Sky Blue

by EFAW

Travis knows all about corpses: they're mindless, emotionless monsters who exist only to eat humans. Then a corpse saves his life, and Travis realizes that everything he thought he knew was wrong. Wesvis. Warm Bodies AU.

2. Middle

Summary: Things are different now; Travis has to get home and tell them.

See first chapter for warnings.

OOOO

Sky Blue: Middle

"Wake me up if everything changes, and nothing's what it seems.
Come raise the dead—I'm dreaming of the end."

-Rachel Rabin, "Raise The Dead"

XXXX

The hotel was…well, it was a hotel. All the rooms were identical, some pristine, untouched since they'd been abandoned, dust a mile thick over every surface; others were a mess, torn apart by the elements or human hands or possibly even corpses, who knew.

There weren't many personal effects lying around. Travis supposed most people would have grabbed everything they could carry when they tried to outrun the dead. But he found a few: a pair of sunglasses, one lens cracked; a paperback copy of a dime-store novel, left on a nightstand, worn by the elements until even the cover was illegible; a prescription pill bottle, sitting unattended in the bathroom. (That last one, Travis snagged and held it out for Wes to see, figuring with the corpse's infatuation with colors the bright orange plastic would be a draw. Wes looked at the bottle, frowned, and turned away. Well. Fine then.)

He avoided any of the higher levels, not trusting the look of those stairs. But the first floor was ripe pickings, and he went through everything with a relish borne of absolute boredom. Wes shuffled after him, occasionally touching something or picking something up, but mostly he just stared at Travis and didn't blink nearly enough. Travis was almost getting used to the prickly feeling on the back of his neck.

There wasn't much to find. He got through all the rooms on the first floor within two days.

"Well," he muttered, standing at the end of the hallway, looking out the window. "Don't know what I was expecting, really." There was nothing to find. Had he hoped for something? Or had he just been trying to distract himself? He wasn't sure anymore.

There was a clatter behind him. He turned, expecting Wes, but there was no one in the hall. Travis blinked.

Another clatter, off to the left, and when he looked over he saw a face, pressed against the tiny window of the stairwell. The corpse was staring right at him, mouth moving silently, fingers scrabbling at the pane of glass.

Travis's first, instant response was to go for his gun, bring it up and aim—

And then he thought about Wes. About all the little thoughts he'd been having these past three—four? he'd lost track, somewhere in there—days.

Little thoughts like What if we were wrong and Maybe there's more to it than we know, and he slowly lowered his gun.

The corpse was still staring at him, bumping the door. Travis swallowed, holding his gun at his side—not holstering it, no way—he might be changing his opinion but he wasn't stupid. Carefully, he reached out, pulling it open an inch. Then he leapt back, because really, he wasn't stupid. He'd gotten this far by checking corners and not doing ridiculous things that might get him killed.

(Then again, letting a corpse into the hallway with him instead of filling it full of bullets was probably one of those ridiculous things that might get him killed. He knew many, many people back in the city who would say he'd lost his mind, simply because he didn't shoot on sight.)

The corpse stumbled into the hallway, almost crashing into the opposite wall. Travis took a few more steps back, just in case, and licked his lips. "Hello?"

The corpse turned, unblinking eyes riveted on him. This guy looked…a bit more dead than Wes, skin a little more decayed. The side of his neck was exposed—literally, skin peeled away to show rotted, oozing musculature beneath. Travis swallowed.

"Hi. How ya doin'? I'm Travis."

The corpse groaned, shuffling towards him. And Travis really wanted to give this guy a chance, but he couldn't help himself; he shuffled back another step, grip tightening on his gun.

"Are you…" He took a shaky breath. "Are you still in there?"

Wes was still in there. Wes had a weird fascination with Travis's eyes and went out and got him food. Travis didn't know how, but there was still something there. He was starting to believe that was true for all of them.

He was at least willing to give it a chance.

The corpse paused, head tilted to the side, just like Wes did. Travis smiled, a little nervous and a little relieved. "Hey. Hi. How's it going?" This. This was promising.

The corners of the corpse's mouth rose, the same sort of awful rictus Wes had given him a few times. Travis exhaled loudly, shoulders dropping half an inch. "Well, that's great—"

The corpse grinned, and then the corpse lunged, and Travis realized his mistake a second too late.

He tried to get his gun up, but—damn, these bastards were fast when they were hunting. His hand made it halfway up and then the corpse was on him, and the gun went scattering as he tried desperately to keep those gnashing teeth from his face. He let out a yell as the corpse's weight and momentum sent him sprawling, writhing like a fish as he pushed the monster away.

There was a roar, and then—from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of grey, and hands grabbed the corpse, dragged it off him with strength Travis hadn't expected. The corpse went flying, slamming into the wall, and Travis had a glimpse of Wes, snarling, fingers crooked into claws, brimming with that terrifying, cat-like grace.

Wes lunged with another roar, moving with all the speed of a hunting corpse, and Travis's stomach dropped. He scuttled back, hands groping at his sides for his gun, unable to tear his eyes away from the two corpses fighting.

A distant part of him, one that wasn't terrified by the spectacle before him, mused that he was probably the first person who'd ever seen something like this, two corpses fighting each other. It was always humans vs. corpses—after all, if corpses were just mindless monsters, what could they possibly have to fight over?

The rest of him, the part that was actually terrified, was just sort of shrieking in fear, which wasn't particularly helpful.

As he watched, the other corpse lunged for Travis again, completely ignoring Wes. Wes snarled, a sound that turned Travis's spine to jelly, ducking in front of the corpse. The corpse snarled right back, hands clawing at Wes, teeth gnashing, and Travis flinched when those teeth sunk deep into Wes's shoulder as though it was his own flesh being bitten.

Wes didn't flinch, didn't even seem to notice, just growled and pushed, his own teeth bared, and—oh, oh, that was disgusting, Wes just chomped right down on the corpse's neck. There was a spurt of black-red blood, and Travis's stomach heaved unpleasantly.

It wasn't enough to stop the corpse, of course. Only one thing could stop a corpse, and Travis was pretty sure Wes didn't have the fine motor ability to put a bullet through the corpse's eyes. Where the hell was his gun?

He didn't dare look away from the fight to find it.

The two corpses separated, and it was a gruesome sight, both their mouths and chins covered in dark blood. The other corpse tilted its head (like a dog, Travis thought hysterically, curious and sweet like a dog), and then it lunged to the left, and Wes followed, but it was a feint, corpses could feint wasn't that awesome to know and it was past Wes, and Wes grabbed for it but it was gone, moving for Travis, and Travis—and Travis—

With a shout, he scrabbled at his ankle, yanked his backup pistol from the holster, and pulled the trigger, pulled and pulled and pulled until the gun clicked empty, and still he pulled, hollow clicks echoing in his ears as the corpse loomed over him.

