Despite everything Scott had seen, attending the committee was never in question. This left him with the rest of the morning to gather his senses and try to kick himself into a headspace where he could manage the mind games and complex power plays always present at such meetings. He slept fitfully until six when he jolted awake gasping for air with the crunch of severed sinew and broken bones still fading in his ears. At that point he gave up on further rest and stumbled into the shower in the hopes that the water would chase the final traces of nightmares from his mind.
He reflexively turned up the temperature, but searing heat reminded him too strongly of the night before – the sticky sweat which clung to everyone in the crowd, cloying humidity condensing on railings to leave palms wet, congealed fluids from past fights baked in the warmth of spotlights and cameras.
He turned the shower down to a shock of cold. Pipes rattled in protest at the sudden change, but he paid them no mind, resting his head heavily against wet tiles. It didn't matter how much soap he used, he could still feel traces of last night's horrors. There were tiny grains of sand beneath his nails which had found their way into every part of the arena. Even after washing, dressed in clean clothes, he swore he could still smell the rot. A second later, he was surrounded by it.
He was catching more flashes of the hivemind lately. It probably correlated with the increasing number of infected gathered above ground, but he didn't care for the scientific reasoning, only knew that he hated it.
The air was cold and moist and tasted how rich soil smelt after rain. He turned in a slow circle, trying to breathe evenly. Rot was a whisper, an undertone, only a faint smell here. Threads of parasitic green ran in every direction. It was as if he were at the centre of a gigantic spiderweb. If he listened closely, he could hear distant clamour. It was exactly how John had described it – like every radio station playing at once – but there was something else too.
He took a step deeper into the darkness. The sound was a low rumble, heavy, more of a vibration as if it were too low to be heard by human ears. Except, of course, this was all happening within his own head – tucked away inside that strange, otherworldly pocket where he was linked to the hivemind – so it seemed unfair that physical limitations should apply. It was a constant pulse which pushed a shiver through the tendrils, just like pumping blood through veins.
That familiar, aching pressure at the back of his head returned. For once, he didn't welcome it. He wanted – needed – to stay, to figure this out. There were answers hidden within the hivemind and he could find them if only he had more time. John couldn't investigate – couldn't experience the hivemind like this without giving up control – so it had to be Scott. But the pain blossomed and pulled him back from the eerie darkness.
He hadn't heard that second noise before. The only comparison he could make was a heartbeat. But that was impossible. It was confusing and the lack of answers only heightened his sense of unease. Standing around by himself didn't help matters, so he combed some gel through his hair and went in search of his family.
Voices led him to the dining room. John was missing, but Virgil, Gordon and Marisa were sat around the table whilst the teens slept in for a while longer. Stained rings proved that empty mugs had once housed coffee, so Scott detoured via the kitchen to grab his own, sensing that this was the sort of conversation which would require caffeine.
Stomach cramps told him that his body needed food, but his appetite had run off upon witnessing that infected get torn in half and had yet to return. Options were limited anyway given how low the fridge was running. It didn't bode well for the state of supplies as a whole. It wouldn't be long until the entire bunker was forced onto stricter rationing… or began to decrease its population. Based off the attitudes he'd seen so far, Scott had a sinking feeling that the latter would be a more popular option.
He nursed his coffee in the hopes of fighting off residual chills from his brush with the hivemind and stole a chair beside Marisa. She acknowledged him with a distant smile, then returned her attention to Virgil who had his head buried in his hands, lost in memories. Beside him, Gordon's face was fraught with worry.
"Virgil told us about last night," Marisa explained. Her voice sounded rough as if she'd been coughing, or perhaps crying, but her expression was deliberately neutral. She had run a successful survival group for several months, so she had experience with pushing aside emotions in favour of rational deliberation.
Scott exhaled slowly. "Yeah. It wasn't great." He caught Gordon's eye. "I know you warned us that infected fight rings existed, but a part of me didn't want to believe it… which was incredibly naïve of me, but there you have it."
"Not naïve," Gordon replied, dropping his gaze to the tabletop. "More like hopeful. Like you still believed people can be good."
"People are good," Virgil interrupted, lifting his head from his hands. Exhaustion shadowed his eyes. It was questionable as to whether he'd slept at all. "Just not these ones."
Scott swallowed. His own face was reflected back at him in the flat surface of his coffee, as dark as gasoline with a similar kick. He didn't have any words.
Virgil dropped his hands to the table, voice flat as he confessed, "I want to leave."
There was a pause.
