AN:

Been a long time since I wrote anything since I'm in the habit of starting things but not finishing them. With this in mind I have written this in its entirety over the last year and (other than the last chapter and final editing on each chapter) it is now complete and will be ten chapters long. I hope you enjoy it! Only a few points to make:
- There are references to a 'sickness' but this is NOT a zombie fic or anything like that
- Warning you now - this won't be entirely happy at all and there will be violence but nothing too graphic (or what I'd define as ' too graphic')
- I apologise now for any UK English where there are more appropriate US English substitutes!

I hope you enjoy it! I know I've enjoyed writing it. That's all I can think of that's important right now :)

Full Summary:

They called it the end of days but in that end, humanity toppled itself. The sanity of society is a balance of a thousand insanities – but what if that balance tips?

Mike has been alone for years, fighting and struggling with every step he took. He expected to be alone until the inevitable happened - a knife between his ribs or a bullet in his head, it didn't matter really, they all came with one very certain conclusion.

He hadn't expected Harvey though. He hadn't expected to find a reason to live rather than merely carry on.

Staying alive though, well, that was easier said than done.

Chapter 1: Run Boy Run

Seven years ago

"Did you hear?" Mike twisted from his game of chess with his grandmother to Janet, the carer who visited Grammy for one hour every morning, "What they're saying on the TV, did you hear?"

"They say a lot on the television," Mike scowled playfully as Grammy triumphantly claimed his king side castle for her own, "What have they said this time?"

"They're saying there's some kind of new super virus spreading in Brazil," Grammy looked up in interest while Janet sucked her teeth sceptically, "If you ask me, this is panic tactics,"

"Panic tactics?" Mike said in disbelief while Janet nodded fervently.

"Yep. They get us all riled up over some virus a thousand mile away and then nurture a false sense of relief when we all survive!"

"Who are 'they'?"

"The government of course! Don't you know nothing boy?" Mike shared a fond smile with his grandmother.

"No, I guess not."

'Acceptance of one's life has nothing to do with resignation; it does not mean running away from the struggle. On the contrary, it means accepting it as it comes, with all the handicaps of heredity, of suffering, of psychological complexes and injustices.'
 - Paul Tournier

Mike's feet were burning as they pounded the ground but he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop. They were behind him still, he could hear them. They were shouting and screaming taunts, threats and promises. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, they'd get him and if they got him, well, he didn't want to think about what they would do to him. He was lucky they didn't have guns. But they did have knives. His lungs were burning now, burning with the effort to keep working.

"Where you goin' pretty boy? We only wanna' play!" how did they have breath to talk?!

"I'm gonna' CUT YOU AND STRING YOU UP BY YOUR GUTS BOY!" Mike had no doubt he meant it – he'd seen worse around the city.

He held his breath momentarily, concentrating on thrusting a hand forward to vault over the bonnet of the rusting Toyota blocking his path. He owed his perfect landing to years of practise and his stumble to the tree root he hadn't expected to be breaking through the tarmac. He took off again. He whipped his head around to grab a quick glance of his pursuers: there were three of them, the closest of which was over fifty feet away. Mike didn't know if he was imagining the blood shot whites of his eyes or not. They were far enough away that they might give up but still close enough that if he didn't keep up the pace, they might catch up. His mind faltered for a second: three? He looked back again and counted again: three. But there had been four.

He gasped in surprise when suddenly, only ten feet ahead of him, was another man. How the hell did he get there? His grin was full of yellowing broken teeth and a tongue darted out to lick at the corner of his mouth. In a split second decision, Mike tugged his knife free of his waist band in time to side step the man's arms as they reached out to grab him and plunge his knife with both hands into the man's abdomen. It made him feel sick at how easy it was, (the man's pained cry echoed in his ears) and the warm blood that poured out onto his hands didn't help. No, no time for that: he needed to keep running.

Mike didn't know where he was now. The voices behind him were getting quieter but they were still there and he didn't know how to escape. He'd never been chased by a group so persistent but he had a feeling they hadn't anticipated him stabbing their point man. Where to go, where to go... There! A subway entrance! This was potentially a terrible idea: of all the places in New York he avoided, the subway was one. It was a place with no easy escape. He had no idea who or what was taking refuge down there or how they'd react to him. Even if there was nothing down there, after over six years without maintenance and everything else that had happened on top of that, there was no telling how structurally sound it was. Right now though, there was little other option.

He took the steps three at a time and on the last three, he tripped and went careering down but managed to save his skull at the last second by tucking into a roll which he stumbled out of. He paused, winded, before starting to run again, ignoring the ache in his back from where he had landed.

