Three years ago.
This was the first of a long series of environmental meetings, and Elizabeth was very, very bored. Her eyes keep drifting toward the window—she could be outside right now, having lunch, instead of listening to administrative drivel and waiting for the arrival of a Witch, 'the head of security,' a red bracelet who clearly could not be bothered to be on time for low colors employees.
When the guy finally showed up, he did apologize briefly. "Sam Coulson," he introduced himself, before sitting down with what Elizabeth decided was a disagreeable air of 'what am I doing here condescending to my inferiors while I could be in the VIP levels chilling with my peers?" Sure, she did not want to be there either—but hating people with no valid reason is a human right, and she decided to exert it.
Then her frustration changed direction because Thorpe was on a roll. He was in charge of the meeting, and he was the long-winded type, always going on tangents and paradoxically being extremely picky on the rules. Not because Thorpe cared, but because it gave him power, Elizabeth believed—as petty as that power was. And what was already an interminable meeting soon became a nightmare. It was supposed to last forty-five minutes—except they had already wasted ten of them thanks to the late arrival of Mr Head of Security right there—and now, an hour and a half gone already, Thorpe was asking Coulson's opinion on—something—"I do not like the kinetics on this either," Coulson replied, "but we do not have a choice, because…"
Elizabeth was hardly listening—still she noticed the strange choice of word. 'Kinetics.'
Maybe this was Witch corporate talk. Who cared, not her, they were all going at Churchill's apartment to play bridge tonight, and if you think bridge is a boring game for old people, well, one, there were not a lot of old people around anymore, most of them didn't run fast enough—also, the flu—and two… Elizabeth was interrupted in her inner heartfelt defense of bridge by another of Coulson's answers. "It's like looking at this issue through a kaleidoscope," he said, his face perfectly bland, "you see the different patterns, and here we are indeed confronted to several difficulties—"
Kinetics. Kaleidoscope.
Elizabeth's interest was piqued.
"I am keenly aware of that fact, but—" Coulson stated ten seconds after, after another inane remark from Thorpe, and, come on—Elizabeth did not have proof yet, but then, "let's not pour kerosene and set the whole project on fire yet—"
Come. On.
Red Bracelet guy was playing a game.
He was playing a childish game—literally. One of the oldest in the world, a variation of the Alphabet game, choosing a letter and discreetly inserting in the conversation as many words starting with that letter as possible. You tried to reach a certain number without anyone noticing; you generally had a buddy in the room, with whom you were in discreet competition—Elizabeth listened carefully but nobody else was paying attention, nobody else was uttering strange sentences.
The letter K was a bold choice, and Mr Red Bracelet was doing it all alone. Now we can't have that, can we?
"I think this one is a keeper," Elizabeth commented, when Thorpe had proposed a new stylistic twist on point 145.b. Coulson glanced at her—a quick, discreet look. Then silence fell—ok, a lie, Thorpe was rambling on and now Jin was disagreeing with him about grammar, grammar, please, in an accounting report, but Coulson kept silent, apparently focused on a file. Elizabeth was playing with her pen, looking at Thorpe with the most innocent face ever, as if fascinated by the past-perfect debate and not thinking, people who argue word choice in a meeting should be rounded up and set on fire, and hadn't there been enough dead already, well APPARENTLY NOT.
"We should kickstart this project now—without further ado," Coulson declared, eyes still on the file.
"It just needs a little know-how," Elizabeth answered. Coulson did not move, did not react in anyway except he said, his voice perfectly toneless,
"I would kindly remind everyone that we are on a deadline here," and it was on.
"Kudos to the team, this was a very productive meeting," Coulson stated half an hour later when everything was at last over.
Elizabeth nodded. "A lot of institutional knowledge shared today. I hope it will work,"
"Knock on wood," Coulson replied, and how could he not smile, but he didn't, his face perfectly focused and business-like, damn, what an awesome skill.
People scattered, Thorpe and Jin standing in a corner and still going at it.