Gordon sank back and crossed his arms, drawing his feet up onto his chair. At some point he'd employed Jasmin to attack his hair with some scissors in an attempt to even it out, but while Jazz was highly talented in many areas hairdressing was not one of them. Scott got the sense that Gordon had asked her just to help her feel useful. She'd gone from survival mode to sitting around without anything to do and as such she'd been caught up in her own head which was a dangerous place to be during the apocalypse. She'd taken a shine to Gordon, visiting him daily when he'd been trapped in the medical ward, and that bond had only grown stronger since he'd been released.
Scott wasn't surprised by this turn of events. He had memories of a very young Gordon protesting when Alan had been born instead of the little sister he'd requested. Plus, Jasmin was smart and quick-witted with a love for godawful puns just like their family fish. She hadn't once treated him differently since his injury. If rumours were true, then she'd been the first to pull him into a fierce hug post-op, trusting him to know his own limits and tell her if it was too much, whereas John and Virgil had been more reluctant due to their memories of Gordon's last accident when touching hadn't been on the cards for several weeks.
"I mean it," Virgil continued. A hint of desperation crept in. "I want to leave. These aren't good people. They'll turn on each other as soon as supplies run low, which is already happening. This place is dangerous. It's nearly killed us. It's like that damn satellite all over again. We need to get out of here and soon."
"And go where?" Marisa pointed out. "Trust me, if anyone wants to get the hell out of this place then it's me, but we can't wander blindly into the unknown without a plan."
"We won't have to," Scott interjected. Three sets of curious eyes fell on him. "I'm meeting with this so-called committee at one. I'll gather as much information as I can. John's working on comms still, plus trying to get more answers out of the Hood."
Virgil and Gordon exchanged a long look.
"Nice one, Johnny," Gordon muttered. "So much for keeping that one under wraps."
"I'd have found out eventually." Scott waved his brother's protest aside. "We get what we need and then we leave, but before that we have several problems which need solutions. How do we get past all those infected? Where do we go? And…"
"How do we stop the parasite from taking your brother for a joyride?" Marisa arched a brow at their astonished stares. "Oh, please. I've known for weeks. John told me after we first arrived. It was part of our agreement – no more secrets, remember? I get why you kept it from me, so no hard feelings, but it is another issue we need to figure out."
"What if there's another way?" Virgil considered aloud. "There's always the helicopter. If we could find out how much fuel it has…"
"They'd shoot us down in an instant," Gordon retorted. "Being realistic, Scott, can you fly rotary well enough?"
"Put me in fixed wing and it would be a walk in the park," Scott admitted, irritation prickling under his skin because they were so close and yet so far and he wanted to get out of here. "But in a helicopter? Not so much. I'm good, but I'm not willing to risk your lives on the chance that I'm not good enough. Don't make that face, Virg, I'm not criticising myself. It's simple fact, that's all."
Marisa frowned. "Couldn't John knock out their weaponry? He's a coding genius, isn't he?"
"Knocking out their weaponry also brings down the entire defence system. That would allow every infected into the compound and then it would only take one breach for them to overwhelm this bunker." Virgil's voice dropped to a whisper. "There are kids here. They shouldn't pay for their parents' actions. And… no matter how evil, they're still people."
"Okay, so we don't do that then." Marisa glanced to Gordon. "You said Alan mentioned tunnels?"
Scott recalled Alan saying something along those lines to him too.
"I can ask about them at the meeting," he suggested. "Someone might have heard something."
"We still don't know where we're aiming for."
Gordon drew them back to the other main problem. There was a flicker of pain in his eyes every time he spoke and the steely grey pallor to his skin promised he had another headache coming on. Yesterday's nausea still hadn't entirely left him either. He fished a pill bottle out of his pocket and tossed one back, chasing it with the rest of Marisa's glass of water which she slid across to him.
Virgil tracked the motion with worried eyes.
"it's just one, Vee," Gordon snapped, barely able to supress his irritation. "I know pain meds. Chill the fuck out for once in your life, yeah?"
"Hey." Scott shut them down before they could end up in a fully blown argument. "Gordon, we're worried. You can't blame us for that. Virgil's just trying to help."
Gordon held his breath, then exhaled in a rush.
"Yeah, I know," he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "But I know how to handle prescriptions. These are strong shit, so I get why you're worried, but I'm not gonna get hooked on them. There's a reason why this bottle's practically full still. I've only taken them when I know my head's about to get really bad. Don't see any reason in waiting for it to happen when I can stop the symptoms before they become an issue, you know?"
He twisted the safety cap on the bottle. The click rang loudly in the mostly empty room.
