-28-

"Roadkill"

He heads away from the town, from the place called Nova City, because the place with neon and the music and the roiling, churning sounds of life is where they want him to go. And when does he ever pander to the wants of others? Even here. Especially here.

The hookers were part of a plan to keep him sated and hazy with sex, booze and gambling. Instead of immersing himself in a thrilling night of debauchery, he is heading down this road to nowhere. Those women were still with him; he senses their warmth, their scents, their mingled breaths that smell like mint tinged tobacco.

...you won't be lonely...

The glittery dust Miss Auburn Hair sprinkled over him was obviously doing its job. But he refuses to fall prey to desire, for the need for stimulation. Wilson would laugh in disbelief at this new slant in House's sensibilities. But survival means being willing to go with the flow. The aches and pains are daunting, little nips and bites and prods and pokes attack him from all angles, but he will persevere and move past them to see what there is to see.

For some reason, the dark road holds a powerful intrigue. There might be more danger here but damn, he can run now. Sure he can, despite the twinges. To prove this to himself he sprints along the one lane highway, which is illuminated by the occasional sodium arc streetlamp. These lights are like afterthoughts, footnotes in the margins.

keep on keepin' on...

The back of his neck prickles. Any moment a siren could wail or the quiet swish of car wheels might clue him into the fact that he is not alone.

Where you headed, sir?

No answer there; he has no idea.

But walking is good for the circulation, to clear his head. The blackness ahead holds a promise of something. Could be good, could be bloody tragic. In either case, he is determined to find out.

"You're bound to fail, you know." Amber fades in, like a character from Our Town, a play which has never failed to creep him out. Almost everyone in it is dead.

"Go haunt your boyfriend." House trudges on as the wind picks up. It bites the tip of his nose and his fingers. His earlobes go numb.

Suddenly his leg hurts.

Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, he lowers his head and continues his trek with a lot less enthusiasm than before.

"Where are you going?" Amber yells over the wind, which howls and swirls like a troupe of banshees.

"Go 'way."

"The city's the other way."

He stops and attempts to stare her down but the wind is too fierce now; his anger will have to wait. "Why are you here?"

"I thought you might like some company before the transport arrives." A sharp gust tosses her hair over her cheeks and lips. She remedies the situation by throwing the tresses back with two flips of her hand. "I should have known you would give me grief."

It's cold, too cold to remain in one place any longer. The fact that sleet has arrived is another fine reason for moving on.

After a few steps it is apparent that something is wrong. The little aches have now turned to pain in its purest form, slipping easily into his joints and getting caught up with its best bud, right thigh. If House's leg had vocal cords it would have shrieked. House takes the opportunity to do it instead.

"You didn't think it was going to last forever, did you?"

The words that might have been his reply skitter and scatter over the highway like roadkill. He has no energy to gather them up, so he lets the elements respond for him: the keening wind and the splatter of sleet against his face relay his despondency well.

"Fine, give up," she says.

"You're no help." His breath hitches as he manages to spit out the words. Hunching over with aching slowness, he clenches his thigh with one sodden hand.

"He's coming," Amber says with a nod, pulling her coat tighter around herself. She might have left him with a 'have fun' before slipping back into the darkness, but he couldn't be sure. It really doesn't matter. Lights...headlights, spotlights, are blinding him, causing him to lower his head and blink away the moisture clinging to his lashes. His hand has gone numb; it continues to knead his thigh on its own, like an alien claw working hard to ease that slow, persistent rise of pain.

A door slams. Metal whumps against a rubberized frame. Now there are footsteps, unhurried, oddly comforting, moving in a way that says there is no need to fear, no need to panic. House stares at the asphalt, mesmerized by the shadows shifting through the rain and headlights. Black swans swimming in golden pools of light. He shivers as the icy assault intensifies. It drips along the back of his neck, trickles down his spine. His breath hitches and bucks in his chest like a rodeo horse intent on throwing its rider; his lungs ache. He hurts.

"I.D., please."

There are times when the only possible reaction to a situation is a non-reaction, a wait and see moment. Slowly, House raises his head. Through the droplets of icy moisture dripping from his hair to his cheeks, he spies a yellow slicker, storm boots and a one hundred watt beam of light.