The corpse's teeth were still stretched tight in a snarl, eyes fixed on Travis.

But there was one shot, right above its left eyebrow, dripping black-red blood, and slowly, it toppled over. Travis scrambled to get out of the way.

He thought his heart was going to leap right out of his chest. His hands were shaking, and it took two tries to release the pistol. Slowly, he sat up, and oh, it wasn't just his hands, it was his entire body that was shaking. Good to know.

He looked over at Wes. The corpse was hunched on all fours, gasping, a harsh wheeze that sounded like it hurt. And it was…there was something…

"Wes?" Travis called hesitantly, and Wes's head snapped around, eyes wild, no sign of the thoughtful, slow-moving intelligence he'd seen so much of these past few days. This was a feral thing, a mindless killing machine, and when he moved, it was with a grace Travis had only seen in hunting corpses.

Travis's heart stopped. "Wes?" he called again, voice cracking halfway through the word.

His backup pistol was empty, and he didn't have his gun.

(Corpses don't feel, Captain always said. Corpses don't think. They just attack, and kill.)

If Wes attacked him, he was a dead man.

XXXX

cold

so cold, can't feel, can't remember, can't—

need, hungry, aching, neverending need need need

"Wes?"

life, hot vibrant pulsing, need want crave, devour take swallow it down and make it my own

"Wes?"

A crack in your voice, a tremble, fear, and I—

"i don't know what's happening" she says and her voice trembles, shakes, cracks with fear, and i take her hand and say "we'll be okay if we stick together"—

fear in your voice, in your body, shining from your eyes

blue eyes, blue like the sky

"Wes? I really hope you're in there, man, because I really don't want you to eat me, okay, we had a pretty good thing going where you didn't eat me, I really liked that—"

Your voice, high and thready, fear (heart pulsing pumping pounding, rich hot blood) and your eyes

bright shining blue blue blue bright as the sky hot as flame fire fire burning bright

i know you

"—and if you ate me then I'd feel bad and you'd feel bad and none of us want that, no one wants to feel bad because it totally sucks, right, so—"

Your voice washes over me, thin and panicky, fearfearfear, and I close my eyes and fight, push down the hunger, drag it down. If I give in then you'll be dead and gone—or worse, you'll end up like me, and everything that makes you beautiful will be gone.

fight it, push it down, don't give in. I am stronger than this.

"—so maybe you could just, you know, not eat me, I'd really appreciate that—"

I open my eyes. You've moved, crawled back, but you freeze when I look at you. You swallow, loud in the quiet (i can hear your heart racing)

"Wes?"

I move towards you, reach out. You flinch, eyes wide and afraid, and you shudder under my touch.

"Wes?" you say again, still so afraid—but also something else.

Wes. A name, my name, you named me and claimed me i remember you

I cup your face, drag my thumb over your cheek, so bright, so blue, blue like the sky, so clear it hurts to look at…

"Buh…loo…" I groan, and you smile, shaky and nervous.

"That's right, sky blue, just like you like."

I lean in, press my forehead to yours. You freeze, eyes wide, uncertain (I know you know these eyes) but I can still feel your breath on my face, warm, full of life.

I squash the last vestige of hunger(acheneed) down, and close my eyes.

"Tr…a…vs."

You laugh, hysterical, and say, "Close enough."

Your hand comes up, wraps around my hand on your cheek, and where you touch me, I feel warm.

XXXX

Travis had never before been so close to a corpse, not without it trying to eat him. That's what he'd thought Wes was trying to do, when he reached for him.

But Wes was just…close. Intimately close, really, and Travis thought he ought to be a bit uncomfortable with that, but he was coming down off the adrenaline and feeling awkward about their proximity was just. So outside his scope right now.

He let out a slow breath, pulling back. Wes stared, so close, and he swore those icy eyes were thawing even as he watched. Thought he could see something like emotion in Wes's gaze.

Emotion, not that feral, wild hunger. Travis could live with that

Travis could live, thank god.

He chuckled, no mirth in the sound, exhaustion tugging at his brain. "I think we've had enough fun for the day." He eased himself to his feet, holding out a hand. "Come on, let's go back."

Wes stared at the outstretched hand, then slowly slid his own into Travis's.

He collected his fallen gun before they left, grimacing to himself. He'd wasted all six bullets in his backup—that left four. Four bullets to get all the way back to the settlement.

And his ankle hurt. He must have wrenched it again when he fell.

Awesome.

They limped back to Wes's hotel room, and Travis gratefully sank into the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. Through half-lidded eyes he watched as Wes sat stiffly on the end of the bed, black-red blood oozing thickly, staining the front of his suit jacket—

Travis sat bolt upright. "You're hurt!"

Wes blinked, gave his shoulder a dismissive glance, and zeroed in on Travis. "You're…hhhurt?" he echoed back, gaze moving down Travis's body.

"No, I'm fine. But you—" Travis pushed himself up, despite the exhaustion clinging to him, crossing the room and reaching for Wes's shoulder before he could think too deeply about it. "He tore a chunk out of your shoulder!"

Carefully, he peeled Wes's jacket off, grimacing at the mangled flesh. "Aw, geez." Energy pumping now that he had something to focus on other than how close he'd come to being eaten, he undid the buttons of Wes's shirt with deft hands, pulling it off Wes's shoulder too.

"God, how many layers are you wearing?" he grumbled, picking at the stained undershirt that had probably started life as white, however many years ago Wes put it on. "Come on, let's get all of this off."

Wes was, unsurprisingly, completely unhelpful in clothing removal, but Travis had helped out a few times in the medical tent back in the city—they all did their parts, helping out where needed—so it was quick work to strip Wes of his clothes. Travis wadded up the stained clothing and tossed it on the bed; Wes sat there in his pants, watching Travis blankly.

"Okay. Just sit there for a minute." He racked his brains for everything he'd learned in the medical tent—then rationally reminded himself that it was pretty much all crap. After all, it wasn't like Wes needed antibiotics or anything. That was one unexpected bonus to already being dead—Wes didn't need to worry about an infection, including the one that turned people into walking corpses.

In the bathroom, Travis found the washcloth with the least amount of rot and grime and wet it under the faucet. When he came back, Wes hadn't moved.

Travis stood in between Wes's knees, exhaled slowly, and started wiping the thick blackish blood away. Once, Wes's shoulder jerked under his hands, and he paused, pulling the washcloth away. "Did that hurt?"

Wes gazed up at him blankly. "No."

"Right. Stupid question." He went back to his task.

Wes seemed content to sit there, but Travis had never been good with silence. "So," he said, "Why did he… Why was he…" He frowned, tried to figure out exactly what he was trying to ask. "Why wasn't he like you?"

