by Cross, Amy
“Mind if I sit here?” a guy asks.
I glance at him.
He looks okay. Clean, friendly enough, with a pleasant, open face. I figure he's a little older than me.
“Sure,” I say, even though I'd hoped to have a little more space to myself. “Knock yourself out.”
“Going out to California too, huh?” he asks.
“Yep.”
I really don't want to get into a conversation right now.
“Stopping anywhere along the way?”
“Yeah. Oklahoma.”
“Huh. Now there's a coincidence. I'm trying to get to Kansas. You don't happen to know the route this train's gonna take, do you?”
“I haven't managed to get anyone to tell me.”
“Huh. Well, I'm sure we'll figure it out.” He reaches over, extending a hand for me to shake. “Riley.”
I try to look friendly as we shake hands.
“Thomas,” I tell him.
“Nice to meet you, Thomas.”
“You too,” I murmur as I take a seat.
“I think we're setting off,” Riley says, and sure enough I hear doors being slammed. “Any last-minute change of heart?”
I look out the window, just as the train starts pulling away from the platform. There are still quite a few people out there, watching as we leave, and I can't help watching the crowd and searching for any sign of Elizabeth. I guess, deep down, I still expected her to maybe show up and say goodbye.
I'm such an idiot.
“You look like a man who's missing someone,” Riley says.
I turn to him.
“No,” I say firmly. “Definitely not.”
“Leaving someone behind?”
“No.”
“Okay, if you say so. You just had that faraway look in your eyes, that's all.” He takes a scuffed paperback from his pocket and opens it, resting it against his knee. “I'll shut up now. Sorry, I didn't mean to get all up in your business.”
“It's fine,” I tell him.
I turn to look out the window again, but – as the train gathers speed – I manage to stop myself. The last thing I want is to make this Riley guy think that I'm pining after someone, and I'm not pining. I'm just a little sad, that's all. No, I'm not sad, I'm pissed off. But if Elizabeth doesn't care enough to come and say goodbye, then that's her choice. Now the train's really rumbling along, and we're clear of the station, and I turn my mind to the next few days. I've been so focused on trying to find Elizabeth, I neglected to really consider the rest of my plans. I have to find my way to Oklahoma and then, once I've checked there, I have to go to California and hope that I can somehow track Martha down. That's my priority now.
Goodbye, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth
I open my eyes, and I immediately feel something soft brushing against my face.
Sitting up, I feel the softness fall away, and when I look down at my lap I see that it's happened again.
“Huh,” I whisper, reaching down and carefully picking up the black feather.
This is feather number five. Or is it six? I think I'm starting to lose count. The first feather appeared months and months ago, just a few days after all this madness started. There was a guy named George Crow, he offered me a feather but I refused, and he said some pretty weird things to me before wandering off. Since then, I've encountered a few more of these black feathers, although they've really started to arrive more and more frequently over the past few days. Culminating, it seems, in this one landing on my face while I was sleeping.
I can't shake the feeling that these things must mean something, but what? I don't believe in angels or stuff like that, but I can't deny that this latest feather seems to have come out of nowhere. It's as if it drifted down and landed on my face while I was sleeping.
I look up at the ceiling, but of course all I see is white plaster.
“Huh,” I say again. “How about that?”
***
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Joan says as we pass in the gloomy, unlit corridor. “Another day at the fun factory.”
“Another day at the fun factory,” I reply.
Joan always says the exact same thing to me, every single day. And I always say the same thing back, like some kind of robot. To be honest, I got tired of this weird little ritual a long time ago, but Joan seems to love it and I don't really want to upset her. So I walk along here every morning, and Joan says “Another day at the fun factory” to me, and I say the same thing back to her, and then I get on with my day. At least Joan isn't in my team. I'm not sure I could handle that.
I check my handwritten rota sheet, and then I knock gently on the door to apartment 119 before pushing it open.
“Lucas?” I call out. “Freya? Are you guys in here?”
“Through here!” Lucas replies.
I head across the barren, already stripped room, and then I stop in the open doorway and see that Lucas and Freya have begun going through what looks like a chest of drawers.
“What's the matter?” Lucas asks, with a faint smile. “Did you sleep in again?”
“I'm sorry,” I mutter, as I step into the room. “Where do you need me?”
“We haven't done the bathroom yet,” he replies. “You never know, there might be some good medication in there. And don't worry, we all sleep in sometimes. Obviously your body just needed a little extra rest this morning.”
“That's the third time this week,” Freya points out as I make my way past her. “Don't take this the wrong way, Liz, but it's becoming a habit.”
“It won't happen tomorrow, I promise,” I tell her, and I just about manage to resist the urge to remind her that I don't want to be called Liz. I know she uses that nickname on purpose, to wind me up, and I really don't want to rise to the bait.
