Hello everyone!
WARNING! The main character of this story is inspired by Elizabeth Bennet, another character is inspired by Darcy, and the main romance is straight from "Emma"...so this is all very much taken from Austen, and I think it has its place here. But this is not 'normal' fanfic. This is a post-apocalyptic thriller, that I intend to turn into a book, and even if there is definitely a romance—with a happy ending—it's not the main focus of the story. It is important, though!
It's also a serious zombie story, so it gets really, really dark.
Well, if you're still here, let's go! Trigger Warning for profanity.
(For those who follow my other stories, no, I have not forgotten 'Heatwave'... But this is eating my brain, I have to write it. :))
Also, "Four Proposals of Marriage, a Pride and Prejudice variation" is out today, under the name Laura Moretti.
And now for something completely different...
-XX-
There was even more hypericum by the river, so Elizabeth scampered down the slope in her sensible shoes and her bright red coat. Such a beautiful day, the sun blazing, hot and harsh on the mountains. Nettles had gone wild; one more step, under the shadows of the huge oak tree—
The zombie lunged at her with all its might and fried itself on the electrified fence. Flesh writhing, burning, but still trying to grab Elizabeth, to plant his teeth in her flesh, to eat her alive, to feast on her soul.
Elizabeth stayed petrified, watching. Freeze or flight reflex and her body had chosen freeze…good thing she was on the right side of the fence. It took a long, endless minute for the zombie to die; she remained fascinated.
You glanced at the Medusa and cannot look away.
The creature's remains fell on the ground; the odor was sickening. Elizabeth took a step back, hands trembling. Still holding the hypericum, crushing the sterns, juices staining her palm.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Freeze or flight, Elizabeth froze again, for half a second. Then she turned around to face the newcomer.
"Mr. Edwards, I presume?"
Considering there were only the two of them, it was an easy guess. The only two living human beings still in the Center, and this was the first time they actually met. Elizabeth had tried to contact him on the intranet, Henry Edwards, age thirty-two, one of the scientists of the infamous sets of experiments formerly attached to lab B-13, now detached to the LT research facility. The man had not deigned answer, not once.
"Are you unhinged?" he asked. "Are you taunting them? A dozen can overthrow a fence, you realize that?"
"Oh, come on. It happened once, and R&D had to admit the barriers were malfunctioning."
"You mean, those barriers? The ones left unchecked since the evac? So, you are not crazy, just dumb."
Now, wasn't that nice? The first human interaction Elizabeth had had in months and it was charming. "I bet you money the fences are all malfunctioning now," Edwards continued. "You keep your d, that's the rule. Unless conducting official experimentation, as there are none going on, except mine, you are acting illegally."
See? Heartwarming. Elizabeth had wondered for months what the guy was like. You're stuck in a huge, empty building, you know there is only one other person there, you speculate, right? She had asked herself if their path would ever cross, how a conversation would go, would he be condescending because she was blue range, or, would he be, you know, normal.
Now, she knew.
"Well, sir, fuck you. I was gathering local flora, part of my job definition. Regulation collar, regulation gloves, safety kit. The fence was hidden in the ferns, I didn't see it, I didn't realize I had wandered so close. Also, may I ask—"
Another zombie appeared on the top of the hill, ambling its way through a spot of nardus stricta. On the other side of the fence, obviously. Still, Elizabeth and Edwards wisely retreated further into the grove, then to the other side of the almost imperceptible stream, where the water thinned among the ferns.
"And now, you are showing disrespect to a superior," Edwards commented with perfect calm. He conspicuously stared at Elizabeth's blue band, partly visible on her wrist. "Your name?"
As if he did not know. Well, maybe he didn't. "Elizabeth Moore. Please make my day and report me, sir. Please, for disrespect. It would make Coulson so happy, he'll tell all his friends, they'll have a party."
"Right. As delightful as this conversation is, I will be going back to work, and yes, reporting your attitude. Good day, Ms. Moore."
"Good day, sir," was Elizabeth's answer, then Edwards was gone, crushing innocent daisies on his path, then walking toward another more secured zone, to presumably do whatever the hell he had ventured out for.
On the other side of the line of white beech trees there was a thumping sound, a new inhuman scream, and the too-familiar stench of burning flesh.
-XX-
Home was a tiny apartment. Two rooms, white walls, grey doors. Building Three, aisle B, Section 2, level 4, apartment 413. No, not exaggerating, this was the actual address. Elizabeth had laughed when she had sent it to Nawal, two years ago; it was always better to laugh than—you know, blowing your brains out.
Not that she would. Elizabeth was strong, you'd better be, in those conditions. Because if her apartment was already depressing when the Center was humming with life—scientists, soldiers, admins and all sorts of support personnel—imagine how it felt now, alone in the void, or in the sole company of the affable Edwards.
Halls that had at some point seen hundreds of hurried employees, now deserted. Like the Silk Road, Silk Roads, plural, because apparently there were many. It was in this documentary that Elizabeth saw once. When the traffic died on the Silk Roads, because naval commerce had won the day, entire towns died. Cities that had been there for centuries, starving along the now abandoned commercial paths. Tiny civilizations with their cultures, their leading families, their inner politics, their tragedies, and their legends, just vanished, buildings left as shells, sand, and dust.
