UNKNOWN LOCATION, VALE – 29 JULY 2021, NIGHT

White rectangular columns divided the cafeteria into separate dining zones. An old-fashioned counter with wooden panels stood at the far end of the room. Behind it rose tall metallic shelves. Sandra lay between them, face down on the cool marble tiles. How she had ended up there she could not recall. All she knew was that the cold stone soothed her fevered skin.

She knew her body well enough to gauge her chances. Her fate had been sealed the moment the needle pierced her arm. All she had needed to do was stay away from the vaccination centre that day. The fault was hers alone. She was a fighter — always had been — but even the fiercest will could not outmatch the poison now coursing through her veins. There was no doubt: she was gravely ill.

Carefully she rolled onto her back. Death, she believed, was close. Her face glowed with a sickly pallor; colour had drained from her lips. Sweat traced cold paths down her cheeks. Her hands were clammy, her pulse faint. Yet she could still hear her heartbeat — weak, stubborn, insistent. It reminded her how desperately she wanted to live, how tenaciously she clung to every remaining thread of life.

“Help me…” she whispered into the surrounding silence.

“What happened to you?” a voice asked.

A male silhouette bent over her. In the dimness she could not make out his face or place the voice. Just like the ghostly figure from her nightmare the night before. She decided she must be dreaming again; the shadow man had come to warn her that Death itself waited nearby, patient, ready to claim her the instant her grip slackened.

The man lifted her in his arms. Sandra focused on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her ear as he carried her. Each minute she felt herself slipping deeper into oblivion, further from reality.

“Sugar…” she managed to stammer.

Some buried instinct told her that something sweet might pull her back from the edge, but there was no food.

She felt him lay her gently on a stretcher. Then came a heavy thud on a nearby table, followed by the rasp of a zip. She turned her head toward the sound. Moonlight streamed through the windows, silvering the table to her left. The tall man stood beside it, drawing a can of Coke from a black bag. The bright red of the can stood out starkly in the gloom — the only colour she could discern. The bag itself sparked a flicker of recognition: Jens’s conversation in the hallway.

The shadow man — Jens — cracked open the can and returned to her side. He propped her up and pressed the rim to her pale lips. At first the sugary liquid barely registered on her tongue, but gradually it drew her back from the brink. Strength returned in small increments. She could move her hands and legs again. Pushing herself upright, she took the can from him and held its cold metal to her forehead. The chill felt like mercy.

Consciousness returned fully, though her thoughts remained muddled, words hard to form. She told Jens she had begun feeling ill during the night. She had left the ward, wandering the corridors in the hope that movement might ease the sickness enough to let her return to bed. The nausea had come in relentless waves, but with nothing left in her stomach she could not vomit.

As soon as she finished speaking, the urge returned. She lurched off the stretcher and stumbled to the bathroom. Hanging over the toilet, she forced two fingers down her throat. A tormented roar rose from deep inside; her body convulsed, expelling bitter yellow bile in painful spasms. She retched until nothing remained. At last, the seizures eased. She collapsed sideways onto the tiles, spent.

“Did it help?” Jens asked, stepping into the doorway.

“I think so. The nausea’s gone. Is there anything left in the can?”

He nodded, handed her the Coke and a towel to wipe the sweat and tears from her face. Sandra pulled herself up and shuffled to the mirror. She flicked on the light above the cabinet and studied her reflection. Colour had vanished from her features; only her dark eyes remained — two black voids staring out of a skull.

“I look horrible,” she said, turning on the tap to splash cold water across her face.

“You look good, even when you’re sick,” Jens countered. “Your accent reminds me of my girlfriend’s. She’s from Lechia. Where are you from?”

“Scythia,” Sandra replied.

“That’s why I liked you straight away!” he said, a sudden brightness in his voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t like Gaul women?” She could not resist the sneer, catching his eye in the mirror.

“I don’t like Gauls,” Jens answered, his tone darkening. “They’re a nation of cowards and traitors. And I say that as a Gaul myself. Just like the Judeans — they’ll sell you out for a bag of silver coins. The biggest sell-out of them all is Martin Von Rotten!”

His eyes gleamed with sudden intensity. In that moment, the pieces snapped together. Sandra remembered where she had first seen those eyes. The memory flooded back in vivid fragments, like scenes from a film unspooling in the dark. Nausea surged again.

“I see you’ve found your bag,” she said quietly.

“Yes. I remembered where I had left it.”

“I’ve remembered something, too. In fact, I remember everything that happened before they put us under.”

“You do?” His voice trembled; she could feel the tension coil through him.

“Yes. And I know what’s in that bag. You were there that day in the vaccination centre in Brushtown. You came for Zaur and me. I was too weak to fight — the vaccine was already working; I could barely stand. But Zaur put up a struggle. You drew your gun and started shooting. In the chaos you marched us out at gunpoint. Then I remember the military base. Rows of people lying like casualties — or inmates in an asylum. Soldiers in uniform. You were our guard. You noticed I was awake. You bent over me and whispered to stay quiet.”

“If they had realised you were conscious, they would have taken you for further experiments. I saved your life,” he said, voice edged with accusation.

“Then, nurses arrived with trolleys,” Sandra pressed on. “They moved from bed to bed, injecting something into the unconscious. I wanted to run, but I was too weak. Even if I had stood, I wouldn’t have reached the door. So, I waited, eyes closed. My nurse wasn’t gentle. It took everything I had not to scream. Then I blacked out.”

“I saved your life,” Jens repeated, quieter now.

“It doesn’t matter any more. That shit is inside me. My body’s fighting it, but I already know I won’t win…”

His face lay half in shadow; the mirror’s weak light could not reach far. Still, Sandra saw him wipe a tear from his cheek.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you, Sandra. My orders were to collect two patients from Brushtown who had received the experimental vaccine. I’m partly responsible for crimes against humanity. I can’t help you, but I can make things right. I’ll eliminate the main culprit — the one who sold us all to Gomorian pharmaceuticals. Martin Von Rotten.”

Jens stepped back. Sandra heard the zip of his bag closing. She followed him out, leaning against the wall as he moved toward the door.

“Don’t try to stop me,” he said, pausing on the threshold. “Martin won’t let anyone leave. He’ll alert the others if anyone tries to escape. Once I’ve dealt with him, you can go. Get out of here immediately — before his superiors come looking for him when he fails to report. That is, if you last that long.”

The words hung grimly between them. Then he was gone.

Sandra sank onto the nearest bed. She stared into the black void of the doorway through which Jens had vanished, willing herself to stay conscious long enough to hear whatever signal might come next.