be easier to circle the rock than try to go over it.
"You're going to catch cold, sitting on the grass like this," Coulson stated—she had not heard him coming. "At least that's what my grandma used to say."
Elizabeth raised her head and smiled. "You were a country boy then?"
"Something like that."
Last Tuesday, on the most recent security meeting, Coulson had announced he would be doing rounds outside, checking the fences, the security system and the general mood of the zombie populace. Lieutenant Brito had objected, it was not necessary, he said, he trusted the fences and their technology; Coulson had dryly answered that he did not, not so much, and the IT woman with the red hair had snickered in her coffee.
"I am not catching a cold," Elizabeth protested. "See, heavy coat, cashmere scarf. Collar, gloves. Sitting on a plaid." She waved toward her thermos. "Coffee?"
"With pleasure."
Coulson sat down on the edge of the thick fabric, leaving a good four feet between them. Elizabeth had chosen one of her favorite spots, on the top of an incline. On her left, a view of the Center, its three huge buildings teeming with life, absurd regulations, and gossiping coworkers. On her right the gentle fall of the slopes, leading west. Somewhere this way lay civilization, or a different kind of civilization, and she and Coulson stayed silent for a while, contemplating the unending waves of abandoned fields and pastures that the trees had started to reclaim with unhurried solemnity.
"You know, it didn't happen that often," Elizabeth commented, after a while. "Nature regaining grounds on human constructions, I mean. Not in these parts, not since the Roman Empire. Last time was in the tenth century, during the Viking raids. The Vikings killed so many people, and then the famine and epidemics that ensued… The population dwindled and entire villages were abandoned, to be reclaimed by the woods. But except for this charming period of history, humanity always won. Except right now, I guess," she added, nodding at what had been the rests of a hamlet, now being digested by the wilderness.
"What about the Black Plague?" Coulson mused. "Since we're sharing happy stories."
"Fun times, sure. But I don't think entire areas disappeared, not in this country at least. Further east, sure. Have you read Eifelheim? A village in 13st century Germany, well, what will be Germany, being erased during the black plague. There are aliens, too."
Coulson was gazing at the horizon. "You did not study history."
It was a fact, not a question. Again, Coulson had all the files, and he certainly read everything on anyone he collaborated with; he was paranoid that way. But no, Elizabeth had not studied anything, not officially, The Event had put a stop to that.
When things calmed down, she had been hurried through half-assed certifications like most of the survivors of her generation. Countries desperately needed qualified employees, living ones.
"My mother was a historian."
Coulson frowned. "And your father…a biologist?"
"Yep." Coffee and a change of topic were required. She opened the thermos. "I only have one cup," she said, filling it up. "Ok to share?"
"Sure. So, your job is to sit on the grass, sipping coffee," he added, after a while. "Certainly beats mine."
"I will have you know, sir, that I am on a legally scheduled break. This was actually a pretty productive outing." The Vantablackberries research had been discontinued, but recently Elizabeth had discovered another recent quirk of nature. Daisies, actually. A particular kind of daisy, white, very bright, too bright. Savangh had been sent back to his normal job, but she had bribed him with homemade bread, and he had confirmed that the white was indeed slightly different than usual, just a tad, nothing as striking as the Vantablackberries, but sure, something was up.
Elizabeth rambled about what it may all signify, partly because she was passionate about the subject, partly because she hoped it would bore Coulson to death and she enjoyed needling him.
But Coulson was a gentleman and listened politely to it all. "Talking of books, have you read 'To kill a mockingbird?'" he asked when she was finished.
"Maybe. A thousand years ago."
"There is this character, a woman. She has a horrid family life; my memory is fuzzy, but I think abuse is implied. She's living in a dump in atrocious conditions, but she grows plants—flowers. So she can have beauty in her life. I was not a fan of the book, to be honest, but that part stuck with me."
Elizabeth waved to their surroundings. "Plenty of beauty around."
"Yes."
"You know how my parents died," Elizabeth blurted, and why this, why now?
"I do! Another cheerful story."
Elizabeth spat out her coffee and burst into nervous laughter—Coulson politely patted her back a few times, then took back his hand quickly.
"I'm sorry," he added with amusement, while Elizabeth was still shaken by silent hilarity. "I forget you're not supposed to do that with civilians. It was our game with Jesse when we had unbearable…anecdotes. We would drink and tell the stories in all their gory details, and then we joked around till we were—till we were dead drunk, but also till the horror lost its edge."
"Therapy for soldiers."
"Whatever works."
Maybe it would work. Maybe now, when Elizabeth thought of…what happened, she'd remember the screams and the blood but also this luminous afternoon outside, the sun fighting the cold, the taste of coffee and friendship.
"Hey, so, Elizabeth," Coulson said, after a long silence. "I— Do you, hum…"
He stopped there; Elizabeth vaguely wondered what he was going to say, something about work maybe, they were on at least three Nature Watch committees together, which was ironic in a way because clearly nature did not need watching, nature was doing very well on its own.
