«We made the count, so to speak. Brad came up, so he was the one pressing the button.» The taller one, Agent Smith, was leaning against the wall by the door. Tv had me that he was the boss, in there. The world changed like this, a slap in the face, still some things clinged like creepers. Banal cliches. The other one—Agent Smith himself, too—was scratching his pects through the open shirt. After ZVO, cops' suits were all in the laundry at the end of the universe, all the clothes wrinkled. «So: wouldn't point a finger on a single. It was a shared decision.» The sitting-Smith removed the hand from the shirt and went again for the Winstons on the desk. Place was warm and wet like a turkish bath and if I hand't seen him killing a dozen cigs myself I would have thought the smoke was actually steam. An old fan from detective stories stood motionless on the ceiling. Deliberately, I would say. «We are not chasing a culprit,» he said. «Just trying to build a *consecutio*. We found Dr. Weinhardt prints on the console, that's why we askin'. «What did you do, then, after closing the bulkhead?» [[«We ran to the ceiling.»->Run to the ceiling]] [[«We waited some more time in the observatory.»->Waited time in observatory]] I checked my legs, under the desk, hiding my eyes from them. «We got out,» I whispered, «ran to the ceiling and there we waited.» The Smith-boss left the wall and came crumbling into the light. «Seriously? I mean: there's three-hundred yards between the observatory and that last door. Place was covered in infected—we found the bodies piling in every corner. You want us to believe the four of you—three wankers and a wounded girl—made all that in, how much... three minutes?» The smoking-Smith halted his colleague. «Calm down, Lance. Let's listen to the professor. We make our statement later.» Then, turning back to me: «Sorry Dr. Weyland. No personal attacks. Just tell us what you know. «Again, from scratch. You said you closed the bulkheads to the parking lot and then went directly to the roof?» He then sent a glance at his companion. I didn't see any reprimand, in it. [[Tell it all from the beginning.->All from beginning]] [[Take some more time to gather the thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]] I checked my legs, under the desk, hiding my eyes from them. «We waited there,» I whispered, «until the alarm stopped ringing.» «The alarm?» The smoking-Smith sounded surprised. «Yeah,» I explained. «All of the Factory was out of control. The bulkheads were under attack. The trains gone. And all the laboratories gaping. We had a, you know... *biohazard in process*.» «Could you elaborate?» [[Elaborate.->All from beginning]] [[Take some more time to gather the thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]] «The bulkheads were not meant to stop the infected. As a matter of fact, as you understand, they weren't very valuable for the task.» I reached for the Winstons and played with the pack. Hoped the sitting-Smith wouldn't be mad: I need something to turn into my hands when saying shit. It occurred to me the first time when I was merely a teen, and I used to count the keys in my ring when stress fell on. Abigail Parker, she actually seized my hands when I was proposing. I think the weirdness, on the occasion, was enough to let her slip by. Abigail. Suppose she is drying up by the Interstate, at the moment. Inglorious endings... «No door is apt to the job, I guess. Neither the bulkheads, nor the fire-proof doors at level B1, nor the watertight ones by the l... [[...AUNDRY.->Laundry]] [[...ABORATORIES.->Labs]] I looked at the giant mirror on my left. There's always a mirror in rooms like that one, and nobody's pretending there's Wonderland on the other side. Agent Smith, the smoking-Smith, pulled out another cig and offered me the pack. I dismissed it with the back of my hand and this was reassuring. It was time for some novelization. I just hoped I didn't mess things up too much. «Some believe there's a whole world beyond a mirror's surface,» I started. «Like, a copy of this one but reflected. Do you get it?» Smoking-Smith said *yes*. «They say we can't fall to the otherside just because there's our reflected selves in there, opposing our gestures. To get beyond the surface, one should move so fast that he actually anticipates his own reflection.» «I see,» said smoking-Smith. I turned to face him. «Can I ask what's your name, agent...?» He moved the head back, suddenly, as if averting a strong smell. Then confronted the standing-Smith and inhaled deeply. «Name's Marcus Delano,» he confessed, finally. «And he's Lance J Wilson.» «Zero