Eighteen months ago.
"So, what happened with the Unfortunate Post It Situation?" Elizabeth asked, without raising her eyes, when Karima entered her cubicle.
Early, nobody else around. In summer, Elizabeth loved to wake up at dawn to go scampering outside before work. Nobody there on the slopes but them zombies, security night rounds were over, day rounds hadn't started yet. Strong, trustworthy barriers, especially since the new system update.
Karima did not answer.
Elizabeth grabbed her coffee—one dose of cafeteria honey—and whirled her chair around to look at her friend.
"Hey, you're ok?"
Karima was watching Elizabeth intently.
"Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"You saw these reports. You got them. You got them too."
"What, the R&D thing?"
"Did you know?"
"Know what?"
Silence. Karima was still watching her.
"I have to go," Karima finally said; she walked out of the office and Elizabeth never saw her again.
At first Elizabeth did not notice Karima's absence; they did not meet every day. When she did notice, she thought Karima had taken some vacation days and got the right to leave the Center; some people did, came back from the capital with news and trinkets.
Then she heard Karima had resigned. She was gone.
It was a blow. Elizabeth really liked her. She thought they were friends, not only work-friends. Relationships, sometimes you think there is the potential for more, it would only need a nudge, and one day one of you will give it.
Clearly Elizabeth had been wrong. Karima had not even texted her goodbye.
At least she was not dead.
Because that was the thing, right? People around Elizabeth, six feet under, never coming back. And sure, she knew, intellectually, it was not her, it was war. Everyone lost—people lost everything, friends, family. Elizabeth was not a special case, she could not complain, she had no right to complain, see how lucky she'd been, the recovery she made, look at her with her salary and cubicle and normal life when children raised in the camps, most of the time, they—but Elizabeth had been a teenager already—that made all the difference, Dr Chettouf said. Also, establishing strong connections, like Nawal. Sure, but when your strong connections turn to dust, what then?
Do you know how Nawal died? The flu. A normal, predictable, boring illness, unconnected to the Event. Years of strife and starvation equal weakened immune systems. And bam, epidemics.
People Elizabeth loved, never coming back.
So, Karima. Gone without a word, still better than dead. Karima was just, she was just, not a friend.
Better than dead.
- X -
Now.
Elizabeth had slept with him.
Slept with Edwards. Slept with Frank. Numerous times.
Did they… Was there any exchange of fluids, other than, hum, the usual? Any exchange of blood? Did Edwards bite her? (For fun, for play?)
Elizabeth mentally retraced their sessions while slipping out of Karima's apartment the next morning, to get boxes of The Test from the nearest infirmary. Dangerous, but she had to know. Racking her memories, no, no blood exchange—but only one way to be sure.
Back 'home,' in the bathroom. The girl, watching the process, pale and grave.
Box. Blade. Blood. Three minutes. Tik. Tik. Tok. Negative.
Another test, from a different batch. Negative.
Another. Negative.
But.
"Am I really doing it?" Elizabeth asked the girl. "Am I really taking the Test? You see me, right? I'm not—my brain is not playing tricks?"
The child shook her head and nodded towards the opened boxes. Elizabeth took them in her hands, crushed them, the welcome reality of the dry material against her fingers, she threw the lot into the trash and watched for a while, waiting for the packages to flicker and disappear, illusion dispelled.
Everything stayed stubbornly real.
Ok. Ok.
Fine. She was fine. They were fine. It was all fine.
- X -
They had another way out. If the hall was 'clogged', if Edwards was at the door—if the exit was 'compromised', as Coulson would say, Elizabeth and the girl would flee through the balcony. Not as simple as the path from Elizabeth's old apartment, but doable. On the right, a few difficult passages, a security ladder, a roof terrace. From there, Level Five, and then who knows, at least they would not be trapped.
Now, if Edwards was at the door he could just break in, in the literal sense of the word 'break'. Would he use an axe?
But Edwards did not know where they were, that was the whole point. Thousands of employees had lived in the Center when it was in full swing. Grey bracelets slept in crammed dormitories, green bracelets in a more pleasant sort of co-living, and then, all the apartments—a lot of places for Edwards to search. He did not have the entrance codes. Sure, red clearance, in theory he could dive deep into the computer systems and try to make sense of the security mess Elizabeth had willingly left behind, but—good luck.
Sometimes administrative nightmares worked in your favor.
Back to the "breaking in" solution. Edwards could destroy all the doors in the Center, but it would take him…months. That he did not have.
