His dreams fragmented again, and now, there was only one door left, with no choice to be made. As he looked upon it, nausea welled up inside of him, but he knew there was nothing he could do. His head throbbed, his chest felt tight, so painfully tight, that he thought that maybe, somewhere else far away, out of this dream world, he was dying, and that death was resonating here. But he didn't die. The world did not fade to black. All there was, was green, and he could no longer avoid pushing past that door.

Stepping forward, he reached towards the doorknob, hand settling against it, and the moment contact was made, memories began to assault him. Memories of his childhood, of living with his mother, first alone, and then with a much younger sibling, and though the age difference was great, though they shared the same mother but different fathers, there was a connection between them, a brotherly bond that could not be broken. And his mother, she was a strange woman, but he loved her, their lives had been good, not always easy, but good. He had grown up, finished school, gotten a job, saved up enough money to move out on his own. He didn't have a great life, no. He certainly could have done a lot better than the bachelor lifestyle he fell into, working a dead end job with no prospects, no where to go, no wife, not even a girlfriend.

Memories of Day zero, of how he'd found his brother, how they had found safety at the mall, where others had also hidden, how they had banded together, and worked together, and became like a family. They had scavenged and struggled, had done all they could to survive. They had held onto hope that their mother was alive.

Seven days. Seven days they were told. In those days since they were given hope of a rescue, so much had happened. He had seen so many more awful things, things that he could never erase, even though he wished more than anything that he could.

The fog, the mist, the infection. It all caught up to this moment. He was infected, and the virus was taking over, now. This was the end of the line. This was his time to die.

He turned the handle, and pushed his way through the door.

------

He was nothing and everything all at once. He had no name, no purpose but to serve as an empty vessel, devoid of what once made him Giuseppe St Pierre. He was no longer one single person, no longer unique, no longer a mind unto himself. He was changed, who he once was, devoured.

He awoke, and he was the virus. He served a legacy. No, not just served, he was the legacy. He was part of Creation now, a part of knowledge. His existence was one of many gathered together. He was no longer an individual, no longer important to anyone, no longer himself.

No

He was not even he, anymore. Just the virus. Just infection. Just something that spread and consumed until there was nothing left.

No, this is not what-.

Something that collected, something that gathered, harvested, consumed, consumed, consumed....

This is not what you are. You were once-

It is the memories that are important. They are the fuel. They are the necessity.

You are not creation, you cannot be, there is still so much that-

What he felt then, was odd and indescribable. Something tearing apart, like velcro, tearing away, a part of him freed. He could feel himself awakening, and at first, he was relieved, but it was not long before that relief dwindled and died, before it was replaced by fear and sadness, for he had no form, or at least, not one that was human. He was still not what he once was, and did not know if he ever would be, again. Not human, now. Just some kind of monster, one that may not ever be able to go back.

He moved, or at least, in his conscious mind he felt himself begin to move. This movement was spurned by a certain desperation, a need to know where he was, what he had become, and a desire to somehow reverse it, change it all back to the way it had once been. His memories, his feelings, every single thought and emotion he'd ever had, they were still there, still his own, and as he moved, they shaped him, pulling together from the vines a figure. From the figure, he gained sight, and with that, he could now see that he stood in a long, green corridor. More vines came to him, giving him shape, a shape that was roughly human, yet far from actually being such. It gave him legs, limbs that moved. It gave him substance, a solid form, and one that he could and would now utilize.

The vines were fickle, however, and difficult to control. It took great concentration to keep this new form, to keep the vines working dutifully for him. When he moved, it was as a toddler took it's first few steps, stumbling, learning, trying again. Never quitting though, no, because he had something to find. Himself. He was going to find himself, his body.

But he found somebody else's body first, somebody else's face.

He recognized that face. He studied the scars, the eyepatch, the brown hair, and remembered. This was the man from his dream. This was the one that had rescued him. They had taken care of him, had tried to keep him safe. But where had that gotten him? Where had it gotten them both?

The guilt was nearly overwhelming, but with it came a realization. He could help the one eyed man, now. Or at least, he thought he could. There was really no reason not to at least try.

Reaching forward, he brushed at the vines, willed them to move, to pull back, to free the body of his rescuer. The vines did as they were bid, and soon, the white jacketed figure was free, and he was able to bend down, and oh so carefully gather that man up in his arms. He was able to carry him, through the corridor, away from that center chamber. He did not know where he could take him, how far they could go, but he also did not stop.

He came to the stairs, and still he did not stop. He began to descend, putting yet more distance between themselves, and the center of Creation. He continued on, even as he began to unravel, because he needed to, because he desperately sought to free this man, no matter what cost to himself.

As he began to fall apart, however, he knew he could not go much further. It was fortuitous, then, that they soon reached the bottom of the stairs, and within sight, the exit. It took every ounce of his will to keep himself together, at that point. The vines that made up his body were unwinding, all threatening to come apart at the seams at any moment. But the exit, it was right there, it was so close. He could see the fog that seeped through, see shapes outside of the windows that were not of the infected or the undying, but of something clean. Allies, of the man that he held, the man who he pushed now, towards the exit, the man that he carried, the man that he now rescued, tit for tat.

With a long sigh, he turned, and went back up the stairs. As he got closer to the center of creation, the more he came back together. He was not just nothing, however. He was Giuseppe St Pierre. He was somebody, a somebody with thoughts and memories, and those memories had yet to be completed.