Did the last couple of chapters seem strangely nice and slightly less angsty? Like a breather from all the horror? Good. It's all downhill from here...


The idea of staying for a third night did cross his mind, Scott had to admit, but logic dictated that they had to make a move. The view from higher ground over the forest they had already crossed revealed a thin veil of weak dust clouds snaking closer from the south, infiltrating the canopy.

"Is that dust or radiation?" Virgil wondered aloud, trying to get a clearer view through the binoculars they'd stolen during a house raid.

Even at this distance, it was easy to spy healthy green leached by the dust, seeping into poisonous grey that blackened under fierce sunlight every time Scott looked over his shoulder. The surrounding foliage appeared a coppery red in the dimming light. He was vividly reminded of the radioactive forest he'd driven through all those weeks ago, transformed crimson by radiation and falling ash. It didn't make much sense for that to be happening here though, not unless they'd seriously messed up their calculations, because they were supposed to be at least four days ahead of the storm even with their twenty-four-hour impromptu break.

Radiation snapping at their heels felt more ominous than the infected. It also came with the sure-fire knowledge that the creatures would be fleeing north not far behind them, and given the lack of wildlife, Scott was all-too aware that they were the only food source. Gordon had clearly come to the same conclusion, picking up the pace with a sense of heightened paranoia. Woods which had seemed friendly and inviting were now haunted relics in the sun and every trunk could have concealed a threat. John's new knife skills were suddenly more of a comfort than a concern – not that Scott would ever admit as such.

In some ways it was trickier trekking through the forest than it had been picking a path through urban areas. There were less places for infected to lurk and ambush them, but the landscape was more strenuous – steep hills and treacherous slopes, valleys filled with stagnant water and constant burning heat as the sun bore even through clothes. Normal heat or radiation, Scott considered silently, because he'd always been lucky – always tanning, never properly burning – but right now he was suffering just as much as John. There wasn't a lot he could do about it, so the only tactic was to push the thought to the back of his mind and keep walking.

Howls became audible slowly, a distant whisper at first, fluttering leaves from the ground and fading as quickly as it had appeared, growing louder as the day progressed. The creatures were definitely getting closer. From the sounds of things, there was more than one cluster – probably several, maybe up to ten individual hordes. Even with weapons, they would be overrun in minutes. Getting out of the forest was a priority.

"We could always climb a tree if they catch up with us," Alan suggested at one point.

No one could tell if he was being serious or not.

Virgil gave him a gentle shove to keep walking. "We'll keep it in mind."


Great swathes of forest had been scorched to the ground. Skeletal trunks reached for the sky with desperate branches, bleached as white as bones. The destruction ran from the brow of the last hill across the grasslands, stopping just short of the horizon where a road had acted as a firebreak. Something metallic glinted in the sunlight just beyond the tarmac.

"Car?" Gordon suggested.

Virgil squinted. "Too big. Probably a water tower. Even if there's nothing in it, it'll make a great vantage point. We can check out the city before we walk headfirst into a trap, something like that."

"I'm more caught up with what caused this fire," Gordon replied quietly, dropping into a crouch to crush a scorched twig between his palms. All that remained were ashes. Animal carcasses were burnt beyond recognition – twisted corpses only identifiable as once living creatures by their teeth. He ducked his head, inhaling sharply as soot smeared his boots.

"The entire planet suffered fires in the immediate aftermath," John reminded him. "I know what you're thinking, but there's no evidence to support bandit activity."

"Except for the sudden increase in radiation," Gordon shot back without missing a beat. He straightened up, brushing his hands clean against the sleek black of his suit. "There's no way I'm the only one thinking it – the GDF dropped another nuke, right?"

He took a step deeper into the darkness where shadows became twisted into strange, monstrous shapes by broken branches. Underfoot, cremated bracken crumbled to dust with a series of sharp snaps. No one dared speak. Silence seemed treacherous, liable to shatter and tear the fragile world apart with its broken remains.

"We've got two cities to get through before we're on the homeward run for the Canadian border." Gordon's voice was hushed by ash and the distance between them. He was framed against a bleeding sunset and his suit seemed darker than ever in contrast, even the gold turned red by the light. "If the GDF have reached this far north already, we're running out of time. They might strike before we get there and then we'll be trapped between two radiation storms."

