Stan and Butters left the shelter and journeyed over the flat landscape, kicking up clouds of dust that burst in the wind. Under the sprawling sky Stan could already feel the pressure slowly hissing out a balloon. The plains grounded him, but the distant buzz killed any sense of peace. Stan wasn't sure, but the groans sounded closer.

Ike was better. Just knowing it filled Stan with a tingling warmth, relaxing the knot twisted in his guts. It was so natural to care for the boy, like breathing, it simply happened. Stan wasn't quite sure why, out of all the people he crossed, it was Ike that ate up his affections. Even Kyle and Kenny were distant strangers, though Stan was irrefutably forged to both of them. He figured Ike's age played a role. It was that ancient human instinct to protect children, to pass on the genes of the next generation and ensure the survival of the race. When the earth was unspoiled, roamed by men with spears and woman wrapped in fleshy furs, clutching swaddled infants. Things are a little different these days. Tart amusement rose in Stan. More killing, less food. No babies. Not such a great deal for the humans.

He couldn't muster the same concern for Butters, hard as he tried. The slender blond was a dark could shuffling behind him, sucking out every bit of energy. Every smile, every word was a grievous effort, making Stan feel more robotic and awkward the harder he tried. He sounded false even to himself when he turned and asked, damnably bright, "So, how're you doing, Butters?"

Butters looked like an insomniac, exhausted, always jolting awake at those last seconds of slipping consciousness, wishing wistfully for even a second of sweet peace. He peered at Stan, puffy eyed and sickly.

"I….I don't know, Stan. I don't-I mean, Craig's-he's just…and Red too…." He sighed. "I thought it was finally working out."

"What was?"

Butters shrugged. "I don't even know anymore….Life? The meaning of it all? Why are we here, is there any purpose to anything anymore? I mean, the universe sure as heck doesn't want us sticking around."

"Oh. Well, maybe it's not so complicated?" Stan struggled for words. "Like, maybe life's all about the present, living for what you have, all that? When you start thinking about meaning and stuff, it all gets complicated."

"So this is it then?" Butters asked, dismayed. "We're here, we fight, we die, and nothing. What's the point of even trying?"

"Well…" Stan thought for a moment. "…the people around you, I guess."

"What kept you going when you were alone for all that time? How did you do it?"

"I guess I never thought about it." I wouldn't let myself think about it, I won't, I won't. "I just…switched off and…survived."

Butters kicked up a patch of dust. He watched the tiny grains dusting the air until the wind whisked them away. Stan wondered if he was even listening. He didn't speak again.

Soon they were at the storm shelter, a weathered grey square embedded in the earth. Butters eyed the latch unsurely. "How should we -I mean, he might try to attack us."

"Yeah," Stan had the same thought. "You open the door, I'll wait on the side. I'll grab him before he tries anything."

Butters gaped at him.

"If he tries anything," Stan hastily corrected.

Butters poised himself by the latch, fingers flexing. Stan stood ready to the side. In one swift flick, Butters undid the latch like he was diffusing a bomb.

Nothing happened. Butters glanced at Stan, then gripped the stiff handle and heaved it open.

Stan squinted into the darkness. He couldn't see anything beyond the concrete stairs leading downwards, a couple of boxes scattered at the bottom. There was no noise either. Absolutely no sign of anything living in the storm cellar.

Stiff fear gripped Stan. "Tweak. Tweak, you there?"

A soft whimper echoed from the darkness. Oh thank god, he's alive. Tentatively, Stan took the first step, dipping his feet and testing the waters.

"Hey Tweak, it's me, Stan. Do you, uh, wanna come out?"

Words always sounded better to Stan before he spoke them, and he cringed at his own bluntness. As expected, it was met with nothing but more snivels.

"Okay, Tweak, that's okay. Um…" Stan turned to Butters, startling him. After a beat, Butters cleared his throat.

