Chapter Text
September 26, 2018
When the world ends, Eve is not surprised. If anything, she’s a bit relieved. Took it long enough.
She’s been expecting this day for a long, long time. Years. So, actually, she’s feeling kind of vindicated.
She registers the vague realization, as she watches the soldiers load the last of the townspeople into the back of their drab military trucks, women clutching their children close to them, that this thought may be in bad taste.
But then, Niko, hauling himself up into the last truck, pauses halfway, shooting a glance at the nearest carefully concealed CCTV camera. He stares into it, and for a second, it’s like he’s looking at her. His face fills the screen, his eyes red rimmed, filled with grief.
Just for a second, Eve’s heart lurches, twists with what might be regret. Is she really doing the right thing? Is this really what she wants ?
But then Niko’s eyes clear. He scowls and looks away, clambering into the truck bed with the other townspeople, and Eve abruptly thinks back to their parting exchange, not a half hour ago. He’d been at the door, duffel bag in hand, the soldiers just a few doors down completing their evacuation sweeps, as Eve pleaded with him in a harsh whisper.
“Niko– I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m telling you, those brownshirt assholes are not here to help us–”
“Eve. Enough. This isn’t funny anymore. I’ve entertained your, your…insanity for years, and it’s over now, okay?” He’d run a hand through his shaggy hair, eyes strained and bloodshot. “It’s all over. Everything. The world has ended! We have to go! This is our only shot at safety. Wake up!”
Eve had mouthed wordlessly for a moment, stunned. “Yes, the world has ended, Niko! I’m right, right about everything, and you’re calling me insane?!”
He had just shaken his head. “I’m leaving. This is a time where society needs to, to trust, to support each other. To come together.”
Eve stared at him, feeling in that moment that she’d never understood him less, before letting out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Trust and support. Because that’s what the apocalypse tends to bring out in people.”
Niko had looked at her beseechingly. “Eve. Please. Come with me.”
But it was over. This was the end of the road for them, though in truth Eve knew they had been here for much longer than the arrival of the end of the world. “Go with the soldiers, Niko. I hope you’ll be happy, wherever they take you.”
And he’d looked at her for a long, long time, his eyes starting to well. “I dread to think where you’ll be happy, Eve.”
Eve is pulled back to the present at the sound and slight vibration of revving motors somewhere above her. She looks to the screen, sees Niko sitting in the truck, turned away from the camera. The trucks start to pull away, and Eve watches as he grows smaller and smaller in the grainy television view.
He doesn’t look back, not once.
And Eve decides, then and there, that neither will she.
Only when she is sure that the trucks have left and there are no lingering soldiers still roaming the town does she emerge from her basement bunker. It is a squat concrete room lit by harsh fluorescent lights, hidden from the rest of the basement and originally built – or at least built under the pretense of being – a panic room. Whatever Niko would believe. Things, ahem, mushroomed from there.
The concealed door easily opens, moving on perfectly oiled hinges; there’s a glimpse of shelves and shelves of canned goods and plastic containers before it shuts behind Eve, its locks clicking back into place. (And maybe 1-2-3-4 isn’t the best combination to unlock it again, but, well, Eve’s concern isn’t focused on sentient beings. And considering she’s now the last soul in this town she really can’t afford to forget the damn thing.)
She tiptoes up the stairs, into the front hall, and pauses at the front door, staring at the handle, abruptly nervous. She sees another flash of Niko, walking out for the last time. And then she forces herself out, one hand tight on the pistol; the rifles are still in their cases, packed away from Niko’s horrified gaze and even more tiresome condemnations. He never got it. Never got her.
The street is empty. The town is empty. This little, rural town, the one she’d first resented Niko for moving her to, but one that she is grateful for now.
Because now, there is no one else here. No one at all. The town is hers.
For the first time in maybe ever, Eve feels fully, entirely liberated. No one here to judge her, assess her, find her comments off putting or unkind or unnecessary. It’s just her, with no need to mask the tension and darkness she’s felt clawing inside. She feels herself smile. She’s free. And after so long, wide awake.