"But that's not why you're worried, right Virg? You're thinking, hey, if he's still bad enough to be knocking those back, is he okay to travel? And the answer is, I don't know. I want to say yes. But on a bad day when I can't sit up without puking my guts up and feeling like I've got the worst hangover of my damn life… Yeah, I get why you're worried."
Gordon sounded exhausted. He looked up to meet Virgil's searching look with dull eyes.
"I'm gonna be a liability up there. Are you prepared for that? Plus, you know, we've dropped defence points because I can't hit a target anymore." His chuckle rang hollow. "Congrats, Scooter, you're finally the best shot in the family."
"Gordon," Virgil protested, sort of plaintively.
Gordon forced a grin.
"Hey, no biggie. It's, uh…" He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes with a sigh. "Look, being completely honest… I had that shot back in the truck. Scott, remember when that infected crawled through the window? I did have the gun, I just told you I didn't. I had a perfect shot, but I couldn't take it. I can't- It's not the first time either. Ever since the hospital- So, you know. Losing my sharpshooter skills isn't a complete disaster, but we do need to account for it in our escape plan."
Virgil couldn't keep the devastation off his face. Scott stared down at his coffee – which had gone cold several minutes ago – with a sharp jab of hatred for his own cowardice. He couldn't bring himself to break the awkward silence. Since the hospital. Or, to be precise, since he'd put Gordon in a position where his brother had been forced to point a gun at him.
Gordon pushed back his chair. "Cool, cool, cool. Great chat, guys. I promised Alan I'd help him give Finch a bath, so…" He saluted them jokingly. "Laters, 'gators."
Sometimes – more frequently than not – it was painful to watch Gordon paste on the jokester mask, but it felt like an even greater betrayal to not go along with it.
Scott massaged his temples. "Right. Okay. Didn't we hear something about GDF in Canada?"
Virgil grimaced. "Do we really want to go down the GDF route again?"
"Not all of them are corrupt. Besides, it'll just be a temporary stop."
Marisa's expression cleared with understanding. "You have a plan."
"I have an idea, not a plan." Scott hesitated, before revealing the thought he'd been turning over in his mind for months. "If we want to reach EOS, we're going to need a stronger comm. A much stronger comm, preferably one that's already linked into our network. We're closer to the UK than the island right now."
Virgil seized upon the idea but attempted to remain logical. "London would be a hot zone. It was one of the first places to go dark."
"Technically, it's not in London," Scott pointed out. "London's the closest city, but it's in the Kentish countryside."
"Sorry, can I just cut in for a second?" Marisa asked. "What's in London?"
Scott and Virgil exchanged a glance.
"The Creighton Ward manor," Virgil explained with the hint of a smile in his eyes which he was trying desperately not to give into. "That's a long way, Scott. An entire ocean away, in fact."
"Good job you've got the best pilot in the world on your side then, isn't it?"
Virgil's sigh was fondly exasperated. "Don't get overconfident."
"All we need is a plane." Scott sat back in his chair with a nonchalant shrug. "And the GDF happen to have a lot of those."
John fell into step at Scott's side as he was making his way down to the allotted meeting room. He materialised seemingly out of thin air and Scott nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Gonna get you a bell," he muttered darkly, still willing his heartrate to return to regular levels. He shot John an accusatory look. "Like a damn cat."
"Sure," John deadpanned. "All of you have been saying that for years."
"And yet you still haven't gotten the message to stop sneaking up on us."
John looked entirely too amused. "It's entertaining."
"For you, maybe."
John showed no signs of leaving any time soon, so Scott resigned himself to the prospect of his brother tagging along. He'd hoped John had tracked him down just to suggest his latest theory or some new string of information posed by the Hood, but he recognised that steely glint in John's eyes, reminiscent from times when they'd had to hide any true feelings beneath professionalism during Tracy Industries ventures.
A closer glance confirmed his suspicions that John planned to attend the meeting – the scruffy jeans and thick sweater that he'd been living in were replaced by sleek trousers and a pressed shirt, hair combed into something socially acceptable rather than the tangled bird's nest it had become thanks to John running his hands through it whilst thinking. It wasn't a problem as such – Noah's invitation had been to Scott directly, but the man hadn't raised any quarrel when he'd brought Virgil along last night – but he couldn't shake the nagging certainty that John was up to something.
He tried to change the subject, careful to keep his voice low as walls had both eyes and ears and you could never be sure who was listening. Information was currency where financial capital no longer held value, after all.
"How's the head?"
John raised a brow. "I'm not the one who underwent surgery."
Scott loved him but holy shit, sometimes John could be deliberately insufferable.