"Tweak, we gotta get moving, there's a bunch of zombies on the way." Butters was already naturally soft, but when he made an effort to be light and gentle, his words flitting like playful dandelion fuzz. "Can you come out, so we can talk? I just wanna talk, Tweak."

But the heady silence revealed that Butters was beating his head against a brick wall too. Nothing happened, and Stan realized that without light, Tweak had been entirely in the dark for the past while. Literally, utterly wrapped in heavy pitch blackness. Stan envisioned Tweak, quivering like a rabbit, curled into a tiny ball in the furthest corner. He took another step. "Tweak?"

There was a distinct chill the lower he went, stale and musty. Stan heartily wished for a lighter, a flashlight, even a match. Butters loitered around the entrance. "I-uh…I'll wait up here."

Stan flashed Butters a thumbs up, keeping his face turned so Butters would be spared his visible annoyance. Could that kid do anything but piss around and cry? No, no Marsh, that's mean. Don't be that guy.

"Tweak, I'm coming in," Stan warned, the instinctual part of his brain already anticipating an attack. "Can you hear me?"

Again, Tweak didn't answer, so Stan followed the crying noises. He felt blindfolded, and he even blinked a couple of times to remind himself that his eyes were open. As he drew closer he realized the sobs were somewhere below him, that Tweak must have been sitting or laid on the icy concrete. Gingerly, Stan extended a hand, groping aimlessly for the boy.

"Tweak, you're going to feel my hand soon, okay? This is Stan, still. Uh, so don't –like –attack me, please. I just want to help."

He was very close.

"Okay, I think…I think I'm right next to you."

The trembling sobs came from a very small source right at Stan's feet. Stan squatted down so he wouldn't tower over Tweak. Even at this muted height, Tweak's presence was so diminished Stan felt like he was bending down to stroke a cat. He reached out slowly, and his fingers brushed woolly fabric.

Tweak stiffened at the touch, but trembled harder. He sobbed again, and cringed away.

"L-l-lea-leave...I-I want you to l-l-leave…."

Whatever else Tweak might have said was muffled and distorted by the wretchedness that sobbed from him. He gathered that Tweak was curled up on his side, knees drawn to his chest in fetal position. The universal body language for I'm fucked.

Stan bit his lip. Just like with Butters, nothing particularly stirred up to move him to genuinely sympathize with Tweak. He worried whether or not that meant he was a bad person. He screwed his eyes shut and pictured Ike. It helped him relaxed a touch, and he felt a bit warmer. Stan rubbed Tweak's shoulder gently.

"Hey bud, I know it's tough right now. But things are going to be okay."

"I-I-I w-want…I want C-c-c…"

"I know." Stan's throat burned. "I know you do. But he wanted you to survive." When Stan realized he was repeating Red's own words, his eyes welled up. His heart clenched. "You need to live without him, Tweak."

There was a swishing noise, like Tweak was shaking his head against the floor.

It was clear that Tweak would not be walking out of the cellar, so Stan fiddled his other arm beneath what felt like Tweak's boney knees, but when he grazed the ground, his bare fingers smeared against something wet. There was a strange crunching as Tweak shifted over the ground.

Then Stan smelled it, thick and metallic.

"Tweak…are you bleeding?"

Tweak muttered a string of incoherent nonsense, but as Stan spread his fingers over the ground, he found more warm wetness. The hairs on his neck tingled, and he cried out when his hand slipped on something sharp. It pricked his finger, and warmth trickled downward.

Shit shit SHIT. Stan tried to lift Tweak as carefully as he could, not know the cause of the bleeding. He didn't know what to elevate, where to put pressure, he might even be opening fresh wounds with his rough grip. He eased upwards, Tweak cradled in his arms like a baby. The boy did not stop twitching. To Stan it felt like the final spasms of a dying animal.

Reemerging into the warm bath of sunlight, comforting even filtered through grey stretches of cloud, Stan's blood chilled when he saw Tweak properly for the first time.