Once I'm in the bathroom, I'm confronted with a strong, musky stench. That's not particularly unusual, of course. As we make our way through apartment building after apartment building, searching for anything that might be useful, we often encounter smells that are less than ideal. After all, not everyone had time to flush once the zombie apocalypse hit.
I start going through the cabinet. That's always the first job when checking a bathroom, and lately I've become the bathroom specialist on our little team. I'm not really sure how I should feel about that.
“So I'm going to have to write you up.”
Turning, I find that Freya is standing in the doorway, watching me.
“This tardiness can't go on,” she continues, crossing her arms. “You won't get in trouble, not yet, but it has to go on your record. You know the rules, Elizabeth. Three late arrivals in one week means that the supervisor has to be told.”
“But -”
“Even if you're only late by a few minutes each time,” she adds, clearly warming to her theme. “Imagine if everyone turned up late, Elizabeth. We rely on one another. We're a team, and teams work together. By coming in late, you're disrupting our work every single day.”
I open my mouth to point out that I was less than five minutes late, but at the last moment I manage to hold back. I mean, technically I'm correct, but the last thing I need right now is to get involved in some kind of pedantic argument, especially with someone like Freya. What I need to do is give her an apology, and play up to her ego a little, and then get back to work.
And not point out that, by pulling me up like this, she's already wasted more time than I wasted by being late.
“Sure,” I say, “I'm sorry, Freya. I'll really try to do better.”
“I'm only saying this for your own good.”
“I know.”
“We all have to try to be as useful as possible,” she continues. “You've been going to some of the Jonathan Kendricks rallies, haven't you?”
I feel a shudder pass through my chest at the mention of that name.
“I have,” I tell her. “I mean, I went to one.”
“Only one?”
“I got the message.”
&nbs
p; “You're really not a team player, are you? Listen, I know it's difficult to put your ego aside, but -”
“Can I just get on with this, please?” I blurt out suddenly, unable to hold back. I immediately know that I've made a mistake but, again, sometimes I just can't help myself. “I'm sorry I was late, and I know you have to report me, but right now I want to get on with emptying out this cabinet, and you're slowing me down.”
“I'm only -”
“We're not here to talk,” I add. “Remember them telling us that, on the first day? We're here to find whatever's useful, and to take it to one of the central collection points. That's all. And I don't know about you, but I really want to get through a lot of apartments today.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then I turn and get on with clearing the cabinet out.
“There are some pills here,” I tell her. “They're well within their dates, too. I don't know what they're for, but someone will.” I peer at the label. “They were given out on prescription, for someone named Donald Leeds. I wonder what happened to him?”
Turning to her, I toss the bottle across the room. She manages to catch it, just about, and I smile as I look back into the cabinet.
“There's a manky half-used pot of hair gel,” I say, as I look into the tub, “and it's got some strands of hair stuck in it. Do you think anyone will want that, or should I just toss it away?”
“Never toss things away,” she says firmly. “You should have learned that by now. Everything can be used. Didn't you pay attention to any of the briefings about the rules? You might think rules aren't cool, Elizabeth, but right now the rules are the only thing keeping us all alive. You might want to grow up a little.”
“Sorry, I forgot,” I reply, as I set the tub of hair gel aside and then start sorting through some old combs. “You're absolutely right, Freya. I don't know what we'd do without you.”
Elizabeth
“Don't pay too much attention to her,” Lucas says, keeping his voice low as we carry some boxes through to the apartment's hallway. “You know she gets off on sticking to the rules.”
“I noticed,” I reply, “and -”
Before I can finish, something splashes onto my face. Startled, I look up at the ceiling and see that there's a large, dark stain running almost from wall to wall, and a moment later another drop falls down and hits my cheek.
“What is that?” I mutter, as I wipe the liquid away.
Whatever it is, it's slimy.
“Has anyone checked 219 yet?” Lucas asks cautiously.
I check the rota sheet.
“That's one of ours,” I tell him, as I feel a flicker of dread in the pit of my stomach. “We're supposed to get to it in the next day or two.”
I step back out of the way, just as another drop falls.
“There were reports of a bad smell up there,” I continue. “I suggested maybe we should check on it yesterday, but Freya insisted that we stick to the timetable we were given.”
I turn to Lucas.
“I think,” he says, looking white as a sheet, “that maybe we should go and check it now.”
***
“No!” I gasp, turning away as soon as I see the body on the floor.
“This place stinks,” Lucas points out, and it sounds as if he's about to gag at any moment. “I'm going to open a window.”
Keeping my back to the room, I listen to the sound of flies buzzing all around. A few seconds later, one lands on the back of my neck, and I let out a gasp as I struggle to swat it away. I hear a window sliding open, and then I turn just a little, just enough to see Lucas coming back over to join me.
Finally, I force myself to look over at the body.
“He must have been here for months,” Lucas mutters, using his sleeve to cover the lower half of his face. “I thought hazard units were supposed to have checked these buildings before we came through.”
“I guess they missed a spot,” I reply grimly.
“Did any of those drops get into your mouth?”