One day, he would turn. His time would be up, he would become a mindless zombie, and Elizabeth and the child would be truly, completely alone.
- X -
Talking with the girl did not yield a lot of new information. She and her parents, in hiding, in the remnants of a little town, in the mountains. People in a white van. Took them to the Center, "We've been rescued," the mother said, tears in her eyes.
They weren't.
The parents died in the lab, then everyone else died when they euthanized the survivors. The girl escaped, she hid, and stayed hidden, making quick forays for food.
Yes, no new information there, just Elizabeth trying to get a feel of the dates. The child had been six years old on arrival. Experimented upon for nearly two years. Small doses, not enough to contaminate her—the team was still looking for a vaccine. The doses were getting bigger and bigger though, so, one day, she would have—but the Evac happened first.
The parents. True doses right away. Experimenting on the mutation, maybe.
After the Evac, months, alone, in the labs with dead bodies, and undead ones.
There. That was the story. This is how it happened. Just, you know. Making sense of the chronology.
- X -
Thus they remained in the lair, and it was—not bad at all. It was warm. They had food, a sofa, and a bed, wrapping themselves in colorful, comfy covers and waiting for time to pass.
Safe in their little corner of the universe. The world has stopped, they did not talk much, or not at all. Sometimes Elizabeth felt as if Karima was here with them, or Nawal, or the concept of friendship, sweet and bitter and beautiful and gone.
Nawal, and Duy and Churchill and Mary and Karima, their little cafeteria group, swept by the tide.
(No one ever made it back.)
Coulson she refused to think about.
- X -
Sleeping, eating, and waiting.
- X -
The girl did not have a name.
She had one before, obviously. Elizabeth was sure the child remembered it, but she refused to say. Because 'they' had told her she was not human anymore, 'they' had told her she was number 256, and if she uttered her name she was punished; she told Elizabeth what punishment in a lab entailed, and let's not dwell on the details, the tale is bleak enough as it is.
"Should I give you a name?" Elizabeth asked. After two days, hanging out, making brownies, watching cartoons on Elizabeth's computer. Waiting. For something, anything, to change. "A new one. We could choose one, together."
Light danced in the girl's eyes.
"I am allowed to," Elizabeth said, waving her blue bracelet. "I am allowed to give you things."
The girl nodded. She liked that, Elizabeth had noticed, knowing that Elizabeth was the boss, was hierarchically superior, because then she was allowed to obey Elizabeth's orders. Like, eating cake.
"Do you want to?" Elizabeth asked again, and there was, not exactly a tiny tiny nod, but perhaps a tiny tiny smile. Elizabeth tried to get the girl to suggest ideas, but it did not work, and she had to find the name herself.
Let's keep with the fairytale theme. "How about 'Belle'? It means 'Beauty.'"
The girl's eyes turned brighter.
Elizabeth began to tell the story of "The Beauty and the Beast", while the girl listened with rapt attention—then, no, stop, because the story did not fit, it did not fit at all. When the girl—when this Belle was a prisoner in the cursed castle, the Beast did not turn out to be a handsome Prince, he just was a Beast, they were all Beasts. Elizabeth switched to Little Red Riding Hood; the child followed with the same focused attentiveness that she gave everything; Elizabeth chose, of course, the good ending, the one when the hunter comes and saves the heroine.
Belle looked at the gun; Elizabeth always left it right there on the table.
"The hunter kills the wolf," Belle commented, after a while. She spoke so rarely, each word was precious.
"Yes."
"Good," says the girl, a savage look in her eyes, and yes, wouldn't that be good, wouldn't that be great, indeed.
"I'd really prefer if you did the experiments," Belle added after another story, after they had stayed huddled together in the sofa for hours. Elizabeth explained, again, that there would be no more experiments, the girl just looked at her, unconvinced.
- X -
Elizabeth ventured outside to get food.
They had food. For now. But Elizabeth had been interrupted in her stockpiling when events accelerated, also, there were two of them eating instead of one—reserves would get low—now was the right time to take a risk, when the universe was paused in an odd statu quo.
Before it all went to hell, because it would, right? The question was, what kind of hell. Belle's absolute obedience to the caste system had this advantage at least, she would stay where she was when ordered. Elizabeth suited up, not the armor, too bulky for climbing, good thick clothes, Security Kit, Z-Knife. Through the window, a few acrobatics, up the ladder and onto Level Five, still silent, relatively dark, and zombie-free.
