A/N: Good news, everyone! This abomination has only three chapters left! Including this one. Happy birthday to me!
There were no more ghost towns. They even made it past those at this point. Now all they were left with were the burning grounds, the rolling tumbleweeds and an unusually bright sky, the color of magnesia. The sun seemed to magnify its intensity through the whiteness. It shone and heated the dry ground until it was close to burning hot. The air seemed to flow in smooth smoke lines, flailing around the wasteland. The pathetic little patches of grass were shriveled and turned into straw, cracking under their own weight like old bones turning into dust. Every breath the man took resulted in a loud heave, he had to close his eyes for a second not to pass out from the heat. But his eyes shot wide and the gun stayed clasped in his hand. It pointed straight into the BLU Engineer's head. The Texan was taking a piss at this point, the liquid turning into steam before it could make contact with the ground.
His brow furrowed at the Spy holding him at gunpoint. He sighed, zipping up. The BLU Spy kept his eyes locked on him.
"Are you quite finished?"
"We'll be back on the road in a second. Keep your pants on."
"We are behind schedule. Will you be able to fix the Medi-gun in time?"
The Texan took a step forward before stopping to take a closer look at the Spy that overpowered him, the Demoman and the Soldier in an earlier brawl. It was absolutely embarrassing; in the end, the Spy was the only one with any ammo left, despite his pitiful arsenal of weaponry. The Demoman was the one to die; his blood ran in a crimson stream. The Soldier and the Engineer stood stock-still, unable to comprehend that a Spy, of all classes, had the upper hand. All this because he knew how to distribute his bullets accordingly, instead of wasting them on the REDs that escaped with the briefcase. In a flashing strike of realization, the two lowered their weapons and proposed a truce. They now had the Spy as their leader, who led them straight out of the Queendom and into the wide road.
Luckily, the Engineer was able to reconstruct one of the vehicles left in the Hooverville. This under the constant surveillance of the BLU Spy, of course. The burnt bits of the Medi-gun were picked up from the ashes of the fallen statue, dusted off and handed to the Texan. The wounded Medic was tossed in the vehicle. The Soldier protested loudly, screaming at the traitor of the Queendom. In the end, however, he was also forced to join them. The BLU Spy turned to the telescreen briefly.
Fare the well, my Queen. Fare thee well, and if forever.
Still forever, fare thee well.
He saluted the pitch black, turned on the ball of his foot and stepped into the badly battered vehicle.
Just like that, they were off.
Though the men seemed to cooperate so far, the Spy couldn't let his guard down just yet. A Soldier and an Engineer were a dangerous combination; even unarmed. Especially unarmed. They were getting desperate, all of them. It was brains and brawn against dubious logic, a faint track of optimism and a fistful of bullets, which could only be intimidating if always at hand. Dominic was not ready to let them out of his sight.
He repeated the question through his teeth, sweat drenching his suit and seeping down his back.
"Will you be able to fix it?"
"I will, I will! Jesus, Spook. Can't a man take a leak without the third degree?"
"Not where I'm from," he answered briskly. With a quick nod, he ordered the man to walk in front of him. The Engineer huffed, taking a step forward and dragging his feet across the heat. He wiped the sweat of his brow, still feeling the barrel of the gun watching the back of his head. The Spy did not have the luxury to lower his weapon; not just yet.
"You know," the Texan started, "you didn't have to ruin the Medi-gun any further. Fixing it would have been a nightmare on its own. Ya didn't have to burn it to a crisp."
"Why would I make your job easy for you?"
"Solidarity, for one. Humanity. Common sense, take your pick."
"You're the one to talk to me about humanity," the Spy muttered, forcing himself not to think of the heat. His mouth was dry and felt like cotton, he would soon be forced to take a sip from the water canister they brought with them. It was times like these when he truly hated being human.
The Soldier was sitting at the front, beads of sweat forming under his helmet. Despite the heat, he refused to take off his jacket. It was his last act of defiance against the Spy. He glared at the command board, now hosting a sapping device the size of a woman's fist. It prevented the Soldier from driving away in the vehicle. The Engineer sat at the wheel, knocked the sapper off with his wrench, and closed the car door.
The slam awoke the sleeping Medic. He gasped, looking around. He saw metal; he saw the hard interior of the vehicle that smelt of smoke and his own blood. He fidgeted around his seat, feeling as though he was sinking into the tattered green covers. Every injury inflicted upon him came rushing back, burning his flesh and ripping out his heart. He was too terrified to scream. He did manage to kick the seats of the two men sitting in front. A cluster of incoherent yells and taunts flew over his ears, ringing in them. He was deaf and blind to his surroundings, but he could sense the audacity of the Soldier, leaning over his seat and yelling at the Medic.
