Dr. Jenner's flat welcome hung in the sterile air as the heavy steel door sealed them inside the CDC. The sudden quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos outside, was almost deafening. The group of thirteen, still high on adrenaline, looked around at the dimly lit, utilitarian corridor, then at the lone scientist who stood before them.
"Decontamination is mandatory," Jenner stated, his voice echoing slightly. "Vi, guide them."
"Please proceed to the indicated sanitation chamber," Vi's calm, synthesized voice instructed from overhead speakers. A section of the wall slid open, revealing a brightly lit, white-tiled room. "Remove all outer clothing and equipment. Place them in the provided bins for sterilization."
There were murmurs of unease. "Decontamination? For what?" Shane asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Standard protocol for any biological contaminants," Jenner replied, his gaze unwavering. "Given the state of the world outside, I'd say it's more than warranted. It's for your safety, and mine." His grip on the P90 was a silent emphasis.
Reluctantly, seeing no other option, the group complied. The process was impersonal and thorough, powerful showers, antiseptic sprays, and for their clothes and gear, a harsh chemical and heat treatment. When they emerged, wrapped in thin hospital gowns or basic scrubs that Vi had dispensed, they felt cleaner than they had in weeks, but also vulnerable and stripped down.
Jenner led them through a series of corridors, the facility mostly dark, powered by what he explained was an independent generator system with finite fuel. He brought them to a large, comfortable briefing room that had clearly once been used for presentations. "You can rest here for now. There's food, water. The system can provide basic necessities."
As they settled, Rick pressed for answers. "Dr. Jenner… are you the only one left?"
Jenner nodded, his face impassive. "The only one. Staff either fled, or tried to reach their families. Some… didn't make it." He gestured vaguely to the ceiling. "Vi is the facility's integrated AI. She runs most of the automated systems."
Hot food actual pre-packaged but heated meals and bottled water were provided. For the survivors, it was a feast. The simple act of eating a warm meal in a secure, clean environment, without the constant fear of attack, was a profound shock to their systems. Carl and Sophia, after their initial shyness, ate quickly, their eyes wide with a childlike appreciation for the normalcy of it all.
Lori found Jenner. "The showers… you have hot water?"
"As long as the generators hold," he confirmed.
The thought of a hot shower, of washing away the grime and blood of the past weeks, was an almost unbearable luxury. One by one, under Vi's direction to available facilities, they experienced it.
Ethan, while appreciating the temporary respite, observed Jenner intently. The doctor was an island of weary authority in a sea of desolation, but there was an undercurrent to him, a fragility that Ethan's Enhanced Awareness picked up on. He knew this sanctuary was temporary, its secrets dark.
Later, when they had eaten and felt almost human again, Jenner approached them. "Before we go any further, there's one more protocol. Blood tests. For everyone. I need to ensure no one is… actively progressing."
This caused another wave of anxiety. "You think one of us is infected?" Shane challenged.
"I think caution is warranted," Jenner replied coolly. "A pinprick. For everyone's peace of mind."
Again, they complied, each survivor submitting to the quick, clinical test administered by Jenner himself. The results, Vi announced a short while later, were all negative for active, aggressive infection. A collective sigh of relief went through the group, though Jenner's expression remained unchanged.
"Good," Jenner said, with no particular warmth. "Now, perhaps you'd like to understand what you're up against. What the world is up against."
He led them from the briefing room, deeper into the heart of the CDC, to a vast, circular command center filled with monitors, most of them dark. At the center was a large, holographic display table. Vi's voice was a constant, calm presence.
"This," Jenner began, as images and data began to appear on a massive wall screen, "is what we were studying. What we called 'Wildfire'."
He showed them MRI scans of a brain, detailing the infection's progression. "It attacks the brain, restarting the brainstem, the primitive part. But the higher functions, the parts that make us who we are… they don't come back."
The room was silent, the survivors watching with growing horror as Jenner explained the inexorable process: the bite, the fever, the death, and then… the reanimation. The thing that wore a familiar face but was only an empty, hungry shell.
"We tried everything," Jenner continued, his voice growing heavier. "Antivirals, targeted therapies, radiation… nothing stopped it. Nothing even slowed it."
Hope, which had flickered so brightly with the promise of food and shelter, began to die a cold death in the sterile air of the command center.
Then, Jenner brought up a specific file, a 3D model of a brain illuminated with points of light. "This is Test Subject 19. One of our own scientists. She was bitten, volunteered for the study." The lights on the brain model pulsed, then flared, then began to extinguish, section by section. "You see the initial brain death… then, hours later…" A different set of lights, concentrated in the brainstem, flared to life. "It restarts. But it's not life. It's just… activity."
He zoomed in on a section of the brain scan, a recording. A voice, female, intelligent, spoke clinical observations. Then, the voice faltered, speaking of her love for her husband, her hopes. It was Candace Jenner. His wife.
The recording showed her final moments, the light fading from her eyes, then the terrifying reanimation, her lifeless eyes snapping open, a snarl tearing from her throat before the feed cut.
Jenner looked at the horrified faces before him, his own a mask of profound grief and despair. "TS-19. My wife. She begged me to keep trying until the very end. And I did." He gestured to the silent, dark screens around them. "This is the end. There is no cure. There is no hope. Everything, everywhere… is gone."
The finality of his words, the stark, irrefutable evidence on the screen, crashed down upon the survivors like a physical weight. The CDC was not a sanctuary of hope. It was a tomb, a monument to a lost world, presided over by its last, heartbroken custodian.