The next few days pass in a blur of action, kickstarting the plans she’s developed for years. This…Niko had first dismissively called it a weird hobby, and then, as time wore on, worriedly condemned it as an obsession, but Eve knows it to be a conviction and certainty, and well, guess which one of them was right? Not Niko, that’s for damn sure.
But anyway. This conviction of hers, that one way or another shit would hit the fan in their lifetimes, that their government would be utterly powerless to actually address it and would probably just make it worse – it’s been years in the making, Eve supposes.
Stemming first, eons ago, from her…interest in murderous women, and what made them tick, which led her deeper and deeper in the rabbit holes of the internet. She was bored, in a small town where essentially no one looked like her, where everyone knew everyone’s business and yet she couldn’t stand a single one of them; she had time on her hands and the web offered distraction.
(It was that or help Niko tend the chicken coop, and, well, she wasn’t that desperate. To understand Eve is to know she’d opt for self-radicalization over menial labor involving chicken shit any day.)
Researching the psychology of those exhibiting antisocial behavior led to how the government treated and categorized mental illness, which led to how the government organized society, which led Eve to smaller and darker corners of the web until she was finding herself reading about the many ways society could collapse. The things one should do for when that time comes. And it would come. Of this, Eve became only more and more certain.
And so, Eve became a survivalist.
Niko called her a prepper. Eve does not like that term.
But she is prepared.
She has food, medicine, supplies. Tylenol and bandages; firearms and coils of barbed wire. She has a generator and the means to collect and preserve gasoline. She has solar panels. She has books and a ham radio. She has copious amounts of alcohol. She has a full willingness to help herself to every house and store in town. She has Niko’s well tended garden and those goddamn chickens.
More than any of that, though. She has an absolute bloodyminded determination to prove everyone who laughed at her wrong, and if that means surviving the apocalypse on her own, well, that’s what she’s gonna do.
Fuck ‘em.
June ??, 2022
There is a woman in her hole. A not obviously infected one.
Not like that. Or that. It’s been years, give Eve a break, okay. The apocalypse tends to limit one’s options and outlets.
But the proximity sensors went off, and then not a minute later one of the little lights blinked on indicating one of the traps had been triggered, and so down Eve went into the bunker to peer at the CCTV screens, and yep, there’s someone down in one of the pits in the land behind the backyard. They don’t look turned, not that that means anything. She pulls a bolt action rifle from the rack and shoulders it with a sigh, and now here she is, ready to go confront one of the lovely little nightmares that constitutes houseguests at the end of civilization. This’ll be quick.
“Don’t move.”
She announces this, rifle raised, even before the woman comes into view.
When the woman does come into view, Eve tries not to blink. She’s not sure what she expected – the low quality CCTV cameras didn’t give much away – but not this.
It’s a young woman. In her twenties, probably. She’s dirty and sweaty, her blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun, a few wisps loose. Her flannel shirt is ripped in a few places, and streaked with mud and a couple suspicious red smears that instantly set Eve on edge, but despite all that she’s… for god’s sake. She’s a threat and a trespasser, and for all Eve knows, a vector of illness and infection.
Her eyes are very green.
The woman does not move, and instead just looks up at Eve. “Did you make this trap?”
That also is not what Eve is expecting. A bit more terror and pleading for her life would be appropriate, maybe. Her slight accent, maybe Russian, is also unexpected; maybe a tourist who, four years ago, chose an unfortunate time to go on vacation? “Uh…yes.”
The woman inspects the pit around her, looking this way and that (and openly flouting Eve’s command to not move in the process). “It’s nice. Good depth.”
This mild compliment only irks Eve further. This…person really does not seem to be grasping the gravity of her situation. “I said, don’t move. Hands where I can see them.”
The woman rolls her eyes – again, what – but complies, raising her hands. “I am not armed, it is okay.”
It is very much not. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.” Eve keeps her gun trained on the woman, scanning the woods around them. “Are there any with you?”
