One year and a half ago.
"Coulson," Karima had begged, in the cell. Handcuffed and chained to the table. Bruises blossoming on her face. "Coulson, you've got to help me. Please. Please. Can you help me?"
- XX -
"… record of everyone Karima Remili talked to that day," Caleb said. "Three suspect conversations."
Coulson looked at the list. Elizabeth Moore was the third entry.
They watched the feed together, he and Caleb. The image was blurry and unsteady, thank you budget cuts. But the audio was clear enough.
"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?"
"I have to go."
Don't call Karima back, Elizabeth, Coulson thought. Don't ask. Don't ask. Just look at her go, don't ask, just don't.
Elizabeth didn't.
"Yeah, nothing there," Coulson said, his voice as casual as could be.
Caleb frowned. "Reports were mentioned though. What if Moore goes digging around?"
"We'll decide then."
"Are you sure? She—"
"Acting now would raise suspicion instead of smothering it."
"'Kay," Caleb answered, not caring that much. Less work for him, in the end.
Coulson got Karima into Witness Protection 3. It ate a lot of cred, but he got it. Witness Protection 3 was more Witness Disappearance, where you sent people who knew too much but did not deserve a bullet, people who had protection of some sort, or were just lucky.
You changed their names, new ID, money, parachuted them to another continent.
Better than dead.
- XX -
Now.
The zombies crept into Elizabeth and Belle's hall one day.
Not in the apartment. The apartment was safely barricaded. No, the creatures entered the hall, and please note that the door leading to it had a lever. But one morning after coffee—yes, Elizabeth had stocked on coffee and honey, being depressed in a post-apocalyptic situation would be even worse without coffee—one morning after coffee, Elizabeth and Belle heard the weak, but characteristic klak of the lever being activated at the end of the corridor.
Yes, levers can only be activated by a human being. Yes, there was only one other human being in the Center. If you could call him such.
Elizabeth and Belle froze, but only for a second. They were prepared. Elizabeth nodded and they both silently retreated behind the line Elizabeth had drawn on the floor with a marker pen, more than a d from the door. The part of the apartment situated between the fridge and the window, far enough that zombies could not feel them from the hall.
Elizabeth and Belle had made a sort of refuge there, a lair inside the lair, with cold food, water, cushions. If the situation took a turn for the worse, the window. And then—another apartment? Or the wilderness, with 84 000 zombies, freezing nights, no mountain gear?
Options.
They sat down in the safe zone, Elizabeth still holding her coffee. Perfectly silent.
No human steps, nothing.
An hour passed before the zombies approached. Probably two of them, considering the noise. Shuffling nearer. They walked by, then shuffled away.
So. Edwards was opening the doors and luring the zombies in. Everywhere around the Center, probably, maybe hoping the creatures would detect them. Or just, working for the pack.
Ok. Ok. Unnerving, of course. But they had seen it coming. When the shuffling was far enough away, Elizabeth and Belle resumed normal life, sort of, doing quick raids in the unsecured part of the apartment. Without stimulation, there was a good chance the zombies would fall asleep at the end of the corridor.
Still, Elizabeth moved the coffee machine inside the safe zone.
Fine. She was fine. They were fine. It was all fine.
- XX -
That same evening Edwards entered the hall.
Elizabeth and Belle were already on the cushions in the safe zone when they heard his strong, decided steps, so different from the creatures'.
"I know you're in there!" Bang.
The Bang, some sort of cane, maybe a piece of metal tube, hitting the door of the hall's first apartment.
"I know you're in there!" Bang.
Second door.
Belle, now a salt statue, the wives of Lot's punishment without the crime. "Do not move," Elizabeth ordered in a low voice.
"I know you're in there!" Bang.
"I know you're in there!" Bang.
A pause. "256! I know you're in there. Come forward. Come to me…"
And Belle stirred. She began to rise, Elizabeth tackled her down, muffling her with her hand. "Are you crazy? Don't move, don't move, what are you doing," she furiously whispered, "Red bracelet," 256 answered, "I know you're in there!" Bang, "I'm gonna be punished," the child desperately muttered, still struggling, "You're Belle," Elizabeth answered in a low, cold voice, "256 belongs to the lab, Belle belongs to me, I am Blue Bracelet, Belle obeys me," "I know you're in there!" Bang, Belle, tears in her eyes, looking at Elizabeth, "256! I know you're in there!" BANG, their door, their door, "You belong to me, I'll be the one doing the experiments," Elizabeth whispered, the girl crumbled back onto the cushions.