John was on the verge of making a snappy, sarcastic comment which wouldn't do anything to ease tensions. Virgil scuffed his shoes in the ash, looking suspiciously sick, expression mostly hidden behind his mask but eyes overly bright with empathy for all that had been lost. Alan was eerily still, frozen by the rubble of a fallen tree, ugly burns searing the ground where it had landed. Finch's tail was between her legs, ears flat, pressed as close to Alan's side as she could get, cowering behind him as if hiding from ghosts that only she could see.

There were tiny flakes of ash falling from the sky. Scott put out a hand and watched as one met his palm. It dissolved into fragmented dust. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to find his voice.

"Gordon."

Gordon jolted, trying to shake off uneasy thoughts. "Sorry, what?"

"Say you're right and we're running out of time…"

It wasn't a real question because Scott had concluded the same thing approximately ten minutes after first spying the new band of radioactive clouds, but Alan looked suspiciously jumpy and adding unnecessarily to anxiety was not the plan here. But the thing was, Gordon had held the family together for so long that he wouldn't risk tearing them apart again for no reason, so Scott was pretty sure his brother had a plan up his sleeve.

"Any ideas on how we get ahead of the game again?"

Gordon hesitated. "Maybe. There's a railway running directly from the other side of the city to the border, according to John's map, anyway."

John gave him a long look, as if assessing how idiotic the statement had been. "I highly doubt there are going to be trains running."

"Yeah, no shit. But if we can find a car with enough gas, or at least hotwire one which we can syphon gas into… The roads are mostly blocked but we could drive along the tracks as far as possible. I don't know what state they'll be in or if it's even feasible but it's better than travelling on foot because we'll never make it at this rate."

There was a brief pause in which Scott tried to recall how to syphon gas without accidentally blowing himself sky-high, promptly realised he had Virgil to show him how, and then silently questioned exactly why Virgil knew so many suspicious tricks such as lock picking and syphoning gas in the first place.

"That's not a completely terrible plan," John admitted grudgingly.

"Thanks," Gordon deadpanned.

Finch rumbled with a low growl, menacing and deadly in warning. Alan nearly jumped out of his skin, having been zoned out for the past five minutes. He grabbed Finch by the collar and tugged her gently backwards, behind the shield of the fallen tree where Virgil was already standing. Scott took a step closer to Gordon, eyeing the unburnt treeline for threat while his brother silently switched reached for the machete.

"Infected or bandit?" Gordon whispered.

"Place your bets now," Scott quipped, trying to stamp out nerves at the thought of crossing paths with bandits again. They'd barely escaped last time and even that hadn't been without repercussions.

John flipped a knife into his hand. "Infected."

There wasn't a single shred of doubt in his voice, as if he'd somehow seen the damn thing coming. Scott scoured the treeline but couldn't pick out any movements, so how the hell was John so sure?

Gordon echoed his thoughts. "How do you know?"

"You can sorta…" John gestured vaguely. "Feel them. They've got a presence." He shot Gordon a fond look. "A bit like your squid sense, I suppose. But really, can't you tell? There's one to the left, just within the trees."

"Johnny, what the fuck?" Gordon looked delighted. "I knew it – creepy alien senses."

Except John couldn't blame the contacts this time, so to quote Gordon, seriously, what the fuck? Unfortunately, there were other more pressing matters to focus on such as the zombie stumbling out of the woods, but Scott filed it away for later, because he couldn't figure out the puzzle, couldn't find a way to make all the pieces fit together but what little he could glimpse of the picture he already didn't like. Some diseases left side effects which lasted years, sometimes even an entire lifetime. What if they hadn't yet seen all the parasite's tricks?


Wildfires were easily one of the deadliest forces on Earth. Scott dreaded those rescues because they frequently turned into recovery missions and despite knowing there was nothing anyone could have done, it was still difficult to be too late to save someone. Fire was unpredictable. It was fast. If the flames didn't kill you, smoke inhalation probably would. In drought seasons, not even firebreaks could be enough to stop the inferno. Without careful management, wildfires could burn unchecked and destroy everything for miles. This had never been clearer than right now, when, standing at the brim of the hill, observing nothing but blackened turf and smoke-seared debris, turned bloody by an eerie sunset, Scott recalled seeing the Earth burn from Thunderbird Five.

