Status: this is an INCOMPLETE FIRST DRAFT, and has only undergone minor edits. if something seems weird just leave it be

Groundlings

Lists Upon Lists

As time moved on, in its usual unrelenting regularity, Cate’s workload lightened considerably. She had attended countless meetings, had presented all sorts of ledgers and charts to the committee, and she had survived it all. She had succeeded.
The committee consisted of those who would be in charge of the expedition, leading it together and making sure it would work like a well oiled machine. Cate’s responsibility was bookkeeping, so she had to make herself familiar with them all so she could adjust how she worked with each and every one of them. There was Doctor Rebecca Goldsmith, heading the medical and scientific team that would accompany the expedition. They were mostly to do their own research along the way, but always be prepared to offer medical aid when it was needed. Cate suspected it would be needed quite a bit. At thirty-seven years old, Rebecca was one of the oldest and most experienced on the board. She had a young daughter she would be bringing with her, a teenage monkey of a girl named Casey. Casey was already registered to be part of the scouting department as she was fast, small, and hardy.
In charge of that department was Anastasia King. She was only five years older than Cate herself, and a wilder spirit than Cate could ever hope to be. Anastasia not only was an excellent sprinter, but she was incredibly flexible and a decent shot with a pistol when it came down to it. And most importantly, she already knew everything she and her team would need to look for.
Scouting worked closely with navigation, which was on Cate’s shoulders. She had the map. She was to keep the entire herd of Sequoians on track and to make sure the course they took was the fastest and easiest. The less time they traveled, the less likely they were to lose large numbers of people.
Then there was the militia. It was headed by the oldest in the group, a man in his fifties named Clark Johnson. Clark had done it all, according to his records in the archive. He had started out as a low ranking officer in Sequoia’s small police force, then had turned his sights on protecting the city from outside forces rather than itself. He had served seven years as a perimeter sniper, then had earned his way into the ranks of the groundguard.
That he had lived long enough to retire and eventually accept this position was a miracle if Cate had ever seen one, and it was obvious he had paid for it dearly. Clark’s skin was a network of old scars, some of them almost faded completely. Most were on his one forearm, but there were some on his face and Cate suspected he had quite a few on his chest and sides, though she wasn’t eager to find out. The old man was missing most of his right arm, from a little below the elbow. He claimed he had lost it to infection, though he left the question of which type up in the air.
It gave the old man a sense of hardened mystery, which was exactly what he needed to inspire respect in his underlings.
He needed every bit of fear he could inspire, because his team included some of the rowdiest troublemakers in the whole city. They were powerful individuals and they worked well enough together as a team, but some of them had terrible reputations.
Cate had heard a rumor that Clark had nearly broken Finch Anderson’s nose when Finch showed up with breath that reeked of last night’s booze.
Apparently Finch had been sober since, but it was difficult to believe.
Cate turned her attention back to the task at hand. Besides finishing up her side of recruiting, she had financial papers to look through. She had taken each board member’s original budget requests to the governor with poor results. They had all asked too much, so Cate had to figure out where to tighten belts, what to cut out, and hope that the others agreed or she’d have to do it all over again.
She predicted she’d have to do this at least twice more. Of the whole board, Anastasia had requested the least. A pistol, a flashlight, binoculars, some rope, and a pair of sturdy boots for each of her people. It wasn’t much at all, and Cate figured she was safe leaving it as it was.
Doctor Rebecca had requested the most. Her team needed all sorts of supplies, ones that were hard to come by as it was. As terrible as it was, they simply would have to settle for the bare necessities.
Considering the circumstances, perhaps not all of them would even carry a full kit. Cate did not expect Rebecca to be happy, but she was sure the woman would understand. Rebecca had dealt with many of the same problems before. The leaders had been told to write down everything they could possibly need, with a warning that the list would need to be pared down. Rebecca’s simply needed more paring. There were, of course, some strings Cate could pull. She saw the necessity of some of these rare and expensive items, and she was sure she could convince Governor Powell to allow at the very least one of each. But Cate suspected there would be no more than five, and when you only had five life saving devices or medicines, it meant it was up to someone to decide which five lives were the most worth saving.
That was not a thought Cate wanted to entertain. She would have to, eventually, but not now. Now was the time to do all she could to prevent dire circumstances. She looked over Rebecca’s extensive list again and started marking it up. There were some things on it that she knew would be outright denied. She put a line through each of them, though she would still bring them up in her pitch to the governor. Cate circled what she knew would be easy to obtain. She was confident enough that she almost wanted to promise Rebecca them right now. But it never hurt to be careful. The majority of the list received question marks, some notes about quantities, anything she could use to haggle.
It was going to be a difficult fight, and she would have to fight it a few times over for each of them.
Before moving on to the next list-- Clark’s-- she leaned back in her chair, tipping it so it stood only on its back legs. Cate threw her head back, red curls flying everywhere, and let out the loudest, most guttural groan she could muster. Sometimes it just had to go like that, get your frustrations out in one easy sound.
It was nowhere near enough. There was so much she still had to do, so many negotiations to be had. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had slept soundly. How long had she been sitting at this godforsaken desk?
Maybe it was time for a break. It broke Cate’s heart to consider getting up and dusting the shelves a break, but there was not enough time for a real one, and she would not let her archives fall into ruin before she even left. It was unthinkable.
Stretching her legs felt good, though. Huffing, Cate pulled her mess of hair back into a tail and twisted it into a bun, securing it with a tie and two pens for good measure. She didn’t know how long she scrubbed the shelves after she removed the books. It was well into the night, and her arms fell into a steady, dogged rhythm as she worked away by herself.
It turned out that Cate had really needed to exhaust herself physically. When she returned to her desk fatigued as she was, she took one single fleeting look at Clark’s list and set it aside, not even remembering a single word she just read. It could wait for just a few more hours. Leaning forward, Cate cushioned her head on her arms and closed her eyes. She was asleep within minutes.

