Content warning: this is not a pleasant chapter and not for the faint of heart.

Diego

Not so long ago, Diego recalled an incomprehensible amount of time passing in a quarantine cell, not unlike the one in which he currently sat. The only difference this time around was that he was the only person left of his original group, and Taylor didn't hack the intercom.

To be honest, Diego wasn't sure how many days had passed or who still lived.

More cells had filled since his most recent arrival. Some people turned within hours, providing everyone down the block of clear walls a view of their immediate incineration. Crews in hazmat suits cleaned the mess and scrubbed the surfaces clean, leaving no trace of the prior inhabitants. Others were eventually led into the medical processing unit, while new people arrived each day.

So far, Diego recognized no one.

As promised, Benson had visited the next day. Aware of the lives at stake, Diego had balked at outright defiance, yet he couldn't simply bow to the man's authoritarian rule. Instead of saying yes or no, Diego had been honest: he couldn't make a choice that would hurt others.

Benson had left without a word.

Four days had passed since his visit, and at least two had gone by without a meal.

Diego had gone hungry once or twice when he'd been very young. The hunger pains were as bad as he remembered, forcing him to the toilet more than once to vomit nothing but stomach acid. By the end of the second day with no contact or food, surrounded constantly by a brightly lit ward, he could barely open his eyes against the pounding inside his skull.

After curling into a ball on his narrow bed, all sense of self and reality faded.

Wake up. Watch people enter and exit quarantine. Witness state of the art technology vaporize people. Drown out his neighbor's traumatized screams and desperate pleas for release. Go back to sleep against the bright LED lights and surrounding cries.

This was how the facility broke people. Without any physical or verbal contact, without news of anything beyond their 5 x 10 cells, the occupants drove themselves to near madness. Only then, did they find false relief, and after that, became easily to manipulate out of sheer gratitude.

Eventually, he gave up crawling to the toilet and vomited directly onto the tiled floor. He needed water, which he could obtain from the bathroom sink, but he was too weak to move.

It wasn't until his cell door opened with a hydraulic hiss that Diego dared to crack open his aching eyes. The barrel of an M4 rifle hovered an inch from his face, and all Diego could think was, "it's about time."

"Go ahead," he groaned, too dizzy to move into a dignified position. "I won't beg for my life."

"That won't be necessary," a familiar voice said from behind the soldier holding the rifle.

A small whimper escaped. What did he want? "If you're here for an answer, it's not going to change. You might as well shoot me here and now."

"Also not necessary. Get up, Castellano."

Diego wanted to defiantly flip Benson off again, but even that required too much energy. "I'd love to, but I can hardly move from puking my guts out. You should go ahead and finish me off; I'm probably a zombie for all you know."

"I already know you're not," Benson responded dryly. "Staff looked you over and took blood samples after the soldiers tranquilized you in Elko. I could have released you days ago, but I wanted you to think a little longer on your decision."

Diego gritted his teeth as he bunched his fist into the sheet and squeezed his eyes shut. "You can keep asking me the same question, but my answer isn't going to change."

"We'll see about that."

Benson snapped his fingers and barked orders. His voice boomed in the tiny plexiglass cell. "Get him in a set of cuffs. We're bringing him up to the top floor into my new office. I think the view will do Mister Castellano some good."

Minutes later, Diego was yanked to his feet by a pair of soldiers in black uniforms and pushed forward. Hunger and dehydration had taken its toll, and he swayed, hindered by his hands bound behind his back.

The soldiers shoved Diego down the hallway and into the processing ward. There, his cuffs were removed long enough for staff to strip him into nothing, declare him disease and bite free, and force him into the showers beyond. Bottles of body wash and shampoo rested on a little shelf next to a small wash cloth. Most humiliating of all, the shower curtain had been completely removed as two soldiers kept their rifles trained on him.

"You have five minutes," One of them warned, stepping closer with his rifle trained on him. "I've been ordered not to kill you but that doesn't mean I can't beat you with this weapon. So stay quiet, wash off your stench, and wear the clothes we put out for you."

Legs wobbling, Diego barely managed to sink onto the wooden bench. Though it took great effort, he twisted the knob enough to send hot water through the shower nozzle.

He washed quickly, relieved he no longer had to smell Taylor's blood. Unlike his first visit, he hadn't been permitted to change out of his soiled clothes. Even the other newcomers had been given a fresh wardrobe.

Using the wall for support, he reached for the scratchy brown towel and dried off. Then he tossed it to the floor and slipped into a pair of gray sweatpants and a charcoal colored tshirt. He'd received a pair of hospital socks but no shoes or anything with string he could use as a weapon.