percent,» I exhaled. «Excuse me?» «I didn't guess any of your names. Thought it was Smith. Both of you, I mean.» Then, I went back to the mirror. «You know that's bullshit, right? The reflected world and everything.» «Well, that I was able to suppose, yes,» replied Delano, after taking a deep puff of smoke. «It is bullshit because, to be able to anticipate his own reflection, one should go faster than light. And you know what goes faster than light?» «Superman?» Agent Delano seemed amused. «A *fucking no-one*,» I did reply, looking at his reflected version in Wonderland. «There's so much people think they know, and because of that much they think they can rule the world and be the winner at the end of every movie. But shit happens, agent. And shit says that this is no damn movie and we can't really rule a world that wasn't even made for us.» «So,» Delano interrupted me, «tell me, Dr. Weyland: what do you know of the Outbreak?» Took a long stare at his Winston, then blatantly extinguished it on the desk. Turned his eyes on me, deep, staring eyes, and asked: «What do you know of the Zero Virus?» [[Pretend unconsciousness->Pretend unconsciusness]] [[Reveal the data->Reveal the data]] «...aundry.» «The Laundry?» Smoking-Smith looked honestly puzzled. «I mean, like any other door.» I hoped the blush wasn't coloring my face. I checked the standing-Smith, but he was following his thoughts on the big mirror on the opposite side of the room. «The laundry, the toilets... whatever.» «Your laundries have waterproof doors?» *Stop fixating on this shit*, I thought. Then said: «Yeah, you know. There's usually bacteria on our uniforms. We deal with diseases, in here.» «Yeah,» argued the standing-Smith, removing himself from the wall. «What is it that you do in here, exactly?» He seemed on the verge of having a stroke. Like he was swallowing a pig whole. «This is the Factory, sir,» I replied, rehearsing a very old refrain, learned by heart the very first days after our hiring. «Here we store, organize and study every possible existing viral disease. *To be the troopers in the final war against all ailments*. This is what they say.» «They?» «The commercials. You know, we take a guided tour of three weeks before being accepted at the Factory. That's when they do the brainwash. I mean, the owners etcetera.» The two seemed satisfied. «So?» Smoking-smith took another Winston. «What was your plan?» I turned to face the giant mirror and got lost in my reflection. Hopefully, Brad and Wolski were doing their parts beyond that window. [[Take some more time to gather the thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]] [[«As I told you, reaching for safety.»->To the roof]] «...aboratories.» I heard the words come out of my mouth like they had a life on their own. Hoped the disappointment for being such a dumbass didn't show on my face. «The Laboratories?» Smoking-Smith looked honestly puzzled. «I mean, like any other door.» I checked the standing-Smith, but he was following his thoughts on the big mirror on the opposite side of the room. «The labs, the toilets... whatever. We keep everything on this floor and the ones below closed to ensure the things we store here wouldn't go outside. We couldn't possibly fathom we would have had to defend ourselves from what could come *inside*.» Smoking-Smith looked reassured. *Phew*. Standing-Smith, instead, just removed himself from the wall and started stomping through the room. «Are you sure you are not kidding us? What is it that you do, in here, mister?» He seemed on the verge of having a stroke. Like he was swallowing a pig whole. «This is the Factory, sir,» I replied, rehearsing a very old refrain, learned by heart the very first days after our hiring. «Here we store, organize and study every possible existing viral disease. *To be the troopers in the final war against all ailments*. This is what they say.» «They?» «The commercials. You know, we take a guided tour of three weeks before being accepted at the Factory. That's when they do the brainwash. I mean, the owners etcetera.» The two seemed satisfied. «So?» Smoking-smith took another Winston. «What was your plan?» I turned to face the giant mirror and got lost in my reflection. Hopefully, Brad and Wolski were doing their parts beyond that window. [[Take some more time to gather the thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]] [[«As I told you, reaching for safety.»