Pale blue skin littered with tiny bleeding pinpricks, purple red pockmarks glinting with glass still embedded. His lips were bitten raw, blood bubbling forth with every sob and staining his teeth. There were bigger shards sticking out of his forearms and the palms of his hands, as though Tweak had slipped and fallen head first into a glittering pile of broken glass. His entire body looked bruised. What caught Stan's eye was the frighteningly large fragment slit into Tweak's throat, firmly stuck. The outer edges of the cut were red and swollen, the glass was plugging up all the blood. A trickle of red leaked from Tweak's hair down his forehead. His doe eyes were glassy and faraway.

Butters stared at Tweak. "Oh my god..."

Stan's head was spinning. "Where would he get glass?"

"There were jars, pickles and olives and stuff, preserved foods…we actually finished them off a few days before you came…we kept the jars down there, just in case we needed them…oh my god."

Butters retched, vomiting into the dead grass. Tweak's head tilted, and his expression screwed up in pain as Stan lowered him to the ground. Think soft, think soft, gentle. Tweak felt so fragile, china bones and satin skin riddled with scars.

"Go get Kyle."

Butter fled, flecks of vomit flying off him.

"Tweak, c'mon Tweak." Stan brushed sticky blond hair from Tweak's brow. "Don't do this, you're gonna be fine."

"I-I'm g-g-gonna…see C-craig…"

"No you aren't, not yet."

Tweak's white fingers scrambled around the thick glass in his neck, wriggling it deeper. Stan slapped them away.

"Stop this Tweak, you stop this now. You hear me? Stop it."

Behind him he heard soft footsteps crunching. Dirt and rust cloyed in the air, making his nose twitch. A thin shadow crossed over him.

"Shit. I was afraid of this." Kyle leaned closer, planting his hand on Stan's shoulder as he wobbled. "Leo, get cloth, bandages, alcohol. Tell Ike to help Kenny, and for god's sake, don't let him know what's going on. Keep a cool head."

Recoiling, Butters was more than happy to leave.

Using Stan as a crutch, Kyle eased himself down. He surveyed Tweak, wrinkles of thought creasing his brow. Dust settled in his curly hair, dirtying the crisp orange with sandy specks. Stan didn't mind, it felt like a gesture of comradery. He warmed to the touch, quelled by the dying boy in his arms.

"How deep is that?"

"Probably...half an inch? Maybe deeper." Stan unwillingly inspected the stuck glass, stomach flip flopping. "If it's in that one big neck vein, there's not much we can do."

"You mean the jugular?"

"The what?"

"That's the name of it. Ike read it in some medical book."

"Oh. Well, if it's in the jugular, we have a problem."

"Yeah. Can he hear us?"

"I think so, but I don't think he's listening to what we're saying."

"Tweak? Tweak. Can you hear me?"

Tweak coughed sticky phlegm, brown eyes searching wildly until they found Kyle. "Y-yea…"

"Good, keep listening to me." Kyle slipped his hand under the crook of Tweak's neck, relieving Stan. "Get on the other side of him. When Leo gets back I want you to get the shard out and stop the bleeding. Can you do that?"

Stan nodded quickly. "I've stitched deeper cuts, but never on the neck. I'm not sure if it's different or more sensitive or something."

Kyle's eyebrows shot up. "You want to stitch it?"

"Well, yeah. Otherwise it'll just bleed through the bandage."

"Okay, fine," Kyle agreed hastily. "I trust you know what you're doing."

Stan's mouth was dry. "Sure."

Butters returned with bundles of worn clothes, red-faced and flustered. "This -pant- was the most -pant- I could find. I told Ike -pant- that Tweak was -pant- cold."

Kyle's lip curled. "I'm sure he believed that."

"Butters, go grab the fishing line," said Stan. "And is there a sewing needle? Or even a pin, something like that?"