Coulson never finished his sentence, and Elizabeth thought about the latest rumor.
"Hey," she said, "have you heard what they say—about an early evac? About the Center closing, or partly closing, or…" She smirked at Coulson. "Or is this one of the times you invoke your James Bond face and say 'no comment'?"
"No comment."
Elizabeth laughed, she closed her eyes, soaking up the evening. Then the siren rang, it was 7 pm, they had to be back inside before nightfall. Not an unpleasant sound, kind of like a boat, a ferry leaving the harbor.
"Eight minutes warning," Coulson whispered. "Let's go."
-XX-
Now.
B-13. The large, metallic, door.
Elizabeth stepped inside. The hall was totally silent. The lights were on, which was not necessarily a sign of—anything really. The way power was in or out in the Center seemed random.
Forget Little Red Riding Hood. This was Blue Beard, and she was the wife entering the forbidden closet.
Walls, white and green. A candy machine, empty, broken. Dozens of dirty wrappers on the floor. A coffee distributor, also broken. The ubiquitous office wall panel, for HR leaflets, official communications, invites.
Elizabeth could not resist looking. Flyers. A stern warning from someone. "Wash your own mugs, it's not that hard, people!" "Karim's birthday, Thursday, 6 pm! Bring your own donuts!"
On Elizabeth's left, normal offices, a few doors were ajar, she could see daylight. Windows, on ground level? Really? Further west, they must have opened right on the zombies' pens. Can you imagine, working with a view? "Hey, Beth, do you have the January file?" you'd ask, while hungry creatures banged on the glass and interns in body armor herded them inside with cattle prods.
Office life, never boring.
Elizabeth secured the rooms and closed the doors. She turned a corner, she followed another long corridor, walls now purple, the "Contaminated area" sign painted on every surface.
She could stop. She should stop. She didn't. The hall was long, and it would have been better if the neons flickered for dramatic effect, but nobody had told them to, so they just shone brightly. Then there was a heavy glass door, which Elizabeth just had to push open.
Another hall. A different part of the lab. Higher security protocols, higher clearance level, levers everywhere, red codes, except everything was dead and the doors were open. Another candy machine. Empty, broken. A large reinforced door, definitely conceived to resist an onslaught of angry zombies. There was a code, and a security system with the little lights flickering wildly, but they were only protesting, because the lock was broken and the door slightly ajar.
Elizabeth entered Blue Beard's closet.
And that closet, my friends, was not disappointing.
-XX-
A round room. Glass walls all around it, six doors, at regular intervals. Oh, and also…the room was full of bodies. Dead bodies. Unmoving dead bodies, not zombies, apparently, just—corpses. Actual, normal dead people.
Forty, fifty of them? Which was a lot for a lab that couldn't be bigger than five times Elizabeth's bedroom.
Elizabeth remained there, standing at the entrance, petrified.
First reaction, paranoia. What if the Witch had ordered the murder of all Lab B-13 workers to ensure that no one would spill secrets? But—no—that made no sense. Elizabeth had seen a lot of employees' files—part of her job was to update them after the evac. To her knowledge, everyone was accounted for.
Still. Forty to fifty dead bodies, right there.
Elizabeth took two steps forward, careful to keep her d. The gun, in her hand, but—noise attracts zombies, remember? Everyone seemed dead though, really dead. Zombies generally remained upright when they shut down, sometimes they sat in human-like positions. Not the case here, except…this woman, with the earrings, crouched in a weird stance. And also…this one here, with the black hair. Ok. Not getting any closer.
Dr. Chetouff. "Dissociation, Elizabeth, seems to be one of your favorite coping methods. Not that it's inherently bad; the technique is indeed rather efficient when terror would normally stop you to go forward."
Elizabeth should be horrified, instead, she was—floating. She had to snap out of it. Think. So, ok. Clothes. The bodies were not scientists'. No casual business attire, no jeans and geeky tee-shirts, no white coats, no armor. Elizabeth slowly circled the heap of corpses—the bodies were wearing loose cotton pants and shirts, cheap ones, often too big or too small, most of them marked "B13", sure, so those people were, those people were…
Lab experiments.
Dead lab experiments. Belonging to, well, belonging to the lab.
Her brain was going haywire. Wondering how she should react, horror aside. Was this new information? Did she, did she know? Was this something she should, hum, report—was this something Coulson knew? Was this something Edwards should have told her?
"Did she know?" was a particularly tricky question. Because…maybe? They experimented on contaminated humans; Elizabeth was aware of this. Did she know that the human experimental subjects had not been evacuated? Should they have been evacuated? They were contaminated. Maybe it was the right decision to, oh God.
Except.
Wait.
The Center had been evacuated ten months ago. If those people had been, hum, euthanized before the evac in a human and compassionate manner—(murdered on top of a bunch of their already dead comrades)—why didn't they, hum, why didn't they smell? Why hadn't the bodies decomposed yet?