->To the roof]] I took another look at the mirror. Wondered what's behind that. Another interrogation room, maybe. Or, more probably, a long line of cops recording and dissecting every word of mine. I shook my had, slowly. «No idea. We haven't gathered much data, yet. And I suppose it will take time: all our things are submerged in corpses and stinky blood stains.» Then, straight outta my ass: «Do you have any idea? On what has happened, I mean.» Delano took the Winstons and hid them in his front pocket. I hoped that had meant the interrogation was coming to a conclusion. «Well,» he started, «I guess all we can say now is that we ended up in one of those fucking zombie apocalypses, what do ya think? Unreasonable as it may sound.» «This is what I witnessed too, yes,» I whispered. Wilson came sitting on the desk. On the back of his jeans I spotted a large stain. Brownish. Couldn't pretend it was chocolate, or tomato. «All this big place,» he argued, «the scientists and the wizardry and all you came up with is a horror story? I mean... You don't really have a clue?» I shook my shoulders. «But you work with viruses here, dontcha?» [[Hold on to the script.->Let them expose it]] [[Admit at certain level of knowledge.->Reveal the data]] I took another look at the mirror. Wondered what's behind that. Another interrogation room, maybe. Or, more probably, a long line of cops recording and dissecting every word of mine. I took a deep breath and released some of the venom that was eating me alive from the inside. «Well, of course, saying that we didn't see a pattern coming through would be pretending.» Wilson started nodding, as he was expecting this. «You know, there's a full set of researches goin' around about what are called *psychoviruses*. Some call them *extreme-behaviour-enhancers*. But the real jargon is something we all know too well. «WMD. That's what we'd call them.» «Weapons of...» Delano held on to his cigarettes, inside his front pocket. «Exactly.» «And why would we call them like that,» Wilson asked. Didn't look puzzled. I stared at the lamp pointed at me. My vision blurred and all of a sudden I was in some desert, walking through debris and bodies like a Pastor at the end of the world. I could see the dirt and feel the burning sun on my skin. I could smell ozone and instantly knew it was not air I was inhaling but blood. Tons of human blood. «This is a flaw in Creation, Agent, if you believe in such a thing.» The smell of rotten corpses was getting so real I had to swallow back the pain. «Viruses are living beings, just like you and me. They need a safe environment to survive. Like us, they need a host from which to suck all of the energy and the sustenance. And, exactly like us, they tend to devour such environment in the process. Us humans and those microbes, we aren't compatible at all. The trick is to survive as much as we can while waiting for the other one to die, and so extinguishing both. «The perfect trick for a virus would be that of finding a way for the host to survive the onslaught. To... keep being, as long as it could.» I checked both the Smiths and, finally, saw some discernment. «Problem is, you see,» I concluded, «viruses are not that brilliant and didn't seem to think about this solution very much. So... «We, the humans, had to do it in their place. We had to invent life-after-death.» They stopped thinking for a while. I will never be certain they got a grasp on the size of it. But it sure kept 'em occupied. At the end, the more resolute Agent Wilson came back in topic: «Let's get to the point. Tell us how you reached for the roof. And what has happened here in the last 140 hours.» [[Tell it all.->Waiting in the labs and then going]] [[Skip the middle part, for safety.->The last one-hundred yards]] «Can I ask what's your name, agent...?» The sitting-Smith moved the head back, suddenly, as if averting a strong smell. Then confronted the standing-Smith and inhaled deeply. «Name's Marcus Delano,» he confessed, finally. «And he's Lance J Wilson.» «Zero percent,» I exhaled. «Excuse me?» «I didn't guess any of your names. Thought it was Smith. Both of you, I mean.» Then, I went back to the mirror. «The place had all bells ringing. The kind of alarm that goes off when everything has gone completely wrong. The day before Apocalypse, you know. So we had a little time to understand what was going on and how to react. This is not something we are meant to do. I mean: *designed* to do. We are scientists. We take all our time, usually, to settle down the options and make our measurements. This was different.» I closed my eyes and reviewed the movie in my head. Such a mess. So hard to build a comprehensible—if not believable—plot. «Sarah was hurt—she was caught in the running and some glass cut her at abdomen-height. We know the air was polluted and knew there was no assurance whatever was going on around us wasn't viral. Or worse. So we had to stay there and run some analysis on the environment. Not an easy task, given that every compartment was or had been open for a while. The risk of an infection was very high. Soon, we understood we had no chance—no time to waste— and run out of the observatory to reach for the roof. The bulkheads held long enough for us to get to the end of the corridor. «Then, all hell break loose.» [[The last one-hundred yards.