His mouth was then shut and he sunk back into his seat with a growl.
The Medic's chest rose and fell rapidly. His fingernails were clutching the back of the seat. His eyes flew on the Spy's frame. Dominic was sitting beside him, his gun pointing at the back of the Soldier's head and his teeth grinding. With the last of his strength, the Medic pushed up his glasses to the bridge of his crooked nose. The blurry image was now sharp; the Spy was looking straight at him. Luckily, the barrel of his gun was not.
When his breathing settled, he could hear the man's voice repeating his last name over and over again in a steady tone.
"Dienstag? Dienstag? Dienstag?"
The third time he posed the question, the Medic gulped. Doing so felt like sending an emblazed knife down his esophagus. He winced at the sensation. His jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. The Spy watched the captive with a deadpan gaze, holding up a light-blue flask he grabbed from behind the seat. He popped the cap off and brought the tip close to his lips. He drank the substance inside without haste. He maintained eye contact with the Medic whilst doing so.
The German's fingers coiled towards the container, his mouth feeling bone dry at the moment. He hated himself for this instinctive reaction, feeling like one of Pavlov's dogs. He glared at the BLU Spy until he finally parted the flask from his mouth with one final gulp. He then handed the container over to the dehydrated RED.
Every sip burnt his mangled throat immensely, yet it was the sweetest water he had yet to drink.
The Spy nodded at the Texan, and soon, they were driving.
They couldn't have been driving for more than a couple of seconds before the Spy yanked the flask away. The man almost whimpered when the precious water was taken away from him. But doing this grabbed his attention, and the BLU needed his undivided attention more than anything else.
"You are alright. You are safe, for now. We are out of the Queendom," he began explaining. The captive had too many questions. His mouth parted slightly.
"Do not attempt to speak," the Spy instructed firmly. "We have done a number on your throat. I suggest you refrain from all strenuous activities until we get your Medi-gun fixed."
His eyes flickered to the Texan's beck. His shirt was drenched with sweat, the fabric becoming darker by the second.
"I hope that will be soon."
The German managed to sit up straight, chaos still running through his head. He looked out of the dusty window and into the field of nothingness. There was no life in these parts; not a single shrubbery. There were no animals; there haven't been any in weeks. There was nothing, and yet in the distance, he could see an odd, winged, silhouette of a creature, looking like a bird or a flying reptile. The heat must have been playing tricks on him. He shook his head, his eyes closed shut. His neck cracked while he moved it.
"Dienstag," Dominic said sternly, and this made the man look back. There was something about the way he spoke that he found comforting, for some unexplainable reason. He was still wary of the other two; the Engineer and the Soldier the man was pointing his weapon at.
"Do you know where we're going?"
The Medic kept still for one brief moment before slowly rocking his head sideways. Dominic only nodded at him.
"We should be there in a couple of hours… if your theory is true. There is a possibility of there being an old military hangar, and maybe with the Engineer's expertise, we can get one of the planes to function properly. That is, if your theory is true."
The Medic's eyes went wide.
"U… Uk-!" He started, but was startled by the sound of his croaky voice, coming through inches of scabby, sliced flesh. He grabbed his neck in fear of his head falling off with pain.
"Don't speak." The Spy suddenly took on a small smile. It faded away within a second, but it was enough for the Medic to see it. It was more than enough to give him hope. Would they…? Should they?
The Spy said nothing else, only craning his head to the two sitting in the front. He switched the gun in his other hand, the flask filled with lukewarm water placed behind his back. And suddenly, things were beginning to look up. The Medic smiled, his lip trembling. He looked up into the bright sky. He wanted to scream. He wanted to open the window and stick his head out. He wanted to scream in the distance whilst feeling the warm air current on his skin.
He did just that.
"Get your head back in you miserable-!" The Soldier started but was curtly dismissed by the Spy.
"Let him. And keep your head straight."
The Soldier huffed and turned his head, facing the dusty road. Meanwhile, the Medic was watching the fields, looking straight at the future. It was within reach, he could practically grab it. He closed his eyes, and suddenly, he saw his lovely wife, he saw the beautiful life prior to the New Plague. And then, he saw the life he could have in Ukraine, in its lush forests, pristine plains and civilization at last!
We did it! He screamed in his head, but the only sound that escaped his throat was a hoarse, horrid screech, resembling an exhale. We did it, Natasha! We did it, baby!
