A/N: This chapter contains some sexual content as well as spoilers for S1E12, Murphy's Law.
As always, comments of all kinds are hugely appreciated, so please R&R.
Chapter Fourteen
Bruised
In his dream the bear is back. It towers over him, half its skull sheered away. Its brain has been obliterated, but somehow it's still alive and it has found him. His shoulder is a mass of agony from the recoil of the rifle. No more cartridges left and the dark is closing in.
He doesn't know where Faye is. He backs away, trying to circle back towards the NSA facility, but it's too far; he'd never make it in time and he still hasn't found Faye.
He can't leave her alone again, outside in the cold and dark.
He screams her name and the bear bear bellows in response. It rears up, clawing at itself. Simon watches in horror as the bear rips its chest open, parting its flesh like a coat.
Faye is inside. Naked and smeared with blood and clumps of dirty yellow fat. She steps towards him, shaking off the ragged remnants of the bear like she's shrugging off a cloak. Her hair is tattered and ragged around her face
As she moves out into the light, her bare feet blue against the snow, he can see that she's dead. Her eyes are whited over, but there is a cold intelligence in her face.
And when she holds her hand out to him – oh Christ, he takes a step towards her, and then another. No matter how much he fights the urge to go to her he can't stop himself. When he's close enough, when he can smell the rot in her flesh and see the blackened veins that trace her translucent skin, her chapped, purplish lips part, and just for a second he thinks she's going to kiss him.
Until he sees her teeth.
Simon screams, jerking awake in bed. The blankets wind around his legs, and he thrashes in the darkness trying to free himself, before he realises where he is. Even so, it takes a while for his heart to slow its hammering pace.
"Just a dream," he mutters, covering his face with both hands. "Just–"
Something moves in the shadows and he cries out again, fumbling on the table for his gun.
"It's me, Simon." Faye comes towards him, holding up her hands. "I'm sorry I scared you. I heard you screaming."
He exhales, a long shaky breath. "Just a dream," he says. He wants to turn the light on, but he keeps thinking about her eyes in the dream, filled with rage and hunger and a knowing gleam. And he's afraid that if he turns the light on, that's exactly what he'll see. "A bad one."
She perches on the edge of his bunk. "Would it help to talk about it?"
"No!" He shudders. "I... don't really remember it." Liar.
"Okay." She shifts as if about to get up, and suddenly Simon is desperate for her to stay. He doesn't want to be alone, not tonight. Not after that dream.
"Faye..." Only he can't say it. The words catch in his throat. He stares at the pale outline of her face in the gloom and says nothing.
"Do you want me to stay?" Her voice is soft, filled with an emotion that he can't pinpoint, but which he thinks might be pain.
He closes his eyes. "Only if you want to," he says, knowing that she will get up and leave.
But she doesn't. Instead, she lifts the blanket and slips in beside him.
At first he doesn't know what to do. His higher brain function seems to have deserted him, but then she wriggles closer, and he opens his arms, wraps them around her.
Dazed, he lies like that for a moment, taking nothing but comfort from her proximity and warmth and the way she seems to nestle into him, like their bodies were designed to fit together. The awful dream is a distant memory, something that happened in another lifetime.
So what if nothing happens between them? This is enough, he thinks.
Only then it isn't. She tilts her head back to kiss him, and suddenly it's not enough. It could never be enough. She's like a drug; one taste and he wants more.
He groans hungrily, erection straining in his boxer shorts as he rolls towards her. He slides his hand up under her t-shirt, over her stomach and up, to cup her right breast. She flinches, but when he jerks his hand away she shakes her head and draws his hand back to her breast again. "I'm a bit sore. Just be gentle."
Okay, he can do that.
She squirms, sitting up, but only to inch her way gingerly out of the t-shirt. He helps her, wincing at the ugly flowers of bruises that have blossomed on her chest and back. His fingers hover over them, barely grazing her skin; he's no longer sure he wants to touch her. "Oh, Faye."
"Just bruises. They look worse than they are. And I've taken shitloads of painkillers so I'm okay." Even so the smile she flashes him is tinged with pain. "Told you I was tough as nails."