"I know you're in there!" BANG. The door on their left. And then another, and then another, to the end of the hall, to another hall, he was far away, the Bangs melted into nothingness, Edwards was gone.
See? All fine.
- XX -
The day after, water and electricity were brutally cut off.
- XX -
"Hey, you're wanted in Jesse Diabate's office."
Coulson thanked the guy but finished his coffee first. Whatever Jesse wanted could wait till his brain was caffeinated. Then he leisurely made his way to the third floor, with its thick VIP carpets and pictures-that-won't-offend-anybody, you know the kind, pebbles on the beach in black and white, flowers or tree branches taken so close they lost all signification and became meaningless, contemporary art shapes.
Jesse's office. After a polite knock, Coulson entered the room.
And instantly took stock of the situation.
"Good morning, Mr. Coulson," Jesse said. Apparently relaxed in his deep leather chair. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second; the warning in Jesse's gaze was obvious, if the "Mr. Coulson" had not been clear enough. Coulson did not react in any way, he just gave a polite smile, "Mr Diabate," he answered before turning to the man in uniform with a thousand ribbons standing near the table, "You've already met General Archambeau, of course," Jesse was saying, Coulson smiled again and shook the general's hand, his brain catching up, Jesse had said "Good morning," not "Hello" or "Hi" or "Fuck you asshole where is my fucking coffee," "Good morning" was a code, as were "Good afternoon," and "Good evening," the code meant, "ACT NOW."
"So, Coulson, I hear civilian life is treating y—" the General began, Coulson elbowed him in the face, grabbed the gun he knew Jesse was always, always keeping hidden on a shelf behind an innocent looking archive box, he met Jesse's eyes for a fraction of second again to telegraph his intentions then he grabbed his friend by the neck, pulled him up, Jesse made a short surprised gasp for show, a little too dramatic maybe but it would do, now Coulson had him by the throat, the gun resting on Jesse's left temple.
"Someone try anything," Coulson said, "I blow Mr Diabate's brain out."
A general who survived an almost apocalypse was difficult to faze. Archambeau calmly wiped the blood from his nose.
"I believe we have a bit of an overreaction here."
Not overreacting. Coulson's was already in tactical analysis mode, and wouldn't you know, there were two other soldiers in the corridor outside. That woman he never remembered the name of, she had been conspicuously reading one of the communication leaflets when he walked in. Another one beside her, innocently leaning upon the wall. It's not like they were discreet; Coulson should have noticed. He was getting rusty, well, sometimes you just have to quickly shake out the rust.
"We just want to talk to you," the General added, and sure enough, the two soldiers appeared at the door, pointing their weapons at him. Wanting to talk, sure. In a private cell somewhere underground. Been there, done that. Coulson dragged Jesse toward the door while his hostage remembered he had to sell his role.
"Come on. Sam, we're all friends here," Jesse began with just the right tone—an undercurrent of worry, an apparent desire to defuse the situation. "The fuck, just let me go. We can all pretend this little incident didn't happen…"
"Sure, sure," the general said, following each of Coulson's movements with hawk-like attention. "Coulson, let the man go."
Coulson kept moving toward the door, dragging Jesse, but the second soldier blocked the exit. On the left, the woman raised her weapon just a tad, Coulson calmly met her eyes and added some pressure on Jesse's temple.
"Fuck," Jesse muttered, pretending he had just now realized the seriousness of the situation.
"Sorry," Coulson said to the room. "Not available for a chat."
Standstill. The soldier, at the door. The woman glanced at her superior officer, waiting for orders. So, the army had decided that the civilian part of the brass was not doing a good enough job handling the Center's rapidly degrading situation, and they had stepped in. Coulson was a hindrance, not to be trusted, as the secret phone proved. As his relationship with Elizabeth Moore proved, as his desperate attempts to get an evac proved.
