Taylor: Part II

Ashley watched Taylor with wide eyes and quivering lips as she wrung her hands together. Now, all eyes were on her, filled with enough curiosity to rival a nursing home.

She swallowed before whispering, "I think we should speak somewhere privately."

Taylor spoke loud enough to wake the dead, not caring who heard him. It was about time people received the truth about the reality outside these walls. "Why not here? What do you have to hide?"

Ashley's face paled and her eyes darted left and right as murmurs rippled through the crowd. With a shuddering breath, she tugged on Taylor's arm, pulling him toward the exit. "For once in your life, don't fight me," she barked.

She didn't wait for him as she disappeared through the door. Taylor ran after her without a second thought, forgetting about his friends in his search for answers. A black shadow from her shirt caught his eye down the hallway, and he took off, awkwardly cradling his arm to his chest. His cast suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, anchored in lead as his legs ached from the unexpected workout.

"Ashley," he huffed, "Wait up!"

Turning several more corners and running up a flight of stairs, they finally stopped in front of an electronically locked door. Taylor wheezed, pathetically out of shape after only a week of inactivity while Ashley didn't even sweat. It was as if she'd been built with steel lungs and limitless energy. As much as he hated to admit it, she'd always been that way when they'd had sex too—more stamina, more experience, and way more imagination than his innocent nineteen year old mind.

As quickly as memories of her on top of him entered his mind unbidden, he buried them down with the speed of a cockroach fleeing from a light. The last thing he wanted was to remember their time together. That ship had sailed a decade ago when she tried to 'fix' him.

"What...the hell," he wheezed, bracing himself against the wall. "I asked for answers, not for you to run away like a cheetah."

A ghost of a smile crossed her features before she pressed a button on a panel in the wall. An authoritative voice came through, and Taylor cursed the gods above. "Yes?"

Ashley didn't hesitate as she spoke into the receiver. "Mr Whittaker, this is Ashley Larson, requesting permission to enter your office. Taylor is with me and he has...questions."

She glanced at him as she said the last word, gritting her teeth and curling the edge of her bottom lip outward—the way she always did when she was nervous. Then she turned back to the wall again, keeping her eyes forward.

The box was silent before John's voice came over the receiver again, followed by a loud sigh. "Very well. Are his friends with him?"

Ashley and Taylor both turned, finding no one in sight. They must have lost them at some point in the crowd or through the dozens of hallways.

"No."

Ashley faced the door again, unblinking as a green light scanned her face. When the scan stopped, a second panel opened, revealing a console for her to place her hand on.

The whole thing felt like something out of a bad sci-fi movie.

The lock clicked and the door buzzed before opening with a hiss. Ashley stepped forward, signaling for Taylor to follow. He paused, unsure if he was ready for what lay beyond, but he'd demanded answers. He wouldn't find them through hesitation and he knew his friends wouldn't think twice about it.

With a deep breath, he stepped inside, taking in his surroundings. The walls were a sterile shade of white, lacking anything personal. There was no carpeting—only tiles scrubbed to gleaming perfection, sending echoes vibrating against the walls with each step Taylor took. A single floor-to-ceiling window showed the first sight of the outside world he'd seen since the outbreak, and it took all of his self-control not to run to it. In front of it was a black desk, holding a dual monitor and the only objects that would identify this as his father's office.

Well, that and a chair with John Whittaker sitting in it, the king of his post-apocalyptic empire. Lines creased his forehead—lines that were never there as Taylor grew up, and gray salted his hair, making him appear so much older than his mid-fifties. When the older man looked up, it was with dark circles beneath his eyes and downturned lips. As powerful as he appeared to the outside world, he was exhausted, apparently dropping his guard only for Ashley and his son.

He massaged his temples for a moment before motioning to a set of chairs in front of his desk where Ashley had already taken a seat. "Let's get this over with," he said quietly.

Taylor sat on the edge of the vacant chair, wiping his sweaty palm against the rough fabric of his cargo pants, waiting for John to open the floor to him.

His dad shared a glance with Ashley before leveling a careful gaze on Taylor. "Okay, son. Let's hear it. I've already received reports from security about a scene in the mess hall before you two even showed up."

Taylor swallowed back the bubbling rage that threatened to erupt again. Lately, his anger remained constantly below the surface, easily triggered and unpredictable. It was as if he'd regressed to childhood, when he'd been unable to contain so many emotions. He'd spent years learning to control himself enough to walk away until he cooled down, but here, there was nowhere to go.

He inhaled a shuddering breath through his nose and exhaled slowly, clenching his fist against his leg. "I want answers," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You've kept me in the dark since day one, and you never once told me Ashley was here. Any warning would have been nice."

Ashley jerked as if Taylor had psychically slapped her while John slowly closed his eyes and rubbed his face. When he opened them, he leaned back, running his hands through his hair. Like Taylor, he tended to keep it cut short, otherwise it sprouted in several directions, impossible to tame. John looked like he was overdue for one by at least a week, resembling a mad scientist more than a leader.