Cate’s dream took her to an unfamiliar perspective. She knew where she was, and yet it seemed so alien. She had set up a small refuge in the shelter of one of the massive redwood trees, its roots forming a cave for her between them. She had shelter, she had a small amount of food. She was doing well enough.
Except Cate had no tools and her food would run out soon. She knew she would have to move, have to hunt somehow. Didn’t even have a knife in her belt. She would have to rely on stealth, which was all but impossible considering her size and inexperience.
She heard the rasping, guttural sound of a zombie nearby. Very nearby. If Cate made a run for it now, she would be noticed. She would die.
So Cate stood as still as she could, pressed up against the root as far in as she could go. Her breath came in short bursts from her anxiety, but she did her best to not make it loud. Her heart beat overtime in her chest. Her eyebrows knit together so hard it was painful.
A shadow passed in front of her.
She was safe.
She let out a breath, quiet and measured and relaxed against the tree. A few leaves rustled at her feet as she shifted and in response, the guttural groan sounded again. More frenzied, like a hungry animal whose prey had escaped it.
The shadow loomed in the makeshift doorway of her shelter, then dragged itself forward. It had one normal foot but its other ankle was twisted in a direction ankles should not go, and Cate could see where the bone-- black with dirt and rot by now-- had pierced through dead skin.
Frightened, Cate looked at its face. She knew who it was. She’d had this dream millions of times before, it seemed. And that didn’t stop the tightening feeling in her chest, like God’s hand itself was gripping her and wouldn’t let go until she simply popped in two pieces. She steeled herself and looked into Selsdon’s face, his kind eyes dead and devoid of human emotion, the rotten skin around his mouth caked in dirt and blood and who knows what else. His mouth worked soundlessly, as if he was trying to speak to her, as if he was trying to beg her for help.
Cate shrunk back against the tree and woke up hunched over her desk.
Her heart beat as hard it had in the dream, blood pounding in her ears in the dead of night. She shook her head wildly, hair flying all over the place, cheeks jiggling. It made blood rush to her head and for a moment, Cate thought she would retch on her paperwork. She didn’t.
It was a dream, Cate, she told herself. Come one. Put on your big girl panties.
She opened her drawer and fumbled around for matches for a minute before she found one. It didn’t strike on the first try, or the second, but finally she was able to light the single candle that stood on her desk in an old tin can. She’d poked holes in the can so the light would cast irregularly.
And in her spotty candlelight, she pulled Clark’s list of requirements up and, with eyes still squinting from her sleep, doggedly set to work.