He repressed a sigh. "You know what I meant."
There was a slight pause. The elevator finally made up its mind to arrive, mercifully empty, and Scott punched in the floor number scrawled on the back of Noah's business card while John propped himself against the wall and looked thoughtful.
"Tolerable," he finally decided aloud. "Not quiet, but not deafening like it was yesterday." He retrieved the lighter from his pocket and flipped it into the air, catching it again in a single motion like some sort of circus trick. "This probably has something to do with it. Also, I only took my meds about an hour ago so I'm entering the zone when they have optimal impact."
Scott deliberated whether or not to mention his experience earlier. It wasn't as if John wasn't already aware of his brushes with the hivemind, but Scott had tried to keep the details vague, especially when it came to the increasing frequency. That strange, heartbeat-esque background drum was new though, which worried him. The parasite seemed to be developing. It could strategize. Was it creating some kind of weapon? The elevator doors parted before he could make up his mind. It was probably for the best – God knew John had enough on his plate without more hivemind-related antics.
The level was officially dedicated to business and enterprise, but as these had become mostly non-entities the majority of rooms were used for storage. Elaborate artwork, unnecessary finery, piece pilfered from museums and galleries in the final few weeks of normality – it was all packed into these spaces and left in the dark to gather dust. The meeting room was situated at the far end of this corridor and as such they had to walk past this collection of locked doors, knowing that behind each were examples of human creation so beautiful that they to be kept out of sight.
There was probably a metaphor there. Scott couldn't think of it although he had no doubt that Virgil would spring upon it in an instant. John had probably dissected the meaning too if his look of melancholy contemplation was anything to go by.
The room was a standard meeting room – long table surrounded by hard-backed chairs, industrial-sized holo-projector, tray of glasses and a jug of fresh water, complete with ice and a sprig of mint, harsh spotlights, scuffed floorboards and plain beige walls. The exception to this eerie normality was a wheeled whiteboard which was covered in maps, notes and photographs – all printed on honest-to-God paper which was in short supply these days. A ring of people milled about the place, some faces familiar from the previous night although looking significantly more put together in formal attire as opposed to mesh shirts, sheer skirts and glitter-stained faces flushed with perspiration.
No one looked up when Scott and John stepped inside. John's interest was immediately drawn to that collection of data stapled to the whiteboard, fingers twitching at his sides with the instinct to reach for it. He was doing that strange, owlish blinking again, a leftover trait from working with tech-infused contacts – nine months couldn't override several years of habit.
Scott surreptitiously elbowed him.
John shot him an offended look. "What was that for?"
The way he crossed his arms to curl his hands around opposing biceps suggested that he knew exactly why he'd been elbowed. His gaze shifted to the holo-projector almost greedily. Thankfully – or not so much, depending on your perspective – Noah Warren swanned through the door before he could make any attempts to steal it.
The last time Scott had laid eyes upon Noah – a little under twelve hours ago – the man had been greasy-faced with lipstick marks poking out from his misbuttoned shirt. Now, he looked distinctly more put together although he maintained a faintly queasy pallor which could have been a side-effect of a hangover or his medication or both at once. He was wearing a faint coating of foundation to conceal any hint of illness, but it had gathered in the lines of his face and couldn't revive the colour in his lips.
This didn't take away from his swagger. He sauntered into the room with all the confidence of a man who'd owned anything he'd ever wanted. The worst part was that a part of Scott gratingly admired him because objectively Noah was a brilliant lawyer and an equally fantastic businessman. He just also happened to be a piece of shit. But the second he drew out a chair and sat down to place his hands neatly upon the table, everyone fell silent.
Noah's gaze flickered around the room, sweeping across his companions before alighting on Scott, then John, shoulders straightening as he tried to mask his satisfaction at their attendance. He activated the holo-projector to display a video feed of the infected outside the fence.
This was apparently a command for people to discuss the livestream amongst themselves. Clearly this was going to be an informal meeting. Scott sensed eyes on him and looked up just in time to catch Noah diverting his stare to the video instead.
"You've got yourself an admirer," John remarked dryly, leaning close so that no one else could overhear.
Scott – a very responsible, mature adult thank-you-very-much – aimed a kick at his brother's shins.
John lurched sideways, stifling a curse in his fist. "A bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"
Scott's attention had been caught by another detail – Noah was not participating in the discussion whatsoever. He observed and listened and occasionally wrote something down on the pocket-sized notebook he carried around with him. It was difficult to read at a distance, especially with that jug in the way, so Scott loudly invented an excuse.
"Do you want some water?"
John stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "No."