Once upon a time, fires had given way to new life. Now, with such thick radiation and an atmosphere polluted by the wreckage of manmade materials, the planet struggled to recover. He found himself seeking the green shoots of fresh growth amid the ashes but there was nothing but dust. Maybe somewhere beneath the soil life remained curled up, just waiting, preparing for a time when the parasite's reign was over.

"Everything's dead."

Alan's voice seemed jarring in the silence. No one had spoken since leaving the healthy forest behind them – leaves shuddering in the face of the death bearing down on it. Scott had been keeping a death grip on the handle of his axe, lost in thought, and now, jolted back into reality, he relinquished the hold, flexing his hand with a wince at the cramps.

"That's not completely true," Gordon pointed out, reaching down to ruffle Finch's fur. "See? Dogs are still alive. We've seen stray cats and crows around too. There's probably a vulture out here somewhere."

"Where do you think vultures originate?" Virgil queried, vaguely amused.

Gordon whirled on him, delighted to be challenged in an area in which he had an unhealthy amount of knowledge. There was a reason why John tried to team up with him on Trivia nights.

"Turkey vultures are found as far north as southern Canada."

Alan frowned. "Hey, vultures are scavengers, right? So if they came across one of the infected, like a really decomposed one, and started eating it, would they get infected too? Because the parasite consumes biological material, so surely…? Unless it just feeds on human cells."

Gordon slung an arm around Alan's shoulders. "Let's find a vulture and test the theory."

"Wait, hang on a minute, he's got a point." Virgil slowed to a halt. "We were talking about crows surviving. Well, they've got to be eating something and the likelihood is that it's infected remains. But we haven't seen any zombified crows around, which suggests Alan's right and the parasite is only after human material."

"Humans are top of the food chain," John mused. "We're the ultimate threat. If a species wants to thrive, the best way to do that is to evolve to hide from the apex predator-"

"-Or find a way to dispose of that predator completely," Gordon finished for him in a rush. "Holy shit. That makes too much sense. It even found a way to infiltrate those of us in hiding, because all it has to do is find someone with immunity and hitch a ride inside the safehouse with them. It can jump ship and infect everyone else from there."

"That's too quick to be a survival method through evolution," Scott pointed out, quietly dreading Virgil's answer off the look on his face.

"It's not evolution," Virgil said faintly. "It's a conscious decision. The hive mind is already a working theory, but what if it goes beyond that?"

"What if it's actually sentient?" Alan held up his hands as four accusatory stares landed on him, voice pitching defensively. "What? We were all thinking it."

Gordon let out a nervous laugh. "This is so fucking creepy."

"If it's sentient, it can strategize." John stared at the sinking sun, voice distant. "We might think we're ahead, but it could be manipulating us every step of the way. We could be playing directly into its hands."

"I don't think it's that clever," Scott cut in. "Why would it want the GDF nuking cities? Clearly that's not part of its strategy."

The resounding silence was unsettling when surrounded by such an eerie landscape. They still had several miles of arid wasteland yet to cross and the scorched remains of a once rich and vibrant forest were a stark reminder of the state of the world – mostly broken down to rubble and ash. There was something distinctly threatening about the sight of jagged branches against a crimson sky. It invoked a primal fear somewhere deep in the mind, inviting paranoia and mistrust. Scott would go as far as to say he preferred the urban dystopias. At least there were places to hide there. Here, they were entirely exposed. If that horde caught up to them, not even Alan's climbing strategy would be possible, and he was under no false pretences as to who would win that fight.

Distantly, something cracked. It was probably several miles off, but night was falling and sound travelled further across dark and desolate landscapes. Alan planted a hand on Finch's head as if to ground himself.

"We should get moving," Scott muttered, rolling his shoulders against the oppressive unease which had settled there. The axe seemed heavier than usual. He lofted it higher and repressed a wince. Metal was stained ochre with gore and guts glinted red in the dull dusk. It looked cruel against the sky, edges uneven where metal had chipped bone and smashed into concrete. Maybe not cruel, he realised in a sickening rush, but exactly what it was – a weapon, intended to kill.

Sometimes he wondered whether destiny was real or if people made their own fates. Were some people pre-destined to stain their hands with blood? Did others simply lack that capability, born of light rather than darkness? Or was it a choice?

