Story Notes: Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." Very AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.
Chapter Notes: Warning. Potentially graphic imagery. First published January 24, 2013.
(four)
Viscera
The house was empty.
No Gibbs. No Ziva. No Abby. No anybody. Not even a cockroach or a trail of ants.
Even with the front door unlocked, the place was untouched and un-looted, as if Gibbs' presence still hung around, warding off thieves and beggars with a short-barreled shotgun. The air in the house smelled of wood dust and dank rags from lack of ventilation, but other than that, it was clean. Nothing sat out on the counter, nor was anything out of place.
Gibbs had not been home during the "event."
The two of them stood awkwardly in the foyer, just beyond the threshold. McGee still glanced backwards, checking for the old man who had retreated to some place unknown. He'd wanted to offer him a night indoors, but DiNozzo had vetoed that immediately, unfeelingly. They now blinked at their surroundings, giving time for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. McGee rubbed absently at his sore shoulder; it burned.
Without a word exchanged, they methodically went from room to room. They stayed together, close together, as they inspected every bedroom, every bathroom, every closet, every nook, cranny, and tight corner. The wood floors groaned and creaked under their combined weight.
In the pink-carpeted spare room, Tim removed his worn sneakers and his disintegrating socks. He let his bare feet sink into the plush carpet and wiggled his toes. It was soft and yielding, like he was standing on a plain of cotton balls. It was amazing how something so simple could feel so comforting after days spent trudging over leaf litter, highway pavement, and muddy clay. He caught Tony's questioning look and grinned at the way he cocked his head. "It feels good," Tim explained. "Try it."
Slowly, and with a struggle to keep his balance that made Tim wince, Tony also shed his shoes and socks. "Wow. You're right, McFeelGood."
They stood there and smiled at each other like idiots until Tim noticed the blood on Tony's feet. "You're bleeding," he stated bluntly.
Tony shrugged. "Blisters. These shoes are terrible." They were dress shoes. Italian leather and no doubt expensive once upon a time. Their ordeal had reduced them to scuffed and muddy lumps, nearly unrecognizable as shoes.
Their smiles faded into frowns.
Gibbs kept his cupboards well stocked with canned and dry foods of all sorts. Tim sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor - counting, sorting and arranging their sudden stockpile by candlelight. The categories were simple. Canned items in one, crackers and chips in another, rice and potato packets, cookies, and a miscellaneous section that included unopened Heinz ketchup, teriyaki, and hot sauce bottles, as well as a sealed jar of green olives.
They had eaten their fill earlier. It was a veritable feast that they had cooked in the fireplace. Macaroni and cheese without the butter or the milk, an aged packet of Cajun dirty rice, some pungent canned tuna fish, and a whole sleeve of Townhouse crackers. All of it slathered with ketchup and hot sauce.
What would have been disgusting any other time ended up being the most delicious thing they'd eaten in days.
So now, with their bellies full, McGee worked on organizing. He'd get the food situated and then he'd move on to clothes and blankets and shoes. Keeping busy allowed him to think less. And thinking less allowed him to doubt DiNozzo less.
Tony had disappeared into the basement. Tim couldn't decide if the mewling noise that drifted into the kitchen was sobbing or the gate outside swinging in the wind. He paused what he was doing and drew his knees against his chest. He stared at the neat piles of food. Maybe he should change up the categories… organize them better…
A sudden cry broke the solitude. "Heathens!"
Tim blinked and looked towards the window.
Suddenly, there were more voices, hollering and threatening. Tim stood up, moved quickly across the cold tile floor, and pressed himself against a window that looked over the street. There were no lights, not anymore, but the moon was full and its light punched through the Earth's murky atmosphere. It was just enough illumination to differentiate objects from the black emptiness of night. Enough for Tim to see three rangy forms antagonizing a fourth, much smaller shadow.
It was the old man, and he was crying "Heathens! Heathens!" much like he had been before. One member of the pack leapt forward to grab and shove before leaping back again, only to be replaced by the next. And on and on until the old man was stumbling in drunken circles in his attempts to avoid their clawing fingers.
Tim looked immediately at the stairway that led to the basement, where he'd last seen DiNozzo. "Tony!" he called. When there was no answer, not even a shuffling in response, Tim called again. "Tony! Up here! Quick!"
The pack soon grew tired of playing, and one charged at the old man with enough force to knock him to the ground. The other two closed in, limbs kicking and flailing. Tim's breath quickened as he watched in muted horror. He knew this was the end for the old man unless someone was to intervene. Someone like Tim.
DiNozzo still hadn't miraculously appeared to back him up, but the last thing Tim wanted to witness was an old man getting beaten to death on the street. Not when he had the gun and the training to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. End of the world Hellscape or not, he was still Special Agent Timothy McGee, and he was going to show these bastards a thing or two.
Or at least try.
Tim grabbed the trusty 9mm Sig and gave it a brief once over to make sure it was in shooting condition. The hollers and the cries were getting louder outside as he yanked open the door and hurdled past the threshold of safety. He felt his hands shaking from the sudden adrenaline as he held the gun out in front of him. Tim yelled like something possessed, "Get out of here! Leave him be!"