"Are you sure you want to–" He breaks off as she pulls him in for another kiss, pressing him back. His erection, caught in his boxer shorts, presses against her thigh. She reaches down, and he groans as she grasps him. It's too much. It's been too long since he last–
"Oh God." He buries his face in her neck, his body bucking as he comes in her hand. Too soon. Too fucking soon.
He lies still, burning in embarrassment and shame. "Sorry," he tells her, and she shushes him, places a gentle kiss on his mouth.
Cautiously, he places a questing hand on her stomach, hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of her sweatpants. She catches hold of his wrist, and he pulls it away, disappointed until she settles down beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. Pressed close in the narrow bunk, they both fall into a dreamless sleep.
He's sure that when he wakes up she'll be gone, but she's still sleeping beside him, sprawled on her back and precariously close to falling off the bunk. He kisses the top of her head, and gets out of the bunk, grimacing at the bruises darkening on her body. She's lucky to be alive.
He showers and shaves, catches the eyes of his reflection in the mirror, unable to stop himself from grinning. In the stores, he digs out a packet of condoms and pockets three or four. Not that he's getting his hopes up, but just in case...
He's still grinning when he returns to his room. Faye is out of bed, trying to pull her t-shirt back on. Her movements are stiff, awkward, and only then does his grin fade, because with the light on the bruises look much worse. His gaze drops to her feet, pale and bare on the concrete floor, and the dream image of her bare feet against the snow flashes through his mind. He shudders, forces his gaze back up, over her breasts to the t-shirt bunched around her upper chest and arms. Slowly, he moves over to her, helps her pull the t-shirt down, smoothing the cotton down over her waist.
She tilts her head back, smiling up at him. "Any more dreams?"
"None," he answers truthfully. At least none that he can remember. He doesn't think he's slept that well since before the end of the world. Maybe even longer. And then like an idiot he's blushing again. "I'm sorry about last night," he says. "It's... it's been a while since..."
"Oh for heaven's sake, Simon, will you stop apologising?"
He kisses her. He's not quite sure how it happens, but one moment she's smiling at him and the next his hands are buried in her hair. When he pulls away, she's still smiling. "I'll do better next time," he says, emboldened.
"Might just hold you to that," she says, and he laughs breathlessly.
And just when Simon is starting to think that everything is going to be okay, he has Murphy to thank for reminding him how quickly everything can turn to shit.
"We lost Murphy."
Three little words that bring him crashing down to a cold, painful reality. That remind him how helpless he actually is. Because Murphy's a dick, and apparently keeping a top-secret mission top-secret is less important than bragging about being the saviour of humanity. If he's gotten himself killed, it's game over. Might as well pack up his computers and go home. And everything Simon has sacrificed will have been for nothing.
But luckily Murphy's not dead, and it doesn't take much to track him down. Asshole he may be, but he's smart enough to seek out a CCTV camera along the route.
Faye comes in, freshly showered and smelling of shampoo. She perches on his desk, then does a double-take at the sight of an angry-looking Murphy taking a piss. "What's going on?"
"Murphy's been kidnapped," he tells her.
"Oh bloody hell," she says, hopping straight up again. "I'll put the kettle on."
And despite everything, Simon can't help grinning. "You Brits. That's your answer for everything, huh?"
"That or, fuck it, let's go to the pub, and sadly that's out of the question."
When she's gone, his smile fades. Even in the relatively short time since he saw Murphy in the video link in the CIA bunker, the man's appearance has declined. He's looking less and less healthy, less and less human. They're going to need to get him to California fast.
Simon's gaze flits to the people behind Murphy, the strangers standing beside the van and he wonders who needs his help more: Murphy, or the three kidnappers?
And while, he's caught up in the thrill of being needed, hardly aware of Faye's comforting presence, for the first time in months, he gets a sniff of Dr Merch.
He's found her. In Colorado. He doesn't know what the hell is in Colorado or what Dr Merch would be doing there, but he's found her. The satellite feed and CCTV footage shows a few hunkered buildings, a metal shed with a roll up-door. A group of Zs.
Nothing that stands out. Nothing that looks important. There's no reason for him to think there's anything there, and that's exactly the reason why he knows there has to be something there. Buildings in the real world never look so innocuous, so dull and bland, not unless they've been deliberately designed that way.
He's got a sixth sense for shit like this; he knows when people are trying to hide things from him.