'No one gets to save the world by keeping their hands clean, kid,' Grandma had once told him after a rescue had resulted in a difficult choice – only time to save one person but with two lives on the line: the trolley problem in real life.

Darkness swept across the land in a visible cloak, dripping from the sky over soot-stained debris. Scott could physically see the sunlight fading. This place felt wrong on so many levels. He'd once played in a graveyard as a little kid and the feeling had been similar – a sense of trespassing mixed with the haze of death, as if staying too long would result in being sucked beneath the ground to join the corpses. There was an itch underneath his skin to sprint, just start running and not stop until he found a place where he could close his eyes without that overwhelming terror straight outta his childhood. It didn't matter how badly it ached to breathe out here, how fiercely the ash stung in his throat – fleeing would be worth the pain. It was the first time he could recall leaning towards flight over fight in a long time – something that his scarred knuckles could attest to – which was mildly ironic given it was also the first occasion where he didn't have a choice about it.

"It looks like the Upside Down," Alan whispered, falling into step at Scott's side. "Don't you think? With the red sky and the tree branches like that?"

Scott had watched Stranger Things in snatches a very long time ago between rescues when Alan had first been obsessed with it – the kid had been going through a retro phase, watching all of Dad's old favourite childhood shows. He could vaguely recall the scenery. Now, examining the crimson-washed landscape around them, observing the strange creations the smoke made along the horizon, he had to admit that Alan had a point.

"Which one of us is gonna be the kid with superpowers?"

Alan didn't play along with the joke. He sounded more tired if anything. It was a painful contrast to his laughter yesterday by the river. Why couldn't time just freeze? Or have a rewind button?

"John."

Scott glanced at him. "Huh?"

"John has the superpowers," Alan elaborated. He scuffed the ground with his shoe. "Cos, y'know, he comes the closest, right? He can sense the infected coming. It's like he can see into the hive mind or something."

Scott nearly choked on his own inhale and this time he couldn't lay blame to the dust. He sought John out amid the corpses. Dark clothing made him difficult to pinpoint, especially at night when that leather jacket seemed to meld with the air, but the Chuck Taylors he'd been forced to steal after his boots had met with an unfortunate end were a vivid splash of colour against the gloom.

Alan's theory made too much sense. John had been predicting the creatures' actions with uncanny accuracy ever since leaving the bunker. Scott had been trying to pretend it was simply clever observations but there was definitely another factor at play. What was more, he suspected John already knew too. No wonder he was so quick to throw himself into fights – he was the only one who could be confident about how the infected would attack, sensing movements before the creature actually struck. It wasn't merely intense practise with the knife, but something more, something undeniably inhuman. They'd all made jokes as a family about Gordon's squid sense, but this was different.

Alan's steps faltered. "What did I say?"

"Nothing."

The reply was instinctive, and Scott tried to ignore Alan's crestfallen expression at being shut out yet again.

"I'm just overthinking," he amended, but the damage had already been done as Alan picked up the pace until he was almost in the lead save for Virgil, Finch trailing after him with a single worried glance back.

Faintly, an infected called to the night. The darker it got, the further the shrieks travelled so that the agonised howls of those too decomposed to flee echoed in the shadows as the creatures slowly succumbed to radiation.

Gordon knocked their shoulders together violently enough to send Scott stumbling. "You alright?"

"I was until you decided to barge into me. What the hell?"

Gordon sought a defence and came up empty handed. "You looked like you were thinking too much," he settled for saying, ducking his head to hide his expression. There was blood over his boots again despite having cleaned them only yesterday at the river. "Thinking gets you killed. It's action or nothing out here, you know that. You can't go checking out in the middle of the field."

Scott slowed to a halt. For a second, the only sounds were the gentle screech of old powerlines swaying in the wind and the rustle of ashes across arid ground. Then the constant screams of dying infected carried on the next breeze, desolate and chilling. Gordon paused, one foot hovering above a crumbled tree branch stained by rusty blood.

"What?"

"Something doesn't feel right."

Gordon repressed a shudder. "I know."

"You feel it too?"

"Like back in New Zealand?" Gordon crushed the fallen branch beneath his heel. Old blood flaked away from the dusty remains to mix with red dust. "I don't know," he said softly, more of a breathed whisper than actual words. "Maybe we're just paranoid."