The three attackers were all men, large but underfed, their bandied limbs taut with sinewy muscle. They were clothed in stained and stinking fabric - more than likely stolen sweaters and coats, whatever they could scavenge from whomever they could rob. They were armed by short bowie knives. The moonlight caught their steel edges and made them flash. On his knees and bent halfway to the ground, the old man was clawing out with crooked fingers, scraping dingy fingernails against the rough street pavement. It was a feeble attempt to extricate himself from the fray, but the pack was voracious and determined. McGee's presence changed nothing for them.
So Tim broke protocol and shot into the air. Not like anyone was keeping up with protocol anymore.
The effect was almost comical. All three attackers scattered in three different directions, like vultures spooked off of road kill. But they didn't flee far. Now they were three different targets. One in front, one to the side, and the other behind. Tim hadn't foreseen this, and his gut clenched in unison with his heart. They laughed and swore and looked to each other for a collective plan. Struggling to maintain a handle on all three of their positions, Tim aimed the gun at the smallest one, but he wasn't smaller by much. He then eased closer to the old man
"Why are you protecting this crazy geezer?" One of them asked with something akin to genuine curiosity. "He'll be dead by morning!"
Another one laughed, high pitched and nervous. "Yeah, we've come to collect his goods before anyone else can!"
Tim fought the panic, locked it up in a vault in the back of his mind. Instead he wondered - if these people were so driven and desperate - why Gibbs' house had remained untouched. He made the mistake of looking down towards the old man cowering at his feet and looking more like a shriveled carcass than a human being.
They had all turned into animals, slavering and dumb.
"McGee! Behind you!" Someone bellowed.
But before Tim could even react, grubby, vice-strong arms had already enveloped him from behind. He cried out in surprise and wrenched his body to the side while kicking backwards with his feet. They wrestled awkwardly; the gun flew across the pavement, coming to rest by the small tire of an aged Geo Metro. His attacker had a firm grip on his knife - a savage looking thing - and he was tightening his hold, angling its edge towards Tim's soft throat.
Until the both of them were tilted on their side by some sudden and violent force.
Tim landed hard on his bad shoulder, and he screamed out in agony. Forcing himself to measure his gasping breaths, Tim looked to the side.
It was DiNozzo who was now grappling with the man. They fought like cats. On the ground. Rolling over and over. Clawing and ripping and squealing. The man no longer had his knife.
Tim blinked and found that it was resting nearby. He grabbed at it before one of the remaining two could advance any closer. Ears ringing and his shoulder throbbing, he dragged himself to his knees and held the knife's handle in both hands, pointing it outward. "Stay away!" he warned. While Tim's threat worked on one, the other merely huffed and turned to help his buddy dispatch DiNozzo.
One on one was hard enough, but two on one was impossible. Tim watched from the corner of his eye as Tony started to lose in a spectacular fashion.
The two were working together to kill and maim.
"Grab him by the throat!"
"Hold him down!"
"Let's get him to spill his guts!"
"Yes!"
They were maniacal, gleeful. The bigger one pinned Tony down by the throat, choking and straddling, while the smaller one - his own knife still in hand - tore and ripped at Tony's clothing to reveal his soft belly. Tony fought with his entire being. He twisted and squirmed until it appeared like he was locked in a series of spasms. It took Tim too long to figure out that Tony's gasps for air were actually muffled screams of terror. He barely even realized that he himself was screaming for them to stop, to let him go.
The smaller man was smiling as he held the knife's edge against Tony's stomach. "This is my favorite part!" He enthused. Blood began to blossom from where the blade met the skin, slow at first and then-
CRACK.
The hands holding the knife jerked and then fell away. Like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, his entire body fell to the side, landing in a dead heap.
Everyone froze. Even Tim, whose breaths came hard and fast and whose knuckles were white like bone. And then, without prelude, the remaining two of the pack skittered away, melting into the dark as suddenly as they had come. They didn't pass their dead companion a second look. They made their decision mutually and silently. Like jackals, they were gone.
Tim dropped the knife. The clatter of steel against concrete resonated in the sudden quiet. He crawled towards where Tony lay, undoubtedly still petrified by shock and the close brush with death. "Tony?" Tim called, voice catching in his throat. God, he'd never felt so scared and useless. Not recently. He'd convinced himself that he was going to watch Tony get eviscerated tonight. He was going to watch as those crazed monsters ripped his friend apart. But it hadn't come to pass. Not today. Hopefully not ever.
None too gently, Tim shoved the rest of the dead man's body off of Tony. He carefully inspected the shallow cut that bled thin lines down Tony's side. He then leaned forward to look straight down at Tony's hazel eyes. "You okay?"
Tony was shaking and breathless, but he nodded as if he meant it. "Yeah. Yeah, Tim. I'm fine. You shoot him?"
Tim shook his head. "No."
Both of them looked over and watched as the old man placed the gun back on the ground, almost where he had found it near the Geo Metro's tire. Then he turned, limping and lurching, to stare at Tony and Tim. "Heathens! All of them!"
Tim smiled and heaved out a sigh, letting his hand rest on Tony's chest, monitoring his breaths. He looked at the old man. "Thanks. I guess."
"More like 'you're welcome,'" Tony corrected before swatting Tim's hand away. He rolled stiffly onto his elbow. "C'mon, McHero," he groaned. "Show's over."