They Live

BZZZT-CHK.

The way the main building is designed, it's nearly impossible to keep from being swallowed up by the lifeless hallways. The labs are located towards the back, the offices loftily hang over the labyrinthine corridors and cubicles, and deep in the bowels of the underground system lies the labs lined with specimens in cages and filing cabinets filled with research notes. The rather non-intuitive set up made no sense, until I'd been "promoted". Then I realised that us lowly workers weren't meant to be comfortable with the floor plan. It was one of many restraining bolts: once you figured out and memorised the path to where you needed to be, you couldn't afford to wander or explore.

BZZZT-CHK-CHK.

It took nearly four years of my blind obedience for the powers that be to deign to reveal the underground portion of Envirex. (I had to have walked by the elevator a million times prior and never noticed.)

CHK-CHK-BZZZT.

I loved working for Envirex, loved making a difference. Certainly made a difference now! Shut. Up. Until that fateful day, I was content to toil my days away researching vaccines and running observational studies and experiments on willing volunteers.

Now...

CHK-BZZZT-CHK. BZZZT-ZZZT.

What the hell?

I lever myself out of the semi-destroyed chair I'd been lounging in for the last what, seven hours? The noise is an odd mixture of a buzzing sound and a broken rattle.

BZZ-CHK-ZT-ZT.

I zero in on the sound, which is coming from the rather battered remains of my desk. It takes five attempts and a rather colourful string of curses for me to figure out that the drawer is wedged shut by bent metal and therefore not going to open anytime soon. Grunting with the effort, I remove my computer and tip the desk onto its side.

CLUNK-CLANG-BZZZT-CHT.

The underside of the desk gleams, relatively untouched by dirt and dust, but more importantly it's weaker, and I can force the drawer off its track.

A gap grows between the plane of the desk and the front of the drawer. I slide my hand into the opening, fishing blindly and taking care not to cut myself or get stuck.

The vibrations shoot through my arm as I wrap my fingers around a cold rectangle. I manage to manoeuvre my hand and the item through the slot, wincing slightly when the metal bites unforgivingly into my wrist, and once I can see what the hell is making that noise, I let out an involuntary groan.

My phone? My goddamn phone? Really?

The display faithfully reads "Nine new messages". Huffing my breath, I set the desk back on its base and relax in my chair again, crossing my legs impatiently as I open up my messages.

My breathing catches in my throat at the sight of the first text.

6:26am Are you there?
~T

Good lord.

Wait. No. There's no way he survived.

So who has his phone?

7:53am So you are dead. How did you even manage that? What happened to "this building will be safe"?
~T

7:57am Don't tell me you followed me out. Please. Answer.
~T

12:11pm This isn't healthy. I should stop. But I can't help it. It's more cathartic than it really should so I'll keep texting my dead boyfriend.
~T

12:12pm Why the hell did you have to die you selfish ass?
~T

1:43pm Sorry. I miss you. I love you.
~T

5:13pm Remember when we met? This was before either of us started working Down Below. That stupid "Company inter-divisional picnic" thing? Envirex is too big. I never knew that THE Dr. Miles Grant I admired worked in the same company as me. But you did. We met at the snack table when you spilled your drink on me (still convinced you did it on purpose, you jerk) And god help us it's way too storybook but we fell
(1/2)
in love. Is this how it all ends? With the one who should be dead living and the one who should be alive dying? It's not fair. YOU SAID IT WAS SAFE. What the hell Miles did you lie? Did you want us both to die together? Where the hell are you? I fucking hate you selfish stupid bastard!
(2/2)
~T

5:13pm oh god im so sorry i could never hate you please im sorry miles i love you come back to me
~T

I tremble with anger. Who dares to impersonate him? Do they even know what they're doing? (But how could they know all those details? How could they know about what happened before the world exploded at the beckoning of a madman puppeteered by an amoral company?)

The world's gone mad. Logic has fled reality and an alternate legislature rules. What could this mean?

An ice cold wave of fear surges through my veins and seizes control of my limbs. Without conscious control I type.

5:21pm Who the hell is this?
M.

A minute passes.

5:22pm Miles?
~T

5:23pm Oh my god your alive!
~T

CALL FROM... Tristan Lionel

He's dead, but whoever has his phone is calling me. There's no way he survived. He'd left and then the bombs hit and even if he ran he couldn't have escaped the dead zone and-- Clenching my jaw, I hit answer.

"Enough games," I growl into the receiver.

"It's me."

Oh my god, it is him. My voice breaks pathetically as I whisper, "Tristan?"

"Where are you?"

Relief and excitement give way to fury. "Where are you?" I demand. "You left! You should be a smear on the sidewalk--"

"So you wanted me to die?"

"Oh, oh god," I feel physically ill even considering that. "Tristan, that is not what I meant--"

But he doesn't listen. Instead, he says, "Okay" in the worst, most horribly broken way and hangs up; and this time I don't have a fucking excuse and I've lost him again.

CALLING... Tristan Lionel

CALL DISCONNECTED

Tears well up in my eyes. No, no, no! I can't handle losing him again, I can't handle never seeing, hearing or tasting him, oh god.

5:25pm Tristan please I didn't meant that.
M.

Please.

5:25pm Damn it Tristan answer please?
M.

5:26pm Pick up your phone let me explain I'm so sorry
M.

CALLING... Tristan Lionel

CALL CONNECTED

The words surge forth, breaking from my lips in a desperate froth. "I thought you were dead and I thought I killed you and then I was mad because I -- I don't even know Tristan, I just-- just-- please, please, I can't lose you again--" It's only then that I realise that Tristan is quiet on the other end, and panic bubbles up within my chest and wrestles my vocal cords into a soundless stranglehold.

Silence.

Then, "What happened?"

I let out a relieved sigh. The tension eases out of me and I half-collapse into my chair. "I-- I think I followed you out once the bombs started."

"You think?"

"I've been in a dissociative state for the past nineteen days, so I'm not sure about anything."

"Oh Miles," he whispers.

His pity breaks some blockage in me. "Tristan, I'm so sorry. I should have told you about the plan and we could have escaped before everything went to hell, oh I'm sorry I'm so sorry--"

"Miles!"

Carefully and reluctant to say a word, I whisper, "Tristan?"

"Stop, okay? We can't -- we can't stay focused on the past, otherwise we'll drown. So let's just... Where are you?"

Shame trickles up my cheeks, painting them red, but he has a point. "My old office."

"I'm in the break-room. I'll be there in a few minutes."

I nod wordlessly before I remember that he can't see me through the phone. Awkwardly I clear my throat, "Yeah, um, okay."

"Love you."

He brings a warm smile to my lips. "Love you too, babe." I hang up and stare out the same broken windows to gaze upon the same broken landscape, but suddenly everything seems less horrible than it was five minutes ago.