Chapter 14: The Lists
Thursday - Day Seven
Nick started seizing at four AM.
I was on watch when I heard the thrashing. Rushed downstairs to find him convulsing on his cot, eyes rolled back, foam at the corners of his mouth. Madison was already there, trying to hold him down.
"Help me! Something's wrong!"
I grabbed his shoulders, turned him on his side so he wouldn't choke. His body jerked violently, muscles locked in spasm. Withdrawal—I'd seen it during my residency. Heroin, probably, given Nick's history.
"Liza! Medical kit!" I called.
She appeared with the supplies. I found diazepam—we had maybe three doses left—and injected it into Nick's thigh. The seizure continued for another twenty seconds before the medication took hold.
His body went limp. Breathing shallow but steady.
"What's wrong with him?" Madison's voice cracked.
"Withdrawal. He's been clean since the outbreak started. His body's reacting."
"Is he going to be okay?"
"Eventually. But it's going to get worse before it gets better."
Nick woke an hour later, disoriented and sick. He vomited into a bucket Madison held for him, dry heaving until there was nothing left. His hands shook so badly he couldn't hold water.
"Make it stop," he gasped. "Please, make it stop."
"I can give you something to ease the symptoms, but you have to ride this out."
"I can't. It's too much. I need—"
"You don't need anything except time and support." I administered another dose of diazepam, smaller this time. "Your brain is rewiring itself. It's going to hurt. But you're going to survive."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do. Because you're stronger than the addiction."
"How do you know?"
Because I watched your arc on television. Because I know you'll face worse than this and come out the other side.
"Because you're still here. Still fighting. That's all the proof I need."
He closed his eyes, tears leaking from the corners. Madison held his hand, whispering reassurances he probably couldn't hear through the pain.
I left them and headed to the medical station. Exner was already there, treating a line of patients. She looked up when I entered.
"Mercer. Good timing. I need you to take vitals on everyone in section C."
Section C was eight houses, maybe thirty people. I moved through them systematically—blood pressure, temperature, heart rate. Most were fine. A few had minor infections. One woman had pneumonia developing—I flagged her as high-priority, needing antibiotics we didn't have enough of.
Exner updated her clipboard after each report. I watched her write, tracking the pattern.
Everyone got a color code. Most were green. The woman with pneumonia got red. And beside her name, Exner added two letters: PT.
"She needs transfer?" I asked.
"Soon as we can arrange transport."
"When was the last successful transfer?"
Exner looked up. "Yesterday. Why?"
"Just curious. Wondering about success rates, patient outcomes."
"The medical center has better facilities than we do. Everyone we send has a better chance there."
"But you don't have confirmation they're improving."
"Communications are difficult right now."
"Right. Spotty."
She held my gaze. "You don't trust the system."
"I don't trust systems that don't share information."
"Information can cause panic."
"So can lies."
We stared at each other. Then she went back to her clipboard, and I went back to taking vitals.
But I'd seen enough. Priority Transfer didn't mean better medical care. It meant removal. And removal in a collapsing civilization meant one thing.
That afternoon, a truck arrived for Griselda.
Daniel had been sitting with her constantly, Ofelia beside him. When the soldiers knocked on the community center door, he stood.
"Griselda Salazar," the soldier read from a list. "Priority medical transfer. Ready for transport."
"Where are you taking her?" Daniel asked.
"Medical facility. Proper surgical equipment, trained staff. She'll get the care she needs."
"I'm coming with her."
"Family isn't permitted on medical transports. Security protocol."
"She's my wife."
"And she'll be well cared for. You can visit once the facility is fully operational."
Daniel's hand moved toward where his shotgun used to be. Found nothing. His jaw clenched.
"How do I know she's safe?"
"You don't. You have to trust us."
"I've trusted governments before. I know how that ends."
The soldier's expression hardened. "Sir, this isn't optional. Your wife needs medical care we can't provide here. She goes, or she dies. Your choice."
Ofelia grabbed her father's arm. "Papa, please. She needs help."
Daniel looked at Griselda—unconscious, feverish, dying slowly. He made the calculation every parent and spouse makes eventually: risk everything to stay together, or accept separation for a chance at survival.
