Chapter 40: The Road to the CDC
Monday Morning - October, Week 1
The convoy moved like a funeral procession—slow, solemn, haunted by the people left behind. Five vehicles spread across two lanes of I-85, navigating around abandoned cars and corpses that had been sitting in the Georgia sun for weeks.
I rode in the second truck with Madison driving, Alicia beside her, Nick in the back with me and Patricia. Nobody talked much. What was there to say? The quarry camp was gone, five people were dead, and we were driving toward a government facility that probably held nothing but more death.
[ TIMER: 36:47:22 ]
A day and a half. Still manageable, but the pressure was building. The headaches had started again this morning—subtle, but present. I'd need a target soon.
The CDC won't have one. Scientists, maybe doctors. Nobody guilty enough to justify infection. I'll have to wait until Fort Benning. Or find someone on the road.
Shane's vehicle stayed behind us the entire drive, close enough that I could see him watching through the windshield. Checking on us. Or checking on me. Hard to tell which.
"He knows something's different about you," Madison said, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. "He's not going to let it go."
"Shane's paranoid about everything. It's his job."
"It's more than paranoia. He watched you last night. Watched you walk through those walkers like they weren't there. That's not something you forget or dismiss."
"Then he'll have to learn to live with it. Because I'm not explaining myself to him."
Alicia turned in her seat. "What would you say? If you did explain?"
That I'm Patient Zero. That I transmigrated into a medical resident's body two weeks before the outbreak. That I have to infect people every seventy-two hours or become a mindless walker myself. That I'm the source of the apocalypse they're trying to survive.
"I'd say everyone has secrets. Mine just happen to keep me alive."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
We drove through the Atlanta suburbs as the sun climbed. The devastation was comprehensive—every street showed evidence of military presence, civilian panic, and ultimate failure. Tank traps that had been overrun. Barricades that had been breached. Bodies in National Guard uniforms rotting beside the people they'd failed to protect.
Glenn's voice crackled over the radio: "Anyone else find it weird that we're driving toward the place that was supposed to fix this? The CDC should have had answers, vaccines, something. Instead, they're as dead as everyone else."
"Maybe someone's still there," Dale responded. "Scientists working on a cure."
"Or maybe we're wasting time chasing hope that doesn't exist," Shane added.
"Shane—" Rick's voice, tired. "We talked about this. We go to the CDC, assess the situation. If it's viable, we stay. If not, we move on to Fort Benning."
"And if both are dead? What then?"
"Then we figure something else out. That's what we do. We adapt."
The conversation ended. We drove in silence.
Around three PM, we stopped for fuel at an abandoned gas station. The pumps were dry, but Dale had jerry cans and a siphon hose. We drained abandoned cars one at a time, filling our tanks while Daryl and T-Dog kept watch.
Nick stood by our truck, staring at the gas station's ruined convenience store. The windows were smashed, shelves looted, floor covered in broken glass and dried blood.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just thinking about the last time I bought gas. Three weeks ago, maybe. Paid with a credit card I didn't have money to cover. Normal problems."
"Miss it?"
"The debt? No. The normalcy? Yeah." He kicked a piece of glass. "Everything was shit before. I was an addict, my family was falling apart, the world was ending even if we didn't know it yet. But at least it made sense. This?" He gestured at the apocalypse. "This doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense. We're animals, the virus is a predator. Natural selection, accelerated."
"That's bleak."
"That's honest."
Alicia appeared with water bottles. "Distribution. Dale's rationing everything now. Half a bottle per person per four hours."
"Generous," Nick said sarcastically.
"Realistic. We don't know when we'll find clean water again."
She handed me mine, fingers brushing against my hand. The contact was brief, meaningless, but she held my gaze an extra second.
"You're thinking too much again," she said.
"Occupational hazard."
"Want to talk about it?"
About how I'm counting down the hours until I have to infect someone? About how everyone at camp saw me walk through walkers and now I'm one bad moment from being exposed? About how the CDC won't have answers because I already know there's no cure?
