The Train of Life

«We drew straws, so to speak. Brad got picked up, so he was the one pushing the button.» The taller one, Agent Smith, was leaning against the wall by the door. TV shows had taught me that he would be the boss in there. The world had changed so much, like a slap in the face, yet some things still clung on like creepers. Banal cliches. The other one—another Agent Smith—was scratching his chest through his open shirt. I guess ZVO happened on laundry day; all clothes wrinkled. «So I wouldn't single anyone out. It was a shared decision.» The sitting Smith took his hand out of his shirt and grabbed another Winston from the desk. The place was warm and wet like a Turkish bath, and if I hadn't seem him finishing off a dozen cigs myself, I would have thought the smoke was actually steam. An old fan straight out of a detective novel hung, motionless, on the ceiling. Deliberately so, I would say. «We aren't looking for a scapegoat,» he said. «Just trying to establish a timeline. We found Dr. Weinhardt's prints on the console; that's why we're askin'. «What did you do, then, after closing the bulkhead?» [[«We ran to the roof.»->Run to the ceiling]] [[«We waited a while longer in the observatory.»->Waited time in observatory]]

I stared at my legs, under the desk, hiding my eyes from them. «We got out,» I whispered, «ran to the roof and there we waited.» The boss Smith left the wall and came rumbling 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 piled up in every corner. You want us to believe the four of you—three wankers and a wounded girl—made that distance in, how much... three minutes?» The smoking Smith stopped his colleague. «Calm down, Lance. Let's listen to the professor. We'll make our statement later.» Then, turning back to me: «Sorry Dr. Weyland. No more personal attacks. Just tell us what you know. «Again, from the start. You said you closed the bulkheads to the parking lot and then went directly to the roof?» Then he shot a glance at his companion. I didn't see any reproach in there. [[Tell it all from the beginning.->All from beginning]] [[Take some more time to gather your thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]]

I stared at 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. «The whole Factory was out of control. The bulkheads were under attack. The trains gone. And all the laboratories were left wide open. We had a, you know... *biohazard in process*.» «Could you elaborate?» [[Elaborate.->All from beginning]] [[Take some more time to gather your thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]]

«The bulkheads were not meant to stop the infected. To be honest—well, you know—they were not up to the task.» I reached for the Winstons and played with the pack. Hoped the sitting Smith wouldn't be mad: I need something in my hand to play with when I'm saying shit. It started when I was a teenager, and I used to count the keys on my keyring whenever the pressure was rising. Abigail Parker, she had to hold my hands still when I was proposing. I think the situation was strange enough for her to let it slip by. Abigail. Suppose she is drying up by the Interstate, at the moment. Inglorious endings... «No door is up to the job, I guess. Not the bulkheads, not the fire doors on Level B1, not 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 this, and no one'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; it was reassuring. It was time for some improvisation. 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 know what I mean?» Smoking Smith said *yes*. «They say the only reason we can't fall through to the other side is because our reflected selves are in there, opposing our every move. To get beyond the surface, you'd have to move so fast that you get there before your reflection.» «I see,» said smoking Smith. I turned to face him. «Can I ask your name, Agent...?» He moved his head back, suddenly, as if avoiding a strong smell. Then he indicated the standing Smith, and breathed deeply. «Name's Marcus Delano,» he confessed, finally. «And he's Lance J Wilson.» «Zero percent,» I sighed. «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 guess, yes,» replied Delano, after taking a deep puff of smoke. «It is bullshit because, to get there before your own reflection , you have to go faster than light. And you know what goes faster than light?» «Superman?» Agent Delano seemed amused. «Absolutely *fucking no-one*,» I did reply, looking at his reflected version in Wonderland. «There's so many people who think they know, and because of that 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?» He took a long stare at his Winston, then carelessly extinguished it on the desk. Turned his eyes on me, deep, staring eyes, and asked: «What do you know of the Zero Virus?» [[Feign ignorance->Pretend unconsciusness]] [[Reveal the data->Reveal the data]]

«...aundry.» «The laundry?» Smoking Smith looked honestly puzzled. «I meant, like, any other door.» I hoped I wasn't blushing. I checked the standing Smith, but he was following his own 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 I said: «Yeah, you know. There's usually bacteria on our uniforms. We deal with diseases, here.» «Yeah,» argued the standing Smith, removing himself from the wall. «What is it you do 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, reciting a very old formula we all learned by heart the very first days after our hiring. «Here we store, organize and study every possible existing viral disease. *To be the footsoldiers in the final war against all illness*. That's what they say.» «They?» «The commercials. You know, we take a three-week guided tour before being accepted at the Factory. That's when they do the indoctrination. 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 your thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]] [[«As I told you, heading 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 lost in his thoughts about 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 don't get out. We couldn't possibly have fathomed that we would have to defend ourselves from threats from the *inside*.» Smoking Smith looked reassured. *Phew*. Standing Smith, instead, just removed himself from the wall and started stalking about the room. «Are you sure you're not yanking our chain? What exactly do 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, reciting a very old formula that we learned by heart in the very first few days after our hiring. «Here we store, organize and study every possible existing viral disease. *To be the footsoldiers in the final war against all illness*. That's what they say.» «They?» «The commercials. You know, we take a three-week guided tour before being accepted at the Factory. That's when they do the indoctrination. 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 my thoughts.->Losing time on purpose]] [[«As I told you, heading for safety.»->To the roof]]