"I'll get you a glass just in case."
"Scott," John hissed, trying and failing to grab his brother's wrist. "Get back here."
The jug was positioned slightly closer to Noah's side of the table. This made it perfectly reasonable for Scott to walk around and reach it from there. It placed him to Noah's left, close enough to read over his shoulder. Noah sensed his approach and hastily snapped the notebook shut, but not before Scott had chance to commit the headings to memory. From the looks of things, Noah was creating a profile on each person in the room, assessing whether they would be useful if it came to an evacuation and consequent survival on the surface.
John eyed him with obvious exasperation as he sank back into his chair. "Find what you wanted?"
"Sort of." Scott slid the glass of water in front of John, who took it despite having claimed not to want it. "I think these meetings are an evaluation. No one's coming up with any constructive insights. It's just a chance for Noah to observe how they interact and think."
John tapped the glass absently.
"That's not a livestream," he remarked, shifting the conversation onto more relevant topics. "It's from three days ago. I saw it back then. Look how many there are. Thousands of them. Not all of them are newly infected. Several are heavily decomposed. Do you know what I'm wondering? How far does that horde spread now? The camera doesn't show beyond the sixth sentry post, but it must be extensive if they've stopped showing current footage."
The couple beside them interrupted before Scott had chance to reply. He vaguely recalled them as the only other people in the bar yesterday. It was possible they'd followed them down to the lower levels later, but Scott couldn't recall seeing them there. Although given the size of the arena, that was hardly surprising.
Still, they seem bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, faces still youthful with hope. You could tell who had survived above the surface – fear seemed to sink into them and paint a sense of unease into every feature, so that even genuine smiles were less bright – and these two weren't amongst them. They introduced themselves as Caleb and Annie, late twenties, both relatives of wealthy bankers who had chosen not to attend today.
"Can I ask a question?" Annie's eyes were the colour of green sea-glass, wide with curiosity to match her blinding smile. "I don't want to upset you or anything."
Scott anticipated a question about IR. "Sure."
"What's it like out there? Amongst them, I mean?" Annie sounded genuinely interested - morbidity always drew fans. "We haven't left the bunker since Z-Day, but you've survived months on the surface."
So many words sprang to mind. Scott couldn't pick any of them. No single phrase seemed to sum up the experience. And what exactly was it that Annie wanted to know? How it felt to kill your first infected? What civilisation looked like now that no one was around to maintain it? The way constant hypervigilance became natural? Learning to sleep with an ear to the door and hands on a weapon? Counting each drop of water, refusing to break into rations even when your stomach cramped so badly that it felt as if your organs were twisting into knots because you didn't know when you would next find food and so if you could hold on just a little longer…
"Harrowing," John answered quietly, staring at the ice cubes bobbing in his glass without truly seeing them. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, then continued, "If I had to sum it up in a single word, that's what I'd say. It's beyond anything you can imagine. It's exhausting, but you can never rest. Everything's a threat, not just the infected. Buildings have fallen into disrepair, so you need to be wary of collapse. Animals – pets, zoo exhibits, livestock – are on the loose. Some are too domesticated to survive in the wild, so there are areas of mass decay. And then there are other survivors…"
Caleb was transfixed. "People are alive out there?"
"More than you'd think," Scott replied when it became clear John was lost in memories. He had a sneaking suspicion that his brother's mind was back in that GDF facility, standing over the body of that bandit. He kept wringing his hands in his lap as if trying to rid them of blood.
"Is it true that there's been nuclear fallout over the south?" Annie had been momentarily shocked into silence by the idea of dead animals lying around – yet more proof that she'd never left the bunker as anyone who'd been on the surface would freely confess that deceased livestock was the least disturbing thing to see – but now she recollected herself. "We've heard rumours. More residents arrived after their bunkers ran out of supplies and they couldn't take anything from cities due to the radiation."
It grated that these places had run out of supplies. They were only nine months into the apocalypse. If they'd rationed properly from the start, they could have lasted down here without opening the doors for years. Scott found it sickening. He could recall resorting to canned pet food whereas these people had been fulfilling their gluttonous appetites without worry. They'd tried to let the future take of itself only to realise too late that it wouldn't.
"Yeah, there's radiation." He recalled forked lightning and the distant groan of imploding clouds. "I don't how much you've been told about the cause."
Caleb reached for his own glass of water. "Someone mentioned the US army dropped nukes?"
"Not the army," Scott corrected. "A rogue GDF bunker. Where'd you hear that rumour about the army? I haven't seen any trace of them and I've travelled all the way from the Californian coast. I thought they were gone."
