As he passed by door number one thirty-four, he heard faint but distinct noise seeping through the wood and froze. It sounded like someone crying from inside the room.
A woman crying, he realized, and he whirled, training the flashlight beam directly at the door. Dani!
Moore had told him his office number was one twenty-seven, or so Andrew had thought. Maybe I misheard, he thought. Or maybe I remembered it wrong. Or maybe that son of a bitch just lied to me so I’d wind up lost.
Whatever the case, it didn’t matter. She’s in there. She’s alive.
He tried the knob, but it was locked.
“Shit,” Andrew muttered, because he’d started to punch the pass code in before realizing the power was out; the key pad didn’t work. Turning the knob futilely in his hand, he pressed his ear against the door. “Dani,” he called out. “Open the door.”
After a long moment in which there was nothing but silence, he closed his eyes, chanting over and over in his mind like a mantra, Answer me, Dani. Come on, be alive. Be alright. Answer me.
Then, through the door, he heard, “Andrew?”
He laughed, slapping his hand against the door. “Dani,” he cried. “It’s me. Let me in. I can’t open the door from this side. The power’s out and the key pad doesn’t work. We have to get out of here.”
From the other side, he heard a series of shuffling footsteps, some fervent sniffling, then loud, overlapping crashes and bangs, like someone had stumbled into something in the dark, toppling a pencil cup or cutlery set across the floor.
“Dani?” Concerned, he leaned against the door again. When it opened unexpectedly, swinging inward, he stumbled forward, falling against the woman on the other side.
“Oh, God, Andrew,” she gulped, and all he caught was a glimpse of blonde hair and a pungent whiff of alcohol before she staggered into him, clapping her arms around his neck in a fervent embrace.
“Suzette?”
She’d buried her face against the side of his neck and when she looked up, he saw her make-up streaked down her face, crooked lines of smeared mascara ringing her eyes, bisecting her cheeks. She hiccupped moistly for breath as she choked back tears.
“Suzette,” he said again. “What are you—”
“Shhhh!” Spraying his face with spittle, she shoved her hand over his mouth, muffling him. Her eyes were round and wild, rolling in their sockets as her gaze darted frantically past him, up and down the corridor. “Don’t let them hear you.”
She staggered back into the room, dragging him with her, slamming the door shut behind him. He panned the light around and saw they were in a small office. She’d shoved the desk against the wall and piled blankets in a tangled heap in the chair nook beneath, making a rudimentary nest for herself. Beside this, he saw a cardboard box heaped with cartons of crackers, canned vegetables, some Spaghetti-O’s, but these were far outnumbered by the dozen or so bottles of gin, tequila, red wine and vodka, the latter of which she’d already been hitting pretty heavily, judging by her condition and the nearly empty bottle that listed on its side, cap removed, well within view.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Suzette slurred, shambling toward him again, offering a crooked smile. Her hair was wildly askew, her clothes rumpled and blood-stained. Her eyes remained haunted, gleaming in the reflected flashlight’s glow with a manic sort of glaze. As he watched, she dragged her hands across her cheeks, trying to wipe her ruined make up away, then fought to smooth her hair down behind her ears. “I brought some things. Do you see? Everything I could carry. It should be enough to last us a week, maybe more, a little less.”
“What are you talking about?” Andrew asked, then she snuggled into him again, twining her arms around his waist, burrowing her nose into his chest.
“God, I’m so glad you’re here,” she crooned, muffled against his shirt.
“Suzette, look at me.” Shrugging the gun over his shoulder and setting aside the flashlight, he tried to tilt her face up. “What are you doing here? How did you get inside the lab?”
“Through the front doors,” she replied, then she snorted laughter. Holding out one unsteady index finger, she mimed punching in a pin code. “I just pushed the buttons.” Her smile faltered, then withered. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m so scared, Andrew, and I heard gunshots outside, people screaming. It was horrible. I didn’t think there was anybody left, no one but me, and that they’d find me somehow. They’d break down the door and kill me.”
“It’s alright,” he said, and she crumpled into him again. He embraced her clumsily, awkwardly. “It’s going to be okay, Suzette.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Do you know where Dr. Moore’s office is?” he asked. “Do you know how to get there from here?” When she nodded, still tucked against his chest, he said, “You have to show me. Right now. Come on, let’s go.”
Stepping toward the door, he pulled away from her, leading her by the hand. Her eyes flew wide with renewed alarm and she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “No, no, oh, no, we can’t go. Are you crazy? They’re out there.”
The way she said this, the emphasis she placed on the word they’re made him frown. “Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, cocking his head, meeting her bleary gaze. “Suzette, do you know what they are?”
Because by all rights, she shouldn’t.
She cut her eyes away, burying her face again into his shirt. “Stay with me,” she mumbled. “Please, Andrew. It will be okay. You’ll see.”
“You do, don’t you?” he asked. “You know what the screamers are. You know what Moore did to the soldiers from Alpha squad.”
“It’ll be okay,” she said again, shaking her head, clinging to him. “Another week, maybe two and we won’t have to worry.”
“Why not? Why won’t we have to worry?” Grasping her by the arms, he hauled her forcibly back from his chest. He gave her a sharp shake, rocking her head on her neck, making her cry out miserably. “Tell me, goddamn it. What are you talking about?”
She blinked at him, tearful again, her bottom lip quavering. “The virus will eventually overtake them.”
“You know about Moore’s retrovirus?” he demanded and she nodded.
“I helped him design it,” she whispered. “The restriction enzyme that breaks down the host cell’s DNA, anyway. That’s what allows the virus to encode its own genetic sequence.”
“What?” Stricken, Andrew shook her again. “You’ve been helping him all along? You knew what he’s been out here doing, and you never tried to stop him?”
“How could I?” she cried. “No, I wasn’t helping him. I told you before, I work with his daughter, not his research. Not anymore.”
“But you used to,” Andrew said. “I saw your picture in the scrapbook Alice made. You used to be Moore’s lab partner.”
She nodded, then uttered a harsh, scraping laugh. “Back when he was just Edward Moore, before he became a Nobel Laureate. That son of a bitch. He wouldn’t have won that goddamn prize if it wasn’t for me. It was my enzyme that made his precious vascular endothelial growth factor work, anyway.”
She flapped her arms furiously and he let her go. Suzette staggered over to her messy blankets and bent over, lifting the vodka bottle off the floor. Tilting her head back, she opened her mouth wide, tongue protruding, and dribbled the last trickles down her throat. When she’d finished, she threw the bottle aside, sending it clattering across the floor, while she yanked another from her box.