Scott eyed the glint of a knife. It was the only thing still visible beyond wavering flashlight beams and the hint of a green glowstick in Alan's hand. Something deep down itched with distrust, whispering of a threat while the world still looked empty for miles. He dug his heels into the potholed dirt until earth crumbled underfoot. Something wasn't right. His instincts had been accurate too often for him to ignore them now.

Gordon followed his gaze. "Now you're definitely being paranoid."

"Am I?"

"It's John. The guy's weird even on a good day." Gordon dropped the jokester act. "Okay, all cards on the table right now: there's something he's not telling us, but it doesn't mean… I don't even know what you're thinking, but whatever it is, you're wrong."

"You're also thinking it then."

"I never said that. I think my point was that whatever you're thinking I'm not thinking." Gordon frowned, trying to puzzle out the sentence. "Or something. Shit, now I've confused myself." He slapped Scott's bicep. "C'mon, start walking before I have to drag you."

Scott picked up the pace but didn't take his eyes off that knife. Gordon didn't leave his side, grip on his machete tighter than ever so that the gold seams of his GDF suit looked as if they were digging into his knuckles. His shoulders were tight with tension, stepping lightly like a predator when they were all very conscious they were now the prey.

"It's John," Gordon repeated after a terse silence. He took a small sip of dusty water from the canister and tried not to cough, side-eyeing Scott in the semi-gloom. "Isn't that reason enough to give him the benefit of the doubt?"

"He's not acting like himself." Scott stole the water, snatching the excuse to be quiet while he sorted his thoughts. He ignored the chalky taste, too focussed on the figures caught between flashlight beams. Half the time John didn't seem as if he was even present and the rest of it was spent in a state of hypervigilance, as if he were following orders which no one else could hear.

Gordon twisted the flashlight between his palms. "No one's acting normal," he pointed out quietly, watching the dust form ghosts in the beam. "We've all changed."

"I know."

"So… what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we don't really have a goddam clue how this parasite works. We know it has a hive mind. We know it only attacks humans. We know it can be killed by radiation and that fire weakens it. But who says that's a permanent fix?"

Gordon bit back a retort. "He's fine."

"Uh huh."

"He seems better than before."

"Could hardly have gotten worse."

"Frankly, I think we should be more concerned about Alan. Yeah, so Johnny's acting a lil crazy. So fucking what? It's the apocalypse, I think we're all entitled to lose our minds to a certain extent. Cut him some slack, Scott."

Distantly, something rumbled. It was impossible to distinguish whether it was fire or an explosion and it was too dark to make out smoke. Scott looked to Gordon. Gordon shoved the machete over his shoulder into its holder and strode ahead into the darkness. Finch's faint bark shattered the still air. All around, the world glowed crimson, interspersed by dark shapes where battered trees dared to brave the oncoming radiation storm.

"Scott," Virgil called, muffled by his mask. "Did you get lost or something?"

He broke into a jog, shifting into a sprint as if the hounds of hell themselves were after him, heart still hammering when he caught up with his brothers. In the glow of several flashlights, Gordon looked away, but John stared at him with an unreadable expression.

Scott met his gaze. "What?"

"Nothing." John flipped the knife between his hands. "Just… thinking."


Morning brought a dull dawn, grey and lifeless like the ash which was slowly falling. Great flakes buried the path ahead, burying their tracks just as quickly. It was hard to breathe, masks coated in dust but the atmosphere too thick to risk removing them. Exhaustion made everyone snappy, quick to temper, judgement cast as quickly as the clouds on the horizon seemed to grow.

It was only a few more miles until they reached a proper road. Gordon stumbled free of the ruined forest and dropped to his knees on the tarmac, stopping just short of actually kissing the ground.

"Civilisation, finally."

Virgil kicked excess dust off his boots. "Civilisation also means more infected, remember?"

"It's pretty dang hard to forget," Gordon pointed out. He caught Virgil's offered hand and hauled himself upright, examining the road ahead. "How many more miles before we reach that water tower, you reckon?"

"Couple of hours walking," Scott guessed. Their progress was slowing but no one wanted to admit it. Rations were running low. Half the time he was fighting spots at the corners of his vision, but he didn't want to confess that either. Although based off the scrutinising stare Virgil kept treating him to, a confession probably wasn't necessary.