Coulson walked to Elizabeth.
"Ms Moore," he said, formally.
"Mr Coulson."
"I am not one to keep count. But if I was, I would say that the tally of linguistic interventions clearly ran in my favor."
"k'", was Elizabeth's reply.
"'k' is not a word."
Elizabeth's gaze paused on Coulson's red bracelet for just long enough, then she said, "Of course, sir," Coulson rolled his eyes so hard, and she laughed.
Now.
Elizabeth raised the gun.
She waited.
Nobody came.
Elizabeth's thoughts kept wandering. Tomorrow the sky would be turquoise, the mountains green and rust. The daisies, growing. The carpet, expanding. Her initial enthusiasm had dimmed out somewhat. If the density of white needed to be very high to affect the creatures, then… Then no daisies garlands, no children throwing Vantawhite petals at undead creatures, no hippie clothes weaved with bright flowers. The "make love not war" civilization would wait. Houses surrounded by daisies were a nice, visual dream, but most people lived in high-density towns, and what about the climate, and what about winter, and what happened when night fell and colors vanished, also, "people most likely to contaminate you are already inside your home!" You all remember the safety reels.
Still. A color that repelled zombies. Could they make, like, paint? Could they reproduce whatever was at play there and apply it to another medium? It was something. It was a sliver of light, and she had found it, she had protected it.
The depot was silent. Above Elizabeth, the neon shone. One of them flickered half-heartedly, like the stage light guy doing the strict minimum at a school play.
Nothing. No one.
Twenty minutes passed. Elizabeth had lowered her gun; if her arms trembled when the Wolf attacked, she would regret maintaining her badass position. Her ankle still hurt. At the merest noise she took aim again, but—no. No Edwards.
An hour now, at least.
Maybe Edwards did not know where the generators were after all. Maybe he didn't care.
Maybe he was waiting for her behind the door.
Terror choked her, and she froze—and hey, hello, that had not happened for a while. A minute of struggling. Regaining control. Yes, yes, maybe Edwards was hiding near the exit, ready to leap—but Elisabeth had no choice but to leave. She still had to go back to Belle, to give her dry apricots, water, and the biggest hug.
She made prudently her way out, Advance-Retreat-Advance, do not jump at shadows, do not shoot at shadows, if you see anything don't scream, retreat through the door and then fire, unless Edwards is, like, jumping at your throat, also, let's not forget the possible presence of zombies, you know, the main threat?
Still nothing.
The main hall. Lights were shining there too; the horde of zombies was slowly shifting west, across the huge space to the recreation area, the first creatures making their way out through the double, open white doors and shuffling on the hall tiles, hesitating and retreating because they were Called back, then starting to advance again. The phenomenon had been thoroughly studied. Fluid mechanics, the experts said. Not entirely good news because, as fluid tend to do, with the right stimuli a horde could rush down like a wild torrent, destroying everything in its path; please imagine, during the war, millions of undead creatures in the central plains, pouring toward the armies' front lines.
Nobody was rushing now. The scouts of the confused undead militia were drudging their way across the hall, aiming for the door in front of them, while Elizabeth was watching it all with horror and fascination, safe near the reception desk.
The reception desk, where there was, yes, a coffee machine.
Elizabeth settled behind the fake mahogany counter. Not a bad place to be. The sturdy wall behind her, two exits, the counter like a shield. Random documents, a pen, a sad, forgotten mug, a computer. She logged in while the coffee machine was heating up. Maybe Edwards had messaged her, ha. "I found a treatment, I am all Un-Franked now, all good. Please meet me in office 23, Level Two, don't need the gun, bring Belle. And mayo." Maybe there would be news from the Witch, "we're very sorry about all the misunderstandings, we are actually sending a helicopter to help you, there will be no murder of witnesses, and by the way, Karima says hi." Or maybe—
Ninety-two missed attempted contacts.