"Uh, there's, um, we got nails. Like for wood. And, um…"

"Okay, that's fine." Stan's mind scrambled to improvise. "Those, the fishing line, and the alcohol. Bring a hunting knife too, and if you see anything that could poke tiny holes, bring that too."

Butters dashed away. Stan's fingertips tingled as he delicately pinched the jagged corners of the glass shard, the wider end spanning the width of his palm. Luckily, only the thin sliver of the end was embedded, but Stan couldn't tell how deep the fracture went, nor if it angled inwardly. He glanced at the heap of clothes beside him.

"Prop his head up, Kyle. And, uh, do you know how to breathe for someone else?"

"You mean mouth-to-mouth."

Stan paused. "Yeah, that's it."

"Yes, I do. Ike reads a lot."

"Good, 'cause when this comes out," Stan tapped the glass, "Tweak might stop breathing."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "You say that like you've done this before."

Stan snorted. "You'd be surprised. Get ready."

Stan breath escaped as he began to tug the glass out. Tweak cried out weakly, limbs seizing in protest, fumbling sluggishly at the intrusion. An inch of glass slowly slipped out, smeared orangey red. Stan grimaced. Evenly, he pulled out a little more, careful not to wiggle the glass and tear the skin further. Blue veins ran like rivers beneath Tweak's papery skin, begging to be slashed open. This kid needs a thicker skin, Stan thought, before realizing he wasn't funny.

Blood oozed from the cut as Stan eased out another half inch, flowing leisurely. The thin glass swayed freely, no longer wedged in the sinewy muscles in Tweak's neck. Stan bit his tongue. It was now or never.

He jerked the glass out.

"aaaAAAAHHH"

Glossy blood spurted out. Tweak threw his head back and screeched for a split-second until Kyle stuffed a dirty shirt in his mouth. Warm flecks splattered Stan as he immediately clotted the flow with a rag. He moved swiftly, but delicately, not wanting to crush Tweak's throat. The bleeding boy's eyes rolled back, he slumped over.

"Check if he's breathing."

Kyle placed a finger beneath Tweak's nose. "Ah…faintly. I think. Yeah, yes he's breathing."

"Good."

Stan ripped a strip of cloth and wound it around Tweak's neck. His hands slipped and fumbled, the blood a slick oil.

Tweak coughed.

Kyle fixated on the boy. "Is-is he choking?"

"Maybe. Is he breathing?"

"Um…no. Shit. He's not."

Stan was sweating, working a second strip over the slit. Tweak didn't have much time. "Dude."

Kyle jolted. "Right, right." He dipped over and pinched Tweak's nose, crushing their lips together and giving a steady puff. When he withdrew, Kyle's mouth was scarlet. "There's blood. I think-I think that's what he's choking on."

"Probably."

Spitting red, Kyle dove again. Working over Tweak, Stan could see his birdlike ribcage expand beneath his sweater as air filled his lungs. He ripped a third strip, daring to tie it tighter. Blood spotted through the thick fabric. Where the fuck is Butters?

Kyle spluttered and jerked back as Tweak twitched, spitting a fountain of blood and saliva. Wet flecks splattering every which way. A rattle inhale punctured the air.

"He's breathing!" Kyle was breathless. "He's not conscious, but he's breathing."

"Wh-what's happening?"

Stan cursed when he heard the small voice. "Shit, he doesn't need to see this," he muttered to Kyle.

An angry line creased Kyle's forehead. "Leo, get Ike inside now."

Hair tousled, Butters presented his flat palm to Stan, revealing two tiny pink gems. "I-I'm sorry, I couldn't think of anything to say, he just followed me, but look, I found these, they might work for stitches. I already soaked them in alcohol, so no diseases."

Keeping a careful amount of pressure on Tweak's neck, Stan examined one of the earrings. Each had a thin metal end, actually designed for piercing human skin. Stan was so relieved he could have kissed Butters. "These are perfect! Where did you find them?"

