What if.
"Hey," Coulson said, sitting down next to her.
Elizabeth smiled and scooted a little to give him more room. The boat was already far from land, hours had passed with nothing but the sea around. She had saved the seat unconsciously, for one of her friends, except that this was the last boat—the last boat of the evac—everyone but Coulson was gone already, in previous transports. Mary had already sent her "Off to Sweden, it was fun till it lasted, be good without me" farewell text.
Elizabeth and Coulson—and three hundred others—were the last Center employees to go.
Maybe she had saved the seat for him after all.
"Are you allowed to take a break?" she asked. "Will they let you? I feel like you've been running around for three days straight."
Coulson passed his hand into his hair; he looked, indeed, totally exhausted. "There's no 'they.' Everyone is gone. There's no one above me right now."
All the VIPs had been evacuated first. Stepping into their fancy helicopters, leaving Coulson and the security teams to take care of the rest.
"But you stayed."
"Going down with the ship. Except I'd rather this ship didn't go down. Not with you on it," he added, not looking at her.
"It's almost over." Elizabeth's voice was low. The Center, this part of her life, nearly done.
"Yes."
Elizabeth loved boats. Not the pretty, luxurious yachts, she loved huge, ugly, modern, uncomfortable boats. She loved the atmosphere, loved that you could feel the deep depths of the sea lapping around the metal hull, the small waves looking inconspicuous as the powerful currents played under the surface, out of view.
Lost at sea. Protected.
"There was a zombie in the toilets upstairs, near the helm station," Coulson stated in his habitual mild tone. Elizabeth half-choked on her drink. "Got rid of it. He nearly bit a woman of the crew. Almost had our little outbreak going on here."
A zombie outbreak in a boat. In the middle of the ocean. Now that would be a story to tell.
Another story to tell.
Elizabeth had almost been left behind, can you imagine that? There had been talk of keeping the Center open, leaving only two employees—to keep money flowing in. She and a guy named Edwards, they were supposed to stay—she heard it at the last moment. Except, they discovered some shenanigans in one of the labs. Elizabeth did not know much, but the Witch had been afraid of the media getting a whiff of it, so they were closing everything after all. Napalming the place.
Not with real napalm. Metaphoring here, guys.
She almost got left behind. It almost happened. But it didn't.
"You know, the cheddar is actually really good," she stated. The boat had a sort of cafeteria, most dishes were inedible. "You need some food in you, Mr No-One-Above-Me-Now. I'm getting us a tray."
"No. Let me."
Elizabeth protested, but Coulson was determined. He got back with a mountain of bread and cheese, some tea, two dubious looking apples. They ate in comfortable silence, interrupted by bouts of lazy, strangely intimate conversation.
Life was good. The skies were turning darker. The boat engines were humming. Elizabeth's world turned fuzzy, and suddenly dawn was breaking through the portholes, and she realized she had gotten asleep on Coulson's shoulder. Stayed there, for hours.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. She tried to straighten up, her thoughts still vague, everything still in a haze. He was looking at her, his expression weird.
"It's ok."
Daylight lazily invaded the place, people yawning, stirring in their seats. Coulson stayed at her side all morning, this time Elizabeth was the one who got them breakfast, bread, cheddar, and coffee, and again everything was soft and hazy and good and important.
"Look," Coulson said, after he disappeared for hours to prepare for the arrival—checking the security teams and Red Braceleting everyone into order and safety. He nodded toward the porthole.
"Look. We're there."
The afternoon sun, the skyline, the town.
-X-
It could have happened.
It almost had happened.
Almost.
-X-
Elizabeth opened the door and there was Edwards, leaning upon the wall, waiting for her, smiling.