Elizabeth's heart jumped. Ninety-two— Not— Ok. See, ninety-two missed emails or intranet automated messages would not be that surprising, and by the way, here it was, in her emails, the "We Now Forsake You" message. The "Dear Ms Moore, you have not heeded our warnings, you are now a deserter, appropriate measures have been taken, please proceed to the closest authorities to hand over your id and your badge so we can execute you on the spot." Paraphrasing on the last part, sure. But death penalty was the punishment for desertion, remember?
Also, you gotta appreciate the "Dear Ms Moore" here, before what was a "we are going to kill you" message. Who said the army did not have a sense of humour? But who cared. Maybe Elizabeth should have, she was now an outlaw and this was important info, but—ninety-two attempted contacts.
It could be… It could be…
The computer pinged, right there in front of her. Unknown contact. Right now.
It could be a trap.
The coffee machine beeped—Elizabeth realized, with a start, that she had completely forgotten about coffee. Because, right now, right now, at this very second, someone desperately wanted to talk to her, and this someone could be…
Elizabeth clicked on the link. The dot turned green; a chat window opened. She typed.
- Please establish your identity. -
An eternity passed before the unknown contact deigned to answer—eight minutes, but eight minutes can stretch to infinity. Elizabeth stayed there, watching the horde, watching her surroundings, watching the screen. She made coffee—who knows when her next chance would be. There was no honey around, but those small packs of sugar would do—still no Edwards—Elizabeth could not focus on Edwards, ninety-two attempted contacts, please, please, let it be—
- How's the exposure therapy going? - appeared on the screen.
- You asshole - she typed back on instinct, heat rushing to her face, her mind buzzing, but… - I need more proof. -
- You kept missing Muriel's head. -
The HR leaflet. Pinned on a tree, near the science trailer. One year ago now? Blazing sun, beer. Shooting lesson. Muriel something-hyphenated-something was acting director of HR at the time, her face the glossy picture on the upper left corner of the paper document, Elizabeth kept shooting and never hit her, not once, she never even hit the leaflet.
She massaged her temples. That was, that was, that was good, that was - Need more proof - she wrote.
Maybe they got Coulson and tortured him. Maybe he was typing with a gun to his head. But it seemed like a lot of trouble to—to what, exactly? No need for an elaborate trap. Elizabeth was worthless; the Witch didn't care about her.
No answer.
Maybe she had scared him off. Maybe this would be the last message she ever received, ever again. Maybe…
- 'k' is still not a word. -
- k -, she answered. Her heart was going crazy. - Ok-, she wrote again - It's you - and then she wanted to type something, something important, no idea what, she just…
- Call me - appeared, followed by a phone number, Elizabeth scribbled it on a piece of paper, she repeated a few times, learning it by heart just to be sure, but what about the communication ban—
- Will it work? –
- On this phone it will. We may be listened to. Ten minutes. –-
The little dot turned red. The other phone, their secret phone, was burned and dead, even if she had kept it in one of Karima's drawers for reasons she could not exactly articulate. Elizabeth looked around, the undead crowd, still on the same path, but around her everything was turning fuzzy, no, not the denial fog, something else, something warm and dizzying and maybe it was because she was not in denial anymore, but the realization crashed on her like a wave—like a horde—it was so obvious, so obvious in retrospect—the truth still made her tremble, the world tipping on its axis, the universe taking a slightly different hue.
When had this all started? For him? For her? She massaged her temples again, and sure you're gonna think," who cares," right, who cared about this when Elizabeth was in a life and death situation with a zombie horde, a hungry killer and a child to protect—well she cared, ok? It counted, it did, it did not change everything but it made her plight a little more palatable, the world a little less hopeless, did Coulson already—when they ate pizza in the conference room and bantered all night—when they were in the science trailer—when he kept taking Elizabeth for coffee every Thursday morning after the awful, awful DHR meetings and they went into this awful, awful, breakroom with the concrete pillars and the vending machines but it was part of the charm, how bad it was—the only place in the Center you could get caramel flavored latte flavored—did Coulson already—as for her, when did she—you know what, the horde was drifting her way.