"This is it," he murmurs. "This has to be it."
So much for California.
Mouth dry, he takes a closer look. If he hadn't already been sure, the signal convinces him. It's not until he checks the old civil defence frequency that he finds the message. It's a Teletype signal, encrypted and, until he can break the code, unreadable, but it's her.
He almost yelps when Murphy's face pops up on his screen. Smart man; he's found a laptop still connected to the grid. He's alive and he's angry, and close up he looks even less human than before. Simon's almost relieved when he's gone.
He hadn't realised it, but through the conversation with Murphy he'd been holding his breath. Something is not right with that man and it makes Simon deeply uneasy. There's a promise of violence in Murphy's eyes, and it triggers the primal part of his brain, the bit that governs fight and flight. He knows Murphy's record backwards; he was in prison for postal fraud, and while he's a thieving bastard who might have happily robbed his own mother blind, he's never shown any sign of violent behaviour. Until now. Granted, the apocalypse changes people – it's changed Simon, after all – but the possibility that it might be the effect of the vaccine is one that cannot be ignored.
And if that's the case, maybe it's all hopeless. Maybe Operation Bitemark is a waste of everyone's fucking time. Maybe Simon has thrown away his life up here and is risking plunging the world into a catastrophe much worse than the one they're already facing. Could there be something worse than the zombie apocalypse? It doesn't seem like it could be possible, but if there's one thing Simon knows, it's that things can always get worse.
"Was that Murphy?" Faye asks. "Is he okay?"
He's a long way from okay. "I think so."
On the bright side, Murphy has given him an in. Now he knows the bastard's location it's a simple matter to follow the rabbit hole back to wherever it is the kidnappers have taken him. The result isn't what he was expecting.
"Mesa Pharmaceuticals? I think I'm starting to understand what this kidnapping business is all about. Damn apocalypse. What happened to the good ol' days of robbing casinos in Vegas?" He taps at the keyboard, hacking into the CCTV, bringing up an array of camera feeds. His stomach clenches at the sight of Murphy with a gun pointed at his head, but there isn't a damn thing he can do.
And then Warren and her crew arrive and it all descends into chaos. The Zs swarm in. Faye's hand tightens on his shoulder as they watch the ensuing battle. "Jesus," she mutters, meeting his gaze. Simon's mouth is dry; the thought of being trapped like that fills him with a dark, suffocating horror. He can't think what's worse; being pitted against Zs or living people. How do Warren and her crew do it? How do they go on surviving. He doesn't think he'd be able to do what they do.
He's never seen them in action before, only the aftermath. He'd known they were tough, but this is beyond anything he could have imagined. Is this what people have to be like in the apocalypse now? As much as he hates his isolation, maybe he's better off where he is.
The female kidnapper drops, felled by a Z in the ragged remnants of a cop uniform, but just as he thinks it's over, he sees Murphy at the top of a set of stairs, a gun to his head again. The last kidnapper. "Shit," Simon breathes, sitting forward. "Oh no..."
To have come so far, to be so close to finding Dr Merch, only to have Murphy die like this, in such a stupid, pointless way. Murphy turns to him and on the CCTV image, Simon can see his mouth moving.
"What's he saying?" Faye asks, and Simon flings up his hands helplessly.
"I don't know. I can't get sound on this damn system." But there has to be something he can do, some way he can help. Otherwise, what's the fucking point of him? He can't just sit and watch while the world ends. That can't be all there is.
Faye makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. On the screen something is happening. The kidnapper is pulling away while Murphy swaggers down the stairs. He looks dangerous, not quite human, and behind him the kidnapper is raising his gun, pressing the barrel up under his chin.
They flinch as he pulls the trigger, his skull splattering backwards in a monochrome burst of black liquid. What the fuck just happened?
"Simon," Faye whispers. "What the hell?"
"It... He..." He flings up his hands helplessly. "There's a rational explanation." And yeah, okay, maybe there is, but in a world where the dead come back to life, 'rational' doesn't carry the same weight it used to.
"What, like he just randomly decided to kill himself?"
"No," Simon agrees, unhappily. He stares at the crumpled corpse, the black smear of blood on the floor. He can't bear to look any more. He clicks back out of the CCTV system. "Murphy did it. I don't know how, but he did it. He made that man shoot himself."
