I don’t really see how this has anything to do with zombies, and I made my thoughts apparent to him, but here it is anyway.
“Hey, Franklin, are you going to help me with the truck or what?” A familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. With a sigh, I follow my friend into the garage, where I spend the next hour standing there looking pretty, occasionally handing him a tool. My lethargy far from unusual, my friend continues working his magic on the truck, humming some indistinguishable tune to himself in the process.
However, none of that was at my mind. No, my mind was on the note I received this morning in my locker. On top of the few personal belongings sat an index card, which certainly wasn’t there the day before. The card itself is mostly featureless, except for the message written on it. Only four words, but there was so much more to it. So much, in fact, that I didn’t know where to even start. Still, there is an important message to it, that is for sure. I just can’t stop thinking about the message.
‘THE CURE WILL HATCH.’
“Franklin, are you alright?” My friend asks, moving away from the truck for perhaps the first time this hour. Even with my laziness, he knows something is up. I can’t just tell him everything is fine - he’ll just get even more suspicious. Unwilling to try my luck at bluffing, I ask him about the cryptic message that has been gnawing at me all morning.
“Garrett, the last time you heard talk of a cure, did they mention anything… unusual?” I instantly regret asking as my friend’s face loses its cheery façade, revealing a downcast expression. Before civilization fell, he was a biologist, working with humanity’s finest to undo the mutation, to find a cure. Asking this question undoubtedly opened up many old wounds, but maybe he will know something that will help me.
“Franklin, you know I was on a research team,” he says, melancholy giving way to frustration. “Most of it involved decoding the DNA of healthy and infected individuals, but something particularly interesting came up on our last mission,” Garret instinctively reaches for his pocket, drawing his hand back upon realizing that he has been out of tobacco for weeks. “We had finally figured out that the cure cannot be found in the DNA of the infected nor the uninfected - they both always lacked a component the other had. The cure, it had to contain the components of both healthy and infected DNA, and nothing extra. A balancing act, if you will.” He finishes. Even if he had something to smoke, I doubt he would be able to describe the grotesque actions that occurred after that realization, actions so horrifying that the civilians themselves killed their only chance of a cure.
Garrett props himself on the hood of the truck, staring blankly at the wall. Only he knows what truly happened during his time in the research team, but it had to be no less than a nightmare for him to leave it behind. I feel afraid to speak any more on the subject, lest he snaps into a murderous rage. Luckily, he continues on his own free will.
“No,” he utters after a few moments of silence, “All of those… inhumane acts you heard about, the experimentation, the forced breeding, the slicing and murdering… our team did not do that. We did not work with humans. We were biologists, Frank. Fucking biologists.” He once again reaches for his pockets, slamming his fists down on the truck upon realizing once again that he has no tobacco. “You fucking bastard, why would you ask about the cure?!” he shouts at me. “Every damned fool here understands that, so why can’t you?!”
Well, shit. Unless I want him to cave my skull in with a wrench, I should probably tell him about the note. “The cure will hatch,” I tell him, reciting the message on the card, “Do those words ring a bell?” I immediately jump to the side, a 20 pound wrench slamming against the wall where my head has just been. That crazy bastard is going to kill me!
“Those were the last words of my team commander, he tells you, the veins of his arm still throbbing. “When the intruders breached our lab, the researchers either fled, fight, or surrendered. Only the former survived. The commander, that old ditz continued his research, rambling about an egg being the key to a cure. Even as our own men were being murdered the next room over, he continued his research, without missing a beat.” Garrett takes a deep breath, his hand resting on his empty pocket. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “Even when they broke into the lab he was in, he didn’t try to flee. No, he rolled the item he was working on into a can - an insulated canister, to be precise - and just stood there. He wasn’t locked in fear or anything, he was too stubborn to move, and too mellow to fight. He uttered those words to the intruders, and it wasn’t a second later that a bullet ended his life.”
“Dedicated to the bitter end,” I say, at a loss for any other words. The team commander, he was working on something, something that can roll - like an egg. It isn’t much to go on, but it is enough to warrant the risk. “You know, I received a note this morning. An index card. On it were those four words, ‘The cure will hatch,’ and nothing else. I do not know who sent it or if it even is more than a sick joke, but my gut instinct is telling me that we have something to do with the commander’s final experiment. Do you remember where the lab is?”
Garrett looks at me with an mixed expression, part annoyance and part grim amusement. Like my lethargy and my inability to keep my mouth shut, I am also known for my often ridiculous, borderline suicidal ideas. However, I wasn’t the only fool here. Grabbing the keys, he replies. “Only if I get to drive, Franklin. Quickly, now, we have an egg to find!”
We do not know how the note ever got where it was - or who sent it - but we will cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, though, we have an egg to find.
