Lunar Virus ✔️

Chapter Seventeen: Elie

Elie's POV:

Me: What happened back there?

Quentin: What? I don’t know what you mean. You're delusional.

Me: No! You’re just a horrible liar, I know you did something.

Quentin: I didn’t do anything!

Me: No . . . I felt it. I’d felt it before too. I wasn’t there anymore. I was--he was going to pull the trigger, but I wasn’t there. It was like I receded, I wasn’t in control anymore . . . you were. I couldn’t feel anything. I was just seeing.

Quentin:  . . . He was going to kill you, and it was going to hurt. I didn’t want you to have to feel that, so I took control.

Me: Control? Just like . . . .

I feel a sickening jolt as I realize what this means. I’d felt this type of disconnection before . . . it’d been when I’d had the vision from Kowalski's virus, when I saw him die. I was able to see his last moments through his virus, which had taken control of him.

Quentin: You know, this took way more time for you to figure out than I thought it would.

Me: You’re a virus.

He doesn’t answer, but I know. He’s one of them. All that talk about making sure that the virus I’d been infected with wouldn’t hurt me, all that talk about making sure that I wouldn’t spread this virus to others, it was because he himself was the virus. Why hadn’t he told me? I tiredly rest my cheek against the glass of the car window. It’s amazingly refreshing, working to cool my flushed cheeks. I silently try to work through all that’s happened. There’s the fact that I almost died, the fact that Trevor was a snitch, and now, the fact that the very thing that we’ve been trying to fight against has been inside me this whole time. Quentin.

With these thoughts, the car gets increasingly stuffy in each second that passes. No one speaks a word. Not a word about Bernie deciding not to come with us, not a word about anything that happened. That is, until Dungworth decides to speak. “I swear. You kids were born with the mental capacities of chickens.”

Elodie recoils slightly from her position, and I resist the urge to sigh. Because if he’s planning to lecture us, now is not the right time. Sheila immediately tenses but knows better than to say anything. Jayne, on the other hand, has no self-control at the moment, “Shut up, old man. At least we don’t have names like Dungworth. Someone thought of you and the first thing that came to mind was, ‘God, what a shitty person.’ Either that, or someone went into the bathroom after you and thought, ‘man, this dude sure can drop a shit.’”

Surprisingly, Dungworth chuckles, “Nah, actually, I got the name from my father, who got it from his mother, who changed it to Dungworth after egging a person’s house not only with eggs, but also with dung. It was her way of getting back at a man who’d molested her. He never got punished for it.”

Jayne’s lip quivers and she tiredly closes her eyes as if to asleep. Sleep feebly calls from behind burning eyes, but there’s just no way I’ll fall asleep. Everything in me is wound up, pacing.

The old man continues, “Your plan was flawed in so many ways. It was reckless. What if they used a coding language none of you knew? What if they used Lua? No one I know knows that language. What if that same code had copies? You risked your lives and to what? To delay the virus’ activation? For maybe a week? Two at the most?”

Elodie lets out an angry breath, “So I guess you’re saying that we almost died for nothing, hmm? Well, let me tell you something. Yes, the plan was stupid, reckless, but it was something. How were we supposed to know there were others out there that knew about the virus? With what we had, this was all we could do. And you know what? At least we did something. What were you going to do?”

“Actually, Elodie, to do something on an event as insignificant as this would have been a waste of resources. Currently, hundreds of facilities around the world, the same as the one you were in, are activating the virus. After the first activation, the virus will be able to spread. The number of people infected each day will increase exponentially, similar to the spread of many other viruses. Only this one . . . this one might be our end. A lot of people will die before this ends. You’re lucky I was able to get here on time. If Moby didn’t tell me in time, you’d have all been toast.”

Moby  . . . funny, I never would have guessed.

The rest of the car ride is completely silent.

One hour. Two. Three. We board a jet.

Everything after that is a blur. It lands, we get out and go into yet another car. It winds through ominously slumped trees, shrouded in shadows. There aren’t any street lights, just meandering roads, rising and falling at every turn. It occurs to me just then that we really are idiots. What are we doing here? Away from home? With a strange man? I guess we had no choice, but I wouldn't have gotten into the car if I was alone.

I can’t help but notice that it’s been an hour since we last saw any form of civilization. We reach a heavily fortified gate, then a tunnel entrance. It’s an entrance to an underground parking garage.

We slip around gray pillars, past dozens of cars glowing in the fluorescent rays of the lights that line the concrete floor. Each corner we turn, it seems that the roof and the floor squeeze closer together, straining against the pillars to just touch. I try not to think about the numbers stained onto the faces of each pillar, indicating the number of levels we were underground. 13, 14, 15, 16.

Dungworth swings into a reserved parking spot and breezes past about a dozen more security measures. He does all of this with a person--the person who held a gun to my head--over his shoulder. Somehow, he’s not dead yet. I guess the gunshot wound he’d gotten wasn’t as fatal as I thought.

Dungworth, who looks older in the lighting, leads us to an elevator that opens to a sickeningly bright room, where a couple of people are waiting to give medical attention to our hostage.

Dungworth’s head is so bald, that it’s like a shiny beacon, reflecting light in every direction. HIs limbs are long and lean, yet his face is pudgy and red. I can almost imagine him with a pair of glasses, just like in the old movies. Maybe he’d be in a suit too.

As I walk, I feel more and more drained. And soon, I walk solely based on muscle memory, while my brain travels elsewhere. The walls have tiles studded with panels of light. I start imagining that each square of light is like the little energy packs in racing games--the ones that make the car go faster. Each energy pack gifts me with enough energy to make it to the next light, and so on. The wall is a conveyor belt, and as I lean on it, it helps move me forward.

Dungworth, finally realizing that we’re about to collapse from exhaustion, says something rather loudly and leads us to some rooms. He shoves Dev into a room along with me, while he takes Elodie, Sheila, and Jayne someplace else. I let it happen. My eyes are shut even before I reach the bed. Yet, before I completely fall asleep, Quentin speaks:

Quentin: That man is going to die tomorrow. Rest, be prepared for what he’ll show to you.

***

Author's Note:

Hello! Sorry I didn't update yesterday, we were celebrating a birthday and I was inefficient :(

So, yes. Not much action but . . . What do you think Quentin meant by what he said and most importantly . . . DID ANYONE GUESS HE WAS A VIRUS?! If you did I commend you.

See ya next time.

♥️♥️♥️