Wes dropped his gaze, head bowed. "T-too. Fffar."

Travis waited. When Wes didn't elaborate, he prompted, "Too far?"

"Gone," Wes said simply. "T-too fffar. Gone. N-not e…nough. Inside." His face shifted, twisted a little, like he was searching for the words. Finally he gave up, pressed his hand against his stomach and repeated, "Not e—nough."

"You know, that actually makes sense." Wes was dead. But Travis got the feeling that Wes wasn't completely dead—his body had stopped but his mind was still active, still intelligent, could still think and reason and maybe even feel. The guy out there was just…a little deader inside.

Not enough inside to keep him alive. Too far gone.

It made perfect sense.

He wiped the rest of the blood away, exposing the torn skin beneath. "Damn," he muttered sympathetically. If Wes was human, he'd need stitches and, like, a month of light duty. As it was, he probably didn't even need bandages.

Then he moved his gaze from Wes's shoulder. "Jesus. Look at you." His fingers skated over a jagged scar under Wes's ribs, trailed along a line up his collar, traced the edges of a ragged star of puckered skin. Wes's torso was littered with scars; his back wasn't much better. It was a wonder his jacket and shirt weren't tattered rags hanging off him.

"Tough life being dead," he said, half-joking, but of course Wes didn't laugh.

"Traaa—visss," Wes whispered, reaching out, long fingers closing over Travis's wrist. "T-too—fffar."

Travis blinked. "What? No, Wes, you're not—you're not too far." Wes wasn't anywhere near the corpse in the hall. No way.

"No." Softly, forcefully. Wes's other hand reached out, touching the butt of his holstered gun. Carefully, clearly, he looked Travis dead in the eye and said, "Too. Far. Gone."

Travis went cold. "No. No, no." He swallowed, wanted to back up but Wes's grip on his wrist, light as it was, kept him frozen in place. "God, Wes, no…"

"Don't w-wwwa-" Wes took a moment, gathered the words that always had so much trouble coming out. "I d-don't wwwant. To be. G-gone."

Tears in his eyes, Travis shook his head. "Wes. Wes, please don't ask me that."

Wes reached up, looking—god, looking so gentle for a brain-eating corpse, fingers sweeping under Travis's eye, fingertips cold on Travis's skin. "Traaa-vis," he said, in a near-whisper. "Puh-lease."

"I c—I ca—" The words lodged in his throat, came out stuttering and shaky, the way they did for Wes. With a small sound, he wrenched himself free, almost tripping over himself in his haste to back away. Wes watched him passively, gaze so goddamn gentle, and Travis couldn't take it anymore.

He fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him, and clasped his hand over his mouth and tried desperately not to cry.

XXXX

My hands fall into my lap as you leave, and I don't move, staring at my fingers. I am dead—I am dead, I think,but I do not want to end. To lose my memories, fragmented as they are, my thoughts, the vague, half-formed sensations that I think may be feelings, to lose even my small sense of self… No, no, I don't want that at all.

There are others like me, I suspect, others who have not quite lost their sense of self. The doctor, she is still here, and the girl in the flowered dress. We are the ones who have not given up on who we were before, despite the long passage of time.

The others, like the one in the hall, they gave it up. They let it slip away, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the hunger and the need.

I don't want that. I want to be more than that.

But if I were to fall that far, I want you to shoot me. Protect yourself. Keep yourself safe.

And if my last vision was of your eyes, as bright and blue as the sky used to be, then that wouldn't be such a bad way to go.

XXXX

He pulled himself together, eventually, and he didn't shed a tear. He'd lost too many tears over the years, and there was no time for it now. Not now. Maybe when he got back behind the wall, when he could hide himself in his room and cry and cry and cry for the world they'd all lost…

But not now.

He did a quick inspection of his body while he was in here, stripping down and looking himself over with quick efficiency, just to make absolutely certain the corpse didn't actually manage to bite him. They had a guy, once, who'd been so hopped up on adrenaline he hadn't even realized he'd been bitten until they'd made it back to the settlement. That was back in the early days, when they were still working out how to deal with this thing. It would never happen like that now.

He was clean. He hadn't gotten bitten.

Just to stall a little bit longer, he pulled out his gun and checked his math. His hands shook a little as he did so; he ignored it.

Four bullets, just like he thought. No way was he getting home with four bullets, unless a fucking miracle happened.

Maybe the miracle was Wes, the corpse that didn't act like a corpse, who'd looked Travis in the eye and asked him to shoot—

Travis squeezes his eyes shut and clenched his jaw and put away his gun with a tremor in his hands.

"Pull yourself together, Marks," he snapped at his reflection. "You've survived a goddamn apocalypse. You can fucking get through this."

His reflection stared back, brimming with a self-possession he wasn't sure he felt. It would have to do.

He straightened, took a breath, and exited the bathroom.

Wes hadn't moved. Travis wasn't surprised in the slightest. He turned to look at Travis as he emerged, but other than that he was as statue-still as a corpse could be. Travis crossed the room, stood in front of Wes, and tried not to think about what happened just a few minutes ago.

"Looks like the bleeding's stopped," he said, and he was pleased at how his voice only shook a little bit. "Let's get your clothes back on."

In quick order, Wes was back in his shirt and suit jacket, the undershirt tossed in the corner for garbage. When the last button was fastened, Wes's hands settled in his lap, and Travis collapsed in his chair, staring blankly out the window.

The silence between them was as cold and dead as the man on the bed.

Travis had never done well with silence.

"I had a friend," he said softly, watching the old couple that sat outside the hardware store. "Paekman. I mean, his name was David, but everyone…everyone called him Paekman. He was my best friend."

He swallowed hard, hands fisting in his lap. "We were…we were on a raid. It was simple, something we'd done a hundred times. But something went wrong and he—he was." Travis had to close his eyes and swallow again, trying to keep his composure. Unlike a human listener, who would offer some vague sympathy, Wes merely sat there, watching him blankly with those icy eyes.

It was oddly reassuring.

"He was bit," Travis whispered, looking out the window but seeing a scene long past. "And when we found it, he asked me—asked me to—" He exhaled slowly. "And I didn't. I couldn't. I should have, but I couldn't. That bastard Crowl did. Didn't even hesitate, just put a bullet between Paekman's eyes."

Softly, distantly, he whispered again, "I should have…"

It had been…it had been Paekman's dying wish, hadn't it? The last request of a dead man, to die at the hand of a friend. And Travis hadn't been able to do it.

Paekman had been bitten. He'd been bitten, but what if he'd turned into a corpse like Wes? Dead on the outside, but still alive inside, still there, what if he hadn't had to die—?

