Page 5 of All Your Days (Mayhem Manuscripts Season One: 1nf3ction #4)

Chapter two

Jacob

I’ve never understood the social order of The Facility. I can kind of understand that non-residents—the scientists, the armymen occasionally stationed here, the commander—are separate from the residents. But the distinction between the grunts, the guards, and the craftsmen has always confused me.

After all, we all end up down here when the infection in our blood takes over.

And really, how are the guards taking care of the infected in these lower subbasements any different to the grunts taking care of the camels out in the yard? Both are violent and prone to spitting.

Ah fuck . That’s too far. I scrub my hand over my face, trying to scrub away the shitty thoughts.

The infected here on this level haven’t crossed over into the full zombified state of infection, and even if they had, it’s not right to think of these very real people as animals.

I’m just being an ass because I’m in a mood.

Being down here never helps, but really, I’ve been foul ever since breakfast. Ever since fucking Daniel came back to the table like the slimy fucker he is, crowing about going to the fire pit with Eli on the weekend.

Leaning my hip against the control centre computer, I snort.

Weekend. What a fucking stupid word—a holdover from when the world was a completely different place.

For everyone but the commanders, the leaders, and the scientists, the weeks never end.

There are just days on shift and days off.

Nights on, nights off. All the same shit.

It just so happens that my crew’s—which includes fucking Daniel—next scheduled break falls on the weekend. So we can go to the fire pit night.

Fucking magical.

Fuck . This self pitying shit isn’t going to do me any good.

It never has. Needing to move, I get closer to the bars separating me from the rest of the people in subbasement ten.

It’s not the lowest levels of the compound.

There are two more below, where the more dangerous infected reside. The ones who’ve gone fully zombified.

This morning we have a new resident. I don’t work down here very often, and I have no idea why I’m down here today, but I’ve been down here enough to recognise the shock of a newcomer.

“Here, drink some water.” I sling my gun—which really is more for show than anything else since the rifle’s not exactly practical for shooting inside—over my shoulder and grab a metal cup from the guard table.

Technically, the residents of the lower levels aren’t meant to use the guards’ equipment, but technically, I don’t give a shit.

I don’t know the new bloke’s name, and that could be the reason I’m down here today. They’ve had trouble in the past when guards have monitored people close to them. It gets messy. Sometimes literally if the infected goes fully zombified too quickly.

He looks young, younger probably due to his fear.

With tight coils of bright ginger hair and so many freckles he almost looks tanned.

His back is pressed against the bars, and on the one hand, it means none of the other residents can sneak up on him.

On the other hand, it means he can see everything .

The area is known as the common area—which makes it all seem rather innocuous.

Like the rest of The Facility, subbasement ten is circular in shape, only it is more noticeable down here where the levels are smaller.

Level ten isn’t even directly under level nine.

It’s hard to notice when you’re inside the place, but the subbasements are more like a rabbit warren than anything else.

Subbasement ten is accessible only by a stairwell and passing through a series of impenetrable doors that can only be opened by contacting Command on level nine. Whenever I’m down here I have to try real hard to not think about what might happen if there is an electrical fault.

The entry to level ten opens into the guards’ room, with several monitors that allow the guards to watch the residents at various angles on various grainy screens.

I avoid using those whenever I can. They make me feel uncomfortable; it’s unnatural to be able to watch people like that.

And besides, with the bars between us and the rest of the level, we get a decent enough view of what they are up to in the common area.

Any furniture that can be bolted down in there, is.

Like the three metal tables where the residents eat and do activities to keep them busy.

The chairs, unfortunately, can’t be bolted down, and guards always have to be aware of their location when we enter the room.

More than one guard has been taken out in a violent outburst with a chair to the back.

It’s why the room is in such terrible condition. The couches are broken and filthy, the shelves that held the ‘safe’ activities destroyed. The leadership team decided to stop replacing them after a while.

Beyond the common area, two dozen doors line the perimeter of the room. Most of the navy blue doors are closed. Those are the residents' individual rooms, where they are allowed to have some level of privacy. It’s also where the couple fucking on the table should be.

