For what feels like an eternity, she searches and finds only the ravenous, clattering minds of the infected, devoid of all true sentience, yet converging on their task. And then, deep in the foothills, a flicker of fear.
Estela. Ellie calls her name loud and unhesitating, and the horde orients to her voice.
Ellie feels Estela’s defenses rise, attempting to close herself off from Ellie’s awareness, but the fear grows stronger, like smoke rising from the trees. Ellie attempts to surge past it, and Estela rebuffs her with force.
Listen, Ellie demands, digging her fingertips deep into the soil as if to find purchase. We want to help you. We have what you need.
For a long moment, Estela is silent. Then, You have nothing.
He has nothing. We have doctors, antibiotics - we have a cure for Cordyceps. A real one, not what he gives you. One dose, that’s all it takes, I promise. Ellie relies mostly on conjecture, still not knowing if Estela’s immunity parallels her own or relies on the ghost plant, but she offers all that she can.
Estela is silent, and Ellie senses her pain and doubt.
How do you think we’re all still here? Ellie continues. We haven’t lost anyone to infection - no-one. Are you sick? We can help you.
Nobody will help me. Estela’s voice is hollow, fading.
That’s not true. Tommy and Maria knew you once. They helped you when you came through Jackson, remember? You were looking for your sister. Ellie grasps at every thread, increasingly desperate. In the periphery, she feels a third presence, still indistinct, but it can only be Malcolm or some extension of his consciousness.
We have everything you need - food, medicine, shelter. If you can help us, we will help you. Ellie makes one last plea, and then falls silent, cloistering herself from his mind. Estela probes after her, and Ellie withdraws further, but she knows she cannot hide over distances and territory so familiar, nor is there much value in doing so when Malcolm is already aware of their presence. She allows Estela to find her on the bluff.
You know where we are. Come to us. Ellie says, and then severs the connection with the mycelium, gasping. Blood pours from her nose and mouth. The fungus pulses and writhes in the mud, still calling to her. She staggers to her feet and into Joel’s arms.
&&&
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
header creds:
@lauramakabresku | @omenalehto | @lauramakabresku river view valley ranchhbo | seeking our someday | @perennialdoll247