He was already jumping, Elizabeth fired—he was on her—she yelled and desperately twisted out of his way, his teeth clacking near her face, fire, fire again, she did, point blank, detonation deafening, it hit somewhere in Edwards' belly, blood splattering, he screamed but would not let go, his hands around her neck she fell under his weight and oh God he was going to eat her, he was going to do it this time, Elizabeth elbowed him with all her might and tried to kick him off, didn't work, alone in the woods and the wolf was on her, his breath, his mouth, ready to bite, Belle appeared from nowhere to struck him in the neck with the Z-Knife—the blade hardly broke the skin but Edwards turned to the girl with a growl, Elizabeth headbutted him with all her might, she rolled away, "Get back in!" she yelled at Belle, scrambling upright, the wolf was getting ready to leap on the child but Elizabeth grabbed him by his mane, pulling him away from Belle, "BELLE, GET BACK!," "STAY HERE!" Edwards ordered, his voice inhuman, Belle paused for a fraction of a moment—before hurrying back inside, Elizabeth took aim, FIRE, Edwards had thrown himself on the side, the bullet hit the leg, he was getting back up three bullets—how could he—how the hell was he still but he was not a man anymore, he was Beast, Elizabeth ran back inside the apartment, Belle banged the door shut just in time, Edwards threw himself onto the wood once, twice, snarling, "256! Open! Open or you will be punished! OPEN THE DOOR!" Belle was shaking, she put her hands upon her ears, screaming into the void, then she began to chant—something—about tests and punishments—aren't we having fun, was the thought that crossed Elizabeth's mind and ok, ok, fuck it, fuck you, Edwards, tears in her eyes, fear, tension, she planted herself in front of the door, she raised the gun, "Open at the count of three," she whispered to Belle, who looked at her with a wild, lost gaze, silence on the other side, the girl put her hands down, Elizabeth repeated the order, then, "One… Two… Three," Belle flung the door open, Edwards was nowhere in sight.
The hallway looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood on the wall, blood on the floor, blood everywhere. A trail led to the exit door on the right—Elizabeth ran to follow it, if there was an opportunity to end him it was now, but when she got in the main hall the wolf was gone, its blood invisible on the brownish carpet, it could be a trap, she quicky retreated.
-X-
The apartment was compromised.
-X-
Through the window. With Belle. Both covered with blood. Elizabeth carrying the backpack, her ankle hurting.
Another apartment, on Level Three. Barricading the door.
Breathing.
-X-
Three pm.
Edwards was dead. He had to be dead, right? Elizabeth had shot him at least three times, including a bullet in the gut. He had to be dead, he must have cowered into a corner like a wounded animal and bled out—then he'd have woken up as a zombie, who cared, not a shortage of those. Yes, any human would be long dead, but—he was Beast—he had inherited the undead freaky ability to heal.
He also kept a modicum of human intelligence. Maybe enough to crawl to an infirmary and bandage everything, to earn time. To let his new superpowers do their job—maybe.
How had he found them anyway? The gunshot, Elizabeth thought, pacing the apartment, the weapon still in hand, while Belle was watching her with a mix of awe and fear. The gunshot in the stairwell, when she had almost shot Belle—zombies and sound—not that Edwards would have needed any superior ability to hear this one. She pictured the scene, the gunshot echoing through the Center, Edwards running toward the noise, maybe he had entered the corridor just in time to see the apartment door closing.
Leaning back upon the wall in wait. To surprise her, to spook her. Such a human move. A serial killer move. Meaning that yes, he was still human enough, still clever enough for first emergency care.
Elizabeth left Belle barricaded behind in their new lair. She went and chose the best Z-armor from the nearby armory, she put it on, and went on the hunt.
-X-
Being the predator. Stalking the woods for her prey.
The helmet stayed in her backpack—it would impair her vision. Munitions, in the backpack as well.
-X-
Thinking like a hunter. Elizabeth made her way back to their previous apartment—to what had been home—and searched more closely for traces of blood. Here they were, darker brownish stains on the brownish carpet. On the wall, a bloody handprint, such a cliché, her brain supplied, like in a story—but it was a story. Wasn't it the point of fairytales, to warn you? To tell you, 'life is a story and, careful, there is blood on your walls?'