"Not really."
"Didn't think so."
We reached the CDC at dusk. The facility sprawled across several blocks—modern architecture, concrete and glass, designed to withstand disaster. And it had, more or less. The building stood intact.
But the parking lot was a graveyard. Bodies everywhere—military, civilian, medical personnel. All dead, some reanimated and shambling between abandoned vehicles. The entrance was blocked by sandbag barriers and razor wire.
"Jesus," Glenn breathed over the radio. "It's a massacre."
"Stay in the vehicles," Rick ordered. "Let me check the entrance."
He climbed out, pistol drawn. Shane followed despite the order. Both men approached the CDC doors cautiously, weapons ready.
The doors were sealed. Heavy metal, electronically controlled, showing no signs of damage. Rick pounded on them, shouted. Nothing.
"Nobody's home," Shane said. "We're wasting time."
"Give it a minute."
"We don't have a minute. The sun's going down, and there are walkers everywhere. We need to move."
Rick pounded again. "Is anyone there? We're survivors! We need help!"
Silence. Then Shane grabbed his arm. "Rick. It's over. They're gone. Everyone's gone. We need to accept that and move on."
Rick pulled free. "No. Not yet. There has to be someone."
"Why? Why does there have to be someone? Because you need hope? Hope doesn't change reality."
"Then reality needs to catch up with hope."
I climbed out of the truck, ignoring Madison's protest. Walked to the entrance, looked up at the cameras positioned above the door.
One of them moved. Subtle, tracking. Following me.
"Someone's watching," I said.
"How do you know?" Shane demanded.
"Camera moved. See?" I pointed. "Upper left. It tracked my movement."
Rick looked up. "Hello! Can you hear us? We're survivors! Families, children! Please!"
The camera swiveled, focused on Rick. Then a light blinked—once, twice. Green.
The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
A man stood in the light. Fifties, disheveled, wearing a lab coat stained with God knows what. Wire-rimmed glasses, hollow eyes, the look of someone who'd been alone too long.
"Dr. Edwin Jenner," he said, voice raspy. "You're either very lucky or very stupid to be here."
"We're looking for answers," Rick said. "About the infection. About survival."
"Answers." Jenner laughed—broken, bitter. "I can give you answers. Whether you'll like them is another question."
He stepped aside, gestured into the facility. "Come in. But once these doors close, they don't open again until morning. Security protocol."
Rick looked at the group, then at Jenner. "What about supplies? Food, medicine, shelter?"
"We have everything. For now. Until the generators fail."
"How long?"
"Days. Maybe a week. After that..." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Come in or don't. I'm tired of shouting."
He turned and walked into the CDC. Rick followed. One by one, the group emerged from vehicles and entered. I went last, looking back at the dead city.
This is where it ends. Not in glory or rescue, but in a concrete tomb with a suicidal scientist and no real answers.
The doors slid shut behind us with terminal finality.
Inside, the CDC was pristine. Fluorescent lights, white walls, air conditioning that actually worked. The smell of antiseptic instead of death. After weeks in the apocalypse, it was disorienting.
Jenner led us to a medical bay. "Blood tests. Everyone. Need to confirm you're not infected."
"We're not," Rick said.
"Prove it. Or you can leave."
Shane stepped forward. "You threatening us?"
"I'm following protocol. CDC regulations require blood screening for all visitors. No exceptions."
"The CDC's dead. Regulations don't matter."
"They matter to me."
Rick intervened. "We'll do the tests. It's fine."
Jenner drew blood from each of us—quick, professional, labeling vials with a Sharpie. When he got to me, his hand paused.
"You're different."
"Excuse me?"
"Your blood. I can see it through the vial. Different composition, different color. Darker."
"I'm anemic. Low iron."
"That's not anemia." He held the vial up to the light. "But we'll discuss it later. Next."
He moved on. I caught Madison's eye—she'd heard. So had Shane. Great.