No. Travis gave himself a hard shake of the head, gritting his teeth against the way his stomach churned at the thought. No, he couldn't think like that. He'd lost too many people over the course of the years. If he went down that path he'd drive himself mad.

All he could do was keep looking forward, keep moving forward. The past would be there in his nightmares.

"I'll do it," he declared, turning back to the room, to the corpse on the bed. "I'll shoot you, if I have to. If you get too far gone." The last request of a dead man, and he'd failed Paekman—he couldn't do that again. He couldn't live with himself.

He twisted in the chair, turning fully to face Wes. "But you have to do something for me," he snapped, and he didn't know if it was the tone of his voice or his words that made Wes's head come up so quickly, that icy gaze boring right through him. Travis met it head on, not flinching.

"What you need to do for me, Wes, is not get that far gone." He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, holding so tight his knuckles were practically white. "I don't know what makes you different. But whatever it is, you hold onto it and you don't let go." Travis blinked back the tears that threatened to fall, glowering fiercely at the corpse on the bed. "You hold on like your life depends on it. Don't make me shoot you, Wes."

For a long moment, Wes didn't move, and Travis was afraid he simply…didn't understand, that the concept was too strange and abstract for someone dead to grasp. He wasn't entirely certain that what he was asking for would make sense to someone living, let along someone who'd already lost so much of himself.

But then Wes blinked. His hands slowly curled into fists in his lap, and he nodded, his gaze never leaving Travis's, and Travis felt something inside of him unwind.

Maybe Wes didn't understand entirely. Travis wasn't certain he himself did.

But Wes understood enough.

"Okay." Travis stood, found the discarded washcloth and headed for the bathroom. "Now that that's settled, let's wash your face, because I'm gonna have enough nightmares as it is, and no offence, buddy, but you look like something out of a horror movie."

The joke did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest, but that was okay. Travis was good at pretending.

XXXX

You take the bullets out of your gun.

"I've had nights like these," you explain, setting the bullets on top of the table. "It's not…Let's just say there have been some incidents and leave it at that. Rather not shoot you by accident, you know?"

The grin you make is fragile and small. I try to grin back, to offer reassurance, but you don't look reassured.

"Anyway," you say, "Night," and you curl up in the chair.

As has become my habit, I watch you sleep.

Hold on, you said, to what makes you different. Different from the other corpse, from all the ones who are too far gone. Hold on, don't let go.

You don't understand how difficult that is. There is so very little left, fragments of a person long dead. Some scattered memories here and there, the occasional sensation of… I don't know how to describe it, something, deep inside, something strange and new and so very familiar.

There had been a stirring earlier, when I heard you yell. It had run through me, both hot and cold at once, a flash of—of—

So many things I've forgotten. I don't even have a word for the feeling.

Feeling.

Emotion.

Oh.

I close my eyes, thinking back. Trying to remember. A feeling so strange, but in the most familiar way. What was it…

And suddenly I am there, in the hall, tearing the corpse away from you, biting into its neck, acrid blood dripping down my face. The corpse lunges to the side, and I move to follow, but it is not there—it is going the other direction, it is moving past me, and I turn but I am too slow, too slow—

You bring your gun up, fear wild in your eyes, and pull the trigger.

It clicks, empty. You took the bullets out.

And then the corpse is upon you, biting you, tearing into your flesh, and you scream. With a strength I did not know I possessed, I tear the corpse from you, tear its head clean off its neck and toss it away.

But it is too late. Already your eyes are dimming, emptying, the blood from your wounds turning sluggish and dark, and you look up with hunger in your eyes.

My eyes snap open, and I fling myself upright, a gasp tearing through my throat. I don't need to breathe—another time, this would be fascinating, the odd feel of air moving through lungs that have not needed oxygen in so many years.

I do not spare a thought for myself, for the strangeness of breathing after such a long absence. My attention is only for you, my eyes seeking your shape in the dimness of the room. You are still curled in the chair, twitching fitfully in sleep, but it is not enough. I need to see your eyes, I need to know—

I rise, move towards you, lean over you. This close, I can feel your heat, the vibrancy you exude. Life, such a strange and wonderful thing.

I can feel you, and I—it is like gasping, but in the opposite direction, a steady exhale on a tide of easing, something painful and sharp suddenly gone.

A sigh of relief. That is what it is called. A different kind of breath.

This, too, there is no time to examine, for the movement of air across your face startles you, and your eyes snap open (your eyes, your beautiful eyes, blue and bright and whole, not dim and empty of life).

You let out a shout, gun snapping up, pulling the trigger, but there are only empty clicks.

Now I understand the wisdom in removing the bullets.

I step back, away, retreat. I am halfway across the room before your eyes focus, seeing… me, not whatever phantasm lurked in your mind.

"Wes?" You sit up, eyes wide, fear a sharp, sour tang on your skin. "What the hell? Why are you just standing over me like a fucking creep, man?"

Your voice shakes, heart racing. (Fear. Fear. Fear.)

I sit on the bed and say nothing. To explain the visions in my mind, when the words would come out disjointed and wrong… No. Better to say nothing at all than to have you misunderstand.

You mutter to yourself, sink back into your chair. The gun stays firmly in your lap, your finger on the trigger, aimed at nothing. There is nothing in this room that will hurt you.

I won't hurt you.

You say nothing else. Before long, your eyes droop, and your body relaxes. It is not a comfortable sleep, not a restful sleep. But it is sleep.

I keep watch, unwilling to take my gaze from you. The last time I did, you died, right before me. It wasn't real—the evidence is here, asleep in the chair, proof that my mind conjured my own phantoms for me.

But it was real enough, and I have no wish to relive it.

Nightmares.

What a terrible, awful thing.

XXXX

Travis felt like shit.

"I feel like shit," he announced to the world at large.

The world in question gave him a slow, lazy blink and tilted his head to the side.

"I do," he said, tearing a few new strips from the sheets and rewrapping his ankle. Falling yesterday certainly hadn't done him any favors. "I feel like absolute shit, Wes. My head hurts and my ankle hurts and I'm pretty sure I didn't sleep for more than five minutes last night."

Wes made a small sound, and when Travis glanced up the corpse's eyebrows had furrowed in the middle of his forehead. "Y—ou're…hhhurt?"

The concern was…sweet. Completely not what he wanted right now in the middle of his epic bitchfit, but sweet nonetheless. Travis sighed and tied off his ankle, giving Wes a vague smile. "I'm fine, Wes. I'm not hurt."

Well, that kind of put a damper on the bitching. Lame. Huffing, Travis quickly reloaded the bullets in his gun, holstered it, and headed for the door.

