Early chapter, whoo!
Ever since the world had ended, a series of unofficial rules had been drawn up. If you kept to them, your chances of survival increased. Not by much, admittedly, but it was still an uptick from certain death. These rules would form the basis of a survival guide to the zombie apocalypse – provided anyone ever got around to writing that – and one of them was: don't travel at night.
It was fairly obvious. The parasite seemed to have a sixth sense for thermal signatures and could track the smell of a healthy human from several miles away. In the daytime, you could see the creatures coming and so could evade them fairly easily if you were smart about it, but at night you lost that edge and so the playing field became levelled. That was when things got dangerous. The infected didn't need their sight. Humans were at a distinct disadvantage. Also, everything just seemed so much worse at night. Broken cities were creepy enough during the day, but they were nightmarish in the dark.
But morning was too far away. There were still several hours until midnight, let alone dawn. They couldn't afford to wait that long. Scott was suddenly very glad he'd spent much of the day asleep as, combined with his adrenaline rush, he didn't feel too bad. He remained with John while Virgil stashed as many supplies into the rucksacks as possible. Alan hovered by the front-facing windows, keeping an eye on the street outside in case any rotters had followed John. Upstairs, Gordon's steps tracked back-and-forth between rooms as he gathered weapons.
Finch's fur bristled. She refused to move any closer, remaining by the front door with her hackles raised. Alan swung a flashlight across the street, illuminating the mangled body of a dead cat in the gutter. Shadows were disconcerting. It was difficult to tell where the real monsters lurked.
Gordon half-sprinted, half-slid down the stairs. "We're running low on ammo." He slid another knife up his sleeve. "Virg, you ready?"
"Six blocks," Alan whispered, and Scott nearly jumped, not having noticed his brother approach and crouch at his side until Alan was suddenly right there. "That's not too far. We can make that."
"We're gonna have to make it," Gordon muttered on his way past. He was trailing mud through the house. Scott glanced down to the blood stains on off-white carpet and wondered about past residents who had lived here. He adjusted his hand over John's pulse and tried to repress thoughts of the old world.
Alan reached out cautiously. Scott was reminded vaguely of how Alan had once looked when trying to convince himself to touch a snake at a petting zoo and was struck with the hysterical thought of, don't worry, he won't bite you, Al. Because, well. Who knew? John's vitals were human enough according to Virgil's rudimentary survey, but appearances suggested otherwise.
"He feels hypothermic," Alan noted with an empathetic shiver. He wrapped a hand around John's wrist. "If it's the infection, shouldn't he be feverish instead? That's how the body fights, right? Burns out the parasite? That's why he was burning up back at the bunker. And if fire weakens the parasite, does the cold strengthen it?"
Gordon tossed one of the rucksacks to him. "Alan, quit being clever and start being useful."
Rain flooded gutters to spill over the road outside. Dark water washed blood and soot from the street. Sodden scraps of old advertisements and takeout leaflets formed a congealed mess which clung to the soles of boots like glue. The rain was so thick that visibility became a challenge – it was difficult to glimpse even the row of houses opposite.
"We couldn't have picked worse conditions if we'd tried," Gordon commented under his breath, loitering in the doorway as he scoured the street ahead. He turned back to face them with forced optimism. "Six blocks. That's nothing."
Virgil looked at him for a long moment without saying a word.
Gordon dropped the pretence.
"Ready?" he asked gently, trying to glimpse Virgil's expression in the flashlight. He hoisted one of the rucksacks over his shoulder, voice dropping to a whisper. "Virg. I need to know that your head's in the game."
Virgil stuck a hand over the threshold to let rain drip between his splayed fingers. The night appeared impossibly dark. Tiny fires burnt like eyes high up within the sockets of broken windows where skyscrapers struggled to remain standing. Alan moved to stand at his side, baseball bat clutched tightly between the stained blue of his gloves, expression unreadable in the gloom outside of the flashlight rays.
Gordon waited but didn't push.
Virgil turned away from the rain. "Let's go."
Deeper in the city, an old subway system was swamped with water. Flooded streets drew rats to the surface. They were scrawny, smart things – skinny but surviving. Their fur was plastered to their skin and when they moved en-mass they looked like an oil slick. Rain washed down the tarmac as they fled but Scott swore he could practically smell the disease. Decomposing bodies of rats littered the gutters and gaping wounds showed where the living had torn chunks out of their dead relatives.
"Cannibalism," Alan whispered to himself, expression pinched in disgust.
It was a commercial setting – more shops and shuttered coffeehouses as opposed to the residential streets they had left behind a few blocks back. Scott had lost count of both time and steps. He had no idea how far they'd walked or how long it had been. His attention was torn between John's prone form in Virgil's arms and putting his own feet one in front of the other. Pain wrapped around his ribs like a vice and maintained steady pressure while rain kept him shivering.
Alan was jumpy, swinging the bat at anything that moved, from a slippery rat to broken glass glistening in the flashlight. He'd developed a way of walking which kept his steps light and prevented even those heavy-soled boots from making much noise. He seemed to glide along the road, which only added to his ghost-like appearance as the flashlight turned his hair white in the dull glow. He left Finch to her own devices, trusting her to stick close. She trailed at his heels, bedraggled in the force of the rain but alert in the face of danger, ears pricked.
Parts of the city were in good shape. Residential blocks were mostly unchanged, just swamped in ash and the occasional smear of residual blood. Other areas were almost completely destroyed. There was more damage closer to the hospital where people had flooded for medical treatment only to realise it was a death sentence.