But Coulson knew too much to be fired. Not only about the failures of the Center and what happened in Lab B-13, about…everything, really. Seventeen years in special forces, you stumble onto a lot of shit. The plan might be roughing him up a bit, see if he was up to something—he wasn't—then lock him in a cell and throw away the key.
The question was, did they want this more than they wanted Jesse Diabate alive? Jesse was an important man now.
"Let them go," the General sighed at last. The soldier stepped aside; Coulson quickly dragged Jesse to the elevator, his friend protesting, "Come on Sam don't be a moron," and putting up some theatrically inefficient resistance. Pushing the elevator button, fortunately it was just there; in the office the General was giving quick and precise orders over the phone, there would be quite a welcome committee at destination.
They stepped inside. The elevators' doors closed. Coulson and Jesse both glanced up. One camera, no mikes, not that'd they know of, at least. Coulson did not change position, in case people were watching or decided to peruse the recordings later.
"No birds in the sky here," Jesse said, keeping his anxious hostage expression—the camera.
"Fuck you," Coulson answered in his best sing-song voice, not breaking character either.
"They're sending a chopper on Thursday. To the Center. Arrival estimate, 20h00. 'Eliminate the security threats', threats, plural."
"Fuck."
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
"You know how to start my car," Jesse muttered, not articulating too clearly in the extremely improbable case someone decided to read lips on the recording.
"I was thinking more, sublevel one. The maintenance vans."
"Fair enough. I'll mention your brother. Oh, I am so scared of big bad mean guy Coulson, with his big bad mean gun, I am his prisoner wow am I shaking in my pants," Jesse began while the elevator's doors opened, then he changed his tone because hello welcome committee, back to stoic hostage mask—another show of struggling, and this was good-bye, Coulson realized. He would never see Jesse again. Maybe Jesse was thinking it too, he kept silent while Coulson marched him in the opposite direction of the underground parking zone, like his goal was the street and the crowds there, four soldiers following them, pointing guns; four was doable but Coulson had to act fast, the more he stalled the more Archambeau had time to rally the troops; Coulson waited till he was next to the door, then he threw his hostage at them—the last image he had of Jesse was his friend flailing dramatically while oh so clumsily stumbling, getting in the way as much as he could—the stairwell door closed behind Coulson and he began to run.
- XX -
Cold food. Cold night.
Fuck you, Witch.
Elizabeth made a quick estimate. Soon they would be out of bottled water. Soon they would also be out of food, because so much of it has to be cooked, like pasta or rice, and without electricity—see my point.
She had to get out again.
- XX -
Through the window, et caetera. Four zombies on Elizabeth's way, two in an office asleep, two of them roaming. Avoid. Keep your d. The small cafeteria at the end of the accounting zone was empty with the exception of some boxes of milk (into the backpack.) But someone had gotten there before Elizabeth.
Edwards, stockpiling food. Using it as a trap.
He had to know they would be hungry, so he was taking everything, hoping to flush them out.
Lying in wait somewhere, waiting for Elizabeth to show up.
- XX -
Dropping the milk at home. Then, all the way back to the Italian restaurant. Reverse psychology. Edwards would not think Elizabeth would have the guts to come back, or at least she hoped so. It worked, mostly. Elizabeth gave the glass panel a wide berth, she forewent the now useless pasta, she ignored the saffron. But fancy tomato sauce, olive oil, and chutneys—into the bag. Dried, years-old chocolate. Yay. Edwards had not raided the place—maybe Elizabeth's idea was the right one, or—
Or maybe he had not come for the food yet.
Maybe he was on his way right now.
An irrational terror seized her. Elizabeth's hands began trembling while holding a can of green peas. She knew it was a nonsensical reaction—the suddenness, the strength of her fear—she was losing it, days of pent-up tension and buried fear catching with her, a nervous breakdown, it would pass, she was fine, it was all fine, look at all that chutney, but it did not pass, she was shivering all over, her mind screaming—she zipped up the backpack and got the heck out of Dodge. Retracing her steps, finding another breakroom, nothing left there, when she stepped out she saw him.
Edwards. He did not spot her. There he was, on the other side of a huge cubicle space, walking, with zombies.
With. With zombies. Four of them, like a posse. Elizabeth was petrified, she should have retreated silently back, but she could not. Petrified. Not fear, horror. This was alien.