The story had struck her at the time. Now she was living it.
Except, nope, no, no way. Elizabeth would not become an empty ochre shell.
"You'll have to establish strategies," the therapist had said, in her bright blue shirt, jade earrings, before gleefully boarding the second to last evac transport with the rest of the medical team and getting the fuck out of dodge, abandoning Elizabeth and her strategies behind. Doctor Lydia Chettouf, a thousand diplomas to her name. "Left alone, with no one to speak to" she had told Elizabeth during one of their last sessions, "it can be very common to, hum, to lose ground, mentally speaking, you see?"
Oh yeah, Elizabeth saw, Elizabeth saw perfectly. Also, she saw that despite her degrees, Chettouf was a despicable therapist, with a contestable definition of confidentiality and a tendency to take the side of the Witch against the employees. Leaving Elizabeth here, alone in deserted Science Zombie Land. With as sole psychological advice a cheerful, "Establish routines, you'll be fine! I guess! Ciao!"
It must have been unprofessional somehow, right?
Whatever. Routines. Strategies. Elizabeth had three.
Strategy number one, going outside, in the mountains, as much as she could. To access the fenced zones around the Center, you had to go out of the building, through the transparent tube crossing what the scientists had nicknamed 'the breeding zone.' No breeding going on there whatsoever: the place was more of a pen, for zombies waiting to be experimented upon. The transparent tube went right through it, through the zombie crowd, and it was not large enough to keep your d, so the zombies sensed you; they tried to get you, they Called, opening their horrid mouths and singing to the heavens. The glass was soundproof so you could not hear, not that you would, the Call was silent, but the creatures pushed onto the reinforced glass with their distorted faces, trying to claw their way inside. Elizabeth ignored them, walking as fast as she could, trying not to think in metaphors, not to think about how she was already in hell with them—trying not to think.
Then another tunnel, underground this time, thank God. Reinforced doors, that you opened with a blue level code, and…outside.
Autumn on the mountains. Yellows and burned browns, coral and deep green, foliage going wild. The fragrances of a thousand herbs. Walking under the blue blue sky in her elegant crimson coat; a gift from Nawal, that day they'd gone shopping, during that blessed time they both lived in town, that day they had drinks for hours, lounging on a café terrace, letting the day stretch, Elizabeth happy and warm in her brand-new red coat, watching the sun set.
Red. That's why she wore the coat. Red still felt like life and joy. Like there were towns, streets, people, somewhere, elsewhere. Like Elizabeth would return to them, one day.
This was strategy one.
Strategy two, "herbalist junk." A direct quote from Churchill, by the way. Churchill from HR, no relation to Winston, Churchill who left in one of the first transports. He and Elizabeth had a one night stand a year and a half ago. Good, but not memorable. Bit of an ass, Churchill, but a funny guy. Coulson didn't like him so much, Elizabeth never knew why.
Elizabeth was not HR. Elizabeth was blue bracelet, she had one of the low-paid hybrid jobs the Center handed at the beginning when they were in a recruiting frenzy. Half admin, half "Flora Specialist". It was a made-up title, an empty diploma, as everyone from her generation got. Turning eighteen during a zombie apocalypse was, strangely enough, not the best of time to get a higher education.
"Testing the local flora to see if it had been affected by The Event," was half of her official job description.
The answer was, "mostly not."
And strategy number three, well, strategy number three was leading a normal life. Working, reading. Watching movies, binging shows. Those already in the Center database, because contact with the outside world was strictly forbidden.
(Except for Coulson.)
Funny little anecdote, including two scientists, a zombie, and an elevator.
It happened six years ago. The Center had just opened, maybe security measures were not as strict as they were now. Elizabeth was not working there yet, but they told her the story when she arrived—everyone knew the story.
You visualize the context? The pens, the labs... Maybe you don't. So, the mountains, deserted, gorgeous nature and roaming zombies, a few safe zones inside the electrified barriers. The Center, three huge scientific buildings on the slopes, in the middle of nowhere. On ground level, the labs. Nearby, in holding areas outside, the Z-pens, where they kept the zombies caught by the MTs.
When in need of a monster to poke with needles, open the big metallic doors, let some zombies wander in, let the MTs subdue them, then experiment as will.
Except one day, a zombie got free. In the lab. And nobody noticed it. To add weirdness to injury, the monster did not go on a killing rampage right away, he walked into the elevator. See, some zombies retain memories of their previous lives, and maybe this was a fresh one, maybe he had turned only recently, maybe he had worked in an office before, who knows.
Anyway, here the zombie is, Ground Level, waiting in the elevator, unmoving. On Level one, two innocent scientists, one of them holding coffee. They push the button. The elevator goes up to them. The doors open. The scientists are chatting, they see someone is already in there, but they don't pay attention.
The doors close.
The cleaning crew had to clean the elevator for days before getting rid of the stains of blood, grime, and coffee.
See? Told you it was funny.
-XX-
(To be continued…)