Something attracted them. The typing noise, the hiss of the coffee machine? No, not loud enough, she did not think. Perhaps an outside noise, or a creature making a wrong turn, creating a chain reaction—Elizabeth grabbed her coffee cup and cautiously walked the other way.
A phone. She wanted to hear Coulson's voice. The certainty of the previous moment was already vanishing—had she dreamed it? Dreamed the whole interaction?
A phone, a phone— Edwards might have fun stockpiling food, but he had no reason to get interested in office supplies; Elizabeth entered the labyrinth of administrative offices on the left, looking for an office manager closet, and—score. There it was, where the post-its, the pens, and the printer cartridges lived. Phone chargers, and—here, phones, still on their transparent plastic protections. Maybe for field trips, or when someone was sent back to town—Elizabeth grabbed three of them just in case. Now she had to find a way back up, she could not stay and call Coulson here while the herd was roaming—but when she carefully retraced her way back to the hall she had to stop abruptly.
Seven zombies. In the corridor she just stepped out of. On their way to join the horde.
Elizabeth hesitated. Should she just use the push-and-run method? But seven was a lot, and her ankle was still acting out. And what if they Called? She backtracked, looking for a way around, but when she found one the horde was there, blocking her, and when she got back to the seven creatures and her initial plan the horde was there too, it had spread and shifted, a river of zombies between her and the hall, invading everything, blocking every passage.
The stairwells were on the other side.
She was stuck.
Ok. Not dead yet, just…trapped. Elizabeth estimated the direction of the zombie current and found an office not directly on the way. The undead river should flow along it, not inside; Elizabeth secured the room and barricaded the entrance.
She settled far away from the door, a good, safe d between her and the hallway. Just in time—the zombie avant-garde was approaching. She retreated even further, sitting down on the floor, behind a desk, in hiding. Outside the creatures began drudging alongside the glass partition, a very fragile-looking partition, but there was no reason for them to want to come that way, was there.
The gun, down on the beige carpet, at her side.
Phone. Has it been more than ten minutes? Elizabeth got frantically rid of the plastic, of course, the phone was not charged, she plugged it in, please, Edwards, don't turn off the generator now. She waited till the system decided to wake up, then, number.
The phone rang.
No answer. Not even a message before the call disconnected. Coulson did not exist, did he? Elizabeth already had a psychotic break, why not a second one? She put the phone back down on her knees—it rang.
She jumped to answer it, heart beating like hell.
"Hello?"
"Still alive, then."
Blue sky. Bad coffee. Conversations on the grass. Laughing. Suddenly it did not matter if her previous revelation was true or not, if she had made it all up, she was just so, so glad to hear him.
"Yes," she breathed. "Still alive. Quite in a pickle right now, though."
"Describe the pickle."
"No." Elizabeth did not want to talk about undead faces visible through the glass. She did not want to talk about hordes and dead ends and death and the Wolf. Coulson was far away, she would survive, or not, without his help. "I mean, I will tell you, because you're stubborn and you won't leave me alone otherwise—but later. The pickle is not time sensitive. What—what about you?"
So many things unsaid. Including the "why did you lie about Frank?" question, but—she did not care anymore. Elizabeth knew why Coulson did it. Red bracelet, he had to. A tiny droplet lost in a sea of complexity.
"The Emergency Research Office and I disagreed on a matter of internal policy," Coulson said. "I resigned."
"What? Oh my God." Coulson was prone to understatements. "What— Was it—amicable? Are you ok?"
"Not exactly amicable, no. That is why I might— If the communication cuts off, don't worry. I'll just take care of my own pickles and get back to you later."
"Are they after you?"
"Elizabeth, describe your pickle, please."
"You're not the boss of me," she said, with infinite weariness. Coulson was in danger, and she could not act. She was trapped, and so were they all.
"Thus the 'please,' Ms Moore."