Wes was there in an instant, darting across the room with that speed, and Travis's throat went tight, he flinched back a step and dropped his hand to his gun, heart pounding in his ears, and his ankle twinged warningly beneath him, threatening to send him crashing to the floor where the corpse would lunge at him, pin his down and bite him, eat him—

But the corpse didn't attack. Wes merely stood in front of the door, not so much as a twitch in Travis's direction. Travis swallowed hard, and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.

"Wes?" he says after a few minutes, once he'd calmed down enough to actually ask calmly instead of maybe freaking out a little.

"No," Wes responded softly, eyes boring into Travis's, and Travis didn't even need Wes to say any more, he knew exactly how this conversation was about to go, word for word. They'd had it the first day.

"Wes," he said gently, softening his tone. "I shot him. I killed him. He's not going to hurt me."

It was funny. Wes's face didn't shift, and his tone was just as soft as before when he repeated, "No."

But Travis swore he was radiating just the most stubborn vibes in the universe.

"Okay, you want to know what's really not safe? Me with cabin fever. I was stuck in the infirmary tent once and Jonelle threatened to sedate me if I didn't settle down. And it's not like we have drugs to waste so that was kind of a big thing."

Travis hadn't really expected that to work, but he was still mildly disappointed when it didn't.

"No," Wes said for the third time, and maybe it was the repetition that injected a touch of desperation into the words. "Not s-aaafe."

Travis simply gave Wes a small, sad smile and agreed.

"It's really not."

XXXX

You agree. You smile an empty smile and your eyes are flat and empty (like a nightmare, and something in my chest clenches painfully) and you agree.

The agreement, I think, means that you'll go back to your chair and sit down.

You do not. Instead you blink, and smile, and this one, while as stiff as the smiles I attempt to give you, at least reaches your eyes. "But that doesn't mean we hole up and hide away!" you say brightly, smacking your hand against my shoulder. And then you move past me, to the tiny closet right inside the doorway, and I am left standing there, staring at the space you'd been.

The strange thing is, I don't even think I'm that surprised. You are always moving, unable to keep still—no matter how dangerous, sitting safe in a room isn't something you'd do easily.

It's really rather frustrating. How am I supposed to keep you safe (keep you mine) if you insist on throwing yourself out there?

There's a mighty tearing, crashing sound. I turn and find you standing triumphant, the curtain rod in your hands, torn from the cracked walls. "Nice, huh?" you say, looking at the shiny piece of metal appreciatively. "I can use it as a walking stick, and, if anything comes at me again, I can whack it a couple of times and put it down without wasting any more bullets. Pretty innovative, huh?"

And you grin, eyebrows moving on your head. "Come on, Wes. This is gonna be fun!"

Considering the last thing you said was fun almost got you killed, I am wary, at best.

But I don't have the words to express my concerns, and I'm fairly certain you wouldn't listen to them anyway.

So I merely sigh softly to myself and follow you into the hall.

XXXX

Travis was a man on a mission. He walked down the hall with confidence, with purpose, heading straight for the stairwell the other corpse came out of yesterday. When Wes realized where they were going, he made a little sound in his throat, something between a moan and a growl. Travis ignored the way it sent the primal parts of his brain scurrying for safety and said over his shoulder, "Keep up, Wes, we got a long day ahead of us!"

The corpse was still where it had fallen, no one to take the body away after Travis's bullets dropped him. Travis swallowed hard and didn't let himself look down as he stepped over the body. He'd had enough nightmares last night. Looking would only give him one more.

He heard Wes pause, heard another little moan-growl, but he didn't look back.

The stairwell door easily opened for him. Travis paused at the base of the stairs, leaning on the curtain rod, and waited for Wes to catch up. When the corpse did, Travis grinned and pointed towards the sky.

"Shall we?"

Wes's expression was blank, but his eyes were totally screaming What? What the hell Travis?

Travis just kept grinning. "We're going up."

Up.

For all their speed when hunting, corpses were still dead. They weren't the most agile things in the first place, and they all seemed to suffer from some degree of coordination problems. Doorknobs, for instance, were impossible—get behind a locked door they couldn't simply break down, and you were good until someone rescued you or you starved out.

Stairs were not like doorknobs. Corpses could climb stairs. Corpses just couldn't climb them well. They were always told, if they were being chased by corpses and had even the slightest chance of getting away, find a set of stairs—three flights was recommended, though more was always better—and just start climbing. The corpses would slow down, unable to take the stairs at any decent speed, and odds were the corpse would get tired of chasing you and give up.

Travis hadn't been willing to try the stairs before, but…well. Today he was on a mission.

Still grinning (and grinning and grinning, because smiling kept the nightmares at bay), Travis started climbing. "You can wait there," he called, "Or you can follow, but I'm not waiting for you to decide."

Wes made a very human-like sound of irritation and moved. Travis took a quick glance back; Wes was slowly working his way up the stairs, head bowed, watching his feet with the attention of a scientist.

Travis snorted quietly to himself.

He hadn't gotten a very good look at the hotel when Wes first brought him here—he'd been dazed and kind of shocked and too (stunned, horrified, numb, all of the above) to do much sightseeing. And he hadn't been outside since—Wes refused to let him accompany him on food runs, not that Travis particularly wanted to risk the city full of corpses, no matter his complaining.

Still, he'd have figured it was four, maybe five stories tall. It certainly didn't look like the kind of hotel that'd be a lot taller.

He was wrong. By the fourth floor, he was exceedingly grateful he'd had the foresight to tear the curtain rod down—not only could he use it to probe each stair (which were not metal and therefore suspect) but he could also use it as a walking stick, i.e. lean more and more heavily on it the higher they went.

By the seventh floor, his ankle was seriously starting to send little warning signs at him, and he was cursing the maker of the stairs all the way back to the start of that guy's family line.

"Elevators," he muttered, "You remember elevators? They were great. I miss elevators."

There was no sound behind him. When he paused at the next landing and glanced back, he saw Wes had fallen half a flight behind, but was still doggedly trucking along.

Travis sighed and kept going.

When he finally came out onto the roof, he was exhausted. It's not like he wasn't in shape—running for his life on a daily basis kept him fit—but climbing ten fucking flights of stairs on a bum ankle after the night he'd had wasn't an easy task. Travis sat down on the nearest thing he could find, the curtain rod laid across his lap, took the chance to catch his breath while he waited.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Wes appeared in the doorway, and for all that the guy was a corpse and had the corresponding facial expressions of a dead guy, Wes sure looked awfully annoyed. Travis just grinned and said, "Wait 'till we have to go back down."

If anything, Wes looked more annoyed.

Amazing, Travis thought wistfully, absolutely amazing.

He had to get back to the city, had to tell his people about corpses that could feel. They were so wrong.

His mission was even more imperative.

