Quiet
The gas mask supply is a continual concern.
Not the masks themselves—the filters, specifically. Lifespan of the pre-outbreak military filters was only five years, to begin with. And once exposed to spores, they only have a day’s worth of life in them. Twenty-four hours of spore-breathing sounds pretty good, until you realize how long it takes to clear a nest—and the acid fumes and the smoke from the fire just speeds up the filter decay.
One of the few good things FEDRA provided was a bit of knowledge as to how the fungus worked. Its spores are—relative to other airborne particles—massive. White blood cells can’t successfully attack an object that much larger them themselves. The weight of these spores also allows them to gather in the base of the lungs. What does that mean? Well, a large spore means just about anything can be used as a filter. For some reason, even if the spores irritate the eyes, or land in open wounds, they don’t plant. The lung tissue is what the fungus wants. Depending on bites from Clickers as a mode of reproduction wouldn't have brought the Cordyceps this far.
Carter and Voere and Marquez have bit of a system going—producing activated charcoal, cutting open an old filter, refilling it and replacing the wadding, then welding the plastic back together. Not as good as the real thing, and if anyone on patrol comes up against infected deploying military-grade nerve agents they’re dead on their feet, but it’s better than nothing.
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Jackson had its own distillery, before all this. It’s to be expected when you live in the middle of nowhere and the winters are bitter.
Its output is smaller, now, but no less potent. Safer than the moonshine one was likely to find in the packs of traders or stashed away in some forgotten dead drop.
---
Pike saw something in the graveyard.
The problem is that she’s had more than a fistful to drink already. There had been a dance in the church tonight (the Protestant one)—and from the music and laughter and shouts still drifting out over the barren streets, it’s still going. Pike made an appearance—as part of the old guard, that’s what she does, makes an appearance—then left as soon as she turned tired eyes to Maria; the matron had given her a sympathetic smile and a discreet nod.
But even if the surface of her skin is humming against the chill of the night, she knows what she saw.
She rests her hand upon the grip of her pistol and slowly walks through the wrought-iron gate.
(Eugene has a joke.
“Been thinkin’ about getting some new property. The ol’ bungalow’s getting a little stale.”
“Where?” Someone would ask.
“I like the look of Fourth and Maple,” he would supply mildly. Then the laughs would come—some surprised, some shocked, and a few admonishing comments about Eugene’s fine bill of health.
For visitors, traders, or the newest of the new bloods, someone would lean over and say, “That’s the cemetery.”)
She swivels her head back and forth. Her breathing is slow and even. She listens. The world fades into and out of focus, and she feels out the spaces between—
And then that distinct sound: glass scraping against stone.
Pike relaxes. She looks back at the street—still empty. “So you didn’t feel like dancing,” she says over her shoulder. Silence meets her. She counts it out—nine, ten, eleven—until finally:
“Looks who’s talking.”
Pike frowns. She hadn’t seen Ellie at the dance—she had expected her to be cloistered in her room. Not… out here. Not like this. Pike walks among the gravestones, row by row, until she spots a shadow slouched low against one. The glint of a bottle in the moonlight makes her easy to find.
Ellie takes a pull from the bottle. She doesn’t look up. “You lookin’ for me?”
“No.”
Ellie snorts.
Pike shrugs. “Whether you believe me or not doesn’t make a difference.”
“Then why are you even here?”
Pike hesitates. Has she told anyone about this? Probably not. Tommy and Maria know, but that’s different. Hiding things from them is… difficult. “I like to sit here. And think.”
“Oh, I take your spot?” Can’t mistake that mocking tone.
“No.” Pike points, even if Ellie isn’t looking. “Farther up. Josephine May Carver. 1900-1919. Typhoid.”
“Not much of a talker, is she?”
Pike looks back down at Ellie. “She and I have that in common.”
It’s like that for a while: Pike, standing, watching the street, looking at the stars. Ellie, sitting, drinking, not doing much else.
“Look, Pike, what d’you want?”
Pike is somewhat annoyed. She was just getting used to the idea of sharing her quiet spot. “I don’t want—”
“Then—look, fuck, can you just leave me alone? Don’t you have a house?”
Pike walks up the row and sits next to dearly departed Josephine and doesn’t say anything. Time passes. Pike traces the words of Josephine’s grave with a finger, like she’s done countless times before. She recognizes a few of the songs that float overhead. They’re still singing and dancing and drinking. She wonders how they can be so spirited.
The ground is cold and the stone is cold. It reminds Pike of times before Jackson, wondering if she would wake up in the morning or freeze to death in her sleep. Sometimes—
“… Pike?”
She suppresses a sigh. “Go ahead, Ellie.”
There’s a tentativeness that she’s never heard before. “Were they… asking about me? At the dance?”
“Not really. By now you’ve solidified your status as a...” Loner. Outsider. “An introvert.”
“A… what?”
“Not a… people person.”
“Oh.”
“… Jesse and Dina were looking for you.”
Silence. Then, the sound of liquid sloshing in glass.
“You gonna tell them?” Ellie’s voice was aloof, yes, but there was a faint waver in it.
“No.” Why would I? is what she wants to add, but Pike keeps her mouth shut.
This is the opposite of what Pike wanted. May as well go home, now. But something wills her to stay. “Where’d you get that?”
“Get what?” That tone again.
Pike doesn’t humor that with a response.
“It’s, uh… look, there was some extra, and—”
Pike pinches the bridge of her nose. Whatever pleasantness that had been swimming in her veins has evaporated. “I’ll write it off. Say it was… a miscount. Ellie, it’s one thing if people think you’re… having… a problem. If things start disappearing too, you’ll just have more eyes on you.”
A pause. A long, defeated sigh. Mist spirals up into the air. “Yeah.”
Pike rises from the grave and walks back to Ellie.
“Sorry, Pike.”
Pike shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re going through. As long as… you go through it.” She gathers everything reassuring she has ever observed—from Maria, from Dottie, from Helen—and after some trepidation, kneels next to Ellie and places a hand on her shoulder. It’s a foreign gesture. Even in this light, Pike can see the surprise reflected in Ellie’s eyes. She holds for a few seconds before withdrawing her hand—maybe a bit too quickly. “I won’t ask. Just… go home. Sleep. No—drink water, then sleep.” Pike pries the bottle from Ellie’s hands—and frowns at how cold her fingers are. “That’s all.”
Ellie pulls at a few dying blades of grass. She keeps looking down at the ground. Then, bracing against the gravestone at her back, she rises—swaying.
When they both get to the gate, they appraise each other, nod, and go their separate ways.
Pike didn’t know what’s going on with Joel and Ellie. But she knows better than to find out.