A/N: Hello again everybody. This weird little crossover from hell started life as a detox fic following a rapid succession of extremely violent books, including Cormac McCarthy's The Road, but it soon took on a life of its own. Since the overall response on lj has been positive I figured I'd post over here as well. The story is actually done now, but it will take me a bit to get things formatted and posted here, as I am crushingly busy. I'll do my best. Happy reading.
Warnings: Violence, eventual slash and xenophilia. Cannibalism.
Disclaimer: I do not own District 9, all characters are property of their respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.
o
"There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The road climbs seven miles into them, to Carisbrooke; and from there, if there is no mist, you look down on one of the fairest valleys of Africa." – Alan Paton, Cry, the Beloved Country
,.,
He woke to darkness.
He lay quiet for a few moments, looking up to where the roof of their shelter lay. He could hear the child breathing, the soft puffs of air passing over small gills the only sound.
He reached out and touched, curled his fingers around one tiny limb, his thumb stroking against exoskeletal plates, brushing away a layer of dust. Breath stuttered, changed.
"Father?" the hatchling's voice was soft. "Is something wrong?"
"Come on, little one," he clicked, "get up."
,.,
The road was piled with ash, pale grey and powdery, blown into abstract shapes by the wind. It deadened their footsteps, rising in wisps like smoke rings.
He no longer noticed the weight of the arc gun in his arms; muscles locked about the shape of the weapon by the long miles, but he was hyper-aware of the rucksack against his side, the too light bumps against his body an indication of their dwindling supplies.
They passed by fields, burned trees and crop stubble stark shadows in the perpetual twilight. Then, up ahead along the road, he saw the house.
It was small, with a corrugated metal roof, but had been missed by the fires and appeared mostly intact. The open door yawned, a dark rectangle of danger and possibility.
He hesitated, but they were almost out of food.
"Come," he clicked to the child, "and stay close."
He slid the nose of his weapon through the door, antennae twitching as he tested for scents beneath the omnipresent stench of burnt things. No fresh smell of humans, good, or any odor of his own kind, better. He stepped through.
The few pieces of furniture had been overturned, the burnable parts heaped in the center of the house, now nothing but ash. They dug through the remains, uncovered empty cans and threadbare sacks. He was about to turn aside in disgust when the child spoke.
"Father, I found something."
Small claws wrapped around a metal cylinder, encircled in faded yellow paper. Images of ripened plant ovaries decorated the front, the pale orange circles barely distinguishable against the tawny background.
He sighed, "That's good, little one, but we can't eat that. Leave it behind."
"Oh," antennae drooped and the hatchling stared at the can, "can't I keep it anyway? Maybe it will be useful."
"Very well, you may bring it if you wish, but you must carry it."
The child perked up slightly, "I can do that."
"Come, let's move on."
As they set out along the road again a thought occurred to him, "The can has human letters printed on it. Why don't you read them to me, like I taught you?"
The hatchling wrested the cylinder up before him. Antennae waved as he examined the block letters, slowly sounding them out.
"Peaches. It says peaches."
,.,
They moved southeast, retracing the steps of a journey made before, when the fires and the screams turned time into a nebulous entity, forgotten in the desperate rush of Runhidesurvive. They lacked a map and the child did not remember, so it fell to him to decipher a true path from the tangled knots of dirt roads. He kept the distant dark humps of the mountains to his left and moved onward.
When their surroundings had brightened to the dreary fog color of a rainy day he called a halt. They squatted by the side of the road and he reached into the rucksack.
The tiny cans of sausages had fallen under the folded tarp and he had to dig for them, delving beneath the layers of plastic. His claws clinked against the metal canister and he paused.
"Father?"
He shook himself and felt for the sausages, counting the remaining cans automatically before he pulled one out.
Five.
He grasped the can and pierced it with a flat, sharp human tool, moving it around the rim to remove the top, a task that had stymied him at first. He peeled back the thin metal and offered a sausage, cold and dripping with liquid, to the child.
The food was gone in a moment and he proffered another. The hatchling gulped the morsel and looked at him, "Now you, Father."
Obedient, he popped a sausage into his mouth and chewed, savoring the taste of bland, processed meat as he watched the child hunt through the rucksack for the canister of water. The hatchling took a long pull from the plastic jar and offered it.
He reached out and accepted the jug, his primary mouthparts splitting around the neck, tongue extending to probe the liquid. The water was cool in his throat.
He pushed the empty sausage can, still partly filled with liquid, back towards the child. "Drink," he said.
The hatchling emptied the can and tossed it off the edge of the road. It bounced and rolled to a halt, looking strange and forlorn among the piles of ash and the remains of vegetation.
He battened the rucksack and rose, "Let's go."
The child hopped obediently to his feet and followed. They walked in silence for several long minutes.
"Father?"
"Yes?"
"Where does this road go?"
"South."
"Back there?"
"Not directly, but yes."
"I don't want to go back there."
"I know, but we have to."
"To get the ship?"
"Yes."
"And then we'll go home, right?"
"Yes, then we'll go home."
"Good."
o
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