"A couple of hours?" Alan glowered at his inhaler (stolen by Virgil from a pharmacy early on in their adventures post-GDF bunker to ease the coughing fits) as if it were personally responsible. "Aw, man. Can't someone invent teleportation already?"

"Find a radio," Gordon quipped. "Suggest it to Brains."

Alan stifled a laugh. "Hey, remember that time he actually made me a lightsaber because I bet him he wouldn't be able to invent it in real life?"

Scott could vividly recall that incident thank-you-very-much, including the fire which had followed. There was a reason there were no longer curtains in the Den and it had nothing to do with a change in décor. Part of him wanted to laugh at the memory, but the rest of him wanted to move the subject on ASAP, because Virgil looked suspiciously tearful. He was beaten to it by a familiar howl which sounded distinctly too close for comfort.

"Okay, that?" Alan gestured wildly to the road behind them. "That's not just fleeing the radiation. That thing is definitely tracking us."

"How? We're downwind and the ash is covering our prints." Gordon didn't hang around to continue deliberating the finer points of the creatures' abilities.

Alan jogged to catch up with him, nearly triggering another coughing fit. Gordon eyed him with a judgmental stare which practically sang wow you're an idiot but patted him on the back all the same while Alan tried to ignore the rattle which proved the inhaler was beginning to run out.

"John," Scott prompted, trying to stay quiet because they had no idea just how close that infected truly was. "Hey." He waved a hand in front of his brother's face.

John swatted him away. "I'm thinking."

"About?"

"Theories."

"Care to share with the class?"

John sent him a souring look. "No. You wouldn't understand and I can't be bothered to simplify to a kindergarten level."

"Sometimes," Scott informed him slowly, trying not to snap, "you can be a real asshole."

"Finally," John muttered, so that Scott nearly missed the words. "Something we can agree on."

And-

Scott whirled around and stalked back to him, voice low so as not to alert Gordon or Alan or Virgil, leading their little party onwards.

"Explain."

"I don't take orders from you."

"You don't take orders from anyone, John, so consider this a polite request for you to start talking."

John let the quiet settle, only it dragged on and eventually it dawned on Scott that he was being given the silent treatment. He shot John an incredulous look only to have his brother suddenly become very invested with studying the path ahead, as if each crevice or pothole could be a threat.

"I don't get it," he whispered, trying not to let the hurt leak into his voice but oh look, there it was anyway, making him sound like a petulant child. He curled a hand into a fist only the orange lines of the suit reminded him that this was borrowed clothing, that every part of him was made up of the people around him and the only parts that were truly original were the parts he didn't like and wasn't that fun?

So.

"I don't get it," he repeated, struggling to keep his voice level. "Why are you pushing me away? Did I do something? Are you angry with me? I thought we were making progress the other night, but now we're right back to square one. Worse than that, actually, and I don't get it, John, so explain it to me. Please. If I fucked up, just tell me."

John kicked a stray pebble until it rattled into the gutter.

"You didn't fuck up," he said heavily, tone laced with that particular vein of tiredness. "It's not- You didn't do anything, okay? I'm just- It's me. It's all on me."

And that, right there?

Too goddam familiar.

How many broken mirrors had originated from similar words in a similar thread of exhaustion? The answer was actually three, because Scott still had the scars webbing across his knuckles and could count each fine line and the incident which had sparked every thrown fist. It was a slippery slope into a nose-dive that took a lot of tricky perseverance to climb out of again and he refused to watch anyone else go down that road.

"Hey." His voice came out too soft, too gentle, and John flinched. "Talk to me, Johnny."

Up ahead, Virgil and Gordon had fallen silent, trying to pretend like they weren't eavesdropping, while Alan picked burrs and bits of ash out of Finch's fur. The sky was still that harsh red, mixing with deep blue at the highest point, but it looked sickly, like even the top of the atmosphere was beginning to break down.

Scott stepped in front so that John was forced to stop walking.

"Get out of my way."

"No."

"I said I don't want to talk about this."

"Except that's bullshit, right? Because you do want to talk about it, you're just…"

"Just what?"