"Hell if I know, man." Caleb shrugged. He exchanged a glance with Annie, before lowering his voice to a whisper. "We're told not to talk about it, but way back in the beginning there was a lot of radio chatter. Just on open broadcast, easy to pick up, before everything broke down and interference limited the range. Back then, we were intercepting messages from all over. Some countries went with brute force, just bombed the shit outta the big cities. We figured the US was trying that same tactic again, trying to keep the infected within dead zones."
John glanced up sharply. "Dead zones?"
"You don't know about dead zones?" Caleb frowned. "I guess some people call 'em black holes. Areas where there are no survivors. They went dark first, but more places are heading down the same path. If you nuke a dead zone, you get rid of a ton of infected all at once."
John knitted his fingers together, voice hushed, words intended only for Scott. "That explains why the world looked to be on fire when we saw it from Five."
"Some places opted for mass evacuation and fenced off hot zones," Annie added. "They called it a soft approach. They figured the parasite is a part of nature, so they created areas for the infected to live. That was the plan anyway, but we haven't heard anything since, so I guess it didn't go so well for them."
Scott tried to gauge Noah's body language out of the corner of his eye. The man was focussed on his own conversation, pen and notebook momentarily forgotten. He was paying them no mind. Scott didn't trust him. He didn't trust anyone beyond his family – plus Marisa and the kids – but Noah especially. Still, his attention was elsewhere, so Scott turned back to Caleb and Annie.
"The workers claim there are tunnels. Is that true?" He thought back to his limited memory of Minnesota. It wasn't a state he'd spent much time in. "I didn't think there was a subway here, especially not this far out from any city."
Not that subway tunnels would necessarily be much use – several had flooded by October without anyone around to work the pumps which kept water out of them, as had occurred in the network beneath that GDF facility. Still, it didn't look as if escaping above ground was an option, so Scott mentally crossed his fingers and hoped for good news.
Annie pointed to one of the maps. Closer inspection revealed it to be a blueprint.
"When this place was designed they wanted to keep the true scale a secret, so they had to find a way to transport material and supplies without being seen. They built maintenance tunnels, stretching all the way to Duluth. Then, when the work was done, they just sealed the doors."
Scott committed the blueprints to memory. "Has anyone been down there since? Is it flooded? Any infected? A worker told me there was a scouting mission which never returned."
Noah winced. "I haven't heard that story. I know some people weren't happy with the way this place is run, so decided to strike out on their own. They took the tunnels because so many infected were gathering above ground. Never heard from them again, but that could mean they made it."
"Yeah, but they'd have hit a new problem," Annie reminded him gently. "Duluth is a dead zone. A lot of people fled to the coast on Z-Day, thinking they could hop on a boat and get away from the infected. Most of them died before they even saw the water. So, you know. The whole coastline is overrun. Anyone who takes the tunnels would have to cross Lake Superior to reach safety, but that would mean finding a boat and that would be tricky."
Tricky, Scott considered, but not impossible. The odds didn't exactly apply to their family. Excitement fizzed beneath his skin and he had to remind himself to keep his expression neutral. Still, he knocked his foot against John's, earning a seemingly casual smile in return. He could read the truth in John's eyes. The tunnels were an actual possibility – certainly better than commandeering a truck and hoping to plough through the infected which had gone oh-so -well for them the first time.
The idea of actually getting out of this place was like an adrenaline shot. When he was spared nightmares, Scott dreamt of feeling the sun on his skin again, of spying clear sky, of the fresh smell of rain over rich soil and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Humans weren't meant to live below ground. It was probably another factor which had contributed to his shitty mental health. Just the mere possibility of escape was like a wish come true.
John sent him a warning stare, as in, don't get your hopes up. Scott offered him a sunny smile in response. A kick smacked into his shins, and he jolted away from his brother with a faint yelp.
"Payback," John informed him, then took a sip of water to hide his smirk. Scott just scowled at him and hoped he got the general aura of screw you, Johnny being sent his way.
Conversation flowed and subsided like waves on a beach. Scott learnt to pick out individual parts of discussions and found that hidden amid all the small talk and unnecessary chat there were actually useful ideas being tossed around. This, he realised, was what Noah had been listening for. His gaze slid over to the man in question only to realise that Noah was staring right back at him. He held Noah's gaze challengingly. Thin lips twisted in a steely smile as if in approval. Scott got the sense that he'd just passed some sort of test, although he couldn't figure out what it had been.
"Attention, please."