"I…um….they were Red's…."

Stan prickled. "Oh."

"Y-yeah…was-was that okay?"

"Leo," Kyle said stiffly. "Get Ike inside. Now."

"I want to help."

"Ike, no."

"Kyle, plea-"

"No."

"Wait, Ike," Stan heard himself say. "Come here and elevate Tweak's head."

Kyle gawked at him. "He shouldn't be seeing this."

"It's happening," Stan said firmly, staring down Kyle's eagle eyes. "I don't really see the benefit in hiding it."

Ike froze for a moment, unsure. Then he knelt by Tweak and lifted the blonde's unconscious head into his lap. "Like this?"

"Yeah, perfect."

Ignoring Kyle's sour silence, Stan slowly peeled the crusting fabric up to expose the ugly wound. The blood gurgling to a close at Ike's elevation, skin raw and puffed up. Stan exhaled greatly, relieved. If the bleeding was finished already, Tweak must have missed his major vein, the jugular, whatever. The gaping wound was shiny and deep, but there were no glass bits buried deep inside. Stan took an earring and plucked the sliver back off, exposing the needle end. He pinched the edge of the laceration and flattened the skin between his fingers, pushing the poking metal through.

Tweak was too far gone to react, numbly groaning as Ike held his head in place. Ike didn't flinch as Stan poked the next hole through the swelling skin, but he couldn't tear his eyes from it either, flushing green.

Finishing up the line of punctures, Stan took the fishing line and roughly laced the skin together, the pressure causing more blood to spurt forth and slick his fingers. C'mon, almost there, just like tying your shoes. Tying the end of the thin line in a knot, Stan found he could breathe again. Finding that his hands were rather weak, he ripped new strips and wrapped them around Tweak's neck, catching the remaining blood. The sharp snuffles were a resounding reminder that Tweak was still living.

"Is…is it done?" Kyle sounded uncertain, searching Tweak's white face. Lids fluttered shut, Tweak was soundly asleep, the thick mixture of blood loss and stress draining.

Stan brushed his floppy black hair back. It swept beneath his brows, fringing his view. He would have to remind himself to cut it soon. "Yeah. We can't wait for him to wake up, though. That could be a full night."

"Right..." Kyle trailed off.

Stan could tell what Kyle was thinking, though he was obviously reluctant to say it. Stan decided to save him the trouble. He volunteered instead. "I'll carry him. Until he wakes up."

Kyle nodded in expected accordance. "Bebe's not physically strong enough, Cartman wouldn't, and Tweak would be…unpredictable if he came to in Kenny's arms."

"For sure." Stan agreed easily, hiding his twinge of annoyance. The strain that clung to Kyle was palpable, twitching to go off on the nearest offense. Likely Butters, maybe Cartman. Certainly not Ike, even Kyle could reign in his temper that much. He scooped up Tweak's body, feather light.

Ike hovered near Stan, small. "I don't want Tweak to die too."

"I know, kiddo. And he won't, not from this. Me and Kyle patched him up good, and you helped just fine."

Ike's ears went pink. "Thanks, Stan."

Stan ruffled Ike's dark hair, and though it could have been a trick of the light, or even a manifestation of what Stan desperately wanted, he thought he saw a smile flicker over the boy's face.

And yes, we are back to intense! Things are really changing, we're about to get a whole new setting.

There's not too much to say about this chapter. It's a nice change to focus on the actual survival part of

Thanks for reading, I have nothing but love for all you guys who read my stuff. Seriously, y'all are the bomb.

Edit: Kyle accidentally called Butter "Butters". If you just passed that off as a subconscious slip-of-the-tongue before I could fix it, I'm seriously flattered! But for my story purposes, I want to keep "Butters" unique to Stan. Thanks PenandPaper71 for correcting me even when ya don't know you're correcting me.