Gordon pinned a partly collapsed road sign under his heel and examined the letters, gesturing left. Alan switched hands on the bat and kept to the centre of the street, eyeing the shadowy depths of scorched shopfronts as if a rotter were about to jump out at him. Gordon patted him on the back and offered a small nod to be met with a pained smile.
Oddly enough, the hospital itself didn't look too badly damaged. At least not externally. Scott wondered whether the true horrors lay within. The entrance looked as if it were bleeding where rust had dripped from the fixed letters. Cream paintwork had been scorched. He leant heavily against the wall for a moment to catch his breath. Gordon slipped past to scout the front lobby for threat, gun raised in anticipation. There were no immediate signs of trouble, so he waved them forwards.
No one was willing to hang around. It was worth facing those foreboding shadows if it meant escaping the rain. Although, as Scott shone a flashlight on the giant red cross painted over the side of the building, he couldn't fight the crawling unease that they were walking into a trap. He hesitated at the entrance, craning his neck to glimpse humanoid shapes along the top floor. It was impossible to tell whether it was just another trick of the light. He nearly jumped outta his skin when a hand gently touched his upper back.
Gordon frowned, lowering the flashlight to avoid blinding him. "You good?"
Scott stared at the expanse of empty windows.
"Yeah," he replied, trying to shake himself out of the strange trance. "Just… thinking."
"Do you maybe want to do that thinking inside where we're not at risk of contracting pneumonia?"
Despite the joking lilt to his words, Gordon couldn't quite keep the concern off his face. He tugged lightly at Scott's sleeve.
"Hey. Scott. C'mon man, we've gotta go."
Rain cascaded from the rooftop, thunderous against concrete. Alan's and Virgil's flashlights cast strange patterns through the glass doors of the lobby. Scott threw a final glance over his shoulder and left abandoned ambulances and decayed rats behind him.
Unsurprisingly, there was no working power. Alan vanished behind the front desk, ducking underneath to access the cupboards. Drawers screeched on metal rollers when he yanked them open, rifling through various files until he retrieved a paper copy of the building plans.
"Check this out."
He smacked the folder onto the desktop and smoothed creases out of the map. Gordon shone the flashlight over his shoulder.
"Floor plans," Alan clarified, knocking the flashlight aside slightly as the glare reflected off the map surface.
He snagged a red biro from a pot on the desk to circle a tiny room, catching the pen cap between his teeth.
"This-" He spat the cap onto the floor with an indignant scowl. "This," he continued, no longer muffled by plastic, "is a backup generator room. We should be able to get some of the power back online."
Virgil directed a flashlight down a corridor. "I'm the medic between us. I can't leave John, not until I've got his vitals stabilised."
Gordon studied the map, committing details to memory. "I've got a rough idea of what I'm doing, but I could do with a second opinion. Scott, you've got the most engineering experience after Virgil. Are you up for another walk?" He tapped one of the supply rooms. "We could pick up some pain meds on the way."
Scott instinctively went to agree, then paused. He turned to catch Virgil's gaze. "That leaves you without protection."
"I've got a gun." Virgil couldn't look at him. "I've gotten my hands bloody already, no point in holding back now. Besides, sound carries in empty buildings – if you hear Finch barking then you know we've run into trouble. We can barricade the door, hold them off until you reach us. Just…" He stood up, wiping his palms against his jeans, suddenly looking exhausted. "Be careful, alright? Please. No heroics. Don't push yourself, Scott. If I had my way you wouldn't even be out of bed yet, but we didn't get much of a choice about it."
Scott carefully folded the map. "I'll take it easy."
Virgil sent him a look of utter disbelief.
"I'll look out for him," Gordon assured, checking the ammo on his gun. He slid it back into its holster and slung an arm around Alan's shoulders. "You gonna be okay?"
Alan shrugged. "I'm of more use here than with you guys. I've got pretty decent medical knowledge."
It wasn't denial or confirmation, and Gordon didn't look particularly reassured, but time was ticking, so he stepped away, clapped a hand to Scott's good arm, and steeled himself for a trek into the darkness.
Scott hesitated. "Virgil?"
Virgil glanced up. "I've got this. Go get the lights back on."
"And watch your back," Alan warned.
Gordon flashed a grin. "He's got me for that."
Let it be known that Scott harboured several strong feelings towards hospitals. On one hand they were fantastic places which had saved both his own life and the lives of the people he loved on multiple occasions. On the other, he hated them. They were clinical and unfeeling and put him on edge. He associated them more with death than with life. It was as if the walls were physically saturated with grief and fear. But if he strongly disliked hospitals, then Gordon detested them. In this regard they were probably the worst duo to have been paired together in such a location.
"Somehow," Gordon ventured, swiping a cobweb out of his face, "I think these places are worse when they're abandoned."
Scott shot him a doubtful look. "Really?"
"Hell no," Gordon shot back instantly with a breathless grin. "They're creepy as hell with or without people. Or, you know, zombies. It's just… hospitals, man. Even in the apocalypse I can't escape them."
The joking tone was laced with anxiety. Scott didn't call him out on it. There was a lot to be worried about. At least searching for the generator room gave them something to focus on other than the way their lives seemed to be falling apart for the hundredth time.
Most houses they'd come across were perfectly preserved. Those in rural areas were practically immaculate, as if time had simply stopped. Those people had been given sufficient warning to evacuate and so had had chance to gather their belongings and tidy up, presumably having expected to return within a few days. In the larger towns and cities, there was more chaos. The infection had spread quicker in densely populated areas and many residents ran out of time to escape. It had been a bloodbath and this carnage was evident on the streets and, additionally, within this hospital. Scott surmised that people had fled here in the hopes of finding treatment or some sort of information only to discover the infection had already overrun most wards. He wondered whether other public buildings were in a similar state.