"I am trying to keep you and your friends safe."

Taylor sat upright, frozen by the implication of his father's words. As much as he didn't want to believe it, he suspected this facility wouldn't hesitate to cross any lines. "What do you mean?"

"Think," John snapped, dropping his hands to the desk with a loud thud. He pinched his lips together before regaining his composure and relaxing his shoulders. His tone softened, giving way to the exhaustion displaying across his features. "Everything has been on a need-to-know basis. You have to trust that you'll receive answers in time, but I can't give those to you if you won't cooperate."

Taylor's temper exploded without warning, and before he knew it, he was on his feet, slamming his first onto the desk. The monitors and nick-knacks rattled from the force, toppling over while ballpoint pens rolled over the side. "Then give me a reason to trust you!"

"Sit down," John ordered, fixing a stern glare on him that said Taylor was about to find himself going to bed without dinner.

His father rarely raised his voice, but when he did, everyone scurried to listen. Taylor had feared this side of him as a child, almost never on the receiving end of his fury. They'd been close as John spoiled him with affection, encouragement, and everything he could possibly ask for. Until ten years ago, it had been easy to get along with him. Now, all Taylor wanted to do was place as much distance as he could between them.

"Taylor, please sit down," Ashley commanded softly. "We will explain what we can. At the very least, you deserve answers about your mother."

This time, when she placed his hand on his shoulder, he allowed himself to be guided back into his chair. The mention of Allison sucked all of the fight out of him, carving a hole into his heart now that his family was broken beyond repair. At the end of the world, he wanted his mother, and he hadn't even been able to say goodbye.

Once he was seated, Ashley pulled her chair closer and rested her hand on his knee while John nodded, moistening his lips before clearing his throat. His words came out heavy and tight as if he was fighting back a tirade of emotions. "Son, Alli was...she..."

He sighed, unable to finish his sentence. John was a man of the people, full of charisma and never at a loss for words. His self-assurance was something Taylor had admired about him since he could waddle over to him, hugging his leg for protection when the world frightened him. He'd been the man with all the answers—Taylor's personal hero. To see him reduced to emotion and lost for words was more jarring than the virus itself.

Taylor's anger dissipated, replaced by unexpected empathy. For once, he understood John's emotions, even if he didn't know why his father was acting like this. He locked eyes with him and spoke quietly, encouraging him to continue. "Dad...I just want the truth. What happened to Mom? Why are you hiding so much from me?"

Ashley rubbed his knee and broke the silence. Like John, her tone was also subdued, one she only used when she was deeply upset or disturbed. "Allison and I were overseas while she was filming on location for a movie. I was there as her photographer and friend when she began complaining about headaches, nausea, and a feeling of malaise. At first, the doctors thought she'd come down with a strain of flu and ordered her on bed rest, but then..."

Ashley paused, staring into a world only she could see, her face contorting as she struggled for words and twisted her hands in her lap. With a shuddering gasp, she continued. "Her condition worsened. After a few days, she no longer recognized me. She started having seizures and was rushed to the ER. When the doctors tried to treat her, she...she killed one of the nurses after biting into his throat. I was immediately quarantined with everyone else who had been around her, but at the time, she was the only person with the virus. As far as anyone knows, Allison was Patient Zero."

Tears rolled down Ashley's face. Her silence was only punctured by the occasional sniff as John's breath came out in uneven puffs. His hands trembled on the desk and his clouded eyes remained fixed on the surface. His Adam's apple bobbed as his lips pinched together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

Taylor leaned back, processing everything he'd learned. John told him a week ago Allison hadn't made it, leaving him to assume she'd been killed. Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. In a way, it was true. Having seen the Soapies up close, he knew every drop of humanity had been replaced by an intense desire to feed. Allison Hancock died the moment the virus ravaged her body.

While he needed to grieve, this was only the tip of the iceberg to a plethora of questions. He couldn't move on without seeing the full picture. A million thoughts raced through his mind, each demanding an explanation. He hardly knew where to begin. Raking his fingers through his hair, Taylor asked the first thing that came to mind, hoping his words made more sense than the heavy metal concert raging inside his head.

"Did they...were...was there ever a determination made for the cause? How did Ashley get here if she was quarantined? How—"

John raised his hand, silencing Taylor mid-ramble. "We still don't know the cause. When they called, I had her flown here to this facility and poured all of my money into funding the research for her disease. The government released Ashley and a few others, but they were all confined here to keep it quiet."

Taylor's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, suffocating for air. He swayed in his chair while the room spun around him, vaguely aware of Ashley holding him upright. "I...why...why didn't you call me?"

"We couldn't," John answered. "At the time, this facility was run by a sect of the government so classified, the President didn't even know about this place. Calling you would have meant uprooting you indefinitely until a cure could be found. Anyone even suspected of leaking information about the virus suddenly disappeared. Their bodies were discovered days later in what officials declared accidents. It was safer to keep you in the dark."