The trail stopped but it had given her a direction. She found the nearest infirmary and score. A mess. Bandages everywhere, torn up, empty boxes of antibiotics. Edwards hadn't touched the painkillers—zombies did not feel pain. Loss of blood would slow him though. Talking of which: Edwards would need water, he would be thirsty. The tap water was still turned off. Elizabeth inspected the surrounding offices—maybe he had searched for bottled water.
Nothing. But. Estimating time. She had not lingered long in the new apartment. Edwards' pause in the infirmary must have lasted for at least ten minutes.
He was near.
The closest stairwell. Fresh blood.
Elizabeth went down the steps with the utmost prudence, good thing too: shuffling, on the other side of the door downstairs. She opened brutally, ready to shoot—five zombies, she banged the door back shut. A coincidence, or was Edwards purposely leading her to danger?
Back upstairs, then another way down. Circling back to her goal. A door closing—on her left—Elizabeth hurried there, and guess what, a welcome committee. Yep, Edwards was taunting her, steering her where death was waiting. Fine. She was ready. She dodged the pack, trying to anticipate Edwards' next move, he would try to attack from behind, and—good guess, here he was, she fired, she missed, he vanished, he reappeared, this time she almost got him, Edwards dove into an HR office—the one where they had drank whisky, where they talked, eons ago. Maybe it was not a coincidence. Maybe he retained some memories—anyway, the game was on. It went on for almost an hour, hide, seek and shoot—a labyrinth where they were by turns Theseus or the Minotaur, Elizabeth's worldview had shrank, nothing existed but the gun and her prey, zombies were flocking closer, drawn by the noise, the hunt slowly taking them downstairs—must be part of Edwards' plan and—THERE HE WAS—he had not seen her yet, the wolf, walking across an IT office decorated with old, battered sci-fi posters, she crept closer, he heard her, he whirled around, FIRE, Edwards' right shoulder exploded—he howled and ran and vanished for good.
This—This was— She got him.
She got him.
Elizabeth waited, circling the area to avoid the ravenous locals.
No sign of life.
Outside it was raining, hard. Fifteen minutes. Half an hour. Nothing. Just the zombies flocking to her like guests to the hostess at a successful party.
Maybe. Maybe this time. Maybe Edwards would finally be out of blood, out of hunger, out of life.
-X-
Ground level. The main hall was as dark as Elizabeth had left it, was it only a few hours ago? Time was flowing faster, events cascading out of control. She needed to regroup, to think. A stop at The Reception Desk Café. Hello everyone, how are you today, you know what, I would quite fancy a cappuccino, and it was, actually, one option of the machine—now, have you ever tried cappuccino made with old, dried milk left for one year in a non-refrigerated apparatus? I let you imagine the smell—and we are in a zombie-ridden world. And no, no need to scream "What the hell are you doing Elizabeth, talking about cappuccino, the wolf is not dead, watch it, watch your back!" She was aware, ok? Aware and wary. The reception counter, as we have established earlier, made a handy little fortress.
Ah—let's not forget the horde. Slowly drifting through the place. Out of view, for now.
Elizabeth threw away the cappuccino. She rinsed the machine with the content of some of those tiny expensive water bottles, stacked under the counter on her left. She made herself real coffee, and if you think coffee is taking a lot of importance in this story, it's because coffee is normalcy, Elizabeth thought, adding a fuck ton of sugar, her hands shaking with exhaustion and stress. Coffee was connecting her with a world where her entire universe was not teeth and death. A world where—a world with a boat, cheddar, and coffee. A world where beautiful realizations slowly bloomed.
A world where she was not—
Wasn't it a little scary, how well she slid into the hunter's skin? How well she could be the psychopath?