While houses were mostly intact, the hospital stood in ruins. Blood stained the walls. Old handprints smeared the floor in gore where an infected had dragged a victim through a set of doors into a now empty ward. Paper curtains flapped wildly in the wind through broken windows. A metal bed frame held a sagging mattress. Medical equipment stood gathering dust.
Gordon peered over Scott's shoulder. "Like I said – creepy as hell."
"Creepy," Scott confirmed in a hoarse whisper.
He stepped away from the sight, heading back into the shadows. The flashlight reflected off strange shards on the floor. They crunched underfoot – a mixture of plaster and plastic. He raised the beam to discover gaping holes where ceiling panels had come away. A mess of wires dangled in the spaces like tangled veins. The hospital seemed a gigantic creature, long dead and slowly being torn apart for the elements to perform an autopsy. There was something very uncomfortable about a modern space in such a state of decay. It was unsettling. Eerie. The faint thunder in his head made thinking difficult, queasy in the face of a low fever. He was suddenly very grateful for Gordon's presence.
There were many broken windows. Doors had been torn off their hinges. Wind funnelled through the twisting space to sound like the wails of a grieving woman. Gordon fell into step beside Scott, knocking elbows in a way which could have been perceived as clumsy, but Scott knew was really just his brother seeking comfort through touch.
The wind grew louder as they walked parallel to a row of empty window frames. Below, the city laid in darkness – miles upon miles of blood-slicked concrete. Rain swept through the broken glass. There were thick puddles littering the floor. In the dim light, they looked more than mere water.
"Sounds like someone screaming," Scott commented under his breath.
Gordon shivered, shouldering his hoodie closer. It struck a strange contrast – gentle cotton against the metal seams of his GDF suit underneath – softness versus sharp edges, all blending together. He adjusted his grip on the knife.
"Screaming?" He wiped the rain from his face, continuing in a small, tight voice, "More like crying."
Scott glanced at him. It was difficult to read Gordon's expression, hidden within the shadows outside of the flashlight beam. They continued in silence for a short while. There were more lightning strikes hitting east of the city and when the light flashed it revealed a sky the colour of bruised purple. Scott zoned out a little – something which he would have torn himself a new one for on an ordinary day, but fever kept his judgement clouded and slowed his thinking until even something as simple as walking seemed clumsy. He nearly smacked into a wall before Gordon caught his arm and tugged him back into the centre of the corridor.
"Dude," Gordon was saying, taut and snappy. "Where's your head at?"
"Um," Scott said eloquently, which was hardly reassuring. He swallowed, fighting nausea. The attempt wasn't particularly successful. He planted a hand against peeling wallpaper and ducked his head, screwing his eyes shut as he willed himself not to hurl in the middle of an abandoned hospital where there could be rotters lurking around every corner. He didn't realise he was sliding down the wall until Gordon caught him and guided him the rest of the way down so that he didn't accidentally smash his tailbone against concrete or give himself a concussion or just black out completely.
"Jesus," Gordon whispered, eyes wide and concerned, owlish in the pale glare of the flashlight. He yanked his mask down so that his voice was less muffled. "Scott? Are you gonna throw up? You look like you might."
Stop talking about it or I definitely will, Scott thought at him, but Gordon was neither a mind-reader nor Virgil and so didn't understand.
The corridor seemed to be warping. Scott blinked away raindrops, but no, the walls still appeared to be swaying. He folded over his knees, breathing heavily. He couldn't tell if his ears were ringing or if it was just the wind. It was suddenly freezing. In the full force of the wind through the broken windows he was shivering. When he tried to wrap his arms around himself – which ow, regret, he'd forgotten about the bites on his bad shoulder for a moment – he couldn't make his hands work properly. They were all shaky and uncooperative and looked as though they didn't belong to him.
"Okay," Gordon murmured, sinking into a crouch.
He acted as a windbreaker and Scott wished he'd move closer so that he could fall into his brother's arms because Gordon was warm.
"Yeah, this sucks, I know, but you're okay." Gordon made a face as Scott proceeded to double over and retch onto blood-stained tiles. "Oh shit, we're going there. Yeesh. That's- Yeah, just uh… Better out than in, right?" He tentatively put a hand on Scott's back and Scott let out a strangled sound that was humiliatingly close to a sob. "Aw man. It's okay, Scooter. I've gotcha."
The wind was icy. Scott swore his teeth were chattering. At the very least, he was shaking like a leaf, and yet his shirt was damp with sweat. He examined his arm where his sleeve had ridden up and discovered goose bumps.
Gordon retracted his hand in favour of fully wrapping an arm around Scott's shoulders.
"Shit, Scotty," he whispered, tightening his hold as Scott melted against his side. "You're really burning up."
"M'not," Scott protested feebly. "Cold."
"Trust me," Gordon said grimly, "You're not actually cold. That's just the fever talking."
They were near the end of the corridor. Scott could glimpse an open area – some sort of waiting room – with grand doors, several leaflet holders which were now home to spider nests, and a slanted chandelier which swung from rusted fastenings so slowly that it looked unreal. He tilted his head to get a better look. The glass was filthy and yet still reflected tiny dots of light all over the floor. Thick cobwebs trailed from the crystal droplets. It squeaked softly as it moved. For some reason, he was both hypnotised by it and terrified.
There was a hand on his face, cupping his jaw. He blinked.