Elizabeth raided all the break rooms, she grabbed all the snacks, long conservation for the win. Then the risky part. Level Six and a catwalk to Building One. Her goal, an exclusive red bracelet VIP restaurant she had heard of but never was invited in. Sure, Building One was clogged last time she entered, but those levels were much higher, hopefully still safe.
Two hours of very prudent progress (Enter-Retreat-Enter-Check). Elizabeth reached the VIP zones. Large offices. The main HR. The restaurant, and this is where Edwards saw her, but let's focus on the décor first.
It had an Italian theme and dead plants, all of it rather disappointing. Like, back in the real world, you spend years hoping to get VIP access to the exclusive airport lounge, but when you finally get in it's just a room, with free coffee and slightly more comfortable chairs, the walls painted into some maroon camaieu—darker is more bourgeois—and you drink your decaf and feel betrayed.
Not that Elizabeth would know, she never had access to any exclusive lounge, but Coulson told her—no.
No Coulson, not now, and by the way, check for cameras.
Looking up and around. No blinking lights. Everything seemed dead.
Plastic chairs, red and white tablecloths. Fake bottles of wine on the shelves. Some tacky plastic roses. High ceiling—nice. A round panel of glass floor in the middle, yes, transparent floor, to accentuate the sensation of space. Elizabeth gazed down, the equivalent glass panel had been installed downstairs on Level Five, maybe it continued below. Vertigo inducing and architecturally clever. No visible zombies.
She made her way to the kitchen. Dry pasta, cliché but perfect, Elizabeth filled her backpack, cans of tomato sauce—an excellent source of vitamin C. There were many other treasures (saffron!), so Elizabeth found a cardboard box and began to fill it. No climbing back with it, but she could leave the box on the roof terrace and come back later with an empty backpack.
The plan went to hell in a handbasket when she walked back across the glass-paneled floor. Because she glimpsed a movement down there at her feet, and there was Edwards, one level under, walking the opposite way.
Elizabeth froze. He stopped. The d. She was in his d.
Edwards slowly looked up.
Their gaze met. The universe stopped.
He smiled.
Then he turned back and began to run.
Toward the stairwell. Or towards the catwalk, the only passage linking Elizabeth back to Building Two; the carboard box and its contents went flying; Elizabeth ran faster than she ever did in her life, well maybe when she was fourteen and she was fleeing her own home—not the time—she passed the stairwell door and—someone racing up, so, bad news, Edwards was right there aiming for her, good news, he was not trying for the catwalk—on her way in Elizabeth had blocked the stairwell door with a chair, a brilliant decision which earned her a few precious seconds. And you know what? Apparently she could run faster, the characteristic crash of a door being bashed in, did the Girl in the Gas Station mutation gave Edwards zombie strength? Another crash, so it did, but Elizabeth was already through the catwalk and on the other side, no time to close the metal door, a left, a right, an office at random, closing the door, to the window. No time to check for monsters, if there were zombies she was undead sandwich—clearly Edwards was not taking precautions either, wouldn't it be ironic if their feud ended up with them both devoured?
No monsters jumped from the shadows. Elizabeth was already on the balcony. Climbing shenanigans, another roof terrace and back inside—right, left—at random. Another room. This time she took the time to secure the place. Closing the door.
Opening the window in case she had to make a run for it, and—pause.
Breathing in, breathing out.
The gun.
She should have killed him. She could have killed him. Well, she could have tried. The gun was in her backpack—a backpack filled with pasta, cans and dried basil. The content of the box was now scattered over the glass panel, including the saffron, now that loss was a tragedy, and here Elizabeth was, mentally listing saffron-based recipes, to shut up the part of her brain screaming she was in a deserted building full of undead creatures, regretting that she had not tried to murder the man she was sleeping with ten days ago, and that her only friend was a little girl whose brain was, let's be honest, seriously fried.
Wait. Edwards' wounds. From when Elizabeth had shot him. He was still wearing the same clothes—as much as she could see through the glass. He seemed fine, or fine enough. Antibiotics? Or the zombies' uncanny biological resistance, gained with the mutation?
Shooting him—honestly, she just hadn't thought about it. Just panicked and ran away. She tried to visualize the scene. Standing in the middle of the glass floor, holding the gun, waiting. He'd have stepped out of the stairwell, walked toward her—fire—aim for the head, aim for the head, in this mental reenactment she missed, he jumped, teeth barred, firing again, missed.
