0800 Hours [slash]

0800 Hours: Recording #025

Click.

There's a pause as someone licks their lips. No one knows what to say.

"Okay, so it's not 0800 hours obviously. It's been about... one hour since my last recording. Not very thematic, I know, but –"

A shaky exhale rips through the sentence.

"But people need to know about this. Like, I don't know. There's something wrong here. I don't... I don't know what's happening."

"Beith isn't a Sanctuary, that's what's happening."

The recording flickers a few times. The first speaker lets out a small, hysterical laugh.

"Yeah. What Cye said."

Slow footsteps echo, barely registering on the recording as someone shuffles around the room. They pause for a moment, the soft rustle of paper taking their place.

"Cam? Come look at this."

"What is it?"

"A timeline of the Infection. Apparently. But it doesn't look right."

"How do you mean?"

"Well you've got that freaky number thing. Take a look."

"Freaky number thing?"

"You know, that whole fifty-six days since I finally hit puberty, or whatever."

"I just love how you've managed to cling to your sense of humour. Twat."

The rustling continues, papers shuffled and folders opened. Nature composed the previous soundtracks with wind and hail and rain, but now there's just the low buzz of electric lights and a thick sense of dread.

"It doesn't make sense, right? I mean, I didn't really keep track, but the dates are wrong. Aren't they?"

"...Well, yeah. But maybe this is just someone's predicted timeline? It's not very good – they overshot all the borders closing, and when the internet went down. And fuck me, they thought all evacuations would be finished three hundred and eight days ago? Clearly this person is an optimist."

"Okay, but why would that be here? Why is any of this shit here? Does none of this strike you as weird, Cam? This is supposed to be a Sanctuary, humanity's last hope, and instead it looks like a fucking classroom!"

The words spiral out of control at the end, the last thread of coherence disintegrating under the heat of true and utter panic.

"Well, if it's a classroom maybe we can learn something. Let's look at that TV! That's an old BBC news clip, right? Let's turn up the volume and see if we can figure out where we are."

"Alright."

It sounds dismayed, defeated now. There's a few clipped clicks, and slowly the tinny voices from the TV fill the air.

"And action!"

"Welcome to BBC News! Our top story tonight – the US has closed their borders just two weeks after Russia."

"I thought Russia closed their borders first."

"Did they?"

"Yeah, I remember it. Russia went dark like three days before the US did."

"Weird."

"Good job, Halley. Okay, I think what we should do is just record as many dates as possible now, and we can fill in the rest of the story after."

"Sure thing!"

"Right, next date please. Action!"

"Welcome to BBC News! Our top story tonight – the US has closed their borders just five days after Russia."

"Cut! Next date please."

"Welcome to BBC News! Our top story tonight – Russia has closed their borders just two days after the US."

"Cut! Next date please."

"Welcome to BBC News! Our top story tonight – Russia has closed their borders just two weeks after the US."

"Cut! Alright, that's perfect. We don't know what dates we're going with yet, but right now we're leaning on Russia closing first. The suits seem to think that's more believable."

The TV continues, faint voices light and giggling and belonging to another world entirely.

"Well, uh, that didn't really make anything clearer, but –"

"Didn't make anything clearer? Cam, I'll tell you what's clear – something tremendously fucked up is happening here and I'm really freaking out. We need to get out of here, now."

There's a sudden screech of hinges. A thump of boots. The click of a gun.

"Oh, I don't think so. I think you two have seen enough."

A new voice enters the fray, a woman. Her words are thin, a deadly blade.

"Where are we!?" – "Who the fuck are you!?"

"Doesn't matter. You're both coming with me. Now."

The boots inch closer, calm and confident on the hard metal floor. Someone stumbles backward, crashing into a table and sending the TV to the floor.

"Stop moving! You take one more step and I swear to God I'll put a bullet in your brain."

Someone steps forward, determined.

"You take one more step and I'll fucking bite you."

"Cye, what the fuck?"

The gun clicks a second time, the owner clearly phased by the sheer and utter absurdity of the threat.

"You'll... bite me?"

"You think I'm joking? I have a fucking biohazard tag welded around my wrist. You think they put that there for a laugh? Get the fuck out of our way or I'll show what Infected really means."

Three people breathe, but no one speaks. And then...

Laughter. Rapturous, delighted laughter. The woman giggles, sighs, and claps her hands together.

"Oh my God, you think you're Infected? That's brilliant. God, I bet that one's worked for you before, hasn't it? Here's the thing, though. That's not what the biohazard tag is for. Don't insult my intelligence."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Like you don't know. Why else would you be here, after all? Recording all this?"

"I physically cannot express how little I understand the gibberish spewing from your mouth."

"Fuck Cye, don't antagonise her. Look, we really don't know what's happening and you can have my recorder and do whatever the fuck you like with it, but please just let us out of here. We just want to leave."

There's a muffled crackle, someone's hand too close to the microphone.

"I'll be taking this. But I'm still not letting you go. You can't really expect me to believe that all this is a coincidence, can you?"

"It is a coincidence!"

An audible sneer. "Sure. But let me just make something clear, in case bitey boy over there has any more ideas. Do not try to 'infect' me. First of all, I'll just shoot you. And second, it's just a massive waste of time for both of us. You see, that tag doesn't mean you're Infected. I think you already knew that."

She stops for a moment, a calculated pause. A predator the moment before they pounce.

"That tag means you're immune."

The microphone whistles as it's hurled towards the ground.

Crash.