"Hey there," Gordon murmured, trying to sound teasing but unable to mask the dread in his eyes. He leaned forwards to wrap his hoodie around Scott's shoulders and oh wow, warm. "Come on, Scotty. What d'you say we find you some meds?"
Scott stared at the chandelier for a long minute. Each swing was like a heartbeat, but it appeared to be slowing. Beautiful, even in the throes of destruction and death. There was some sort of metaphor there and his feverish brain tried to cling onto it, but it was as if he were trying to grasp water – it just kept slipping through his fingers. He closed his eyes. The pounding in his skull was reaching sledgehammer proportions.
"Scott," Gordon repeated, tone oddly serious. He rocked forward on his heels to press their foreheads together. "I need you to work with me here. I don't know how much time we have."
Time?
Why wouldn't they have time?
Scott jolted upright so suddenly that he nearly smashed his head into Gordon's. "John."
"Yes. Yes. Exactly." Gordon nodded emphatically. "That's right. John needs us, so we've got to keep going. I promise I'll find you some meds, okay? I promise you. But we can't stay here."
It was the depths of the night and everything held its own danger of unknowable quantities. Scott wanted to wake up in his own bed at home in the real world. This couldn't be the real world. But Gordon was right there, hair dark with rainwater and maybe traces of blood but he couldn't be sure, and somewhere in within these walls John was possibly dying and everything was spiralling out of control-
So, a voice in his head queried gruffly, what are you planning on doing about it?
Fix the generator, so Virgil can try to save John's life. Then get my hands on some meds.
Scott caught Gordon's offered hand and allowed his brother to haul him to his feet.
"Are you with me?" Gordon asked with a searching look, steadying him as he staggered.
Scott inhaled deeply and fixed his sights on the path ahead. "Always."
Hospitals were a sprawling maze of identical corridors and this one was no different. It was almost impossible to navigate. Some stairwells were impassable - they had to find ways around. It was taking too damn long. Also, Scott was very aware he was more of a hinderance than help. He just put one foot in front of the other without complaint and tried to keep his flashlight steady.
Gordon found an old vending machine on its side. Someone else had already broken into it and most of the contents were gone but there were a few bottles left. He cracked the cap and passed it to Scott. It was impossible to read the label or gauge the contents in the semi-darkness. Scott shot him a suspicious look which was ridiculous and he knew it because Gordon was openly concerned, being oddly gentle with him as if he were some sort of wounded animal.
Gordon raised a brow. "Do you think I'm trying to poison you or something?"
"What?" Scott blinked. "No."
"Because if I was going to murder you, I'd have done it before the apocalypse, when my inheritance was actually worth something."
Scott lowered the bottle. "Um… thank you?"
Gordon shook his head with a fond chuckle. "It's just Gatorade. Drink it, it'll help settle your stomach. Little sips though."
It did help. His mind was slightly less of a quagmire and the shakes eased up. He continued taking small sips of it as they picked a path through cluttered corridors. Old hospitals beds had been abandoned in the middle of hallways. Rooms looked like graphic scenes out of one of those creepy true crime shows John used to binge-watch whenever he was sick. Dust formed sandbanks in which there were strange prints like elongated drag marks where infected had clearly passed through some time ago. Some wards had been gutted – equipment stripped for parts, blankets and pillows taken for survival camps, vending machines smashed and emptied, fire extinguishers stolen and even light bulbs snatched from their fastenings.
There was evidence of past survivors. Some rooms had clearly been home to large groups, but there were signs of lone residents too – blanket heaps and neat collections of old food wrappers and empty water bottles in stairwells, the floor littered with burnt-out matches and empty lighters.
The graffiti told stories of its own. People had left notes – tacked onto walls with chewing gum, ink wet with rain so that the messages were now unreadable, others scrawled in spray paint. They formed records of who had been here, future locations – come find us – but others were less hopeful. No wonder there was such a large cluster of infected in the parking lot around back – so many people jumping from the roof provided a steady food source. Other survivors had simply left, having run out of supplies, unnerved by the heavy presence of rotters, or growing despondent when help never arrived and so deciding to forge their own futures.
The generator room was located at the far-end of the hospital down in the basement and so demanded a lengthy walk featuring staircases and plentiful opportunity to lose one's mind. Darkness invited paranoia and somehow the flashlights made everything even creepier. Wards were filled with rows upon rows of beds, thick with dust, surrounded by billowing curtains which had been torn to strips by the wind and rotten nails. Shadows cast by the flashlight looked almost human. Gordon nearly emptied a gun clip into nothing but a trick of the light.
And then there were the bodies.
Some poor souls had not been infected, but when the hospital had been overrun and staff grew too sick to save anyone, they had simply been left to rot. Family and friends who may have tried to reach them had been stolen by the parasite too. The patients left behind were either too ill to help themselves and perished slowly or, if they were lucky, simply never woke up.
Scott sort of wished he hadn't drunk the Gatorade because now his mind was clearer he was able to consider all other the implications. People hadn't just been left to rot in hospitals. He wondered about the fates of other vulnerable victims – from elderly patients in care homes to young children in nurseries. And what if there had been an infected on a plane or ferry or train? The brutality didn't bear thinking about. He sidestepped the skeletal remains in a bed and nearly walked headfirst into the mangled corpse of another ill-fated patient on the floor, where they had clearly tried to drag themselves to some semblance of safety but had been torn apart by infected before they ever reached that place.
"I don't get it," Gordon whispered a short while later. They were in a windowless corridor which ran between wards. An old fire exit sign promised they were on the right track to finding the stairwell that should lead down several floors. "They began eating that woman, but then just… what, upped and left?"