Noah didn't shout, yet all talk immediately ceased. He cleared his throat, set his glass down on the table with a dull thud, then gestured to a wild-haired woman sat beside the holo-projector.
"Ellis, if you would be so kind as to recap the latest classifications for our new friends?"
Ellis pushed back her chair. Bathed in the blue tint of holos, she seemed in her element, hands growing as frenzied as her hair as she talked them through a collection of data. Scott sat back in his chair and listened closely, aware of John mirroring his actions.
In usual decomposition, the autolysis process began within an hour of death. In infected, this process didn't occur. The term decomposition was misleading, as the body wasn't decaying but rather being consumed. As autolysis was triggered by the deprivation of oxygen and the lungs were already damaged/consumed, this meant the parasite had to keep the body supplied with oxygen throughout the process in a relationship which could loosely be considered commensalistic symbiosis.
Ellis introduced three stages of infection, which she had classified as renovamen, periculum and totalitas.
Renovamen was the first stage, encompassing all newly infected who showed no obvious signs of damage and displayed the most aggressive attacks, often turning on one another too as if the hivemind connection had not yet fully established.
This was followed by Periculum, which was the largest category, containing every rotter from those with new sores to those with decayed organs and missing limbs. These infected were predictable in so far as their unbearable hunger. They would do anything to reach their prey. This stage could last anywhere from a month to nine months and counting.
And then there was the final stage – Totalitas – which included rotters who had reached the point of immobility. When they reached this stage, they showed a strange, human quality, not attempting to attack but simply accepting their fates. The end was near for them. The parasite had reached the brain – perhaps releasing them from the hivemind now that they could no longer move to infect anyone else.
"Rebirth, trial and totality," John murmured. There was an uncanny knowledge in his eyes. That blue seemed brittle as if there was something inhuman hiding behind it. Was the hivemind watching? Listening? Had it even been John's decision to attend the meeting, or was he acting as a puppet for the parasite so that it could learn how much they knew?
Scott fought back a shiver. "What?"
"The classification names," John elaborated. His voice was emotionless, as if he were reading from a script with a gun to his head. "They're Latin. It's not a perfect translation, but it's close. Rebirth, trial and totality."
"Not sure rebirth is the word I'd have chosen," Scott commented under his breath.
A memory was pushing at the back of his mind, nudging his brain insistently like Gordon's goldfish used to knock against the sides of their tank when they wanted food. Phoenix. He alighted upon the word with a start. It had first occurred to him when John had walked unharmed out of that fire at the GDF bunker. Now, it struck him again. Phoenixes were synonymous with rebirth. Was it a mere coincidence that Ellis had chosen to name the first stage of infection after a strategy used by carriers to supress the parasite? Or did she know more about immunity?
As per usual, Scott put his foot in his mouth.
"What about the immune?"
All eyes fell on him. Noah's gaze was curious. John's was exasperated. Ellis just looked delighted. She combed her hair behind her ears, cleared her throat, then discarded the holograms entirely.
"Oh, Lordy," Caleb sighed, complete with an eyeroll fit for a teenager. "Now you've got her started on her batshit theory. She won't shut up for hours."
Ellis' grin was a little unhinged. "There is a specific genetic variation which influences the body's adaptive immune response. This is important because it tells us that immunity is only activated once that subject has already been exposed to the pathogen, thus suggesting that a sample of the parasite must exist within the body. The variation prompts a faster adaptive immune response at higher levels, which disrupts and overwhelms the parasite before it has chance to mimic human cells. This is, of course, a vast oversimplification, but that is beside the point."
"And here she goes," Caleb stage whispered.
"When genetic variations or mutations occur on a relatively large scale, they are considered an evolutionary adaptation." Ellis waited for a reaction and received none. She flung up her arms in agitation. "This implies that the parasite has been around far longer than we realised – that we have been exposed to it for at least two generations if not more."
"Oh yeah?" Caleb called. "Then why has it only now woken up?"
Ellis made a strange growling sound deep in her throat. "That is not the question. The real question is this: if we have all been exposed for decades – or even longer – then are we already infected? Is the parasite harbouring within our bodies? Perhaps the bite does not pass on the infection but activates those sleeping cells. We know the parasite can communicate between hosts – although how it does this is beyond the comprehension of current biological understandings. Perhaps exposure to this complex…"
She fished for a word.
"Hivemind?" John suggested quietly.
Ellis seized upon the word. "Yes, yes, exactly! Perhaps exposure to this hivemind is what triggers the infection."
"If that's true," Noah said, words drenched in doubt and mockery, "Then nowhere is safe. No one can survive this."
"Except the immune," Caleb quipped.