Dominic allowed himself one last look at the man. Ukraine must have been his Patria. If he were returning to her, Dominic would have been the same way. His young, caramel-haired, idealistic, patriotic core chuckled with delight. His steely façade remained unmoved.
We did it, baby! I'm coming! I'm home! I'm coming home and I'm free!
I'm free…
Tears flew down his cheeks, evaporating in the heat almost instantly. The captive was driving across the state, into the vast unknown. And somewhere, hidden in that unknown, there was the possibility of salvation. And the fact that, after all this, salvation was just a possibility, made him sob.
I'm free.
Free and what now?
Now we put the knives away.
Clink!
Sarah watched the kitchen knife fall on the floor, next to the others. About a dozen of them lay beneath her feet; she was throwing them out of the drawers. It was a plethora of blades; both dull and sharp. Some had shiny, polished surfaces, others were matte. They all showed a bit of color on the sides of their blades. Sarah could see the smooth lines on her face. There was no smile resting on it; she had not smiled in weeks. Her eyes were turning into murky pools that took in light, but did not let it escape them. Her face was pale, her hair greasy; and even her mind had become soiled lately. She hated these knives. She dropped them on the floor, one by one.
Clink!
Look at them. They can't hurt if they're beneath her, could they? They were dangerous when they were hanging above her head, in her mother's grasp. She could still smell Irene's blood on her cheek.
Her hand ran over her moist face. Sometimes, she could still feel the crumby sensation of the mother's dried-up blood.
The drawer was empty.
She opened the next one.
She rattled it vigorously, her face forming a frown. She tugged at the drawer handle with both her hands, grunting. Every movement stressed her muscles, and she loathed the drawer from being shut tight.
When she finally flung it open, a couple of sharp forks and small cutting knives flew outside in a waterfall of metal and reflections. Her face flashed before her eyes, flying in mid-air, mocking for a second, wanting her dead. She saw her sickly, pasty, ailment-ridden skin that she hated. She took those antibiotics religiously, and all they've done was made her feel worse. Her teeth were sore, too. That did not happen before.
After the mocking reflections fell on the floor, she stared at the mosaic they've made. None of them could hurt her now. None of them. And yet, they were lurking under her feet, ready to fly at her and strike her in the stomach.
Hearing her father's hurried footsteps, she looked through the barricaded window. A speck of bright light fell from the small opening within the wooden boards and onto the countertop. Her finger hovered above the small circle of light; her nail seemed to shine. She missed the sunshine.
The Engineer ran inside the kitchen. We should call him Dell from now on; his title meant nothing at the time. After all, the people who called him that were no more.
Dell was a mess from head to toe. His overalls were tattered and covered with blood and dirt; he had recently found the strength to give his wife a burial but did not have enough to wash his clothes afterwards. His chest, forearms and face were covered with uneven brown stains. His helmet was off and showing his bald scalp that looked almost polished. His goggles were on top of it, and Sarah could see into her father's eyes. They were aware but tired, floating above deep, dark circles. His cheeks were sunken into his five o'clock shadow. It was like his face was stained with dark ink. Crow's feet decorated the centre of the corner of his eyes, stretching well behind his head. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days; even though the truth was that he did not sleep in almost a week. When he finally spoke, taking a weak step towards his daughter, his voice ran like bricks through a blender.
He watched the knives surrounding her feet.
"What happened?"
The girl said nothing, simply looking into the small speck of sunlight resting on the flat surface. The man rubbed his moist neck, his hand rolling at the back. He slowly picked up a couple of knives and put them on the counter; out of Sarah's vision.
"Shit, Sarah," he said, unable to censor himself. The girl did not notice his swearing that once cost him a full dime in the swear jar. It really did not matter at this point.
What mattered was the outside.
She leaned towards the window, squinting at the small hole in the wood. She listened to the chiming and clacking of knives while they rubbed and clashed together. Her father hissed at one point, cutting himself accidentally. She did not look his way. Instead, she continued to watch the very limited view. She saw dirt, dry patches of xanthic grass and the burnt remains of the tool shed the Scout had lost his mind in. And she knew that beyond the wreckage of her base, there was the wreckage of her world. All the men of RED were buried somewhere, outside. A horde of Infected was out somewhere, walking their way. Danger and tragedy awaited her on the outside, and yet she wanted to go there so badly.
She turned to her father, still maintaining her apathetic look of both exhaustion and disinterest. Her father caught her gaze, putting away the last knife.
"Daddy?" She spoke softly. "I want to go for a walk."
The man stood straight. "A walk?"
The girl did nothing, turning her stare her longing, almost begging glare. Dell craned his neck around his shoulders, hearing it crack for a second. He returned it to its place.