It’s not uncommon. Even with very little else to do except sit around and wait for the inevitable, the raging surges that the almost zombified infected feel reduce them to their most basic instincts.

On my bad days, I wonder if it’s really the infection that makes them act this way, or if it’s just being locked up underground that does it.

On my really bad days, I wonder if all of them are even infected—or if it’s just convenient to put them down here.

The two—or is it three? I don’t want to look close enough to check—aren’t even the only ones going at it this morning.

Apparently, it really is going to be a long-arse day.

It’s my job to be breaking that shit up. But it’s also part of my job to not be left alone down here like I have been for the last hour. And really, why should I stop them? These people are facing the end of their lives. Why the fuck shouldn’t they have fun while they wait?

My only hard line is guards getting involved.

I earned myself a bit of a reputation when I started as a guard for being uptight and ‘not part of the team’, because I refused to take part in the abuse of the infected going on at the time.

Even though that entire team’s been moved on—sent to the Union barracks for reprimand or sent to the lower levels themselves—the reputation’s stuck, leaving me on the outs with the other guards even now.

I haven’t managed to find an ounce of fucks to give over the years.

I prefer it this way. The doc they made me see a few times when I decided to stay at The Facility after Sarah died said I isolated myself due to my trauma.

I agreed with her assessment. The thing we hadn’t agreed on, was whether or not it was a bad thing.

In the end, I learnt to be a good little pretend armyman and was issued the same gun and olive green uniform as the rest of the guards.

“Am—am I? Will… will I be like that?” The newbie stutters, his voice so thin I can barely hear it over the grunting and slapping.

“Take the drink.” I grunt again, tapping the cup against the man’s shoulder, spooking him.

He looks down at the cup rather blankly, like it confuses him. He still takes it, though, draining the contents in one go and handing it back to me.

“I don’t think you’re meant to stand so close.” He licks the remaining cool water off his lips.

Just to show him that I’m not scared, I lean even more heavily against the rough, black metal bars.

“Probably not. But I think I’ll be ‘right.” I chuckle drily, smiling down at the man. That’s when I spot the thin, silver ring on his hand. He’s married? Well, fuck. He looks so fucking young and now, this.

It’s not right. None of this shit is.

“But yeah. In time, you’ll probably be like ‘em. They’ll stop soon. Food’ll be here, that usually gets them to cut it out.”

I could probably be more comforting—the guy's eyebrows have shot up to his hairline—but I never really learnt how to do that. It’s best to not coddle him anyway.

This is his new reality, and I know all too well that judgement-free honesty makes things easier to deal with than platitudes and false hope.

I do have some pity for the bloke, though; the groups going at it are getting a bit rowdy. And they’re drawing the attention of the other residents. There are about twenty down here at the moment, and they’re all drifting towards the brewing orgy.

“Wanna play cards until food gets here?” I ask, dragging Newbie’s eyes away from the tables.

“Uh, yeah.” Newbie takes a second to adjust himself without even a little subtlety. When he realises what he’s done, his cheeks turn a fierce red with his blush. He dodges my eyes when he asks, “Are we even allowed to do that?”

“What the fuck are they gonna do ‘bout it?” I roll my eyes and push off the bars, strolling to the drawers to collect the cards the guards keep handy for quiet shifts. I collect a stool for a makeshift table and put it against the bars.

“Get a chair from over there,” I nod to a stack of chairs in the opposite direction to the orgy. “What’s your name?”

“Kelly.” He chews on his lip, his body tense and twitchy.

“Hi, Kelly. I’m Jacob.” I shuffle and deal the cards quickly. “Let’s keep it simple, yeah? Go Fish. You start.”

It’s not easy to play cards, even a game like Go Fish, with the grunting and groaning and smacking of flesh going on, but we manage. I only have to bang on the bars twice to get them to settle down. And in his ill-fitting, oversized grey jumpsuit, it’s easy to ignore Kelly’s raging erection.

I learn a lot about Kelly while we play. I learn that he has a brother, and a wife—an immune textile maker—and a baby. Little Enid.