A scruffy-bearded man slouched in a chair closest to the door scoffed loudly. His face was haggard with disgust. Ellis wilted under his searing glare.
"You don't what you're talking about, girlie. All this crap about the immune."
Ellis curled her fingers around the edge of the holo-projector. "The immune could be the key to understanding how the hivemind works. We could-"
"Jesus H. Christ," the man spat, spittle decorating his slacks. "Give me a fucking break. And you, kid?" He whirled on Caleb. "The devils are coming and they'll kill us all, but at least they won't drag us down to hell with them. But the immune? The immune are cursed! Cursed with life! While the world ends, they have to watch everything and everyone they love burn! You think immunity is your saviour? It's your condemnation!"
Scott never learnt the man's name but did discover that he was a well-known fanatic who had pushed to keep the doors shut during the original outbreak when people had come pleading for sanctuary. He reminded Scott of those doomsday preachers who would stand on street corners pre-Z-Day and shout about the end-times – although admittedly there was some irony about that now because they'd been sort of right just not in the way anyone would have anticipated.
He was, of course, completely unhinged, yet his words struck a chord and Scott couldn't shake them. They rang on repeat in his head, taunting him. There was truth in it and if Ellis was right with her theory that everyone was already infected… Was he condemned to watch his family succumb?
He tried to focus on other, more constructive thoughts. Ellis had agreed to meet them in private to discuss her theories – her smile had been brighter than the sun at the thought of people actively wanting to listen to her. But those words kept coming back to haunt him – immunity is your condemnation-
John was quiet too. Quieter than usual, anyway. His head was bowed to hide his expression, hands stuffed into his pockets, fiddling with the lighter as if it brought him comfort.
"What if Ellis is right?" he asked at last, sensing Scott's concerned look. "What if exposure to the hivemind is what triggers the parasite? Because we don't know how the hivemind works, so we don't know if we're putting them at risk just by being around them- Or- I don't know, maybe- Fuck."
He slammed a hand so hard into the wall that the entire elevator juddered. Scott was momentarily shocked into silence. It was a strange role reversal when John was the one lashing out whilst he remained calm – not that it would last because he could already feel nauseating panic beginning to stir. It took a lot for John to become genuinely angry. The idea that despite everything – all the terrible things they had done in the name of survival, the suffering and the sacrifices – they all already carried the sleeping parasite in their veins… It was unbearable. All they done, all they given – all of it, for nothing at all.
"If proximity to the hivemind triggered it, we'd know by now." This much, at least, Scott was certain of. "We're still dealing with the same principle, aren't we? It just means keeping the parasite from waking up rather avoiding being contaminated by it in the first place. Seems like it's activated by bites, given that's what triggers the turn."
"But we don't know," John stressed. "We don't understand what the hivemind truly is, let alone how it works and I hate that. I hate not knowing. How are we supposed to protect ourselves if we don't understand the threat? And clearly proximity does have something to do with it, because I initially triggered the hivemind connection in you back at the hospital through touch."
"But we're immune. It's a completely different set of factors."
Scott reached over to hit the emergency stop button on the elevator. It would undoubtedly raise several questions later, but that was a problem for future him. Right now, his priority was John, because he couldn't let his brother see the others like this, not while he was still on the verge of panicking.
"Look at it logically – none of them have turned. So clearly being around us isn't going to activate the parasite. We might not know the exact trigger, but we can eliminate proximity from the list."
John took a deliberately deep breath. He'd taken to tapping a rhythm against his wrist which Scott first mistook as morse code but then recognised as one of the breathing patterns which Alan sometimes used to calm himself down.
"Okay," John exhaled. He swallowed, steadied his voice, then repeated again for his own reassurance, "Okay."
"We've got Ellis on our side," Scott reminded him. It took a moment to grudgingly admit, "And the Hood too. Sort of."
"He'll help us," John confirmed darkly. "He knows it's the smartest move he can make."
"And then there are the maintenance tunnels, so we have the foundations of an escape plan."
"Yeah." John didn't sound convinced. He tipped his head back against the wall with a heavy sigh. "It's just…"
"A lot?"
"Exactly."
They remained in silence for a minute, remembering how to breathe and trying to squash racing thoughts before they could become dangerous. Scott could sort of sense that pressure at the back of his mind again where the hivemind linked them. It was a strange feeling – aware of fear but conscious that it was not his own.
John's hand hovered above the elevator controls. "Ready?"
Scott had never been claustrophobic, but all of a sudden he couldn't wait to get out of the tiny space. He reached over John to restart the elevator himself.
"Let's go."