"What woman?" Scott asked distractedly, taking another sip of Gatorade as the fogginess threatened to make a reappearance. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and had to spit dust onto the floor. "Oh, the body on the floor?"
"Uh huh." Gordon picked at the peeling paint on his flashlight. "It just…"
He frowned, but his eyes were gleaming with a similar light to when John was trying to work out a puzzle but kept coming up just a couple of pieces short – irritated by the lack of clarity but determined to find the solution.
"It doesn't make sense," he continued. "Because the parasite consumes everything, right? We saw that for ourselves on the GDF ship. But the infected walked away from that woman. And if they're running low on humans to eat like we thought then it makes even less sense…"
"What's your theory?"
Gordon slowed to a halt. "What was that woman sick with?"
His tone of voice suggested he already knew the answer and had formed his own conclusions, but Scott tried to recall the sign outside that ward all the same.
"It was the oncology ward, wasn't it?"
"Exactly," Gordon confirmed, lowering his flashlight to avoid blinding Scott. "So, I have two theories. One, maybe the parasite is unwilling to take on a host with a terminal condition. Maybe the illness affects it too or weakens it or something like that. My second theory is… Okay, so that woman was in the oncology ward, so she might well have been undergoing radiation therapy. We know radiation can kill the parasite. What if it could sense traces in her cells still? I dunno, I'm not a medical genius, it's just a theory. But there's definitely something weird about the fact the rotters just left her."
"That's…" Scott trailed off.
Gordon shrugged. "Virg will probably have some official medical explanation to prove me wrong. I'm just guessing. John will have a proper theory if-"
"If he wakes up."
Scott had not intended to vocalise that particular thought.
Gordon sent him an odd look. "Uh, I was gonna say if I remember to tell him."
"Right. That's what I meant."
"You are such a crap liar."
"Don't yell at me."
"I'm not yelling!"
"You can't shout at someone when they're sick."
"Really? You're playing that card?"
Scott stole the flashlight and stalked on ahead.
Gordon jogged to catch up with him. "Dude! Don't walk off without me! You can't just leave."
"I'm not leaving. I'm prioritising time. Look, we can multitask, see? Argue and walk at the same time."
"We're not arguing."
"Aren't we?"
"Well, I don't even know what we'd be arguing about."
"Now you're the terrible liar."
There came a distinctive thud. Sound travelled differently – warped by endless corridors and winding stairwells and the great open spaces of empty wards – so it was impossible to pinpoint where it had originated, but it was enough to trigger them into silence. Scott reached for a weapon – and oh how he hated that that was an instinct now – but found himself empty handed with the exception of the plastic Gatorade bottle which wasn't exactly going to be much use against a hungry rotter. The axe was abandoned in the corpse of the infected in the swimming pool and Gordon had left the rifle at the house as it was out of ammo. Scott had half a mind to ask for a knife only it actually took a lot of effort to stab the human body and he was still slightly too shaky to summon the necessary strength.
They didn't hang around. Their steps sounded overly loud in the narrow hallway. The door to the stairwell was a heavy-duty fire exit and it took both of them to ease it open. Someone had attempted to block the stairs down with a collection of chairs and broken furniture and it took several minutes to clear it, by the end of which they were both sweating.
Gordon leant over the railing and directed the flashlight towards the base. "No sign of anything moving."
Scott shifted from one foot to the other, willing his voice to remain steady. "Great. Let's hurry up then."
Gordon didn't say anything at first. He led the way downstairs, gun at the ready, flashlight seeking death within the dark, but he was clearly itching to make a comment. He finally broke the silence three floors down when Scott jumped at the sudden appearance of a pile of motheaten blankets which loomed out of the darkness like a childhood monster.
"What's your deal with stairwells?"
"I don't have a deal with stairwells," Scott shot back instinctively. He was shivering again, faintly nauseous, but he didn't dare mention it.
"Uh, yeah you do." Gordon levelled him with a scrutinising stare. "You're sorta… jumpy. On edge. And it's not just here. It's every time. So?"
Scott repressed a sigh. "I got caught in a stairwell with an infected in New York."
Gordon didn't say anything.
"It doesn't sound like much, I know-"
"Actually, it sounds terrifying. Really. The first time I ran into one – like face-to-face, fight for my life type of thing – I barely escaped in one piece and then I immediately had a panic attack and threw up." Gordon paused, gaze caught by an abandoned child's toy – a once well-loved teddy bear – and had to physically shake himself out of the trance. "So. Stairwells are not a fun memory for you. Sorry for dragging you into this one. Do you want the second flashlight?"
"No," Scott said slowly, uncertain as to what had just occurred. He was convinced that he'd missed something, but Gordon appeared unwilling to continue that line of conversation any further. "I'm good."
"Hmm."
"Don't hmm me."
Gordon grinned. "Hmm."
"You're a little shit, you know that, right?"
"You love me for it."
"Eh."
"Scott. Scotty."
"No comment."
The generator room was situated at the far end of the basement. Between the stairwell and their target were the archives; rows upon rows of files, layered upon rolling shelves. There were too many to count, offering inexhaustible possibilities for hiding places. Flashlights could barely glimpse the first couple of shelves. Scott shone the beam over the floor to reveal multiple sets of tacky footprints. He caught Gordon's grimace and backed up a pace so that they were shoulder-to-shoulder.
For a moment, they stood in silence.
Gordon swept a flashlight across the shelving units. "Do you also feel like we're walking into an ambush?"
"One hundred percent."
"Yay," Gordon deadpanned, and handed Scott the flashlight in order to reach for his knife. "This is gonna suck."