The further he got from the entrance, the darker it became until all the light he had to see by was the periodic steel drums that had been filled with fuel and left to burn out. Another reason he never came down here: the place had been intermittently burning for the past five years as the people who'd taken refuge in the subways tried to stay warm. He'd heard a rumour there was a whole underground community in the tunnels but he'd never endeavoured to find out for sure. Fire safety usually wasn't these people's top priorities and at least two severe fires had gutted sections of the subway while billowing tons of black smoke out the subway entrances and into the sky. It was a wonder anyone still lived down here.

He stopped. Chest heaving, hands shaking and more than a little panicked, he took in his surroundings in a desperate attempt to regain his bearings.

The train track was flooded with almost two foot of water: unsurprising. He didn't know what it normally looked like, but there had been a near constant down pour of rain for the last two weeks. Who knew how much of that had contributed to the flooded tracks but it couldn't be all of it. The water, unmoving and stale, had dead things floating in it. Bugs, a cat, a black bird and a – he turned away quickly.

A body.

He forced his attention to the plastic seats lined against the wall (all but one broken) and the subway map above it (half missing and the rest faded away to illegibility). Invading roots were tangled around the structures and climbing up the walls and curving around the ceiling, reclaiming the subway back to the wilderness like so much else in the city.

He glanced back at the body.

He should search it – that would be the smart thing to do. It could have any number of useful things on it, it could have bullets! But no, he couldn't do it. After the beginning of the day, he didn't think he could physically drag the body out of the water or mentally handle the reality of looting a human being who had been long rotting. No, not today.

Still trembling, he made to shove his knife back into his belt but hesitated at the blood that caked both it and his hands. He considered the water before deciding against it: every horror movie he had ever watched flashed across his mind, as did the image of ghostly hands thrusting out of the water to drag him in.

It wasn't as ridiculous as it sounded. The 'end of days' had been too much for many and they had descended into lunacy. The realisation that things weren't as clear cut as that and that life still marched on had been too much for many more. The memory of gnarled hands forcing his shoulders and head under the water in a derelict swimming pool while the rest of his body flailed from the pool side still kept him awake some nights.

Ignoring the blood, the knife was replaced in his belt and he made an attempt to rub the worst of the blood on his hands onto the wall. He started to walk again, hunting for a way to the surface.

His steps didn't echo as he had expected them too. He guessed the dampened sound was owed to the invading fauna and other shit strewn around the tunnel. He paused at the words scrawled across the wall: 'God is GOOD!' The words had no doubt been a vibrant red before they had dried a few hours after being smeared on. He remembered reading about the supposed longevity of blood stains.

He started at a crashing sound. He froze, twisting to stair expectantly behind him. The sound came again, but he was confused to find it was from ahead of him rather than behind as he had expected. There was a thud.

Swallowing against his beating heart and against his better judgement, Mike gave in to his curiosity and ventured forward – he was less afraid of what was ahead than what remained behind and he wanted to see the sort of people who took refuge down here for himself. He remembered the rumours after the subways were closed, abandoned before things had gone to hell completely. Some said the people were insane or infected who wanted to save their loved ones from their fate before they lost the ability to decide for themselves. Others said they were merely the homeless looking for a safe(r) place to sleep.

His breath was coming in short pants that he battled to keep silent. He turned the corner and stilled to take in the scene in front of him.

There was a man on one knee in front of a vending machine, an arm reaching and searching inside of it. With a curse, he shifted to push closer to it until his face was pressed against the glass (luckily not facing Mike's direction) and his whole arm had disappeared. It would have been simpler to break the glass but Mike knew from experience that vending machines were tricky to break into and doing so made a lot of noise. He understood if the man had decided that this wasn't the best place to do that. Sitting on its haunches behind the man next to a well-used rucksack was a large, dark sable, long haired German shepherd. It was watching its master patiently; it's tailing swishing across the floor with its end slightly curled.

He turned his attention back to the man. He couldn't be looking for food – the food that had been there would have been raided years ago and even if there was any left, he doubted it was still edible. He swallowed a whimper when the man withdrew his arm and brought with him what he had actually been fishing for: bullets. With a satisfied chuckle, the man fed the bullets into the chamber of his revolver.

Mike shuffled back. 'Crack'.

The dog looked up sharply at the almost inaudible sound of glass crunching under Mike's foot. Yellow brown eyes stared out at him in the darkness. The man hadn't heard the sound or noticed the change in his dog. It would have stayed that way had the dog not stood and started to growl. The man froze for a split second before snapping the chamber into place. One moment he was hunched over on one knee and the next he was stood, his bag over one shoulder and his gun held securely in both hands pointed blindly, but directly, at Mike. His voice was dark when he spoke.

"Step forward. Now." Mike didn't doubt he would shoot, not for second. But if he saw Mike as a non-threat, he might not. It was a gamble, "Don't make me ask again," his voice came out in a near growl to match that of his dog. Reluctantly, Mike stepped forward out of the darkness.