Restrained once again, the men signaled for Benson, who quickly returned as if he'd been waiting in the damn shadows.

On they walked, taking a corridor reserved for personnel until they reached an elevator that required biometrics. Benson placed his hand on a panel and stared into a retinal scanner. A green light flashed, and the lift doors opened.

The first thing Diego noticed was the tinted glass panels. Solid wall blurred past on their ascent until they rose over the promenade, providing an optimal view for anyone wishing to anonymously observe. In fact, Diego hadn't ever realized this elevator existed. Based on the angle, he guessed they were in a corner masked as an architectural pillar.

Creeps.

Vertigo from the sudden stop sent Diego to his knees. The sudden movement triggered his gag reflex, making him watch. His reward was two soldiers dragging him the rest of the way to a brightly-lit room at the end of the hall.

There, the soldiers dropped him into a hard plastic chair. Floor to ceiling mirrored glass like the elevator loomed before him, showing not the promenade but the recreational outdoor area several stories below. Or rather, what used to be a recreational area.

Diego leaned forward, squinting his eyes for a better look. What had happened to the bleachers? A crude barricade had been erected from various materials (most likely from local raids), and chain link fence formed a wall between the bleachers and the track.

"¿Qué coño es esto?"

"Do you like it?" Benson asked in an approval seeking tone like a child proudly showing off a drawing. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the crowd filing into the stands. Most appeared confused; others, downright terrified. Especially the second group as the were ushered onto the track through a second set of makeshift barricades.

"Ay dios mío, is that what I think I it is?"

A zombie pit. The most cliché form of horrific entertainment in existence, dating all the way back to the Roman Empire.

"Oh yes." Benson smirked. "You see, pharmaceutical methods for the death penalty went out the window with the apocalypse. Anyone who breaks the law here goes into the pit. Everyone else gets a show and a firm reminder of the punishment for disobedience."

Bile seared Diego's throat. Against his better judgment, he stood and moved to the window and peered at the unarmed men (noticing the lack of females). All of them, including Sergeant Ackerman and Oliver from the greenhouse, were people who'd either assisted in his escape or were loyal to John.

"Don't do this," he begged, not believing what he was seeing.

Benson scoffed. "You worked in law enforcement; you understand there is a certain pecking order. And it's changing, Castellano. Sending you down there won't benefit me, nor will injecting you with the virus. So you get to choose one person in that group."

Dread pooled inside Diego's stomach. "For what?"

"Choose."

Diego shook his head. "No; I don't know what I'm agreeing to. What do you want from me?"

Ugly, cruel laughter grated his ears. "You are going to make this decision, Diego. You are going to save one person from that pit. In fact, I'll throw you a lifeline and promise not to send them to the lab. This will be their chance to redeem themselves while everyone else dies."

Diego's knees buckled, and he dropped to the tiled floor with a soft gasp. "This is sick. You're asking me to send people to their deaths."

"It will be all of them if you don't decide right now," Benson warned. "Make a decision, or I will do it for you."

Most of his platoon was down there. Sergeant Ackerman, a hardened veteran who'd helped him survive in Phoenix. Oliver, so small and frail next to the soldiers Diego had trained.

"Why are you doing this?"

Benson cocked his head to the side and regarded Diego with a manic gleam in his soulless gray eyes. "Because you can never look at Taylor and tell him what you're about to do. Because from this point on, you will determine who survives each pit while selecting a new test subject for the lab. And until you tell me where John sent your group, you will choose two people to die every single day. If you don't, I will pick them at random."

No matter what, someone would die while another person suffered a far worse fate.

He couldn't do this.

Hot tears splashed his cheeks. "Can I choose two?"

"No. Ten seconds, Castellano."

Oliver or Ackerman? The frail young man who'd lost his fiancé or the soldier who'd fought for his country?

"Five seconds."

A guttural sob reverberated off the walls, banging against every part of his skull. People would die because of him.

"Time's up."

"Ackerman," Diego rasped, hating himself for condemning everyone else. "He'll follow your orders; he's a soldier through and through."

Throwing Oliver to the zombies felt like a betrayal. Taylor would hate him for this.

Benson bit the tip of his fingernail and laughed. "I can't believe you didn't choose to save Oliver. You are full of surprises. You might be useful after all."

Patting him on the shoulder, Benson strode out of the room, shutting the door with a bang that felt like a final nail in the coffin.

With a grotesque prime view, Diego watched as a pair of soldiers led Sergeant Ackerman through the barrier. Stared in frozen terror as the group attempted to follow, only for two to be shot and fall in a heap.

In a final gut-wrenching moment, the gates on the other side opened. Zombies poured out of their corral, and Diego closed his eyes.