"Scared," Scott finished, and John looked up sharply, as if he'd been slapped by the words, sort of shellshocked but also undeniably vulnerable, wrapping his arms around himself as he took a step back out of reach. It stung far more than landing on glass ever had done.

"Maybe," he confessed in a very small voice.

The creature's howl was a lot closer this time. Scott yanked the axe free and started running, John at his heels, because fighting may once have been an easier choice, but they were burning too many calories. Or maybe running was just what they did now. Scott missed the days when they didn't.


They reached the water tower just before sunset. It was stuck out in a field between an outcrop of trees, a dirt track leading to a collection of houses which could barely call themselves a village, and a set of crop-fields overrun by weeds. In the setting light the metal rim glowed gold, seeming impossibly high.

Finch snuffled at one of the struts and promptly deemed it safe, flopping on her back to demand belly rubs. Alan sank to his heels and then into a slump against the side of the ladder, gathering the dog into his lap so he give her the full attention she deserved, combing leaves out of her fur with his fingers. It could have been the poor lighting, but he looked significantly paler than he had done that morning, hair dark with sweat, faintly shivery even with the thermal layers of his suit.

Gordon shrugged his backpack free and tightened his laces. "No one eat my jerky."

"Literally no one would want to," Alan snarked, although Finch's ears pricked at the mention of food.

Virgil lowered his water bottle. "You're climbing up there straight away?"

"Yeah, why not? We're running short on time." Gordon planted one foot on the lowest rung of the ladder. "Anyone else fancy coming?"

Scott deposited his own bag and the axe at Virgil's feet. "Sure."

The water tower was either taller than it looked from the ground, or that calorie deficit was beginning to take its toll. Frankly, a combination of the two was the most likely. It took far longer to climb the ladder than anticipated, ending in a rather humiliating collapse once they reached the top, gasping for breath like fish outta water. Cold metal was a relief against overheated skin, sweaty fabric overly clingy in the arid atmosphere. Scott rolled the water bottle over to Gordon and remained flopped on his back for a few more minutes without speaking, drinking in the clearest view of the sky he'd gotten in days. Sometimes, when the setting sun turned the clouds golden like this and brief snatches of lavender-laced blue could be spied, the longing to fly was a physical weight on his chest.

"You okay?" Gordon finally ground out, rolling over to push himself up on his elbows. "Man, this is just embarrassing. I can't believe we got our asses handed to us by a ladder."

"More humiliating for you, Olympian."

Gordon let out a sharp laugh. "Throw me in the nearest pool – I bet I can still leave any of you in the dust."

"Think I'll pass, thanks. My pride's already taken too many hits today."

There was a brief scuffle as Gordon kicked his boots off to wander across the smooth metal in bare feet, rolling his GDF suit down to his waist to revel in the breeze available at this height. Scott returned his sights to the sky. Voices from below were too faint to distinguish. Finch's quiet barks were accompanied by a whistle and presumably a thrown stick. He closed his eyes against beckoning clouds and the vivid amber line where sunset bled into oncoming night. The air was still thick with dust, heavy and red as if the sky had been wounded.

Sometimes, insignificant moments resurfaced from the subconscious, as vivid as if you were actually reliving them – a similar sunset spent on the concrete wall framing a rooftop parking lot, sneakers knocking dust from aviation fumes outta the brickwork below, a green bottle bleeding condensation into a white tee and the waistband of his Levi's, heart still accelerated from maxing out at hypersonic speeds in a fighter jet designed to fly just below the perimeter of space. That had been a peaceful sunset further lulled by cheap drink and good company, discussions of training manuals discarded in favour of future plans post-academy, who was hooking up with who, dream deployments and so on.

Those rare snatches of youth had seemed so unimportant at the time but were now the sort of naivety one could only dream of. Back then, he'd tipped backwards to lie flat along the brim of the wall, scaring the shit outta his wingman at the time – 'Goddamn, Tracy, if you fall off that shit I swear… If your old man comes looking for someone to blame, please let it be known that I warned you to stay away from the edge, but would you listen? 'Course not, you're Scott fucking Tracy, pushing the dang limits all the time.'

