Elie's POV:

Quentin: Wake up. Your face is wet.

With some difficulty, I manage to crack my eyes open and realize that I’d been crying. My heart is ramming against my rib cage, my hands are slightly shaking. Quickly, I sit up. Quentin, those weren’t my thoughts, right? I feel a hand on my back rubbing soothing circles and a voice speaking near my ear, probably trying to calm me down. But it won’t work, because I can barely breathe. That couldn't have happened, those were not my thoughts. What just happened? I didn't kill Kowalski! I didn’t--

Quentin: Calm down. Those weren’t your thoughts. It was that damn virus’s thoughts. The vision is supposed to be everything that happened as soon as the virus chose him as a host. This includes the virus's thoughts as it takes over the host’s body in the last moments.

The tone Quentin uses is not harsh, but soothing. A first for Quentin. This knowledge calms me down just a fraction. But the remains of euphoria, the feeling of pure ecstasy that the virus had had while killing Kowalski, still leave me feeling gutted and sore, and I can still barely breathe. It feels like I’m being smothered and the sense of fear is overwhelming.

The soothing tones of another voice, Elodie’s, forces me to refocus on my surroundings. She takes my shoulders, looks me in the eyes, and says, “It’s okay. I’ll walk you through this. It’s just a panic attack. Now, tell me what you see.”

I force myself to look around the room. The room is white and dull, with a depressing fluorescent light coating the room with white rays. All that decorates the walls is a single flu vaccine poster. There’s a door on the opposite of me, and to the left of the bed I’m on, are two other beds. Lining a corner of the room are flimsy counters with metallic shelves and a sink. Not porcelain like the sink in the vision; this one’s metal. I relay the information to Elodie and can’t help but notice that up close, her eyes have flecks of gold in them. She continues this procedure and asks me things pertaining to all my senses. I slowly feel myself start to relax as I list objects, feelings, and smells, and soon, my breathing is normal.

Elodie, after being satisfied with my mental state of being, leans back and practically falls into a chair beside the bed. Shooting me an almost accusatory glare, she says, “That was scary.” I couldn’t agree more. I had just felt the emotions and listened to the thoughts of a demonic, supposedly intelligent, virus. I lean back onto the bed, feeling emotionally and physically drained. “I suppose that was scary,” I mutter.

Elodie’s eyes flick towards me, “You’re hiding something. You were talking about Kowalski in your sleep.” By the look in her eyes, I can tell that she has something more to say. The only way I’m going to find out what it is is by telling her about Quentin. Quentin, should we tell her? Quentin?

Quentin: Look, kid. I may be infinitely smarter than you, but I can’t make all your decisions for you. You would become even more of an idiot than you already are.

Me: But what if she thinks I’m crazy?

Quentin: Your on your own. I feel his presence fading.

Me: Wait, Quentin! No! Don’t you dare leave me alone on this!

He’s gone. Damn it. Hearing light beats coming from beside me, I turn to see that Elodie has stood up and is tapping the floor impatiently with her shoe. Her arms are defiantly crossed around her chest and her eyes are leveled menacingly at me. If I hadn’t just lived through the last moments of a another man’s life, I would have thought it was the scariest thing I’d ever seen. Quentin! Help me!

Quentin: That is one scary-ass glare.

Me: Exactly!

Quentin: I wouldn’t risk it. I mean, I can stop the virus you’re currently hosting from killing you and spreading to other people, but I can’t stop her. She looks like she has mustard going up her nose!

Me: Mustard?

Quentin: What? Was that not the English idiom? Never mind. Just tell her.

Hesitantly, I start, and other than a few interjections from Quentin telling me to tell her about certain things, like about how he is keeping me alive all by himself (the little attention seeker) the whole process goes by smoothly. Elodie’s expression remains stuck in either an expression of amusement, or intense concentration, and at some point during my monologue she had plopped back down in the chair.

"I figured something was going on,” she shakes her head as she says this. “I think someone in the facility knows about the virus.” She stops herself again before saying, “In my first simulation, I was stuck in an interrogation room with a dead man. His skin peeled off just like Kowalski’s when we were at the morgue.” Interrogation room with a dead man? Wow. I’d been in an interrogation room for my first simulation, too. Just not with a dead, infected person. She suddenly grins and spins to face the door, raising her arms triumphantly, she yells, “I told you I could get him to spill! You owe me five bucks! I can be scary when I want to!”