I shake my head.
“Or your eyes? Or -”
“I promise,” I reply, interrupting him. “Trust me, I've learned to be careful over the past few months.”
“We should get out of here,” he says, stepping past me. “I'll send for -”
“Wait!” I say suddenly, as I spot what appears to be a knife resting on the floor, partially covered by one of the man's hands. “What's that?”
“Elizabeth -”
I step over and crouch down. Despite the terrible smell in the room, I lean closer to the body and peer at the knife. The man's hands are swollen and bloodied, covering most of the blade, but I can see more blood dried all along the metal edge.
“He was defending himself,” I whisper, before looking at the man's face. “No, wait, he was...”
I stare at the dead man, and it takes a moment before I realize that he's not merely rotten. I tilt my head slightly, trying to get a better look, but I can feel a sense of dread slowly starting to spread through my chest as I finally come to understand the truth.
“He was a zombie,” I say finally, “and... I think he killed himself.”
“Say that again?” Lucas replies.
“Look at the way he's holding the knife. I don't think he was trying to defend himself, I think he was trying to...”
“End himself?”
I turn to Lucas.
“And since when did you become an expert on dead bodies?” he asks. “He wasn't a zombie. At least, you can't be sure. He's just been here for a while, that's all.”
“Maybe he managed to break free for a moment,” I explain, shuddering slightly as I stare at the corpse. “As he got sicker and sicker, he would've felt himself getting trapped in his own mind. Maybe he briefly regained control of his body, even as the walls were closing in, and he chose to kill himself rather than become one of those things. I know it sounds crazy, but I figure it's possible. The mind remains in the body for at least a few days, maybe he found a way out.”
“The mind remains in the body for a few days?” Lucas replies. “What makes you say that?”
I open my mouth to reply, but I manage to stop myself at the last moment. Since I got back to New York, I haven't dared tell anyone what happened to me at Pentham, about how I briefly turned into a zombie. I'm pretty sure that no-one would want to come near me, and to be honest they might have a point. Sometimes I think I should turn myself in, but I hate the idea of being prodded and poked by New York's equivalents of Sarah Carter. Besides, I'm fine. I know that. I haven't felt so much as the slightest hint that I'm in any way sick. If I do feel anything, then I'll start telling people. I'm not completely irresponsible.
Looking down at the corpse again, I realize that I could so easily have ended up like that.
“Come on,” Lucas says, putting a hand on my shoulder, “we really should get out of here. There might be... I don't know, spores or something like that. Better to be safe than sorry.”
“I know, you're right,” I reply, as we both turn and head toward the door.
At the last moment, however, I turn and look back toward the dead man. I can't put my finger on it, but somewhere deep down I know that I'm missing something, that something in this room isn't right. I glance around, trying to figure out what's happening, but it's as if there's some level of awareness on the edge of my mind that's telling me to pay attention. Finally, all of a sudden, I realize what's wrong.
“He's too fresh,” I whisper.
“What was that?”
“He doesn't look like someone who's been dead for, what, over a hundred and ninety days.”
“Maybe he died a little later.”
“You said it looked like he'd been here for months,” I continue, “but I think it looks more like a matter of weeks. Even though he's pretty rotten, he's not completely withered.” I turn to look back over at the body. “That doesn't fit with the timeline, though, does it?” I ask. “Everyone says the zombies have been dead f
or longer than that, but what if they're wrong?”
“The zombies are gone, Elizabeth.”
“We don't know that for sure!”
“No-one has seen one in -”
“That doesn't mean that they're gone, Lucas,” I say firmly. “We don't know how the virus works, not really. What if it's just going through a dormant stage? What if we're all relaxing way too soon?”
“That's why we have experts who are checking into that stuff,” he replies, sounding a little annoyed that I won't stop talking. “Elizabeth, there comes a point where we need to trust that these things are being taken care of. Otherwise we'll end up second-guessing everything, and we'll never get anything done.” He sighs. “I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. We already have a job to do. Let's not try to do everyone else's as well.”
“But...”
I pause, but then I realize that there's no point arguing with him. Maybe he truly believes what he's saying, or maybe he's just scared to admit that we might not be safe. Either way, I'm not going to get anywhere, so I reluctantly follow him out of the apartment, and then I watch as he attaches a sign to the door, informing people to stay out until a hazard recovery team has been to remove the body and make sure that everything's safe.
I hope I'm wrong, but in the pit of my stomach I still can't shake the feeling that the zombie in apartment 219 is a worrying sign.
Elizabeth
She looks fine from here.
Standing on the street corner, I watch as Polly and some other children play in a yard. I come here every day, at around the same time, just to see her and to make sure that she's doing okay. Deep down, I suspect that I'm trying to make up for the fact that I lost track of Rachel, but it's also true that I care about Polly. She's been through so much in the months since I first met her, and it's remarkable to see that she seems so resilient.
I can't go and talk to her, however.