Which, in hindsight, was vaguely amusing, because good ole Pretzel – not the most glamourous of callsigns but one which was apt if you'd ever seen the guy in a post-workout winddown, claiming yoga was key to not crippling your spine in a cockpit every day – had spent most of his time egging Scott on in whatever daredevil scheme he'd cooked up – normally involving a multimillion-dollar jet worth more than his own soul, but hey, what the hell, he was Jeff Tracy's son and he had to make his reputation as colourful as possible if he was ever going to be seen as his own person. He had no idea why this particular memory was returning to him now.

The sun stained the backs of his eyes so he couldn't escape the red even with an arm thrown over his face. He crossed his arms beneath his head and craned his neck to glimpse the highest feathers of a peachy cloud, fraying at the top where the wind was tearing it apart. Sometimes he felt like he didn't exist but then there were the alternate occasions where it seemed as if there was lightning under his skin which could only be eased by a replacement real adrenaline rush or several drinks. Right now, the lightning was out in full force, but the blurriness in his vision was due to malnourishment rather than liquor and his mind was moving too fast for him to catch up. The only way to quieten thoughts in his experience was outfly them but he didn't have access to any wings, and it was beginning to look doubtful whether he ever would again.

A shadow fell across his face. He squinted up at Gordon, framed against the sunset, crouched to flick him square in the centre of the forehead like a goddamn hellion – although he couldn't really complain about Gordon's antics given he'd helped raise the guy.

"What?" he ground out in place of a fond smile, convinced Gordon could read the affection off his face anyway. "Anything I should know?"

"Eh." Gordon dropped down to sit beside him, criss-cross-applesauce like a little kid. He tipped back to lean on his hands, chin slanted towards the sun, the metal flash of GDF-issued dog-tags distinctive against his bare chest. "Nothing major. More infected clusters, but we can probably avoid them. Looks like a clear run between here and the city otherwise."

Scott eyed the dog tags. "When did you pick up those?"

"Had 'em since Day One. All Scouts got a set, in case… Some of those things aren't identifiable and- An unfinished story is worse than an unhappy ending, right?" Gordon slid to sprawl on his back, flinging an arm vaguely in Scott's direction only to accidentally whack him in the stomach. "Oops."

"I hate you," Scott informed him between wheezes. "You're a menace."

Gordon beamed. "Aw, thanks. I aim to please."

The sun dipped lower. It was a hazy warmth, easy to fall asleep in if you could forget the poisonous dust probably infiltrating their masks.

"Hey," Gordon whispered. "We're gonna make it, right?"

"What, back home or…?"

"No, I mean… We're gonna make it through this."

Once upon a time, during his first year of USAF but several months into training, Scott had felt fucking invincible up there, like nothing could touch him. Flash forward a few years and that belief promptly crashed and burned and then was beaten into the ground for good measure. He was under no false pretences as to whether someone could bend the odds in their own favour just for a happier ending.

"Yeah," he replied softly, not quite a lie but not the entire truth because he knew all too well that the real answer in full had been, 'yeah, just not all of us', and he was terrified about whose names would end up in the history books before they finished saving the future.

The ideal situation was all five of them making it out alive. The second-best scenario was four and he was very, very conscious of who those four should entail. So, the world was ending but he had to find ways to treasure small moments such as watching a sunset with his little brother from the top of a shitty water tower, because he'd accepted a long time ago that he wasn't making it through this. He just wasn't going to say it aloud. Maybe they could tell in the way he held on just a little tighter these days, but hey, losing people was all too easy, so perhaps that could just be excused as well-deserved fear.

"Whatever you're thinking," Gordon murmured, just audible above the din of mozzies creeping out from the undergrowth and the tank itself, "Please stop." He inhaled sharply. "Please."

"I'm not thinking anything," Scott lied. "Just… uh…" He gestured vaguely at the sky. "Feeling, more than anything, I guess? Sometimes it hits me just how much I miss being up there."

Gordon was quiet for a moment.

"Head in the clouds, huh?" he said at last, too soft to pass off as teasing.

"Head in the clouds," Scott confirmed quietly.

Gordon caught his hand and held on tightly. "I can think of worse thoughts. Maybe stay in the sky for a little while longer, yeah?"

"I'm alright."

"Bullshit." Gordon sighed. "It's a nice sunset though, I'll grant you that."

"Guess there's some beauty left in the world."

"Yeah." Gordon's grip tightened a fraction. "I guess."