Therapists. At the end. When the war was over. Elizabeth and Nawal were studying and working, still sleeping in an urban temporary shelter before complete 'rehabilitation.' At the time the government officials were all about helping the refugees—their enthusiasm puckered away with years and lack of funding.
So, therapists. Elizabeth got an excellent one. For only two weeks—the guy was incredibly busy, going from shelter to shelter. He diagnosed her with heavy ADHD—frequent with trauma survivors, apparently. Elizabeth had forgotten all about it, but now, taking a break from attempted murder, she remembered. It explained her thoughts' tendency to break away from her and go running in the prairie—like they were now. But do you know that with ADHD comes hyperfocus?
This was happening to her now. Hyperfocus on her prey.
Maybe it explained serial killers. People with ADHD and an…original kind of hyperfocus. Survival instinct going wild, while—
A car.
Outside. Engine noise. Getting closer.
-X-
She almost ran toward the door—but, be wise, Little Red Riding Hood. Instead, crossing the hall prudently. Her heart beating like hell.
The only exit was still through the transparent tunnel, and the gate leading to it was open. She remembered closing it—thus, Edwards had been there. Elizabeth cautiously peeked inside. Nobody, not even the zombie that had greeted her previously—it must have wandered out to join the horde.
She stepped inside the tube of glass. The same fissures she had noticed earlier in the walls seemed wider now, maybe Edwards had gone at it again—with an axe? On her right, on the other side of the transparent wall, Elizabeth's pals the zombies, two hundred of them, (estimate.) We'll get you, we'll get you, one day. Throwing themselves at the glass, banging, and Calling in perfect silence.
On her left—Coulson.
His car was parked a little farther. He was walking toward the tunnel and hadn't seen her yet.
Elizabeth remained frozen. For so long there was only she and Edwards, and then Belle. Coulson's presence felt fake, an illusion, a fever dream. Remember all those movies. You thought you were a cop but you're a madman in an asylum. Your best friend doesn't exist and you've always been alone. Your wife is dead and you don't know it, you are dead and you don't know it—random thoughts, she did not actually believe—Coulson spotted her inside the tunnel and stopped.
Elizabeth did not move.
He walked closer. Elizabeth snapped out of her trance. She gestured towards the exit, Coulson nodded; she walked toward the other gate…
It was locked.
Edwards had blocked her only way out. Three days ago, three hours ago maybe, panic would have chocked her, but Elizabeth was getting jaded now. She checked behind her, hoping the wolf hadn't somehow materialized and was in the process of locking her in—no, the hall was still empty. Coulson tried talking but the transparent wall was soundproof. He stopped, took out his phone, waving it in her direction, and Elizabeth—
Elizabeth had left her phone in Karima's apartment.
When she and Belle had run from Edwards. She had left the phone on the table. She conveyed the fact that she was phoneless, Coulson nodded, putting the phone back in his pocket, a makeshift bandage on his arm—was he hurt? He made another circular gesture—indicating he was going to find his own way in—it was her turn to nod, but then she—she could not move.
Coulson was here. Not a figment of her imagination. What she had thought, what she had hoped for… It was true, it had to be true, he would not have come all this way if he hadn't—if he didn't—Coulson hadn't moved either, watching her. Elizabeth put her hand on the glass, slowly.
He put his on the other side.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The zombies, stark raving mad behind her, hitting and hitting the glass in a staccato rhythm. The wind, messing up the leaves. Near Elizabeth's hand the fissures in the glass were spreading.
Near Elizabeth's hand the fissures in the glass were spreading.