->The last one-hundred yards]] «We do,» I spat. «This doesn't mean we know everything about every virus in the world.» «What do you mean?» Delano looked surprised. «You tell me. Do you really believe in zombies, Agent?» He blushed. «You called them *infected*. That's right: that's what they are. But would you really believe they passed this voodoo thing via a bite, or something? That black magic was involved?» Wilson came up with a more suitable solution: «It's a normal virus. Something that exists in nature...» He paused, like waiting for comfort. «A new, evolved plague. Like AIDS or those *immuno-something*,» said Delano. «And do you think that kind of thing could just spring, in nature, like some sort of new, blossoming, colored flower?» My last words levitated between us like a bad omen. They stopped thinking for a while. I will never be certain they got a grasp on the size of it. But it sure kept 'em occupied. At the end, the more resolute Agent Wilson came back in topic: «Let's get to the point. Tell us how you reached for the roof. And what has happened here in the last 140 hours.» [[Tell it all.->Waiting in the labs and then going]] [[Skip the middle part, for safety.->The last one-hundred yards]] «The place had all bells ringing. The kind of alarm that goes off when everything has gone completely wrong. The day before Apocalypse, you know. So we had a little time to understand what was going on and how to react. This is not something we are meant to do. I mean: *designed* to do. We are scientists. We take all our time, usually, to settle down the options and make our measurements. This was different.» I closed my eyes and reviewed the movie in my head. Such a mess. So hard to build a comprehensible—if not believable—plot. «Sarah was hurt—she was caught in the running and some glass cut her at abdomen-height. We know the air was polluted and knew there was no assurance whatever was going on around us wasn't viral. Or worse. So we had to stay there and run some analysis on the environment. Not an easy task, given that every compartment was or had been open for a while. The risk of an infection was very high. Soon, we understood we had no chance—no time to waste— and run out of the observatory to reach for the roof. The bulkheads held long enough for us to get to the end of the corridor. «Then, all hell break loose.» [[The last one-hundred yards.->The last one-hundred yards]] «As we got by the last fire-proof door, the bulkheads came down like a domino ring. All three of 'em, falling under the incoming onslaught. They were hundreds. Thousands, maybe. All rushing through the corridors like in a bad action-movie. «And the fire-proof door was stuck.» Delano nodded and, for the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, took note of what I said. He did it on a yellow-paper notebook, once again exerting some uncommon sense of the vintage. «That's where you panicked,» he commented. I dropped my sight to the ground. «Indeed.» «So, how did you open it? How did you get to the roof avoiding the rampage?» «Weinhardt had this idea,» I whispered, brilliantly tying all the knots together. «The more the outlets, the less the probability for us to be caught.» «So he opened the other doors?» Wilson reached for Delano's cigarettes and pulled one out. Looked at it for a while, before thinking again and putting it back. It was moving that he showed so much compassion for his frail body in that peculiar, end-of-the-world scenario. I nodded. «He opened them all. There was no time to tap the codes one by one—there is this touchpad, you know, near every section door, and we were standing right beside one of them—so he overrode the system and simply blew the place to pieces.» Delano looked at Wilson and let go of something for the very first time. «Here's why the place is so contaminated,» he said. Wilson looked at me then nodded. «The fire-proof door wouldn't open but we gained some time to try and force it. All of the zom-- I mean, the infected spread in every direction and stumbled one upon the other. «At last, Wolski took that axe from the wall and tore the door open. We were free.» [[On the roof.