Chapter Text
Rochelle Moore had never been more scared in her life than when she was curled up in a maintenance closet, desperately trying to stifle a sob.
The thing that had once been her cameraman, Mike, was pounding at the door, the wood rattling violently against his fists, snarling like an animal. The second she had locked the door behind her, she had dropped down to the ground, pressing her back to the wall. Her hand had found something hard and she grabbed it, clutching it to her chest as though her life depended on it. Although, since it was just a screwdriver, she wasn't entirely confident about its dependency.
She couldn't hold back a startled cry when the door buckled inward violently, the wood cracking under the weight. 'This is it,' she thought to herself, pressing her hand over her mouth and feeling tears start to pool in her eyes. 'Rochelle Moore, for the first and last time from a closet in Savannah, signing off.' The idea almost made her laugh.
The door shuddered again, and this time, something small but sharp bounced off of her cheek. A splinter. "Oh god," Rochelle whimpered, feeling herself start to hyperventilate. 'Come on, Rochelle!' She started to scold herself in her head, squeezing her eyes shut. 'You're braver than this! Do you really want to die here?' The answer was no, obviously, but what could she do? Her fingers squeezed around the screwdriver. No... no, she couldn't do that to him. Could she?
More splinters broke off the door as Mike continued to ram into it. It sounded like he was putting his entire body weight into breaking the door down now... and he wasn't a small guy. It would be down in seconds at this rate. If she didn't do something now, she'd die.
With a couple of deep breaths to psyche herself up, she scrambled back up to her feet, trying to figure out her plan of attack. Unfortunately, the door was even more fragile than she'd thought. She screamed again as Mike punched a hole through the wood, desperately grasping for her as the entire door started to crumble, and, in a panic, she struck out and drove the screwdriver deep into Mike's eye.
They both froze, Mike's jaw snapping shut almost in surprise before he slumped to the floor, leaving her standing there behind the shattered door. Carefully, she stepped out of the closet, falling to her knees next to Mike. "Oh my god - Mike, I'm so - I'm so sorry," she cried, tears falling freely now as her coworker lay there, still and silent. She had been terrified, but she hadn't wanted to kill him. She had barely even known he was sick. It was like a switch flipped - this morning, Mike had been complaining about feeling nauseous. By the time they got to the Vannah Hotel to set up shooting, he was puking in the bushes. Ten minutes later, as she was leading him down a hall to find a bathroom, he was practically feral.
Shuffling footsteps down the hall and some more snarling broke her from her stupor, and she stood back up with a gasp. For a long second, the hotel was quiet again, but a deep thud from somewhere down the hall nearly had her scrambling back into the closet. 'Pull yourself together, girl!' she scolded herself as she pressed her back to the wall. With a couple of deep breaths, she smoothed a hand over her face and tried to force herself to think rationally. The symptoms Mike had shown and how quickly he had turned aggressive could only mean one thing: the infection was here in Savannah.
She'd seen the maps and news reports, how quickly things had escalated. The infection had started what felt like only a few weeks ago, although it was probably closer to a month. Nearly the entire East Coast was lit up with evacuation points and 'do not travel' notices. It was inevitable that it would hit the South, too, but she thought there would be more time. Normally, she didn't report; she was an associate producer, mostly there to lug around cables and make sure the shots were good. But none of her coworkers wanted to leave their houses with everything going on, so she and Mike had gotten to fly to Georgia to shoot a story on, ironically, the evac centers. And now, Mike was dead. But she wasn't.
Rochelle sharply inhaled. She felt fine. Well - she didn't feel sick, at least. Not like Mike had been. And if the infection was reaching this far in, CEDA would be mobilizing evac helicopters any second now. She just had to get to the roof. She took a step, then glanced back down at Mike. He hadn't moved, a thought that was both strangely calming and incredibly upsetting. With a sniffle, she knelt next to him and, testingly, touched his shoulder. His skin was feverish, but starting to chill. She whispered, "I'm sorry." And then Rochelle pulled herself to her feet and hurried to the nearest set of stairs before she lost her nerve.