The man in front of him appeared to be in his late thirties. He was perhaps half an inch taller than Mike himself but his build was solid and wide compared to Mike's slimmer structure. He had fairly short, light brown hair which was a shade lighter than his beard which was longer and fuller than Mike's own. He had a wide, strong jaw and thin lips that tipped up at the corners despite his aggressive frown. His eyes were a warm brown colour and were currently hooded by his lowered brow. Mike's eyes lingered on the two moles above the stranger's left eye brow. He had to admit that the man currently pointing a loaded gun at him was handsome in a 'classic gentleman' kind of way. He wasn't being much of a gentleman now.

"Hold your hands out where I can see them," slowly, Mike moved to lift his hands. Brown eyes flicked to his hands and widened. The grip on the gun was redoubled and his voice was filled with scorn, "I really don't need one of you cannibal nuts today," Mike's stomach dropped at the sight of his hands, smeared with dried blood. Suddenly, the murky flood water wasn't looking so terrifying. Desperate, he held out pleading hands to the man in front of him.

"P-please!" he sneered, "I'm not-," fear strangled Mike's words before he could get them out. All he could do was shake his head, eyes flicking between the man and his snarling dog. Hope threatened when the man paused.

"Why are you down here?" he demanded. Trying to calm himself, Mike took a shaking breath.

"To escape. I was being chased,"

"And the blood?" his voice hardened and he jabbed his gun forward, indicating to Mike's out stretched hands.

"One tried to grab me. I stabbed him," the reality of his actions clawed at his stomach – he'd never been a fan of violence, "I ran away. Please don't, I just – ," his were rushed and shaky, "Please – don't shoot me. I'm just trying to find the next subway exit," he seemed to come to a decision, his gun never wavering.

"Walk past me and carry on. Make a move to come any closer to me than necessary and I will shoot you. Call out and I will shoot you. Try to grab something and I will shoot you. Linger and I will shoot you. Understand kid?" Mike nodded. At the man's gesture to move, he began his carefully chosen path around him and his gun and dog. He focussed as much on the man as the man focussed on him. He flinched when the German shepherd barked at him. Once past him, Mike resisted the urge to face the man for the whole of his retreat – he didn't need to trip and accidently startle the other into firing at him.

Fully expecting to be shot in the back, Mike walked with bated breath and shaking hands. He didn't turn to glance over his shoulder until he could no longer hear the dogs rumbling growl. The dog and its master were both out of sight. Relief oozed out of him and he had to take a moment to steady himself. He couldn't quite believe he was actually still alive and only a little battered. Now all he needed to do was find his way out of the subway and towards central park.

It took half an hour, but eventually he stumbled on an exit. Unlike the one he had entered by, the stairs of this entrance were pretty much obliterated leaving behind a jagged and uneven incline for him to traverse. It was only due to the adrenalin still pumping around his body that he was able to climb through the ache in his back and shoulders and the searing pain in his hands where he gripped sharp but luckily secure debris. According the signs he found on the surface he was on West 145th Street. He consulted his inner map of New York – the walk to Central Park would probably take just under an hour. He glanced at the sun in the sky: he could make that before dark.

He was lucky that he didn't encounter anyone or anything else on his journey to central park. Encounters with other people were uncommon and encounters with people who didn't want to hurt him were even rarer. On the surface, New York seemed to be deserted, but he knew from experience that it wasn't. Of the twenty million-ish people who had inhabited New York before, now he couldn't even guess how many remained. They were there though, hiding throughout the city from both each other and the wild animals that prowled the streets. Just as everything was falling apart, some nut jobs had thought it was a good idea to release the animals being held in zoos as well as the exotic animals being held in private collections. It brought both extra-food and extra-predation.

One time, he had thought he'd seen a cougar hiding in the long grass.

At central park, he startled a herd of horses that had been lazing by the side of the lake. As they cantered away, he heard an animal scream in pain, no doubt trampled beneath their hooves.

Wary, he carefully picked his way to the pool of water in his sights. He paused to untangle a riffle from the branches of a tree where he had hidden it three days before. His memory had been invaluable to him, allowing him to expertly hide supplies all around his usual haunts without ever forgetting where any of it was: he doubted he would have survived this long without it. He hesitated at the water's edge, carefully cataloguing his surroundings for danger. His eyes strayed to the cities slowly crumbling skyline. Most buildings were still standing but were in disrepair and covered in greenery. He knew though, that in the south of the state there was a patch of the skyline which was completely barren after a chain reaction had one building collapse and drag an innumerable amount more with it. The noise had woken Mike in the middle of the night. If this wasn't hell, he didn't know what was.

He sighed and ducked down to dip his hands into the cool water, watching dispassionately as the brown blood on his hands melted away into the water, turning it red.

His mind wandered aimlessly, to settle on brown eyes and thin lips.