"I… I don't think you should be goin' out, Sarah. You're still sick, ya know?"
She only blinked at the statement, and her response was automatic, with less life and vigor that if said by a corpse.
"I want to go for a walk."
The man blinked heavily, looking at the window. He felt the sun's unforgiving heat on his back, the kind he felt while scooping the dirt from the dry ground and putting his wife's listless body inside. Her limbs fell over her bloody torso; her wounds were filled up with the soot. The sun only stood and watched. It burnt him inside and out, and this is why he wanted to stay here, where it couldn't reach him and remind him of his loss.
"I want to go for a walk." Sarah looked at her dirty sneakers, her toes touching. "Just a little one. I just… I just want to be warm again."
The last flash of warmth she felt was when droplets of Irene's blood sprayed her face.
Dell watched his daughter, finally acquiring the will to approach her, take her in his arms. She was cradled in them like a bride, her head falling over his shoulder. Her mouth was slightly parted and she shivered on his skin.
One walk.
If that was all she truly wanted, he would oblige. He swallowed the heavy node in his throat and moved towards the door, muttering a simply alright as he stepped out.
Sarah caught a glimpse of the kitchen knives that lay on the counter. She managed a victorious smile. Those evil things couldn't harm her now.
They became smaller and smaller whilst she was leaving the kitchen, and then disappeared when the door slammed behind them.
It really wasn't as hot as he had expected it to be. Maybe he didn't feel it yet. But his daughter did, her head lulled back and forth and her eyes were closed in satisfaction. He carried her on his back, the girl being too fatigued to walk over the sand and hay. Her legs kicked his sides as they flailed with each step he made, but he paid no mind. The girl was grabbing his shoulders loosely, and he had to prop her up on his back for fear of sliding off. He looked around the plain; besides the barren trees, the run-down shacks and the pathetic excuse for a garden, little could be seen here. They were still quite far away from the river bank, but none of them minded. The girl was just glad she was in the sun.
They seemed to walk for hours, though in reality, it had been twenty minutes. And then, the girl spoke into Dell's ear.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
"Can you put me down?"
"Why? You uncomfortable?" He asked through his heavy breathing.
"I'm… tired."
"Oh," the man said with some confusion before allowing her feet to touch the ground. "Okay then."
The girl found her stability on her feet at first, and then sat on the dry ground. Her dad watched her sit down before descending to accompany her. He looked around the field and he found his eyes stopping upon every erect board that marked the grave of his departed colleagues, and the helmet above his wife's. The air was still and almost rancid. The coppery scent was coming from his clothes, and he found himself repelled by it. He withheld a grimace when he felt Sarah's head on his arm. She closed her eyes and hummed to herself. His eyes then met the zenith.
"Daddy?" She said through her dry throat.
"Yeah?"
"I couldn't do it."
The man watched the top of her head.
"Couldn't do what?"
"I couldn't shoot Snipes," she said quietly, wiping her nose against her forearm before dropping her hand by her side. "I came out of the house, and there he was. And he asked me to shoot him. But I couldn't. Every time I killed somebody, I ended up not caring for him. And I wanted to care for him some more, ya know? I wanted to feel sorry when he died."
The man stiffened his lip in discomfort. "Why didja…" he couched to clear his throat, "why didja care for him so much?"
The girl did not move. If she had the energy to, she would have shrugged.
"I… I don't know. He was a fun guy, ya know? He called me Jellybean. He taught me to shoot like a professional."
Dell put his heavy arm around her fragile frame. She continued to speak.
"I know you didn't like him… but he was alright, really. You shouldn't have kicked him out."
The man nodded, more to himself. He regretted kicking him out of the house, even though he found his reaction understandable at the time. But the rules were different in this apocalypse. All of those inner conflicts should have been resolved differently. This was not the real world anymore. It was war, and no one seemed to realize it. All their mistakes derived from there, and he regretted every one.
At times, he even regretted bringing his child into the base. If she had stayed in Bee Cave, he wouldn't have had to watch her suffer through the loss of her mother, or through her illness. There was no telling if she would have been any safer there, but she would have been out of his sight. He would die himself one day, and if he heard that she had died before him, he would have comforted himself by believing that she had died peacefully, if that was even possible. It was a universe full of wouldas, shouldas and couldas. And yet he found refuge in it.
She laid there beside him, leaning on her dad while falling to sleep, her breath bated. She looked peaceful like that; the man did not want to disturb her. But when the corner of his eye met a small pile of rocks that was once their first lit campfire, he had to talk with an air of fondness.