"Fine. Take her. But I want updates. Every day."
"We'll do our best."
They loaded Griselda onto a stretcher, carried her to the truck. Ofelia ran after them, crying, begging to go along. Madison held her back. Daniel watched with an expression I'd seen before—on soldiers watching their brothers evacuated from combat zones, knowing they might never see them again.
The truck pulled away. Daniel stood in the street until it disappeared.
That night, he found me on watch. Sat down without invitation, staring at nothing.
"You think they killed her," he said.
"I think they removed a resource drain from the safe zone."
"That's cold."
"That's military efficiency. Griselda required medication, care, resources. Removing her frees those resources for healthier people."
"She's my wife."
"I know. And I hope I'm wrong." I meant it. Not because I cared about Griselda specifically, but because Daniel's loyalty was valuable. Losing his wife would either break him or harden him. I needed the latter, not the former.
"In El Salvador," Daniel said slowly, "during the civil war, the government would take people. Dissidents, rebels, anyone who questioned authority. They called it protective custody. We knew better. We knew they were going to mass graves."
"This isn't El Salvador."
"No. It's worse. At least in El Salvador, the enemy was human. Here, the enemy is everywhere. And the government can justify anything in the name of public safety."
"So what do you do?"
He looked at me. "I survive. I protect Ofelia. And if they took Griselda to die, I make sure it wasn't for nothing."
"How?"
"By learning. By remembering. By becoming what I need to be." He stood. "You're planning to leave this place."
"Yeah."
"When you do, Ofelia and I come with you."
"Deal."
He left. I sat alone with the weight of that promise.
[ TIMER: 54:22:16 ]
Fifty-four hours. The pressure was building again—headaches returning, irritability increasing. I'd need to infect someone soon. But finding a justified target inside a military-controlled safe zone was complicated.
Maybe outside the fence. Maybe during reconnaissance. Add it to the list of problems.
I spent Friday working the medical station, treating minor injuries, watching Exner's lists grow. More Priority Transfers. More people quietly removed. And no word from any of them.
That night, I waited until curfew, then slipped out through the culvert I'd found earlier. The patrols had patterns—fifteen-minute gaps if you timed it right. I made it to the perimeter in twelve minutes.
Beyond the fence, the world was worse. More bodies in the burn pile. More walkers shambling through ruins. And something new—military vehicles, abandoned or destroyed. A Humvee with bullet holes stitching the doors. A transport truck on its side, back doors hanging open.
The "medical facility" the transfers went to? It didn't exist. Or if it did, it was as dead as everything else.
I was about to head back when I heard it—a radio, crackling with static. One of the abandoned vehicles had its communications equipment still powered.
I climbed into the Humvee, careful of broken glass. The radio squawked:
"—Cobalt Protocol authorization pending—"
"—civilian containment unsuccessful in sector seven—"
"—advise immediate implementation timeline—"
"—confirmed. Cobalt authorization received. Execute at 0900 tomorrow—"
The transmission cut off. I sat in the silence, processing.
Cobalt. Tomorrow at 9 AM.
[ QUEST UPDATE: OPERATION COBALT TIMELINE CONFIRMED ]
[ TIME UNTIL EXECUTION: 16 HOURS ]
[ PRIORITY: ESCAPE IMMEDIATELY ]
I ran back to the community center, no longer caring about patrols. Burst through the door breathing hard. Madison was already awake, watching me.
"We're leaving," I said. "Tonight. Right now."
"What? Why?"
"Because if we're here tomorrow morning, we're dead."
Reviews and Power Stones keep the heat on!
Want to see what happens before the "heroes" do?
Secure your spot in the inner circle on Patreon. Skip the weekly wait and read ahead:
💵 Hustler [$7]: 10 Chapters ahead.
⚖️ Enforcer [$11]: 15 Chapters ahead.
👑 Kingpin [$16]: 20 Chapters ahead.
Periodic drops. Check on Patreon for the full release list.
👉 Join the Syndicate: patreon.com/Anti_hero_fanfic