->On the roof, finally]] «So you got there, on the roof, and waited, right?» I nodded. «Five days, until the Army came to the rescue.» Wilson sounded doubtful, still. «Five days,» I repeated, rummaging through my brain for one last thing to say. One last, theatrical shit to come up with and avoid them asking the fatal, last question. The one which would have spoiled all our castle made of cards. Bloody cards. It came just in time. Just as the indomitable Wilson was going to open his mouth, ready to send his final blow. «And five days was all we needed, in the end. Looks like a *deus-ex machina*, isn't it?» «A what?» Delano bended towards me. I smiled. Too much latin for a cop. «Literally, *God out of the machine*. It was a much used trick in ancient theatrical pieces, when the writers had no better solution to a puzzle than having Zeus or Venus come into stage and save the day for the mortals.» «And what would this *deus* be?» «The Zero Virus. We thought it reanimated the dead. But it didn't. It just *looked* like it could. In fact, in the end, it behave exactly like any other virus and killed its host while feeding on it. This time, though, some neurotoxins it secreted kept the dead body moving for a time. But it couldn't last long. «It lasted, indeed, five days. As much as it takes for a body to rot or dry out in the sun.» «No black magic,» Wilson whispered. «Not at all.» And, at this point, I left my perfect, theatrical signature at the end of the script. «Just science,» I said, smiling. [[Twenty minutes later...->20 mins later]] The interrogation was over, and twenty minutes later I was walking the corridors of the Police Station along with Weinhardt and Wolski. We decided it was time for us to go check for Sarah and see how we could live our lives from now on. The agents who were interrogating my friends were not as bright as Wilson, and my former colleagues skated through it like pros. No awkward questions; no doubts about the fact the three of us were just—to use the words of the standing-bossing-Smith—*wankers*. As I passed in front of the room where I was held hostage during the interrogation, I began rethinking about it all and a strong, chilling shiver ran through my back like a whiplash. Some questions. Some that didn't take place. The first, the most important: how did Sarah survive five days on the roof without a proper medication? The second, more subtle but nonetheless vital: how come the alarms went off when all the turmoil was *outside* of the Factory? Really they believed that we opened the lab doors to spread the zombies around? How did Sarah hurt herself, in the first place? As we got to the front door we took one last look at the halls of the Police Station: everything was as much damaged there as everywhere else. There had been no recovery, no hiding place for the Zero Virus Outbreak. The world, as we knew it—and as them comic book writers like to repeat—had come to an end. Seventy percent of the US population has been wiped clean in less than a week. The Five Days of Judgement. Another twenty percent killed each other on the subsequent, foreseen, *survival holocaust*. I walked out with a smile. Comes to think about this stand-up comedian I once saw, down at the Town Hall. Said: «human existence is like a train, a looooong train running on rails that are constantly ambushed by briar thorns and creepers.» The first wagon, the locomotive, hosts the people who keep the train running. Scientists, like me, Wein and Wolk. Doctors, who find cures for new illnesses every day. Artists, poets, writers. They are the drivers: the ones who make sure humanity survives. The rest of the train? An endless queue of wagons full to saturation with individuals with no clue, who pass their time arguing—waging war one against the other—for reasons like the shape of a hat, the kind of beard one wears, and the exact pronunciation of their god's name. They are so many that one wonders how the train can manage to move at all. And let's imagine, in the locomotive, those people struggling everyday for the survival of the species. Keepin' an eye at the hook that locks the locomotive itself to the rest of the train. And wondering: «what if I just pulled this lever, down here...?» **THE TRAIN OF LIFE** a short tale by Marco Innocenti written in 3hrs and 20minutes for the 2016 Ectocomp. Made with *Twine*. *Disclaimer: This game has not yet been tested or proof-read. The author was in a hurry and will have the job done sooner or later. Sorry for any inconvenience. It's a speedif, anyway. Don't make me consider that lever myself.* :)