Epilogue

Epilogue 1.08

---Em---

     "You feeling better today?" Gail places a hand on my shoulder as we trek through the sewers. I massage my temples. I must've slept, what, three or four hours? Not nearly enough, that's for sure. I shirk away, unable to stomach the pity in her eyes. My weak side's not something I'm comfortable letting her see. But I haven't exactly done a bang-up job of hiding it lately, what with the spasms and all.

     "I'm fine," I mutter, quickening my pace. I fall into step with Mya, who gives me a look. The kind of look that says what the hell are we doing? Had Rainer been alive, he probably would've curb-stomped this Topher guy as a sign of good faith to whatever faction of survivors he belonged to. As in: "Have it in good faith that we'll bust your skulls if you ever show your face around here again."

     Still, the way Topher worded his proposal didn't make it sound like his people meant us any harm. I wonder if I made the right choice. Gail takes my hand. I know what she'd say. I'm in charge now, so any choice I make is the right choice, and if anyone's got a problem with that, they can answer to her.

     "Want to run this by me one more time?" asks the girl whose name I'd forgotten. Turns out her name is Natasha. Wait... or is it Patricia?

     Topher grunts. "What are we, characters in a movie who have to repeat a conversation that occurred off-screen for the benefit of the audience?"

     Natasha, or possibly Patricia, narrows her eyes. "No, I genuinely forgot the plan."

     "Just follow our lead, sweety," says Tristan, chewing a stick of peppermint gum. If there's one good thing that came out of the zombie apocalypse, it's all the free gum. Gail makes a point of trying out a new flavour everyday; today, her kisses taste like spicy cinnamon.

     Trevor and Florence—from Squads C and D respectively—flank the newcomer on either side. Probably under orders to dispatch him, should that prove necessary. Necessary, in this case, meaning as soon as the mission's complete.

     We reach a dead end. An iron hatch, rusted and covered in sewer slime, protrudes from the wall. "This is our stop," Topher announces, rapping his knuckles against the hatch.

     Tristan snorts. "You're telling me your people have been hiding out down here all this time, and somehow we've never noticed?"

     "Don't be ridiculous," says Topher. "Why would I give away the location of our base? This just happens to be the spot we designated for making the trade."

     "And your boss," says Gail, stepping in front of me. "She'll really just let us have this draugr brain-scrambler? Sounds too good to be true."

     "You sure took your sweet time voicing that concern," Topher points out. "We're already here."

     "Maybe I'm having second thoughts."

     "Maybe you should keep your second thoughts to yourself."

     "Maybe I don't like you."

     "Maybe the feeling's mutual." Topher glances at me. "So? What'll it be?"

     I hesitate. "You're certain all she wants is to speak with me?"

     "Affirmative," Topher says, chewing on a stick of citrus twist. "Just wants to pick your brain a little, that's all. Better her than a horde of zombies, no?"

     I don't pretend to understand any of this. This Topher guy shows up in the middle of the night, claiming to know me. Then he tells us his people have developed a brain-scrambling device that disrupts a draugr's psychic transmissions. Ergo, no more hive-mind. And they're willing to give it to us, in exchange for my having a little chat with their boss-lady. Apparently, she's a former acquaintance of mine. From before the outbreak, most likely.