"It might be fine?" Scott suggested, wincing at the lack of conviction in his own voice.
Gordon sent him a doubtful look. "Since when are you an optimist?"
"Well pessimism wasn't really working for me, so I figured I'd switch things up."
According to the floor plans, the archives ran underneath almost the entire hospital. It was on a colossal scale, filled with paper backups for electronic records and files which predated the technological era. The sheer scale of the place was inconceivable.
Sound was funnelled through the rows but grew muffled by paper before it could reach them, so it was difficult to tell whether there was actually anything (sorta) living down here. There was a sense of presence though, which suggested an affirmative. Scott likened it to someone breathing down the back of his neck. He took a step closer, directing the flashlight along the ends of the shelves in an attempt to glimpse the far wall, but it was trapped within the darkness beyond the beam.
The units were set on a series of metal sliders set into the ground, so that it was possible to roll all of them to one side or adjust the space between just two. The shelves themselves were overstocked, running nearly from floor to ceiling. Occasionally they creaked ominously and, when a particularly violent gust of wind found its way through the ventilation system, it was enough to send several units rolling. If you weren't careful, it was possible to become trapped between them and Scott was willing to bet those shelves were heavy enough to crush a man.
"We have two options," Gordon whispered, and Scott just managed to keep himself from actually jumping. "We can head down to the far end and go around to reach the generator room… or we can just cut through these shelving units."
"Which is quicker?"
Gordon pointed at the shelves.
Of course, Scott thought sarcastically. "Looks like we're heading in then."
"If I die being crushed by paperwork, just let it be a mystery because honestly that would be less embarrassing."
Scott shot him an evil smile. "Did John ever tell you the horror story about the library he worked at when we were teens?"
"Uh…" Gordon looked suspicious. "No?"
"The library had archives in the basement on rolling shelves like these. There used to be a lot of kids who'd work there over the summer. One year they got bored, so they decided to play a game. One person would push the shelves to get 'em rolling, and the others would race each other through the rows. It was fun and everyone always made it out in time. But then a girl tripped. She didn't make it out and the story goes that she was crushed to death, which is why the lights flickered afterwards and the archive was always freezing. John was the only person who was ever willing to work down there."
"Why would you tell me that story here of all places?"
"Because it's obviously made up, Gordon."
"It's horrifying. I strongly dislike you right now."
"Thanks."
Leaving an open back to their doors as they took the first step into the shelving units was both a comfort and a terror. Anything could sneak up on them and Scott hated that. He had a thirty-second staring contest with Gordon to determine who would go last – and therefore leave their back unguarded and vulnerable to sneak attacks – which Gordon won, but only because a) he had all the weapons and b) Scott's fever was slowly climbing again and his reflexes were shot to hell as a consequence. He reluctantly led the way forwards and tried to find comfort in the fact that Gordon had completed a stint in the apocalypse by himself and so was the most qualified as a survivor by default.
Even the paperwork seemed alive and threatening. It rustled like soft breaths all around. Scott ran a hand along one shelf and withdrew it again sharply as thick liquid met his fingertips. He held a thumb into the light and found it wet with some strange substance partway between blood and rotten flesh.
"Oh, nice," Gordon quipped, rising onto his toes and briefly hooking his chin over Scott's shoulder to spy the mess on his brother's hand. "That's real' hygienic."
Distantly, muted by thousands of pages and cardboard containers, something wet and heavy slithered across cold concrete. It was unmistaken – that damp dragging sound of a deadweight body – the infected had found a victim. Either the poor soul had passed out from fear or they were already dead.
Scott switched off the flashlight for fear of drawing more rotters to their location. Gordon remained frozen, as tense as a taut string. Scott sensed more than saw him slide the machete out of its sheath. Neither of them moved. Scott reached back and caught Gordon's wrist. His brother's pulse was racing, frantic like the wings of a snared butterfly.
Please remember morse code, Scott thought, trying to force his own feverish brain to recall how to tap W.E. S.H.O.U.L.D. H.E.L.P.
Gordon was close enough to lean forward and whisper directly into Scott's ear, "No."
He sounded almost angry about it and Scott was jolted back into that conversation upon first awaking yesterday morning regarding the similarities between fear and fury. Which, alright, Scott understood why his brother was afraid – not just of the creatures but if something went wrong, of losing each other – but equally he couldn't bear the thought of standing by and doing nothing while some innocent person got torn to shreds only a few feet away. And yet he couldn't make himself move. It was as if his feet were glued to the ground. The pressure behind his eyes grew stronger.
Gordon was practically plastered to his back.
"Scott," he whispered, low and threatening, "Listen to me. They might not even be alive. We can't help them."
"We could try."
"We don't have time."
"We're International Rescue, for fuck's sake."
"Then make a damn choice." Gordon took a deep breath, lowered his voice, fractured with a web of complicated emotions. He flipped his wrist so that he could grab Scott's hand. "It's John or some random civilian. I know who I'm picking."
It wasn't a choice. It was never a choice. Even before the end times, it hadn't been a choice. Scott would pick family every time without hesitation, even if it meant risking a failed rescue. It had never come to that back then, but now it meant letting a person die. He'd never been faced with that cost before. Not like this. Leaving Joanna's group had been different because he hadn't seen death bearing down on them and there had still been the tiniest chance for them to survive. But this… Someone was being brutally murdered within earshot and he was letting it happen.
Gordon shoved him between the shoulders and he took a step forward robotically. As they reached the end of the shelves and the door to the generator room came into view, the sickening sound of flesh being torn from bones met their ears. Sinew stretched until it snapped. Molars grinded over gristle. Wet crunching, blood gushing over the floor, the smack of damp hands and feet in the pooling liquid. Brittle cracks as bones broke to allow the creatures to feast on precious organs and tissue.