He climbed to his feet with a minimum of complaining, limping to the edge of the roof. From here he could see so much of the city, sprawling before him. Ruined buildings and abandoned cars littered the streets, corpses shuffling dumbly along (no, not dumbly, not at all), but if he closed his eyes…

"It used to be beautiful," he told Wes, staring out at the city that had been his home his entire life. "And look at it now."

It was like sitting on the edge of the wall, looking out beyond and remembering the way things used to be.

It kind of hurt, like poking the space where a tooth used to be.

He was a man on a mission, but he took a moment to just stand there.

XXXX

I do not remember stairs.

Perhaps if I did, I would have waited at the bottom for you to return. Instead, I started up, and I take each stair one at a time, even though you are slowly outpacing me. I cannot allow you to get too far away. The last time you were out of my sight—

(nightmares, such a terrible, awful thing)

No. Even if I had remembered stairs, I would have followed you up.

And up. And up. My body is not adapted to going up stairs—every movement is slow, deliberate, attempting to get uncooperative body parts to move in specific motions. Lift the foot—higher, higher now, must crest the stair, now set it down, now shuffle forward while dragging the other foot above the edge of the stair…

It is laborious and frustrating and I really don't understand the purpose of this journey.

You have vanished from sight by the time I reach the top of the stairs. There is a minor clenching in my chest (worry, I remember, this feeling is called worry)—but it is highly unlikely that any others will attempt the stairs simply to get to you.

I emerge into the sunlight and find you sitting, waiting. You grin and rise to your feet. I do not even attempt to smile back. As you move to the edge of the roof, I turn my head, looking around. This is a view of the city I have never seen before—everything looks so much smaller from this height.

Then I look up.

Oh.

Oh.

I raise one hand toward the sky, as though if I could just reach far enough, I'd be able to grasp that pure, shimmering blue and hold it close to my chest and never let it go.

XXXX

Travis was a man on a mission. His goal: to get home. He could see the top of the settlement wall from here, peeks of it through the towering buildings between. He had a mild, amused thought of the superheroes he'd grown up with, who could easily traverse such a distance without ever touching the ground.

But he was not a superhero, so he had to find more mundane means.

Tearing his eyes from the wall, he turned his attention to the ground below, searching for—anything, any possible thing he could use to get safely back to the wall and all the inhabitants within. They had to know. He had to tell them. And he couldn't afford to wait any longer. He'd been gone too long as it was.

There were dozens of cars and trucks abandoned on the streets, but there was no guarantee any of them would work. If he had a secure garage and the necessary materials, he could pop open the hood and check if they were still serviceable. But he didn't, and he couldn't risk such a task in the middle of an open street.

Frowning, Travis moved to another edge of the roof, searching, searching. He didn't necessarily need something to get him all the way to the wall. He simply needed to get part of the way there. After that, he could find something else.

Nothing on this side either. Travis shuffled to the next edge, ignoring Wes who was standing in the middle of the roof staring up at the sky. Weirdo, he thought affectionately, looking out. There was nothing, nothing, goddammit nothing—no, wait? Was that…?

Travis clutched the curtain rod, leaning forward, squinting.

"No fucking way."

In front of a dilapidated gas station, the giant yellow shell sign long fallen, sat a motorcycle. But not just any motorcycle—Travis recognized it. He'd helped his foster brother put it back together, they'd worked on it together in their off hours, restoring it as best they could until the engine puttered to life beneath their hands.

And then Jason had stolen gas and driven out of the city, and no one had seen him since.

Jason must have stopped for gas—what he'd stolen wouldn't have been enough to get him very far. And then, while he was filling up, he must have been overcome, overwhelmed. There'd be no other reason for him to leave the bike behind.

Travis allowed himself a moment to mourn, then pushed it aside. There'd be time to grieve later. Right now he was a man on a mission.

It had been less than three months since Jason rode out of the city. The bike had been sitting here, untouched because what would corpses do with a motorcycle?

It should still work.

"Okay," Travis whispered, tracing the path from the hotel to the gas station. "That's a plan."

He was going home.

XXXX

The sky hasn't moved, hasn't changed. It's the same as it has always been.

But as you head back down the stairs, as I move to follow and the roof closes over my head…

The sky doesn't move, but suddenly the world feels so much smaller.

XXXX

"I'm hungry."

Travis didn't know if it was very fair to call Wes predictable, considering the guy really only had one facial expression. Still, when Wes turned that blank, flat look on him, all Travis could think was, Saw that coming.

He gave Wes his most charming grin and shuffled for the lobby. "Let's go scrounging!"

Also completely unsurprising: Wes darting in front of him, one hand on his chest, saying a short, flat, "No."

Travis sighed. "Come on, just a short trip?"

"No. Not s-afe."

"Hey, that was pretty good! Hardly any stuttering at all!"

Wes's brows furrowed a little, and Travis chose to read this look as mild annoyance. "Tra-vis."

"No, seriously, have you been practicing? Cuz you are really getting it down."

Wes just stared at him, intractable as a brick wall, and Travis sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. "Fine. Fine. I won't go grocery shopping with you. Okay?"

Wes gave a passable imitation of a suspicious scowl. Travis rolled his eyes and moved down the hall. "Look. I'm going back to the room. Okay, now I am in the room. Now I'm shutting the door! Is that good?"

He waited a heartbeat, then poked his head through the door. Wes was still standing there; Travis waved a hand. "Go, go! I'm in the room. I'm not going grocery shopping, so go."

Wes blinked, tilted his head, mouth tugging down. "S—tay," he ordered sternly.

Travis rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He shut the door again, leaning back against it.

Then he closed his eyes and counted—slowly—to one hundred.

Then, just to be on the safe side, he counted to two hundred.

Carefully, he eased the door open, peering into the hall. There was no sign of Wes—Travis stuck his head out a little further just to be certain, but the corpse was nowhere to be found.

From past experience, Travis knew this meant he had at least forty-five minutes to implement his plan, if not longer—corpses weren't exactly fast when they weren't hunting.

First things first, he ventured into the hotel room, searching around the bed for Wes's discarded undershirt. He found it on the floor by the wall, held it up and grimaced at the grimy mess of fabric. "Oh, this is gonna be disgusting," he muttered, quickly stripping of his own shirt and jacket. His grimace only deepened as he pulled the undershirt over his head, and a couple of times he almost gagged.

"I already need seven showers," he announced to no one in particular, easing his own clothing back on. It was disgusting, the dirty, corpse-blood-covered shirt, but it was necessary. That first day, Travis didn't remember much, but he remembered Wes smearing blackish goo on his face, on his chest, and he remembered walking safely through a city of corpses. Somehow, Wes's goo-blood covered up the—the smell of his own tasty human blood.

If he was going to get to Jason's bike, he definitely needed his tasty human blood as well-insulated as possible.