It made sense. There had always been rumors of people disappearing over the years, but that was an urban legend or something he'd seen in one of Monica's disaster movies. It had never occurred to him this scenario was very real. There were so many other questions, all of them forming faster than he could speak or even process.

"Wha-what about my friends? Are we in danger? What happened to Mom?"

He was terrified to know the answer to both questions. He couldn't survive without his friends and he needed to know Allison wasn't suffering.

John watched him with a serious expression, and Taylor immediately knew he wouldn't like what he was about to hear. "You and Doctor Wainwright are both safe. I can't say the same for Sergeant Recklaw or Diego."

"Why? They're not dangerous."

"Sergeant Recklaw is a loose cannon right now," John said, turning to his computer monitor and typing on the keyboard. He continued as he watched the screen. "We need Monica's knowledge as a scientist and you're protected through me. Your abilities are also useful, but Jayson can't contribute anything until his withdrawals pass, and anyone with Diego's skills can work in security."

"So you're saying they're expendable," Taylor finished, filling in the blanks for himself. The lack of humanity in this place was appalling, especially coming from his father. He balled his fist into his lap, forcing himself to remain calm. "What happened to you, Dad? You're...you're the president of this council. Can't you pull strings? Mom wouldn't want you looking the other way while innocent people were killed."

John sucked in a sharp breath and stopped typing, working a muscle in his jaw. After what felt like an eternity, he finally said, "Anyone not willing to cooperate as we continue our search is automatically considered an enemy. We have lost millions of people across the country, your mother included, and we will only find success through order."

"Through killing people!"

Taylor jumped up, shaking from head to toe. He felt like a caged animal, trapped behind bars while the people in charge looked on with no care for his well-being. He understood why John had kept this silence when his mother became ill and why the government kept the disease quiet, but to murder people now was despicable.

Unable to remain still, Taylor walked around the desk to approach the window, taking his first view of the outside world since he'd arrived at this god-awful place. Mountains sprawled out access the desert landscape as far as the eye could see, the sun shimmered in the mid-afternoon heat over the sand, and smoke billowed several miles away. He squinted, trying to gain his bearings, but aside from movement below from guards standing at the gate or unidentifiable figures in the distance, they were alone in the middle of the Nevada desert.

A firm hand settled into Taylor's shoulder, making him flinch. The action felt so alien now after so many years apart. John was nothing more than a stranger and a memory even though the touch was familiar. Taylor pressed his palm flat against the window, resting his forehead on the glass. "You never told me what happened to Mom," he mumbled. "Was Jeannie murdered too?"

John squuezed his shoulder and slowly turned him around, directing him to the chair in front of the monitors. "Your mother is contained in a cell as we continue to search for a cure. It's indecent, but I have to hope we can bring her back. As for Doctor Adams, she was carrying the virus. Doctor Wainwright will be briefed on their conditions, but no one else can know. This virus never should have left this facility."

Monica had mentioned the possibility of this being a biologically engineered weapon. He wondered if someone had purposely done just that. He forced himself to look at the monitor where a live feed of a grotesque version of Allison played across the screen. Her white uniform was torn as she writhed against her restraints, snarling and snapping her teeth. Saliva dribbled down her deteriorating skin while her dark hair hung limp, missing in several places and tangled in others.

Taylor's hand flew to his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. This wasn't his mother. It couldn't be. Why was John allowing her to suffer like this? His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, sniffing as tears rolled down his face. Unlike the pharmacy, which now felt like a lifetime ago, seeing his mother made everything so real. The world had truly ended, killing humanity with it.

Ashley and John both kneeled beside him, wrapping their arms around him. He didn't have the energy to fight back, not when his entire life shattered around him.

John moved in front of him, sweeping back a strand of Taylor's hair before gripping his son's shoulders. Taylor could barely see the older man through blurred vision, but John's eyes were focused on him, giving him no choice but to meet his gaze.

John's words were full of conviction, ringing with a genuine note of truth. "I would do anything for you, including keeping your friends safe. I know how much they mean to you, but I need you to cooperate. I can't prove it, but that virus leaving containment was no accident. Someone here is making a play for power, and I can't keep you all safe unless you help me. Can you trust me enough to know I'm doing this for you?"

Of course it wasn't an accident. The first place of devastation was the East Coast. Didn't the White House always go first in the movies just like all the important landmarks? Like it or not, John Whittaker wasn't his biggest threat. He was the only ally Taylor had if he wanted his friends to survive.

With a trembling hand, he closed it over John's arm and nodded. He spoke one word, broken and cracked through a storm of emotion. "Yes."

Like his father would do anything to protect him, Taylor would do the same for his friends, including walking through the proverbial pits of Hell. They might hate him later, but they'd live. He'd already lost too much.