"It sounded like an order."
"It is one. I am just being polite. I'm still red range—as far as I know. You're supposed to listen to me, not that you ever did."
Elizabeth shrugged. "A horde of zombies is blocking the main reception hall. They're barring my access to the stairs." A pause on the other side. "You wanted to know. I just—it's not that dangerous. I'll just chill here till my friends here decide to move elsewhere. If they don't, I'll consider my options."
"How— Why— Ok. How the hell did a zombie horde make its way inside the building? No, do not answer this. I have something to tell you first."
A pause. After a few seconds of silence, she asked, "Are you driving?"
"No. In a motel."
The room was orange and brown, old-fashioned fifty years ago. Coulson remembered Jesse asking why cheap establishments did not choose clear colors, to make the depressing digs a little bit happier. The answer was, of course, that brown and orange hid questionable stains better.
Coulson was sitting on the floor, on the questionable carpet, between the wall and the bed. Nobody would blow his head through the window at least. He heard the exhaustion in Elizabeth's voice; he knew his would reflect it. They were tired, both of them, and it was not only physical, but a deep psychological fatigue, and that was not good, not good at all.
"Ok, Elizabeth, listen." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am using the Center emergency communications protocols to call you—it is the only way. I have no idea if they are listening or not. Obviously, they should, but they are incompetent enough to… Who knows."
Perhaps the Witch was incompetent enough not to find the codes he had buried deep inside the system. Perhaps Jesse was still discreetly helping—a fact Coulson could obviously not state aloud.
Among a whole series of facts he could not state aloud.
He could not tell Elizabeth he was on his way. If he did, the Witch would change its plans, they would send the chopper early to kill her and Edwards earlier, and wait for Coulson to end him too. In fact, Coulson could not tell her about the chopper at all—for the same reasons. But he had to say something. If they got to him before he got to her, she had to flee. One way or another he had to take a risk.
Today was Wednesday. Still Wednesday, a little before midnight.
"Listen. If the situation has not drastically changed at 6 pm tomorrow…" If I'm not there with you… "Then you've got to leave. Take food, warm clothes, munitions, Z-kits, and at 5.59, you get out, you hike, you disappear somewhere. Understood?"
Silence at the other side. Then, "Understood."
"Did you find the gun?"
"Yes."
"Good."
And—that was all. There was nothing more Coulson could say, or things that were way, way too personal—not that she would ever want to hear them, she never did, before. But he still did not want to end the call, not now, not ever, so he just stayed on the line, couldn't go to sleep anyway, too dangerous. Three teams on his tail, he was not sure he had lost them all.
"There are two things you should know," Elizabeth started.
"Elizabeth…"
"No, it's good if the Witch hears it. The whole world should hear it. First, Edwards is contaminated, he went full on 'The Girl in the Gas Station syndrome.'"
Great. "This explains the horde, I guess."
"The other info is much more important." And Elizabeth began to ramble about daisies, and let's be honest, at first Coulson hardly listened—he was so tired—but then he began to understand and straightened up a little.
"What about the rest of the flora? The mutations—poppies were affected, right? Your...dark blueberries?"
"The Vantablackberries. I don't know."
"What about fauna? Didn't Thorpe tell us—wasn't there a statistically significant influx of foxes?"
"I don't know. Nobody does, that's the whole point. Hello, Witch. Plants are mutating, some of them are repelling zombies, wavelengths are at play. Whoever is listening, please pass the info, ok? For money, if nothing else. The first one copyrighting this can make a fortune."
"And here you're telling me these environmental meetings had a point after all."
"I am telling you my job had a point after all."
Two cars, brakes screeching, on the street opposite the motel. Boots on the concrete.
"What, no biting repartee?" Elizabeth asked, far, so far away.
He couldn't say "I will see you soon." He couldn't say "I'm coming."
Coulson put his hand on the gun, lying there on the brownish carpet at his side.
"Sorry. Gotta go."