The next thing he did was go into the bathroom. On top of the toilet tank was the washcloth he'd used to wipe away Wes's blood from his shoulder bite. A little water softened the hardened mess, and in the cracked mirror Travis liberally applied the gunk to his face. This is disgusting, he sang in his head, but not aloud because he didn't want to risk getting any of it in his mouth.

In the end, the thing looking back from the mirror did not look so much like Travis Marks as it did a corpse that resembled Travis Marks.

Which was kind of the point.

Hopefully it would be enough.

He checked his gun one more time, took a breath, and stepped out of the hotel room. As quickly as he could, he made his way to the lobby, peeking out. There was a cluster of corpses outside, and Travis's first instinct was to shoot his way through. No way to do that, though, not with only four bullets.

Time to see if his camouflage worked.

He did feel a momentary pang of regret, and something like guilt. Wes had done so much for him these past few days, had kept him safe and fed him and protected him. Travis still didn't understand why, but he understood that Wes had a fascination with him (with his eyes). It didn't seem right to just leave like this, without telling Wes.

But Wes wouldn't let him go, and he had to get back to the settlement. He'd already been gone so long, he couldn't waste any more time. He had to go now, while he could.

Travis took another breath, hung his arms loosely in front of him, and shuffled into the lobby. The pain in his ankle helped with that—couldn't move too fast with it, so at least he kept in character.

(On the other hand, if his little disguise didn't work and he had to run for his life, he was so totally screwed…)

The corpses outside looked up when he came into view. There were four of them, two women and two men, and Travis recognized the one in the doctor's coat.

She was the only one who kept watching him after the other three looked away, disinterested. There was the same sort of steady intelligence in her eyes Travis kept noticing in Wes, and somehow Travis felt like she could see right through his little disguise.

But she didn't say anything, didn't move toward him, didn't so much as groan meaningfully in his direction. Travis had to hope it was good enough.

Slowly, he shuffled past the group, holding his breath when he got too close (because corpses didn't breathe, had no need to breathe, and he definitely didn't want to tip them off that he was different when they'd already dismissed him).

And then he was past them, and out on the street beyond, but he didn't take the time to relish the accomplishment. He had to get to Jason's bike, had to get back to the settlement before something went wrong.

Slowly, he shuffled down the street, moving a little quicker when there were no corpses in sight. Luckily, he was good with directions and landmarks, and he easily made it to the gas station in good time. Jason's bike was sitting right in front of the pump, abandoned and covered in dust. For a moment, Travis simply ran his fingers through the grime, reminiscing. He and Jason had built the engine practically from the ground up, scrounging for parts whenever either one of them went on a raid, and the day they'd turned it on and heard the engine purr, neither of them could stop grinning.

Travis swung his leg over the bike, gripped the handlebars. The best thing he could do right now, in his brother's memory, was get this bike back to the settlement and tell the people inside what he knew.

(Maybe Jason was out here somewhere. Maybe Travis could find him again, could spark that life back in Jason's eyes, maybe he could get his brother back.)

(It was stupid to hope, but Travis couldn't stop himself.)

The keys were still in the ignition. Whatever caught Jason, it had taken him completely by surprise.

Moment of truth. Travis held his breath and turned the key.

The engine sputtered fitfully. He gave it five seconds and tried again. It cough and sputtered again.

Third time's the charm. He needed this to work. Travis closed his eyes, said a little prayer, and turned the key.

The engine coughed—and then it caught, and the bike rumbled to life. Travis couldn't help letting out an exhilarated whoop.

The gas tank was half-full, more than enough to get him back to the settlement, and the bike was fast enough to keep him well out of any corpses' hands. Travis should know, he helped build the damn thing.

Before he left, he spared one last glance at the hotel, though he couldn't see it from here. He didn't really have time for this—the sound of the bike engine and his own cry of delight would draw any nearby corpses over to investigate the sound. But he still stopped, still looked back.

He would come back for Wes, somehow. When he'd convinced his people of the truth, when he'd shown them how wrong they were, that there was still something left to save… Then he would come back.

But right now, he was a man on a mission, and he couldn't lose sight of that.

Travis gritted his teeth and pumped the throttle, and the motorcycle pulled away from the gas station.

XXXX

When I return, the hotel room is quiet.

There is a feeling, as though an icy spike goes right through my chest. Every time I have left, you are always sitting in this room, waiting, impatient and bored. I assume you have tried to leave at least once; but it is not safe, and you would have realized that. You stayed.

And now you are not here.

Where would you have gone?

The bag of food drops unheeded from my fingers as I turn and venture into the hall. Perhaps you are in another room—perhaps you simply became bored and went exploring until I returned.

But you are not here. I move through the halls, call your name, but you do no answer.

You have gone. Somehow, you have left. You have escaped.

I kept saying it wasn't safe. And it wasn't.

But the truth is, I was keeping you here for me. For the blue of your eyes, for the warmth that lies deep within your chest, for the abundance of life that flows from your every motion. I kept you here for the hope that something of that warmth, that life, would fill up the empty spaces inside of me that had been hollowed out so long ago.

I kept you here, but now you are gone.

I return to the room, stepping over the abandoned bag. Food, for you—you are alive, and need sustenance different than I do. I would watch you eat, watch emotions flicker across your face, things I could barely recognize, and there would be a stirring in my stomach, hot and aching. Not hunger, I know the need of that too well. Something else.

I would watch you take pleasure in your food, and I would feel—jealous. I have never felt pleasure in anything I can remember eating. My food—

My food is human, and so often looked like you.

The room is empty, still. Empty and quiet and cold. I sit on the end of the bed, hands in my lap, and already I can feel the warmth of your presence leeching from my skin, dissipating in the empty space around me.

The room is empty.

You are gone, and I feel cold.

XXXX

As the high walls of the settlement appeared, Travis felt a curious mix of anticipation and homesickness and dread churning in his stomach. The anticipation made sense—he couldn't wait to see everyone again, to be welcomed home and hug his family and friends. And Randi, god, he couldn't wait to see if Randi was there—he hoped she made it out of the botched raid alive, that she was safe inside with her dog. (He felt a twinge of guilt that this was the first thought he'd had for her since Wes took him, but, to be fair, he'd had a lot going on the past week.)

And the homesickness made sense too. After all, this was his home, every paranoid inch of it. He lived here for all these years, built ties with so many people inside, and Wes was great but a dirty hotel room wasn't a home. This was home.

The dread was a bit more confusing. After examining it for a while, Travis decided he was probably just worried about bringing this new information about the corpses to a bunch of people who had fanatically hunted the corpses down for years. Even if they did believe him (which he wasn't counting on without a lot of arguing), it wasn't going to be an easy transition.

But he had to try. He had to.