A few of them had. Elizabeth's helmet had blocked the first fragrances of rotting corpses, but it was getting to her, and yes—a few decayed bodies lay in the center. The killing method was unclear. No trace of—a bullet in the head or anything. Lethal injections? Ah, also, a good third of them were half devoured, so.
The woman with dark hair moved.
Elizabeth froze. Her head was buzzing, she began to tremble, the shock getting to her at last. Run away, she thought, run away, you are not in a state to fight or to make good decisions, not with a gun in hand, another part of her whispered, no, you should gather more information, then the logical part of her brain screaming, how do you gather more information when you're dead, and then someone (something) bit her ankle.
Elizabeth yelped and jumped back, it didn't pass the armor it didn't pass the armor, the zombie (another zombie) had slowly crawled towards her from the heap of bodies, she let a sort of terrified half scream while scrambling back to the wall. The creature could not stand, for lack of a left leg, but he kept crawling, and of course, of course, Elizabeth's strangled cry had woken up the dark-haired woman who opened her eyes and looked right at her, what if they all woke up, what they were all zombies after all and Elizabeth found herself like, in a round swimming pool of zombies—the gun—no—NO—a detonation would wake them all up, Z-Knife, she scrambled to get it out (putting the gun back in the bag) (why did she bring the gun then) (for Frank) she stroke, the blade missed the zombie's head, how did Edwards do it, he was so very efficient the first time, like he had experience, her brain supplied, like he had experience stabbing experimental subjects gone wrong.
To be considered later. Elizabeth stabbed again, missed the right spot, the dark-haired woman was almost on her, growling; she seemed in perfect fighting shape, perfectly conserved, eyes glowing, teeth bared—ok, plan B, Elizabeth kicked the crawling zombie away and ran.
Zombies did not run but the woman was going pretty fast in pursuit, panic rose, and—belated horror, yes, Elizabeth was in shock, perfect timing, do not think, just act, Elizabeth passed a door and closed it behind her, but there were—the lab had other doors, yes it was circular, a sort of hub, the six doors leading to it, she had to lock those too, Elizabeth ran, circling the room from outside, to another door, the dark haired woman was already advancing toward it, homing onto Elizabeth's presence like a missile, Elizabeth banged it shut, another one, then a third one on the left; two other bodies had begun to stir, she was wrong, she was wrong, they were all zombies, or at least most of them, they were lying down because that was the position they had fallen into when they had been murdered, so that explained the no decaying thing—being a zombie—fourth door, how did the black haired woman go so fast because she/it was almost there, Elizabeth shut the glass/metal panel in her face, all doors accounted for, she stumbled backwards.
No. Do not—not good. "Stumbling blindly after a fight, that's where you get bitten," the instructor said, Elizabeth remembered the moment precisely, the man pausing to drink fresh squeezed orange juice from a recyclable plastic bottle, then putting the recipient back down on the table. "You just escaped danger," he said. "You are relieved and dizzy. Your defenses are lowered, and THEN—" Elizabeth turned around, taking in her surroundings, and yes, fuck, there it was, "the secondary threat." A new zombie dressed in lab grey sweats, bright red B-13 number, advancing toward her in perfect, eerie silence. Twelve feet away. God, that light in their eyes.
Ok. Ok. Do not engage when you can do otherwise. Not using the gun, not when she didn't know what else was out there. There was a rolling table, the kind you use for a surgical operation, with scalpels and the like, people in grey sweats, still humans, still alive, tied down on operating tables—to be considered later. She drove the table forward with all her strength, hitting the creature in the knees, then she pushed the whole convoy, table and zombie alike into a sort of annex.
A last, powerful push. Closing the door.
Turning around. Deep breaths. Slowly taking in her surroundings again. No other secondary threat, unless you count the dark-haired woman and two of her BFFs banging on the glass doors of the lab. Which were, thank God, solidly reinforced. How many times did an "incident" happen, and B-13 scientists were so very happy to be on the right side of those doors? And three levels higher, people like Elizabeth, putting honey in their coffee and going on their daily errands?
Stop—stop thinking—yes, she was in shock, Elizabeth stumbled away at random, vaguely conscious she was going the wrong way, losing herself deeper in the B-13 labyrinth, but she could not think straight, and remember how we swapped fairytales and we were in Blue Beard now?
Well, the tale was not over, because Elizabeth opened a new door and behind laid another, smaller heap of bodies.
No reaction. None.
Numb.
Just—numb. Those corpses were wearing grey sweats too. This time Elizabeth did not enter the room or circle it or any crazy initiative of the sort, she just carefully closed the door and walked away, numb, numb; she wandered till she could find a closet and close the door behind her, she fell down on the floor, huddling in a corner, head between her knees (breathe), and then Elizabeth felt the movement on her left but she was just too numb to react, she just turned her head, and there the little girl was, in grey sweats, B-13 on her chest, huddled in the other corner, looking whole and intact and very much, you know, not a zombie.
"Hi," Elizabeth said.
"My father ate my mother," the little girl answered.
Elizabeth leaned her head back on the wall.
"Yeah," she said. "Same."