Walking with death. First she thought the creatures were following him, but no, she realized—still standing there, still motionless, God what was wrong with her—the creatures did not seem to feel Edward's presence, he was not—not leading them, no. Just walking in the same direction. But that was the unnatural, alien point. The zombies did not attack; they did not want to bite the tasty, available human flesh. Edwards just felt like one of them now.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. When they were gone, Elizabeth went to puke in some office's private bathroom, rinsed it off with precious water, from a bottle, then resumed her walk and went home.
- XX -
You can eat dry pasta, turns out.
- XX -
The next day, Elizabeth snapped.
It just happened. No inciting incident. Ok, the quest for dried apricots was it, was the incident.
Elizabeth was on the roof terrace on a treasure hunt—a friend of Duy kept dried fruits in his drawer, she had remembered. She found them, two bags of perfect beautiful, dried apricots for Belle, Elizabeth tasted one, delicious, would go well with coffee. Except—no electricity, no coffee. There was an emergency generator, several to be exact, two by buildings. Down there with the labs and the experimental subjects. Too risky, of course. The lower she went, the more zombies there would be. Also, Edwards had access also, if Elizabeth succeeded to turn them on, he could always find the generators and shut everything down again.
It made no sense to go.
Except suddenly Elizabeth really wanted to.
She would just walk down to the labs, ignore the zombies, find the generator, turn it on, make herself a coffee and walk back. Just one coffee. And if Edwards found them after well more power to him—power, ha. Wasn't she funny. She just—her head was fuzzy, she could not think straight. Nightmares, nervous breakdowns, obsessing about—the reports, Agatha Christie, blood in her childhood bedroom, her mom screaming in the lab, clearly the lack of caffeine affecting her.
One expresso and she'd be fine again, fine and dandy, where did this expression come from, by the way? Why "dandy"? If there was electricity Elizabeth could look it up—she would, after coffee, she was walking, by the way, all this time wondering about the role of "dandy" she was walking in the halls, direction, the nearest stairwell, from there she would find her way down to the lower levels, and wouldn't Belle be happy with the apricots when Elizabeth would be back? A zombie felt her presence and crossed the office he was chilling in, she shut the door in its face, a really satisfying sensation, hearing the ridiculous PONG when the creature hit the door, the stairs, down she went, feeling pretty satisfied with her existence, hello undead people waiting at arrival, Elizabeth dodged them, teeth clacking near her cheek but a near miss is still a miss, the creatures followed, like bridesmaids, the door was blocked at the end of the hall, dramatic irony right there for you because Elizabeth was the one who barricaded it with Edward at the time they were besties—now she found herself on the other side—the four zombies advancing behind her, life getting interesting, ok, one office on her right, just one, if this door was locked this would be the end of Elizabeth's Wonderful and Terrifying Adventures—it was not, why the hell had she stressed over this things before? Avoiding monsters was easy, a game of hide and seek, hey, maybe she should have closed that door behind her, too late, her new friends were already in, the window slid easily open, stepping out onto the balcony, Elizabeth climbed onto the next one, try that, you stupid undead creatures! Not so keen on escalade, are you? Kind of comical seeing them stuck behind the railing, flailing desperately, trying to catch her, she waved back, going for a coffee, folks! And—fresh air.
Fresh air.
Outside.
The ground was not so far off. Forget coffee, she should go for a walk.
Under the blue sky, on the slopes. The smell of grass. Wind. Space.
Elizabeth looked down. She could jump. Could she jump? Three stories high, might be risky. Also, the zombie pens, just below, waiting for her with open arms. Karima, Nawal, her parents, waiting for her with, well, arms, the zombies' arms, not the pens', please pay attention.
Maybe not her most brilliant idea. Fine, Elizabeth had all the time in the world, Belle was safe in the apartment with olive oil and dry rigatoni. Some new shenanigans, she found the nearest roof terrace, a ladder, one level down, and then again. Once there Elizabeth actually jumped down. From Level One. She landed on the grass, falling not exactly right, hurting her ankle.
How to climb back was a problem for future Elizabeth.
In the nearest zombie pen, the creatures sensed her and went wild. The fences would contain them though. Probably.
Who cared.
She was outside again.