It was just starting to get dark as he came into view, the pink-grey haze of twilight settling over the city. Good thing he'd left when he did—an hour later and the gates would be locked up tight, everyone safe inside. No one had guard duty during the night when the corpses came out in force.

As it was, the three guys on guard duty immediately brought up their weapons as he pulled the motorcycle up, and Travis groaned when he saw the man in the lead.

John fucking Crowl. Of course it was.

He stopped the bike a good fifty yards away, to show he wasn't a threat (and to highly discourage them from shooting him on sight. That would be a god-awful way to end the day.)

"Hey, Crowl," he called brightly, climbing off the bike. He stood casually by the vehicle, hands nonchalantly at his side, pretending he didn't have three submachine guns pointed his way. "How's it going?"

"Marks," Crowl growled, scowling, which was pretty much his typical reaction to anything and everything. "You're supposed to be dead."

"Yeah, well." Travis shrugged, offering up a smile. "Surprise."

He could see one of the other guys muttering into a walkie-talkie, probably calling for the captain or reinforcements or something. Travis hoped he was calling the captain. Captain Sutton could be a hard-ass, but at least he was reasonable, unlike a certain someone's shoot-first-ask-questions-later approach.

Just to be on the safe side, Travis didn't move any closer. No reason to give Crowl an excuse to shoot.

"Hey Crowl, is that a submachine gun in your hands, or are you just really happy to see me?"

Still, he couldn't help mouthing off. It was one of his failings, really.

Plus, it was all kinds of hilarious to watch Crowl's face twist like that.

"Shut up," Crowl muttered, glaring at him.

"Aw, but Johnny boy, I miss our little chats. How are you? Has that rash problem cleared up?"

Mostly, Travis couldn't keep his mouth shut around Crowl because Crowl was a dick. It was probably gonna get him shot one day. Travis would go out with no regrets.

"Shut up." Crowl's finger twitched toward the trigger. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say."

"Oh come on, Crowl. You think I'm infected? I drove a motorcycle here. Do you honestly think a corpse could have enough coordination to manage that?" Wes could barely make it all the way up the stairs, and he was one of the more cognizant ones. Poor guy wouldn't have a clue what to do with a motorcycle.

"Shut. Up," Crowl growled.

Travis rolled his eyes. "And you keep telling me to shut up, which means I'm talking, which, again, not really corpse-like. I mean, seriously."

The guy on Crowl's right shifted uneasily, looking twitchy. Deitz, Travis thought his name was. Not someone he had a lot of contact with in the settlement. "Could be newly infected," he muttered, just loud enough to hear.

The other guy, one of Crowl's buddies—Prince or Pierce or something—added, "Got all that gunk on his face."

"It's not mine, for god's sake."

Crowl shifted, silencing the other two and still glaring furiously at Travis. "Shut up until the captain gets here."

Oh good. The captain was coming. Maybe Travis wouldn't get shot before he made it inside.

Wisely, this time Travis kept his mouth shut.

Less than a minute later, the fortified gate slid open, and the captain stepped out. Sutton was short and stout, but he had a presence, a sense of command that made him tower. There was a spine of steel under his slightly-soft exterior, more than enough to lead even people like Crowl, who followed no rules but his own.

When he saw Travis, his eyes went wide, face paling. "Travis Marks," he breathed, and Crowl didn't have enough emotion capacity to be surprised, but the captain looked like he'd just seen a ghost.

Travis gave him a small smile and a little wave. "Hey, Cap."

"Travis," the captain said again, stepping forward. "It's been a week. How are you here?"

"It's kind of a long story." Travis glanced up at the sky, which had been steadily darkening as they stood here. "Maybe I could tell it inside."

The heavy silence made him look back down, and when he saw the captain's face, he groaned. "Oh, come on, I'm not infected! I rode a motorcycle!"

"You could have been recently infected," Sutton said, though he didn't sound convinced.

"That's what I said," Deitz muttered, and Travis shot him a glare.

"Fine. Fine. You want to see that I'm not infected? Fine!" Quickly, with no finesse, he stripped out of his clothes, until he was standing naked in his bare feet, arms held out to his side. "Look! No bites! I'm clean! Can I please come in now?"

His sudden nudity seemed to have shocked the captain into silence—the man was gaping at him with an open mouth. Deitz and Prince/Pierce/whatever wore similar expressions.

Crowl, who didn't have a single emotion to speak of, was the only one who dared to venture closer, hand tight on his gun, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Travis turned in a slow circle, arms still held out, grinning cheekily over his shoulder. "Liking what you see, Johnny boy?"

Crowl growled softly, but turned back to the captain. "He's clean."

"Don't sound so disappointed, Crowl. I'm sure you'll find something to shoot soon."

Sutton slowly closed his mouth, the look on his face a mix of relief and amusement. "Put your clothes on, Marks, and get inside. We're closing up for the night."

Travis threw him a sloppy salute and said, "Yes sir," tossing a wink Crowl's way. When Crowl growled again, Travis just laughed and picked up his clothes.

The end of the world necessitated haste in all things, and Travis was dressed in less than a minute. Whistling cheerfully, he grabbed the handles of his motorcycle and pushed it through the gates, smiling cheerfully at the stunned crowd just inside, watching him enter.

As the heavy gates clanged shut, Travis just couldn't stop grinning.

It was good to be home.

XXXX

My hands are shaking.

They should not be doing that. I stare at them impassively, unable to find any fascination in such a novelty. You are gone, and I am cold, and I find it hard to care about anything, even the unusual phenomena gracing my body.

If you were here, perhaps you would tell me what it means, this shaking. Perhaps it matches this thing I'm feeling, this dull, throbbing ache in my chest, echoing between my ribs as though something is trying to get out.

I close my eyes and think about how much easier it would be to just let go. To stop clinging so tightly to faded memories that only bring pain (dark hair blue eyes gentle smile and she laughs with such joy), to stop wanting so desperately something I cannever have. How much simpler everything would become, if I just let go. If everything I became was hunger and need without any impossible dreams filling my head.

How much easier it would be if I no longer felt anything.

(you are gone, the heat from your hands leeched from mine, i am so very cold)

"What you need to do for me, Wes, is not get that far gone."

I open my eyes, staring unseeing at your chair, your voice ringing in my head. You are so sharp in my memories, so clear and vibrant, so unlike the distant, dreamy recollections of before.

"I don't know what makes you different. But whatever it is, you hold onto it and don't let go."

Should I let everything go, you, I think, would be the hardest thing to release.

The other memories, faded with time and painful to touch, would be easy, but you…

(bright blue eyes, blue as the sky, i see you from afar and i am struck)

I do not think I can let you go.

"You hold on like your life depends on it."

I curl my shaking hands into fists, and I hold on.

OOOO