"Remember when we first got here Sarah? I was too busy building stuff to settle down properly, but you girls managed to join the team nicely. I mean, some fellas started to get accustomed to you when the drive here ended. I know… I know most folks didn't really have anything against you. I wasn't so sure at first, but then we sat down at the campfire, and you sang, and I dunno what triggered it but I just knew the guys would get to like ya."
The girl chuckled into his shirt. The man's gaze grew softer, still looking at the world around him. It was a world that was crumbling before him.
"You know, I…" he started again, "I never really thought about it, but I was really busy when we came here. I worked my butt off to make this place safe for you girls. I fixed the sentries, then I fixed the filtration system…" He ticked off his obligations on his gloved hand before realizing that there weren't that many to count. He put his hand away. "Anyway, I know I wasn't around enough for ya, but that don't mean I wasn't there. I mean, I was! Really! I wanted you safe, and I wanted to do it myself. I wanted you two to be alright, because you're the only two I cared about enough to die for. And I… I couldn't stand to see you die before me. So I ended up runnin' around, fixin' stuff and I never even…"
He stopped his babbling and sighed. A pained expression painted over his ashen face.
"… I've never really been a father to ya. I guess it's no wonder you preferred Snipes over me. I mean, he's the one who taught you how to defend yourself, not me. He's the one who acted like a dad. It's… it's no wonder you ran to him when Irene died."
The last sentence felt like a gunshot to the heart. The girl said nothing. This shot a small, abrupt wave of grief over the man's spine. He turned to Sarah and spoke again.
"The point is… I never meant to abandon you. I guess I couldn't protect you and show you that I wanted to protect you at the same time. Either that or I just never really tried to. But I want you to know that I always loved you, Sarah. You and your mom. I always loved you, and nothin's gonna change that. And I only wanted you to know that. I'll do anything I can for you. I… I'm sorry I didn't make that clear earlier."
His lip quivered and he rubbed his eyes. Rubbing the moistness over his index finger, he took a deep breath and looked into the graves of his colleagues. There was a certain dread in the air, an odd feeling that he couldn't quite explain. And it only intensified when he listened to the empty air with still breath and realized that he really couldn't hear anything.
His head leaned down.
"S - … Sarah?"
The girl gave no response.
The man cupped her face and then noticed that he mouth went slack, and her eyes were parted only slightly, showing only two white streaks of white.
"Come on, Sarah," he said through an almost insane chuckle. His voice cracked with desperation. "Wake up, sweetie. Y – you gotta…" he choked, "You gotta wake up!"
But she didn't.
And then he found a frightening thought flash before his eyes; what if she did not hear his confession? What if the last words dedicated to her, his words of love and care, were lost in the putrid air? His body shook when he grabbed her, stroking her greasy hair and kissing her forehead, hoping that this would bring her back. He held her tightly, his hands running down her back, trying to keep her warm, at least. But her body grew colder, her face was becoming gray, and the sun still stood at zenith, mocking him with its penetrative rays. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to keep her alive.
But now, it was clear to him that he had failed.
He cried out her name loudly, into the iron sky, and then several times into her head. None of those screams or whispers could bring her back to him. Her body felt ice-cold, her limbs went limp. He couldn't think about anything at the time. His stomach churned, he closed his eyes and begged God that he was playing some cruel joke on him. He prayed that he would wake up in his bed, in his hometown, and that he could see her big, innocent eyes alerting him that breakfast was ready and waiting for him.
But no prayer could bring back the light in her eyes. No plea could save him from the gut-wrenching feeling that he had become a failure. And there he was; a genius, a prodigy, a monster, a terrible father, a disappointment.
What good were his machines when the man behind them was incompetent?
He sobbed into her locks, his nose picking up the faintest scent of Johnson's baby shampoo. Wicked images flashed before him; Sarah on the day of her baptism, running to the sound of the school bell on her first day of elementary school, riding her bike with her friends, running around the house reading her sister's diary aloud… These images once comforted him when he was at RED, when he was simply away from home. But now they brought nothing but pain, when he finally came to turns that he had literally nothing left to live for.
And then he heard her voice again. It was more like reminiscence, she even sounded younger. But there it was, the same Texan brogue, the same high-pitched nuance that she was at times ashamed of. But her request was there, as clear as a bell and it even left his ears ringing.
"When I die, I want to be put under a tree, just like this one. No casket, no dirt, nothing. I just wanna be put under a tree. I want it to be a tree just like this, daddy."
His eyes widened and he stopped rocking her body in his arms.
"I want it to be a willow."
Looking over the plain, it was clear that the nearest willow would be miles from there.
His brow furrowed with determination.