The woman pauses, for the first time appearing on her guard. Eve doesn’t trust it. “No. I was with…others. But it’s just me now.”
“Oh yeah? What, they all got bit?”
“Or shot.” The woman eyes her, and then, seems to waver, looking away, shoulders sagging. “It was horrible. We were coming from the DC QZ. It’s…it’s gone. Just FEDRA, shooting at everyone. We ran for our lives. People all around me getting shot…bodies everywhere. So much blood. Screaming. And then…infected. Everywhere.” She looks up at Eve, her eyes shimmering with tears. “It’s just me now. I’m all that’s left.”
Eve stares at her; the woman holds her gaze, green eyes soft and face honest and open. A single tear falls from one eye, cleaning a track through the dust and grime on her face. Her full lips tremble. She is the very picture of defeat, desperation, a pitiable creature that poses no threat to anyone and in dire need of mercy.
Eve doesn’t buy it for a second. She knows a predator when she sees one. “Bullshit.”
The woman blinks. “Excuse me?"
“Bull. Shit.” Eve enunciates. “You’re lying. Maybe not about everything, but you’re definitely not telling me the whole truth.”
She shoulders her rifle, pointing it directly at the woman. “And guess what? There are no more rules. And I don’t need to deal with this shit.” She cocks the gun. “If you haven’t noticed, you’re already six feet deep, so unless you’d like an unmarked grave I recommend you cut the shit.”
The woman stares at her for a long, long moment, her expression giving nothing away. It is tense. Eve’s finger is tight on the trigger.
And then the woman smiles. It is an amused, intrigued thing, sharp, and not sweet or pitiable at all. Her face clears, the tears drying up like they were never there. “Well. I guess I can see how you’ve survived this long.” She drops her hands and leans – leans! – against the back wall of the pit, crossing her arms. “Okay, look. Maybe I didn’t like any of the people I escaped with. And maybe FEDRA had it coming. But they did shoot at us, and the infected did get everyone else.” She gives Eve a wry look. “There’s a pandemic out there, if you haven’t heard.”
Eve is unamused. “How did you find this place?”
The woman heaves a sigh, having the audacity to seem weary of this line of questioning. “By accident. Look, I am just trying to get to the Boston QZ. I heard it is still operational.”
“Why,” Eve says dryly, “You wanna topple that one too?”
The woman flicks another glance at her, another flash of surprise on her face, before raising her eyebrows. “Well, nothing will happen either way until you help me out of this hole.”
Eve stiffens all over again. “You haven’t exactly made me feel great about that idea.”
The woman makes a show of turning her worn jean pockets inside out, shaking her shirt, showing her hands. “I am not armed. I will not hurt you.” She lets out a breath, this one a tinge more sincere than her previous theatrics. “I haven’t eaten in two days. I don’t think it’d be a fair fight, anyway.”
“Because that’s such a concern of yours, I’m sure.”
The woman doesn’t reply. The adrenalin she was likely running on the last few minutes seems to have run its course, and she sags back against the wall of the pit, eyes closing for a second. With her face still Eve can see how wan she is, how pronounced her cheekbones are.
Fuck. Fuck.
This is a terrible idea. A stupid, idiotic, truly suicidal thought.
“Don’t. Move.”
The woman’s eyes flutter open to see Eve taking stiff steps toward her, rifle trained on her. One hand snakes down to her belt, unhooking the scanner attached there.
“Wow,” the woman says, sounding genuinely impressed, “How did you get your hands on one of those?”
Eve doesn’t bother to reply, keeping the gun pointed at her even as she nears to the opening. Before the woman can dish out another wisecrack, Eve swoops down, pressing the scanner to her neck and activating it, ignoring the woman’s grunt of pain. She stands and steps back immediately when she’s done, staring at the screen. She senses the woman staring at it, too.
The screen flashes green. Not infected.
They both register relief, Eve’s shoulders relaxing minutely as the woman heaves a sigh.
There’s a beat.