"This is a restricted area, sir," the voice booms beyond the light. "I'll need to see some I.D."

It occurs to House as he tilts his head and averts his eyes, that he has no I.D. Hasn't needed any. So far, he's been protected, cared for, somewhat revered. His identity has never been questioned.

Guess you're not in Kansas anymore, boyeeeee.

A shivering left hand sets off to explore the sodden pocket of his jacket. It comes up with the pig snout eraser. With some hesitation, he extends it into the light as an offering. It is swallowed up quickly.

The light wavers, shifting its focus to the SUV idling in the center of the road. Plumes of exhaust smoke mingle with sheets of precipitation giving the scene the sinister look of a black and white 'B' movie.

"Please get into the car, sir."

The driver holds open the rear door and House can feel that welcome warmth radiating, tugging at him. The heat will lessen his pain. Without giving himself a chance to think, he enters the car, shivering as the door whumps shut. With a shaky sigh he leans against the door. Warm...so warm. The motor revs once before the transport begins to move.

Like an good dog back from the fields his cane is here, nudging his leg, ready to be of service. He sighs with relief, lays it across his lap and promptly falls asleep.


A grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of creamy tomato soup are waiting for him when he wakes. He sits at a yellow table that is brighter than the processed cheese between his bread; the chair is cherry red. He feels like he is at kindergarten arts and crafts time and can almost smell the white paste.

He doesn't recall waking or pissing or being given his meal.

But it's warm here and he has his cane, his pig snout eraser, food, and a tall glass of milk.

While he was out for the count, someone relieved him of his clothes and dressed him in an olive green sweatsuit. The clothes are loose fitting and comfortable, and he doesn't balk at the change. Warm and dry beats cold and freezing any day. But he can't help wonder if he was drugged. After all, getting him out of those wet clothes would have taken some effort, and he doesn't remember any of it.

But he doesn't remember a lot of things.

For now, it doesn't matter. The grilled cheese is hot and good, the bread is crisp not burnt. The soup is thick and sweet and warms his insides as it goes down. Someone knew what they were doing when they served up this fare and he wonders for a moment if Misha might somehow be involved. She has gotten to know him pretty intimately. The thought makes him grin around his spoon.

Of course, he could still be in a coma somewhere, the after effects of deep brain stimulation keeping him well under its influence. But somehow, he muses, squinting up at the fluorescents as he polishes off the sandwich, he doesn't think so.

The temperature in the room is set at a comfortable level but this is by no means a cozy place. The walls are the color of moonlight. The four square windows are shut tight, with the added security of a black criss-cross grating outside each one. Sipping his milk, he wonders if he might be a prisoner here. Restricted area, SUV transport. Oddly, this distinct possibility doesn't perturb him. More argument for a drug induced malaise.

His body clock has given up the fight. He has no idea what time it is and maybe that's the point.

Outside the day is wet and gray, it could be twilight; it could be dawn. No way of telling. That is the point. Now and then, signs of life drift by like a disconsolate parade. Men and women dressed in the same olive drab as he wander a barren courtyard. Communication isn't a priority here. House sees no furtive looks, no raising of brows, no greetings silent or otherwise. Meandering in widening circles seems to be the only plan, and these folks are really good at sticking with the program.

A new face joins the revelers. The woman shuffling into their midst wears a raincoat so creased and dirty, it looks like a dog might have gallumphed through the mud with it. Her head is bowed but he can see enough of her face to feel a twinge of recognition. After slurping the dregs of the soup, he decides to let this fact steep in whatever is left of his mind and return to it later.

He reaches for his milk but realizes dimly the glass is empty. All done, all gone. Again he turns toward the window, the community circle capturing his attention once more.

He is still wondering about the empty glass and the familiar looking woman and Wilson the ice cream man, McDuffy, Garrett, Sarno when the door opens.

"Hello there!"

He whips around, cranes his neck and leans waa-aay back in his chair.

