Virulent

Chapter 8: The Beginning

Ezra could hear the whooshing of her breath coming out loud in that hazmat suit. It was a hot December day, and it seemed the building's air conditioner was struggling to keep up with that vast space.

Sweat was trickling down her back and abdomen, undoing the shower she'd had in her spacious quarter they'd granted her. It had no view—probably because they didn't want her to know their location—but a couple of skylights high in the ceiling let in natural light and she was thankful for that. For now, she had a comfy bed to sleep in—no more army-style roll-up swag. No more toilet just beyond the bed, glaring at her like she was a felon. The previous room they had held her in was just that, a cell. In her current quarters, she had the privilege of an en-suite, a small lounge, a small desk in a small nook to work, and a small kitchenette where she could make tea or coffee or prepare herself a little snack whenever she pleased. It wasn't home, far from it, but at least they had been kind enough to provide her with a stocked mini fridge, the luxury of which still overwhelmed her.

Not only that, but thanks to the skylight, she could finally tell day and night passing. She finally hopes that one day, she'd step out into that world again, the world from which she'd gone 'missing'.

Judging by how many rounds the shorthand on her watch had completed, it had been five days. Five days since she failed to return home, as she'd promised. Five days since she'd longed to see Dad and Shaki, to hug them, to breathe them in.

Do they think I'm missing? Or dead? That question haunted her waking moments; a rat clawing at the walls at night; relentless.

Five days was a long time.

'The first twenty-four hours are crucial in a missing person's case,' she recalled Dad's words from years ago when he'd worked those cases. He wouldn't be talking shop with her or Shaki, no. He'd be talking shop with Mum, but Ezra would always be close enough, studying at the dining table to overhear everything as the couple chatted away in hushed tones while making dinner together. 'If they've been missing that long, traces of them disappear swiftly.'

Is there any trace of me left in the world, out there, where lives are lived? This morning, Ezra pondered those questions, orienting herself with the vast maze, the lab. She took her time, walking the length back and forth, snaking her way through aisles, familiarising herself with each station's purpose. All the while, thoughts such as these crawled like spiders in her mind: What if they think I'm 'dead' like Archer? What if they left a puddle of blood on the floor as they did ten years ago? We all thought Archer was dead, but... he was here, making monsters.

She'd tried not to imagine countless faces at those stations in her hour-long vigil. Tried not to imagine Archer at the helm, spearheading this madness. She tried not to taste the burning sense of betrayal as she moved, hindered by the hazmat suit, careful to keep her oxygen line untangled. Occasionally, she murmured small prayers for those who died, who drew their last breath in that space, rather painfully, bleeding from every orifice. That they may find peace one day. That they may forgive their own wrongdoings.

What if some were like me? Forced into it? What if they too had no choice? It was their family or the world. And what a hard choice to make. For anyone. She couldn't blame them for it. After all, she too chose her family in the end, hadn't she?

Ezra moved, running her gloved hand along the run of the tables. Imagining the hum and the din, the conversations as people worked. Or did they work in silence? And How did they all die so suddenly? What happened here?

It wasn't until she was done with the walkthrough that she settled into the office at the back of the large bunker to get a start on catching up with Archer's abominable research Archer. The sense of déjà vu was strong. Ten years ago, she'd walked into Archer's office much the same, thinking he was dead, only this time, he was. Dead, that is. But she felt none of the butterflies she had that day, knowing she was one of the youngest heads of a Genetics lab in the country. Am I still in the same country?