She stepped back, her eyes widening in horror—too late. The entire tunnel was disintegrating under the onslaught of zombies. On the other side Coulson was making desperate gestures, enjoining her to run, and this was the last image she had of him, the world crashing and falling around her in glittering, deadly pieces, stars falling and bursting while two hundreds undead creatures (estimate) were rushing in—Elizabeth had almost reached the gate—detonations—Coulson must be shooting—zombies in a barrel—the gate— don't stop—so it was a trap, if Edwards had locked the gate after all she was done—but no—the passage was still open, she rushed back into the darkness of the Center and turned around to close the door, the shots, the noise, were going to attract more zombies, going to attract the horde, zombies, crashing on the metallic structure while she was frenetically locking it, her view was just metal bars and ravenous zombies—yes, it was a trap, a pretty elaborate one too, Edwards weakening the integrity of the glass, hoping she would try to flee, counting on his friends the zombies to bang the glass hard enough to—no sign of Coulson, no more gunshots, it did not mean¬—Coulson had survived much worse—what if this time she was the trap, what if she had led Coulson all the way here just for him to be eaten alive—
Shut up—turn around—check for secondary threats—
There Edwards was, on the other side of the hallway, smirking at her.
Everything turned white.
No more thinking. No reasoning, no strategizing. Elizabeth was carried by such a powerful wave of anger that all logic was swept away; she strode across the hall, clutching the gun, going right at him, Edwards did not move, she began to shoot, still walking, it would have looked much more badass if she hadn't missed every fucking one of those shots, who cared, she was born by wings of furor, Edwards hadn't moved, she could see him perfectly now, he was in a sorry state, soaked with blood but his predator mind seemed all there, his eyes following each of Elizabeth's moves, he had hit the walls of the tunnel over and over so zombies would devour her when she tried to walk through and now maybe Coulson—she shot again, this time Edwards dodged and stepped back in the conference room zone, then he lingered there, just out of range, she ran in pursuit, he stepped back again, smiling at her all the time, yes, yes, he had a plan, yes, yes, sure, he was leading her somewhere but to hell with it all, she just wanted him to die, she just wanted to KILL, further in the conference rooms, he was not walking out of this, not this time, and then—everything turned to black—no, everything turned to night.
It was night on the land. It had always been night, night was a time for fairytales, night was a time for horrors. The forest was deep and thick, the forest did not like humans, a hate as old as time, and so it should be, humanity against the dark, against the profund obscurity lurking in the heart of the woods, but the wolf has lured you in, you have wandered in anyway, and you are all of them, the heroes of the tales and the warriors and the lost children, wearing your red hood, your armor or your rags, all of you, you are one, you are tracking the beast, paths are winding further and further in, the animal always just out of reach, millennia go by, the same story unfurls, and night always wins, till her shoulder hit a computer and Elizabeth was back—beige carpets, printers and scanners—the forest evaporating, as if it had never been there—and of course it never was. Elizabeth was standing in a corridor in the heart of the conference rooms maze, in the middle of the horde, zombies behind her, zombies on the left, zombies on her right, and in front of her Edwards, a victorious smile on his lips, walking toward her, dozens of zombies following him, the servants of the harbinger of death, he almost did not seem to be walking, it felt he was almost floating, carried by his own wings of destruction, ten feet, closing in, all the zombies closing in too, Elizabeth took aim, but this time she waited, only minutes to live now, maybe seconds, and only one thing she was going to do before she died, but God was she going to do it, Edwards was almost on her now, she could see him getting ready to jum so she let herself fall slowly backward, he leaped, she was raising the gun, hyperfocus, somewhere there was music, Edwards was descending on her in slow motion, she aimed, exactly in-between the eyes and FIRE.
-X-
His head exploded.
-X-
And if you think victory tastes bitter, or disappointing, if you think it was not worth it, if you think Elizabeth would not rejoice at the sight of the bloodied, falling corpse of her enemy, well—you'd be wrong.
It felt like rapture. It felt like fire.
It felt like salted blood on her lips—the rush carried her through the next few moments while the sea of undead was closing on her, driven wild by the noise of the gunshot, by Elizabeth's smell, she opened her backpack, grabbed her helmet, put it on her head just in time…
…and the horde swallowed her.