"Psychic zombies," Faye mutters, and he nods slowly, face pale.
What the hell was in that vaccine, Dr Merch? "There's definitely something more going on here." There is, as far as he can tell, only one thing to be glad about: for Warren and her crew, Colorado is a hell of a lot closer than California.
He's exhausted; it's been a long and tiring day, and his shoulders are aching with the strain of eight hours of sitting at his desk, but still no time to rest for him. He needs to get in touch with Warren and update her as a matter of urgency; the image of that helpless man bringing the gun up is one that he will never forget. Luckily Warren feels the same way, because she's managed to charge the satellite phone just enough to get through to him.
It's not all good news. Cassandra, the pretty young Asian girl is injured and Murphy is acting weird. Yeah, he thinks. No freaking kidding. He feels the urge to burst into hysterical laughter, but he fights it back, since hearing him falling apart will do absolutely fuck all for the group's morale. He needs them to trust him, now more than ever.
So he tells her about Colorado, fights the rush of frustration when she questions whose orders these are. Doesn't she realise it's just him? There is no one else, no one feeding him lines, telling him what to do. He's on his own, picking his way through across the wreckage of the apocalypse, hardly able to see a foot in front of him. They're damn lucky he's managed to get them this far.
But he can't just leave her hanging; she's waiting for an answer, and he needs to make it a good one. He wonders why the signal never cuts out when he wants it to. So he lies again. Tells her that Dr Merch will definitely be there to meet them.
And it's not like he's completely lying.
He knows Dr Merch was at the lab at some point, and she's passed through Colorado. Chances are she's there.
Luckily she buys it.
Screw this, he thinks when she's gone. Only a little further to push and then the creepy bastard will be someone else's responsibility. Serves you right, Dr Merch.
He rolls his shoulders, stretching out the aching muscles, and goes to find Faye.
She's in the rec-room, reading a Stephen King novel, her bare feet tucked up beside her. on the sofa. The dog is beside her, fast asleep, twitching in the grip of dreams. She's laid out two MREs for them both, as well as a couple of bottles of beer, and he sinks down at the table. He can't bring himself to look at her, not just yet. The air feels too charged with what they've seen. With the image of Murphy killing a man.
He thinks if he meets her gaze, he might not be able to stop himself from crying, and if that happens he's not sure he'll ever be able to stop. He takes a swig of the beer, and after a little while, feels a little bit stronger. Enough to look at her and smile.
"They're okay," he says. "Heading to Colorado."
"Well, that's good," she says, although it sounds like she isn't sure whether it is a good thing or not. "But what's in Colorado?"
He leans back. "I'm not sure yet. Something, that's for damn sure. I'll do some more digging tomorrow." He knows when someone's hiding something from him. But right now: "Can we take a break? I haven't eaten anything other than pork rinds in eight hours."
She slaps the book closed, grinning. "Thought you'd never ask. I'm starving." It's The Stand, he realises, and he almost wants to laugh again, because there's just no way they're ever getting away from the apocalypse.
"You should have started without me," he says as she pulls the chair opposite out and sits down. Her movements are stiff and awkward, and he watches her, wondering how much pain she's in. "You didn't have to wait."
"I wanted to wait," she says, pulling open the packaging. She pulls a face at the contents and he laughs, pushing a beer across to her. She sips it, and they both start to eat. And for a little while it's just the two of them sitting around the table, talking about their lives before. But they're both tired, both drained and weary, haunted by ghosts and loneliness, and they can't sustain it for long. They trail off, staring into their separate worlds. Faye picks at the label on the beer bottle, while Simon remembers a black spray of blood, a body crumpling beneath the weight of a bullet, and the look in Murphy's eyes as he came down the stairs.
He closes his eyes, but it doesn't help. He can still see Murphy's face.
Murphy murdered a man, he thinks. Right in front of me. What the hell are we doing here?
When he opens his eyes, he sees that Faye's expression is just as haunted as his own. She's staring over his shoulder, looking at something that isn't there. He murmurs her name and she glances at him. As he watches her, something shifts in her expression. The fear fades, and she stands up, holding her hand out to him.
He takes it, entwining his fingers in hers, and lets her lead him to bed.