Stay Inside

25. Lothryn

The man called Agent Gomez led me to a door in a dark echoey space. His shiny black shoes clopped percussively on polished cement. He carried a handgun in a holster on his belt. I had half a mind to wrestle it from him.

He used his identification to open a lock before turning the handle and guiding me into a smaller room flooded with sickly fluorescent light. There was a large mirror on the left wall and a large black desk between two chairs. A woman in a black suit was seated in the chair facing me. I nearly didn't recognize her at first.

She was Tara, the woman who had drugged me and taken me to this place.

The door clicked shut behind me. I felt uneasy, like a captive. I was torn. On one hand, Tara spoke my language; she offered me comfort. On the other hand, her actions had led me to a place where I endured horrors. I wanted to trust her, but a large part of me felt more attached to Hannah. In my brief time with her, I felt we had developed a connection. I wondered if Hannah screamed to warn me about the people that were coming; they could have been bad people. I was naïve to assume that people surviving the apocalypse, by nature, would be good.

"Have a seat," Tara instructed. She didn't give me complete eye-contact. She was tapping her fingers rapidly into a flat glowing screen.

"Why?" I asked her.

She looked up, cocked her head at me, and pouted innocently.

"So that we can talk."

"Why did you bring me here?" I specified. I folded my arms.

"So that we can be safe. So we can talk. Please sit."

I did as she asked. The table was empty aside from a silver basket filled with bright red apples.

"Are you hungry?" Tara asked me, catching my eyes. I shook my head. I couldn't eat; my stomach was in knots.

"Do you live here?" I asked her. "Do you live in this dark fortress?

She paused thoughtfully. I was perhaps more poignant in my word choice than I even intended to be. A strand of hair came loose from her bun and she quickly tucked it behind her ear.

"It's not all dark," she said with a half-smile. "And a fortress is a good name for it. It might just keep us safe if everything goes to hell. But no, I don't live here. But I feel like I do."

I had no idea what she meant. Hadn't the world already gone to hell? Why did she keep tapping her fingers on her screen? Was she writing?

"You did something to me," I said to her. "Back at my apartment, you stuck me with a needle, which I think made me sleep. Why did you drug me to take me here? It makes me feel nervous about trusting you."

She set her screen down. She reached out to me. Her fingernails were lacquered red like the skin on the apples. I felt her warm hands touch mine. She smiled warmly.

"I was worried about that too," She said. "I want you to trust me. My-" she hesitated, searching for an appropriate word, "Elders were concerned with you learning the location of this place. It's a secret. They're not certain they can trust you yet. That's why we have to talk."

In spite of myself, I relented that the logic made sense. And yet my mind flashed to the visuals I had seen between dreams. I remembered the bright lights as my eyes were held open. I remembered people speaking in the old-world language.

"How come nobody except for us speaks this language?"

"Why do you think?" she challenged me. "I can tell you're very smart, Lothryn. You must have theories."

I would have preferred she just told me, but she seemed generally curious in my answer. That's what I told myself at first. But as I struggled, she reveled in my discomfort. It was like she wanted to watch my understanding of the world fall apart.

"My father spoke of a change," I said. "Maybe it happened earlier than he thought it did. The zombies evolved to become intelligent like people."

I knew my reasoning was a stretch even as I said it. Tara considered my words and emitted a slight chuckle. She pulled her hands away and returned to her device.

"I'm very impressed," she said before quipping, "Mostly with your father, though." It was a slight I didn't yet understand, but it annoyed me regardless. "Did he ever mention what would have caused this change, a cure, perhaps?"

"Dad didn't tell me a lot of the details. I was hoping he would soon. I was hoping he would see me as a man."

"But he had you drink an antidote."

I ran my hand through my hair. How did Tara know what my Dad did or didn't do? I supposed it was logical that any survivors would have been familiar with the antidote. I shrugged off the question.

"Yeah, the orange stuff."

"And what was in that?" Tara asked.

She leaned in closer. I could see the words on her screen. She was writing in old-world language. She wasn't reading from a script, though. Unlike Agent Gomez, she knew what she and I were saying.

"I don't know what was in the antidote."

"You don't know?" Tara narrowed her eyes at me. "How do you not know?"

I shrugged.

"He just brought it home with him," I explained. "He collected it from a big vat at a hospital."

Tara rolled her eyes and sighed.

"No he didn't."

I scowled. "Yes he did. That's where he brought the little vials from. Why would I lie about that?"

"Oh, I know you're not lying."

She was leading me. But what was she leading me towards? I had a strange feeling of déjà vu that hurt my head to think about.

"Are you talking about my Dad?" I asked. "What reason would he have to lie about that?"

Tara cleared her throat. She looked to the window as if there was something beyond her reflection. She was listening to someone I couldn't hear. I watched the cogs turn in her mind. She turned back to me with a different demeanor. She was no longer smiling; she was cold and predatory.

"Have you ever heard the name Erik Carpenter?" she asked me.

I shook my head. It hardly sounded like a name at all.

"What about Isaac Carpenter?" she pressed.

I shook my head again.

She clasped her hands and rested her chin against her fingers.

"I'm afraid this will all come as a surprise to you. Are you ready to hear the truth?"

I didn't necessarily trust that Tara was interested in telling me the actual truth. Nonetheless, with my eyebrows aching from a constant knitted furrow, I nodded silently. I would listen to her "truth."

"Excellent," she said. "Now, where should I start?"