Scott let Gordon physically push him into the generator room. He was vaguely aware of his brother checking for danger, silently closing the door and sliding the deadbolt into place, setting the flashlight down on a shelf so that it illuminated the room. He sank onto the floor. The concrete was icy against his palms, the chill seeping through his shirt and jeans. Goose bumps took flight over his skin. He lifted his knees to rest his hands on top. There was a smear of blood across his knuckles. His ears were ringing with the sounds of death and animalistic snarls.
Gordon cautiously sat down beside him. "Scott?"
Scott swallowed. Inhaled. Let the air escape his lungs in a rush.
"Have you seen it happen before?"
Gordon closed his eyes briefly. "Yeah. Once. Shortly after I ditched Virgil and John. It's, uh… It sticks with you. It's not the sort of thing you can easily forget. I tried to help the first time. Nearly got bitten in the process." He knitted his fingers together, cracked his knuckles. "I'm sorry."
Scott let the images flash behind his eyes for a moment longer, then pushed himself upright. The resulting headrush nearly landed him back on the ground but he fought through it. Gordon's worried gaze followed him as he scouted around the generator.
"Are we gonna fix this or not?"
Gordon clambered to his feet without another word.
Gordon had spent enough time around Virgil to pick up a few tricks and Scott was hardly a novice when it came to engineering. Besides, generators – even giant ones on an industrial scale such as this – weren't a difficult fix. It didn't take too long to kickstart. The lone lightbulb dangling from the ceiling flickered and then shone brightly while Gordon smacked Scott's hand in a delighted high-five before immediately recalling that his brother was still injured and proceeded to apologise while Scott tried not to pass out from pain.
Then they came across the next problem.
The infected were right outside the door.
Gordon flattened himself to the floor to peer through the tiny gap where the door didn't quite fit the frame and flinched so violently that he smacked his chin against concrete. He tumbled backwards onto his heels with a startled curse, clasping his face. A thin trail of blood leaked between his fingers.
Scott knelt in front of him.
"Let me see," he murmured, surprised by the softness in his own voice after hours of sharp-edged words. Gordon seemed equally as shocked and something in Scott's heart constricted painfully at the confusion in his brother's eyes.
"Come on," he coaxed, gently lowering Gordon's hand, tilting his brother's chin to examine the thin graze. "It's not so bad. I think we're all a little spooked by the sight of blood nowadays, that's all."
"Especially after the other day," Gordon replied without thinking. His expression clouded. "Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean to…"
Scott sat back against the wall with a heavy sigh. It didn't look like they were getting out of here anytime soon. It wasn't as if they'd be of any use – Virgil and Alan had the most medical knowledge out of any of them – so it was safer to hole up in the generator room until dawn at which point the infected might have lost interest and wandered off.
"If you want to talk about it," he ventured quietly, "then we can."
Gordon was silent for a long minute. He raked his hands through his hair, flopping backwards to sprawl across the concrete.
"I have a question," he said at last.
He propped himself on an elbow to examine Scott's reaction and his hair flopped into his eyes, dark with sweat and traces of blood from his gloves. Perhaps it was just the fever talking but Scott swore he could spy a hint of uncertainty, maybe even apprehension, in his brother's gaze. He wondered how badly he'd fucked up to have reached a point where Gordon was nervous to confide in him.
"Hit me."
Gordon bit his lip, reopening an old cut. "Are you repressing your emotions again on purpose or…?"
"Am I what now?" Scott double took. "I'm not. I'm- No, no, that's not what I'm…"
"Okay." Gordon couldn't look at him. "Then why aren't you freaking out about John?"
It hit him like an avalanche – as if all the feelings had been caught behind a dam but now he'd actually registered that fact the floodgates opened. He barely had chance to gasp for breath before suddenly he was drowning in panic. Every emotion, every thought, every instance of frantic fear, all at once. Memories and imagined horrors blending into one. Denial was fantastic up until the point where it wasn't real because in truth his little brother was dying and he wasn't even there for him. He was here, trapped behind barriers of metal and blood and bones and he might actually lose John.
"Breathe," Gordon cautioned, moving to sit in front of him, legs criss-crossed so that their knees brushed. He caught Scott's hands to keep him from smacking a fist into the floor, squeezing slightly in time with exaggerated breaths which Scott figured he was supposed to be copying, only his brain was going into overdrive and it was all he could do to keep from passing out, let alone ground himself in the present.
"Of course I didn't let myself think about it," he tried to explain, but the words were tripping over one another and all he could hear were the infected clawing at the door, nails scraping against metal, growls low and hungry. "I couldn't let myself feel- any of it. How could I? You said it yourself – I can't lose any of you. It's not just that I won't, I mean I can't. And now- we keep almost losing him, over-and-over but this time- this might actually be it. How am I supposed to do this without him?"
"I don't know," Gordon whispered, trying to blink away tears. "I don't know how to fix any of this. I just want to go back, reverse time, I don't want to be a part of this anymore. I don't want to wake up with blood on my hands or be capable of killing people. I don't want Alan to look at me like I'm a monster. I don't want Virgil to second-guess everything I do because he doesn't trust me anymore even if he won't admit that to himself. I don't want to keep fighting all the time. I don't want to wake up every morning hating who I am."
He ducked his head, voice damp and thready.
