Jonathan Isaac stared at the rotary dial telephone, a bright yellow one. It was flickering, brightly. There was no sound, no ringing tone. But it was, flashing underneath the dial. He was dubious with doubt, should he pick the receiver up? His brows remained squashed.
His hand gripped at the receiver as he pulled it to his ear, and waited for a voice. He heard nothing. His eyes darted right and left, aimlessly. But there was no voice. #Yellow, 02.1.
Her dark emerald eyes seemed wet, but mostly, so vulnerable. Gently, she held the receiver into her palm, and slowly raised it to her ear. There was a no voice. She felt like she heard a breathe, the dilations of her wet eyes had registered this response with alert.
She tried hard to roll off any words off her to tongue, nothing. Fearing any loss of transmission, she quickly but forcefully tapped at the transducer. Again, and again. Eventually, she lost connection. Placed the receiver back. #Red, 01.3.
“Hello?… Anyone there?” He called out. But not a reply, no tone. He gently placed the receiver back. The dial stopped flashing.
He’d woken two hours ago and saw two things present beside him, the telephone and a bright yellow biohazard suit. He stared at it once more. Deep down, there was a churning feeling in his stomach. Like something horrible was going to happen in this void, white room, which seemed like an interrogation room, but without any windows and an interrogator.
Could this be some kind of a quarantine zone? Was he infected? If so, from what? There had to be a valid, logical reason to why a biohazard suit was present. It so had a purpose… and that fucking muted telephone. #Yellow, 02.2.