And.
Would Elizabeth have been the one eating the girl, at the end? Eating Belle?
(Saffron.)
Pasta tonight.
- X -
Time began to break into tiny pieces again.
- X -
Everything was grey and dull.
Sometimes Belle looked at her with worry, and Elizabeth played her role, she smiled and cooked and told stories, but it was difficult, everything was bland, and even the girl knew she was faking it.
- X -
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.
"Hey, so, Elizabeth," Coulson said, after a long silence. "I— Do you, hum…"
A pause.
"There is this Italian restaurant, Level Six," he finally continued, so casual, nothing important there, nothing to see. "Red bracelet only, but you're allowed to bring a guest."
"Aw, the Witch. Always thinking of the little guy."
"… And it just happens that I do own one of these." Coulson waved his bracelet. "The food is not exceptional, but I recommend the artichoke-lemon pasta. Three kinds of tiramisu; the strawberry one is inedible."
"How do they get artichoke? From the greenhouses?"
"Those closed six months ago. I suppose they just fly it in?"
"I could grow artichoke," Elizabeth mused. "Give me some enclosed ground, Mr Head of Security, and I shall grow artichoke."
"I will give this idea all the respect it deserves."
They ate saffron risotto, the restaurant was packed, two glasses of white wine, Coulson was looking at her strangely, "You know," he began, then he hesitated, "you know," he repeated, and Elizabeth almost thought, for a second, she almost thought, then Coulson said—he said,
"Sorry, I have to leave you for a moment. Edwards is biting people."
"Sure."
Elizabeth sipped her white wine, Edwards was elegantly clad, dreadfully handsome, walking among the tables, leaning over each guest and giving them just a little bite to the throat, like a vampire, Coulson drew his hunter's gun and shot him, right in-between the eyes, blowing his mutated brain up, sad—sad, because, because, Elizabeth did not remember why—the strawberry tiramisu tasted of ash and death, Karima walked to her, she sat down in Coulson's chair, and Elizabeth's remembered the reports.
"Eight minutes warning," Karima said. "Let's go."
- X -
Elizabeth woke up.
- X -
And remembered the reports.
- X -
Elizabeth sat all morning on the couch thinking. Belle was watching Tex Avery.
The reports. Innocuous enough. Twenty-four refugees had been found hiding in a church, somewhere in the north, inside the Lost Area. "The conveyance had been conducted following the usual parameters," was written—in substance. Elizabeth remembered scrolling through, yawning, somewhere in the afternoon, her thoughts a million miles away.
Then something about Lab B-13. Electronic signature requested for the delivery.
Blue bracelets should not have been reading these, was the thing. The email was classified, red clearance only. Addressed—addressed to the lab, Elizabeth realized.
Someone had messed up. Maybe a classic Reply All error. It could have been on purpose, a whistleblower, but—probably not, Elizabeth pondered, while Daffy Duck was up to his usual antics, while Elizabeth and Belle lay on Karima's couch, warmed by Karima's cashmere throw still there in the apartment with half of Karima's expensive make up, her beautiful silk cushions, still there, all of them.
No, just a mistake. Occam's Razor. Human error. The email disappeared later, some IT guy in Building Three grumbling about not being paid enough for this shit, certainly. Not paid enough to have to correct everybody's dumb security mistakes every fucking time, he'd better get comp hours for this.
Elizabeth read the reports and did not pay attention.
Karima did.
Perhaps Karima dug around a bit. Perhaps there were rumors.
Elizabeth did not pay attention.
Or maybe she did. Because, "innocuous" reports? Come on. How was that innocuous? It was all crystal clear, a posteriori. Just right there in the email.
Maybe Elizabeth knew.
Maybe she just did not want to know.
- X -
Do you remember Agatha Christie's novel, "And then there were none?"
Ten people stuck on an island. They're murdered one by one. And you, the reader, you are sorry for them, you're on their side, obviously. You want to save them, you want the killer to be caught. Except, as it turns out, the killer is justified. The ten people, they are guilty. And the last one alive, a charming, optimistic young woman, you like her, you think she's the heroine, but turns out, she's not. She killed a child, and she hangs herself at the end of the book, and good riddance, because, come on, she read those reports. She knew. Somehow, she knew, and she chose not to ask questions.
She let her mother die, she let everyone die. So, yes, good fucking riddance.
Because she was guilty.