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“Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”

TS Eliot

                “642.”

                “643.”

                “644.”

                “645.”

                “646.”

                “647.”

                “64eigh . . .”

                I stop climbing. I glance down, as if that would somehow allow me to magically see Slate. And to my astonishment, it does.

                As if there’s a halo on the ground, a semi-circle of yellow landing lights stand out against the darkness. It’s the bottom.

                “649.” I hear Slate say as I feel the reverberation of her continuing to climb. I glance down to see Patrick climbing down after her.

                “650.”

                “651.”

                “652.”

                “653.”

                “654.”

                “655.”

                “656.”

                “657.”

                “658.”

                “659.”

                “660.”

                “661.”

                “662.”

                “663.”

                “664.”

                “665.”

                “66 . . .”

                “Don’t say it.” I call down to her. She glances up at me, then I feel the most beautiful sensation in all the world. I feel her push off the ladder.

                I look down as she backs away from the ladder and the descending Patrick, encased in the yellow glow of the base of the long, treacherous climb. She immediately turns to the various tunnels that extend off, watching them for any possible movement.

                I drop down as well, my arms and legs aching from the climb. My hands have trouble not curling in expectation for the next hard iron rung with its rough spiky-like texture. It feels odd to stand on solid steel ground, and not try to lower down to the next level.

                The air’s hot, but it’s more humid than baking. Unlike the desert above, this hot doesn’t feel like its eating you alive. It just feels like its crawling inside your clothes, your shoes, your skin.

                “What do we do from here?” Patrick asks, lowering his pistol from the shadows.

                “I say we take a break.” I offer up. Slate looks back at me, but doesn’t immediately refute.

                “I’m with Sam.” Patrick adds, his husky black-haired voice echoing slightly in the darkness. “Unless we’ve got a reason to keep moving, I say we kick back for a least a few minutes.”

                Slate looks at us both for a moment, then turns away. “Fine.” She says. She steps over by the ladder and flops down, the broken machine gun by her shoulder. I sigh, glad not to have to fight her for it. I move to the other side of the ladder and slide down the wall. The metal’s not cold, but it’s cooler than the air, which is a welcome change. I rub the back of my head against the smooth metal, then even tilt my face against it.

                “Should I turn on the flashlight?” Patrick asks, sitting down to my right, away from the ladder.

                “No.” Slate says. “If we’re worried about the batteries, conserve it until we need it.”

                “What she said.” I say, pointing at Slate. I smile at Patrick and he smiles back. He rolls his eyes, but then leans against the cool metal. I sit back for a minute, then look back at the military man. “I have a question for you.”

                “Okay.” He whispers. “I have an answer. We’ll put them together and see if we have a match.”

                I can’t help but smile. “What was the deal with all that fighting?” I say. Patrick blinks at me. “When we first climbed into the bio-dome,” I explain, finding myself subconsciously waiting for the pain. Thank god, none comes. “When we came out, there was like a war or something going on. Tanks and explosions and stuff.”

                “Oh, that.” Patrick says, laughing humorlessly. “That was a containment issue.”

                “Containment?” I repeat.

                “Containment.” He nods. “Several of the infected got out. We were trying to deal with them.”

                “Zombies are that big of a threat, huh?” Slate asked, almost rhetorically. She chuckles. “I always thought the vampires were worse. They could think and rationalize.”

                “Fewer of them.” Patrick points out in the darkness. “And since the virus is so much less potent, they aren’t as strong. Nor do they recover as quickly.”

                “What if,” I start. But I have trouble finishing. “What if this is, like, a containment issue?” I say motioning to the environment around us. “I mean, what if the Ever-After Project knows that the zombies and the vampires got out, and they’re keeping their distance until they know what to do?”

                I can tell Patrick’s thinking about it. But after a moment, he shakes his head. “I suppose it’s possible, but I think it’s unlikely. There are too many people. They’d at least try to evacuate some of the bio-domes.”

                “Maybe that’s what they did with the three that disappeared off your scopes.” Slate says across the ladder and me to Patrick. “Maybe they evacuated those three.”

                The military man shrugs. “I suppose.”

                For a moment, we’re quiet. And in the soft glow of the yellow lights, I can just barely make out the five passageways into the darkness. Spreading out almost like empty finger holes, the path lays before us; we just have to decide which way to go. And nothing of them looks like they lead to anything other than fear, horror, and a mind-rending death.

                And if she read my mind, Slate stands up. “Alright kids.” She pronounces with her usual lack of humor. “Break’s over. Let’s get moving.”

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