William Birkin hurried through the underbelly of the water treatment plant, spooked by the echoing clang of his footsteps through the cavernous corridors as he made his way toward control B on the first basement level. The place felt cold and dead, like a tomb -- which was not a bad analogy at all, except he knew what wandered behind the locked doors he passed, knew that he was surrounded by an abundance of life, such as it was. Somehow, that awareness made the distant echoes of his every movement seem that much more sacrilegious, like shouting in a mortuary.

Which it is, really. They 're not dead yet. Your colleagues, your friends… Get a grip on yourself. They all knew this was a possibility, all of them. Bad luck, is all.

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