I took another look at the mirror. Wondering what was behind it. Another interrogation room, maybe. Or, more probably, a long line of cops recording and dissecting every word of mine. I shook my head, 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 disgusting blood stains.» Then, straight outta my ass: «Do you have any idea? About what happened, I mean.» Delano took the Winstons and hid them in his front pocket. I hoped that meant the interrogation was coming to an end. «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? As crazy as it may sound.» «That's what I saw, too, yes,» I whispered. Wilson came and sat on the desk. On the back of his jeans I spotted a large stain. Brownish. Couldn't pretend it was chocolate, or tomato. «This whole, giant 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 shrugged my shoulders. «But you work with viruses here, dontcha?» [[Keep to the script.->Let them expose it]] [[Admit a certain level of knowledge.->Reveal the data]]

I took another look at the mirror. Wondered what was behind it. 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 if he was expecting this. «You know, there's a whole class of research papers goin' around about what we call *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 kept a hand on his cigarettes, inside his front pocket. «Exactly.» «And why would we call them that,» Wilson asked. Didn't look puzzled. I stared at the lamp that was 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. «There's 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 their energy and their sustenance. And, exactly like us, they tend to devour their 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 extinguish both. «The perfect trick for a virus would be to find 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 to the topic: «Let's get to the point. Tell us how you headed for the roof. And everything that's 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 your name, agent...?» The sitting Smith moved his head back, suddenly, as if avoiding a strong smell. Then he indicated the standing Smith and inhaled deeply. «Name's Marcus Delano,» he confessed, finally. «And he's Lance J Wilson.» «Zero percent,» I sighed. «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 were meant to do. I mean: *designed* to do. We are scientists. We take all our time, usually, to settle down on 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 up as we were running and some glass cut her at abdomen height. We knew the air was tainted, and knew there was no assurance that 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 ran out of the observatory to head for the roof. The bulkheads held long enough for us to get to the end of the corridor. «Then, all hell broke 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, as if waiting for comfort. «A new, evolved plague. Like AIDS or those *immuno-somethings*,» said Delano. «And do you think that kind of thing could just spring up in nature, like some sort of new, blossoming, colorful flower?» My last words hung 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 to the topic: «Let's get to the point. Tell us how you headed for the roof. And everything that's 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 were meant to do. I mean: *designed* to do. We are scientists. We take all our time, usually, to settle down on 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 up as we were running and some glass cut her at abdomen height. We knew the air was tainted, and knew there was no assurance that 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 ran out of the observatory to head for the roof. The bulkheads held long enough for us to get to the end of the corridor. «Then, all hell broke 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 dominoes. 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 door was stuck.» Delano nodded and, for the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, took notes on what I said. He did it on a yellow-paper notebook, once again exerting some uncommon taste for the vintage. «That's where you panicked,» he commented. I dropped my gaze to the ground. «Indeed.» «So, how did you open it? How did you get to the roof and avoid the rampage?» «Weinhardt had this idea,» I whispered, brilliantly tying all the knots together. «The more outlets, the less chance for us to get 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 this peculiar end-of-the-world scenario. I nodded. «He opened them all. There was no time to tap in the codes one by one—there's this kind of 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 we go; this is why the place is so contaminated,» he said. Wilson looked at me then nodded. «The fire door wouldn't open but it gave us some time to try and force it. All of the zom-- I mean, the infected spread in every direction and stumbled into each other. «Finally, Wolski took that axe from the wall and chopped 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 last, fatal question. The one which would have spoiled our whole house 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 on 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 behaved 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. Just as long 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 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 out the zombies? 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 there was just as damaged as everything else. There had been no recovery from, no hiding place for the Zero Virus Outbreak. The world as we knew it—and as the comic book writers were so apt to say—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 during the subsequent, predictable *survival holocaust*. I walked out with a smile. Come to think of a 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 overrun by briar thorns and creepers.» The first car, the engine, 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 packed full of clueless people, 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 manages to move at all. And let's imagine, in the ending, those people struggling each day for the survival of their species. Keepin' an eye on the hook that links the engine 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 was proof-read and made intelligible by the always cool mathbrush. Any stubborn mistake is my falut, not his.