A disgruntled looking Sheila emerges from behind the door, “I’m only giving you a dollar.” She frowns and snaps her head towards me, “And next time you decide to withhold important information, I assure you, it will be you last.” After this pleasant death threat, she strides over to where Elodie is sitting and shoves her half off so that they can share the seat.

“So basically,” Elodie summarizes, “this virus takes control of a person's body and makes the death look like an accident, so no one will be aware that it was caused by a virus. Not only that, but it speeds up the decomposition process so that it can spread easier.”

“And,” I add, “it seems to be able to form coherent, albeit disturbing, thoughts.”

With that, a rather solemn silence fills the room. How is an intelligent virus, something that’s not even considered to be alive, supposed to be defeated?

***

Within a day or two, everything's back to normal. It’s established that by the end of the week, we will be taking the next simulation--the one that Mr. Kowalski supposedly left a clue in--and in this one, we will be ranked.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, is buzzing about this news. It’s a collective simulation, meaning that everyone in our class will be in the simulation with us. It is a competition, and already, it’s getting fierce. Some of the more competitive douches are already out and about targeting the competition and trying to psyche them out. One of these douches just so happens to be named Moby. As in Moby-Dick, the whale. Except this guy doesn’t have the virtues of a whale. His shoulders are always squared, as if ready to jump into a fight, but really, he’s a pretty scrawny kid. Well, not scrawny, but not bulky either. It’s his brain that got people intimidated. Not that he’s smart at all, but the things that come out of his mouth are so perturbed, so  . . . concerning, that sometimes, I wonder how he sleeps at night. Currently, we are sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch, and so far, there’s no sign of him. He’s probably out murdering someone.

“Elie!” Elodie flicks my shoulder in attempt to capture my attention, “Moby’s at it again.” Damn it. Spoke too soon.

Sheila immediately perks up, “Where?” She scans cafeteria for Moby, “I hate to say this. But it’s kind of fun to watch him scare the shit out of people.”

I spot him walking with an empty lunch tray towards a girl, Mariella, who’s struggling to cut a piece of her chicken finger off with a plastic knife, because apparently, she can’t eat finger foods with her fingers. He slams his tray down and almost glides into the seat next to her. Mariella flinches and drops her knife. By now, the whole cafeteria is leaning forwards in their seat trying to catch their conversation. His hand snakes forward to take the knife, and with a calculated look, he says, “You know, you need sharp knives to cut through flesh. Otherwise, you’ll shake the whole table.” He slides his hand across the table and jiggles it slightly to demonstrate. “But, I guess there’s no way for you to know that since you’re so . . . eccentric. Anyway, who even uses utensils for their flesh? I use my nails. Mooncalf!” he flicks the knife at her forehead. Being in such a state of shock, she doesn’t even flinch. “If that were a real knife, a sharp knife, it would have been able to cut your head like margarine.” Eyes wide like a shell-shocked frog, she tries to jump out of her seat, but before she can get out, he grabs her arm and pulls her back. “There’ll be knifes in the simulation. I know that I can use them, can you?”

At this point, no one’s made a move to do anything, and I’m debating on whether or not to go and help. By the time I’ve decided I should intervene, Elodie rises from her seat looking nervous, but determined. Each step she takes towards the table seems to increase her courage and anger. As soon as she reaches the table, she goes right in and slaps Moby’s arm off Mariella. “I know that I can use my brain, can you? Why don’t you use your brain and leave before I break your knife-throwing hand.”

He slowly tilts his head to the side, smiles, and says, like a stuck-up jackass, “I’m ambidextrous.” Mariella takes her opportunity to retreat, seeing that she’s the target anymore, and slithers away.

“Th-then I’ll just break both your hands!” by now, Elodie looks like she’s regretting her decision, and both Sheila and I stand to back her up.

Scanning her frame, he replies haughtily, “I doubt you can, I know how to defend myself against strugglers. I hate it when they struggle.” And that’s how Moby earned himself a black eye.

“You bitch!” he stumbles, screeching like a little kid clutching onto his left eye. Elodie looks at his staggering figure, part in shock, but mostly in triumph. He straightens and trains an eyeball straight at her, then at us standing behind her and says, “You three and going down. It might be a simulation, but it hurt just as much as in real life.” Taking a step back, he adds, “I’ll make it hurt. I’ll bring a knife.”

***

Author's Note:

Yeah, sorry for not updating! I kinda procrastinated on studying for my midterms and ended up trying to cram everything in over the weekend, which I will never do again! It was bad. Anyway, I only have one more midterm to go! Yay. . . .

Just to clarify though, I do update every Saturday ☺️

So, did you enjoy the chapter? What do you think about Moby?