"I don't know where this ends anymore. I am scared all the time and sometimes I wish I could just switch off all my emotions again, like I did before, but I don't know how. And now- You think I know how to do this without John? John's the only person who really sees me these days. I can't lose him either."
One of the infected wedged a hand beneath the door. Rotting fingers slipped over the concrete, fumbling for a handhold. Scott was struck with a wave of pure rage at the unfairness of everything, of the current world but also the past world too. Because yes, International Rescue had been fantastic, had been the dream, but had any of them really had a choice? With the exception of himself and John, hadn't they been too young for that responsibility? Too young for all the trauma that came with it? Hell, too young for all the trauma they'd experienced in their childhood too?
For the first time, he couldn't help a flash of anger towards his father. He hated himself for it, but also, maybe it was valid? Because Gordon was hurting, but at least he felt comfortable admitting it. He knew he could ask for advice or even just comfort – because what advice could Scott possibly give him? – and that would be okay, because there were no strings attached. Scott would support him no matter what and wouldn't expect anything in return, because of course he didn't, because Gordon was partly his kid too and that was the whole point, wasn't it? He'd raised Alan because Dad was gone, but he'd sorta raised Gordon because Dad hadn't been around then either only that had been a conscious choice, a decision to turn grief into a laser focus on work, to bury himself in the company. Scott was the stand-in father figure for Alan and maybe for Gordon too, but who had been there for him?
He'd been viewing his father through rose-tinted glasses for all these years and it only now hit him that maybe that depiction wasn't accurate. He didn't know how to face life without John – was painfully dependent on him – because John was the only person (other than Virgil) he'd ever been able to confide in without quiet reminders of responsibility and public image and a limit on time.
He'd once rung John whilst on the verge of falling off the deep end and his brother had stayed on the phone until he was safe. He'd ring Dad asking to meet up, asking for advice, for support, and would get either voicemail or a time limit on those calls. And it wasn't fair, because he had bottled up all the pain and decided at some point that maybe it was because he deserved it. Now he was losing the one person who truly understood all of that and he wouldn't be able to cope without John because no one had ever taught him how.
Take away flying. Scatter his family across multiple goddamn planets. Throw out International Rescue and scrap Tracy Industries. Now, who the hell are you, Scotty?
He recalled that conversation over the campfire - discussions of manmade miracles - and considered how the only miracle he'd ever truly wanted was for his family to be safe, to be happy, to be okay.
"One wish," he whispered, broken by the bitterness twisting his heart into something unrecognisable. "If I had one wish, I'd want you guys to be happy. I don't give a fuck if I'm not included in that. I just want all of you to be happy. That's all I ever wanted. It's all I ever tried to accomplish. There were the other goals, sure, but if I had to pick just one, then that's what I'd choose."
Gordon buried his head in his hands, tangling his fingers in his hair, hunched over his knees as if he could possibly make himself seem any smaller. "You'd use your wish for other people."
It didn't sound like a question. Scott knocked his head back against concrete, uncaring of the pain radiating from the area because what did anything matter anymore?
"How many people?" Gordon asked, lifting his head from his hands to reveal a spark of protective anger in his eyes, openly hurt with tears on his cheeks and blood on his chin. "You know that question – if you had one wish, what would you wish for? How many people do you think would genuinely use that wish for other people? Sure, they claim they'd use it for peace, to fix world hunger, find a cure for every disease, but would they really be so selfless? They'd use it for something which would bring them personal happiness. But what you're saying is that you'd wish for us to be happy, even if it meant you never got to experience that happiness yourself. And then you dare to believe you don't deserve the world?"
Scott sort of wanted to scream.
"I miss being the person I was before," Gordon continued, angrily swatting tears from his face. "I miss being him because he was a good person. But he- I was that guy because that's who you raised me to be. Sure, Dad had some influence, but it was mostly Grandma and you. And you did a great job."
But that should never have been my responsibility.
"But it should never have been your responsibility. I'm not trying to trash talk Dad right now, because I love him and you love him and he was still our dad, but he got a lot wrong too and he took a lot of things for granted. He took a lot of people for granted, including you. Especially you. A lot of the shit that's happened to you isn't fair. You never learnt how to talk about stuff that bothers you because you never had anyone to talk about it with. That's why you depend on John so much, right? Because John's the only one who gets that. He's the only one you've ever been able to confide in and I'm willing to bet that even he doesn't know everything. But even if- If the worst happens and we lose him, you're not alone. You will never be alone."
Gordon caught his gaze and held it, tearful and searching.
"You can do this without him, Scott. I'm praying that you don't have to – that none of us have to – but you can."
Scott tugged his hands free and pulled his brother into a hug, a proper hug, holding him tightly until Gordon finally relaxed into his grip, tucking his face into Scott's shoulder and simply breathing.
"I love you," Scott whispered fiercely. "Sometimes the things we believe aren't necessarily true. Especially the things we believe about ourselves. Hell, I should know that better than anyone. You're not a monster. You're a survivor. There is a big difference. And the person you were before? He's still a part of you. We carry our history with us. It shapes the people we become. So, if you truly believe I helped raise a good person then you still are."
Gordon melted into his arms like a frightened child. "Even though I'm different now?"
"Scars don't make us any less human," Scott reminded him. "So why would trauma make you any less of a good person?"
Gordon grew quiet.
"Scott? We might not be International Rescue anymore, but… you know you've always been one of my heroes, right? That's one thing which will never change." He didn't give Scott a chance to respond. "I really hope we've done enough. Getting the generator back on, I mean. I hope it's enough to change the odds."
"We've done our best." Scott closed his eyes and let the memories flood back, safe in certain knowledge that: "John would be proud of us."