After the tests, Jenner showed us to living quarters. "Showers, beds, cafeteria. Food's in the freezer—take what you want. Wine cellar's on sublevel two if anyone's interested. I'll be in my lab."
"Wait," Rick said. "That's it? No questions, no interrogation?"
"What would I ask? You're here because everywhere else is dead. You're looking for answers I don't have. Tomorrow I'll show you what I know. Tonight, you rest. If you can."
He left us in the common area.
The group dispersed slowly—some to showers, some to beds, some just standing there trying to process that hot water and real food still existed.
Glenn found the wine and immediately opened three bottles. "Celebrate!" he announced. "We're not dead yet!"
"Yet," Shane repeated darkly.
I found Jenner in his lab around midnight. He was watching brain scans on repeat—the same sequence, over and over. The moment of death captured in perfect detail.
"Can't sleep?" he asked without turning.
"Can't stop thinking."
"Join the club. I haven't slept in forty-eight hours. Before that, thirty-six hours. Before that..." He trailed off. "Sleep seems frivolous when the world's ending."
"Whose brain is that?"
"Test Subject 19. My wife. I promised I'd study her. Figure out what the infection does, how it spreads, whether there's a cure." He finally looked at me. "I found answers. Just not the ones I wanted."
"Tell me."
"Why? You're different. You already know."
"Know what?"
"That there's no cure. That everyone's infected. That death is the trigger, not the bite." He pulled up my blood work on a second screen. "Your blood confirms it. You're infected, but you're... adapting. Your body's incorporating the virus instead of dying from it. I've never seen anything like it."
[ TIMER: 32:18:44 ]
"Can you cure me?"
"Cure you of what? You're not sick. You're evolving. The question is into what."
"Something human?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe something new entirely. Something that walks between the dead and the living." He removed his glasses, cleaned them. "How does it feel?"
"Like I'm dying slowly and the only way to stop it is something I can't explain."
"Accurate assessment. Your body's fighting itself—human immune system versus viral adaptation. Eventually, one will win. My money's on the virus, but you're proving resilient."
"How long do I have?"
"Until what? Until you turn completely? Months, maybe years. You're stable for now. As long as you maintain whatever balance you've found."
As long as I keep infecting people. As long as I feed the virus what it needs.
"Can you help me?"
"Help you how? There's no cure, no treatment. You're on your own."
"Then what was the point of coming here?"
"Hope. People need hope, even false hope. It motivates them to survive another day." He turned back to his screens. "Tomorrow I'll show everyone what I showed you. The brain scans, the infection process, the truth. Some will accept it. Some will break. That's not my problem anymore."
"What is your problem?"
"Figuring out if there's a point to any of this. I thought science would save us. It didn't. I thought my work mattered. It doesn't. Now I'm just... waiting."
"For what?"
"For the generators to fail. For the facility to shut down. For the end."
I left him there, watching his wife die on repeat, counting down to nothing.
Back in the common area, the group had gathered. Glenn was drunk, telling stories about pre-outbreak pizza deliveries. Carol was laughing—actually laughing—for the first time since Ed died. Even Daryl had cracked a smile.
Alicia caught my eye, raised a glass of wine. I nodded but didn't join. Instead, I stood at the window, looking out at Atlanta burning in the distance.
No cure. No answers. Just adaptation and the slow realization that Patient Zero might be the only kind of immunity the world would ever see.
My phone—somehow still in my pocket after all this time—showed the date. October 3rd. Almost a month since the outbreak began. Almost a month since I'd transmigrated into this nightmare.
How many people have I infected? Eight? Ten? How many of them have turned, bitten others, spread the virus I gave them?
I'd kept count at first. Calvin, the looter, the pirate, Martinez, the escaped prisoners. But I'd lost track somewhere. Too many targets, too many justified murders.
Am I spreading the infection faster? Is Patient Zero making things worse?
No answer. Just the reflection in the glass—me, alone, watching the world burn.
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