“So…what will you do?”
Eve is such a fucking idiot.
“I’ll be back.” She turns on her heel and begins to walk back to the house.
“Perfect, I will just wait here, in this dark pit,” the woman calls after her, and Eve can only groan to herself.
Such a fucking idiot.
The woman climbs the ladder in a flash, either because she’s afraid Eve will change her mind or she was exaggerating how tired she is. Probably a little of both.
No matter. That’s what the gun is for.
The woman, out of the pit, seems a measure more confident. Now that they are on equal footing, Eve can tell she is taller than her, for all the woman’s pronounced leanness. Eve is not a fan.
“Thank you.”
Eve glares, trying to project a general “don’t fuck with me,” or possibly, “I am fully unhinged and not afraid to take us both out,” vibe that is not totally manufactured. “Yeah. Whatever. You can go now.”
The woman doesn’t move. Instead, she just keeps looking at Eve.
Eve is not a fan.
“I’m Villanelle.”
Well, that doesn’t sound Russian, but Eve supposes anyone can be whoever they want once there’s no society to care anymore. (There’s probably a commentary in there somewhere, but thankfully grad schools disappeared with the rest of civilization.) “That’s very nice for you. I suggest you be on your way.”
“I’m very hungry.”
Of course. Give an inch, run a mile, et cetera et cetera. “And I’m not running a charity.”
The woman – Villanelle, apparently – hesitates. Stares at Eve. And then: “Please.”
This should not affect Eve. There is no room for mercy at the end of the world. There is no more kindness to be found or to be dealt out. One small word, a worthless platitude that can be tossed out without a care, should not matter. Likely hasn’t mattered, in the thousands of times it’s been whispered, screamed, cried, and gasped since everything ended.
But Eve thinks Villanelle means it. And it has been so long.
Eve always knew she was ready to take on the apocalypse.
She planned for years, after all. Stockpiled and brainstormed and whiteboarded every possible scenario, and how she would react. What she would do, when and how. And then everything…well, everything went to plan. The chain link fences have held. The proximity sensors and exploding trip wires have kept the infected at bay; the pitfall traps have caught everything else (as evidenced by today). She has gotten the hang of hunting and tending the garden; Niko would be exasperated that it literally took a mass fungal pandemic to make it happen. Maintenance of the power equipment, while occasionally messy, has not confounded her yet. She goes to sleep every night secure, well fed, and ready to handle the challenges that may come. She is smart. She is capable.
And she is bored.
So, so, bored. Somehow, even the end of the world has managed to become rote. The town is so empty it spooks her sometimes; Eve thought herself a misanthrope, but it seems that was overblown. Sometimes she lies awake, the utter silence outside and everything it means deafening. And chickens make truly terrible company.
And okay, for once in her life, the truth:
She doesn’t want to be alone.
The last four years have taught her solitude – of the complete, total, unrelenting variety – isn’t all it’s chalked up to be.
Eve makes up her mind.
“Fine.”
Villanelle blinks at her. She clearly wasn’t expecting this reply. “Really?”
“I will absolutely regret this, and if you take one – one – step out of place, believe me when I say it will be the last thing you ever do.” Eve rolls her eyes up skyward and heaves a breath. “But yes.” She points a finger at Villanelle. “One meal. And then you’re on your way. To Boston, or wherever the hell else, I really don’t care. Understood?”
Villanelle’s eyes are a little wide, getting bigger as Eve has talked. She nods vigorously, wisps of her hair flying. “Yes. Yes. Understood. One meal.”
Eve eyes her for a moment, before nodding slowly. She slings her rifle over her shoulder and turns.
“Wait.”
She looks back. Villanelle looks at her, head tilted, assessing. “What’s your name?”
Eve swallows. This shouldn’t matter. What’s a name, at the end of the day? The world?
And yet. “Um, Eve.”
“Eve,” Villanelle repeats, as if seeing how the name feels in her mouth. She smiles. It is not predatory, but nor does it put Eve at ease.
“Lead the way.”