The man is so huge, the walls seem to shrink with each step he takes. His skin is the color of bittersweet chocolate; his teeth shine alabaster white; on one sleeve of his royal blue uniform is a red "Security" patch. He extends one Herculean hand and with some reticence House reciprocates his grip. The strength behind that grip would be enough to break bricks if jacked up to full power. "My, my," the big man booms. "You had quite a time. You were out for hours."

House is relieved when the man releases him. Hell, the guy could have swung him around the room a couple of times and hurled him out into that sad little courtyard, if the mood struck him.

"Name's John Henry," he says with a laugh.

"Of course it is," says House. "And you left your hammer swinging chores just to come see me? I'm honored."

John pulls up a chair and sits. It is amazing how the chair remains steady under his substantial weight. "I wanted to apologize for the way you were treated," he offers with genuine regret. "The area is restricted. We have to be quite careful. Lots of drunks and ne'er-do-wells roam that road at times."

"Ne'er-do-wells? Where do they rate among the hooligans and J.D.'s?"

"Gran'ma used to talk about bad folks that way." John Henry's smile widens. "Guess it just stuck with me."

House winces, sighs and gazes out the window again as the group continues its interminable trek. "I need my pills."

"Your pills?"

"Yep, you know, the little oblong thingies you put in your mouth to make the gremlins go 'way."

John Henry taps a finger against the table. "You'll need to wait until you get back to Pleasant Hills. You'll feel better there."

"I need to feel better here."

"I'm sorry." John Henry's smile is clear and open without the slightest trace of guile. "The next transport back is in five hours second world time."

"And how long is that for people still living in my solar system."

"About a day." John Henry tilts his head and his laughter makes the ceiling lights shiver. "Now, now, don't look so down, Doctor. The time's going to pass in a wink and a flash..."


It turns out to be morning. The soup and sandwich lunch food threw him off but he is okay with that. John Henry showed him to a room that is not much more than a cell with curtains, a TV, and a bathroom, complete with a tub and shower. The bed is nice. Decent mattress, fresh linens. The TV seems to show nothing but spaghetti westerns and Alfred Hitchcock Presents episodes.

He tries the door but it is locked from the outside.

This is okay too since, hell, where is he going?

He can't relax, can't get comfortable. Each time he tries, his leg starts to ache and cramp and he needs to try and walk off the pain. But the room is small and he is tall, and there isn't enough room for him to do the job properly. Maybe he can join the group out in the yard. At least until the pain becomes manageable or he simply exhausts himself.

He pushes the red "Help" button on the wall and through the little intercom speaker hears John Henry who, for some reason, doesn't sound happy at all.

Guess John thought he was done with you for a while. He don't know you very well, do he?

When House asks him for yard access, John sounds like he may just blast through the small speaker and whap him upside the head. The thought causes House take two tottering steps back from the wall and wince. John grumbles that he will have to see what he can do. So House waits, flipping back and forth through the two channels, staring out the window at a wide expanse of snow covered field. The snow shimmers with an icy glaze that makes House cold just looking at it.

This sucks.

He settles on the edge of the bed and flicks back to a squinty eyed Clint Eastwood mowing some greasy hombre down in "A Fistful of Dollars".

At least someone is getting his own back, House thinks, propping the pillow behind his head as he settles in to watch.

He is just starting to enjoy the carnage when footsteps outside the room clue him into the fact that company's coming.

When the door bangs open, John Henry is there, looming in the corridor, casting a long shadow into the room. He is scowling like a storm cloud has replaced whatever lightness of being he recently possessed.

"You ready?" he growls.

"For what?"

"Don't mess with me," John Henry says. "I'm in no mood."

What might have happened to transform the Jolly Green Giant's soul brother into this massive tower of rage? "Boss man get you down, Johnny?" House asks with a glibness he doesn't feel at all.

John Henry's eyes burn hot as two bits of coal in a barbecue pit. "They told me you were different. I figured that meant you were smart enough to know when to shut your mouth."

It takes both hands pushing on the crook of his cane for House to raise himself to his feet. His leg burns with the effort, his heart pounds against his ribs in empathy. "I just need to walk for awhile."

There is a flash of something: acquiescence, sympathy...pity in the big man's eyes but it skedaddles as quick as it arrives. "Get moving," he says, motioning to House with a jerk of his head. "Now."