Shout out to the guy who watched me proof this on the train earlier and looked absolutely horrified at what he was reading
Fun fact of the day – Scott hated silence just as much as Gordon did – he was just less likely to start rambling at awkward moments to prevent aforementioned silences whereas a certain younger brother had landed himself on the other end of some very judgemental stares on multiple occasions.
Look, Scott had some fairly valid reasons for this hatred, okay? He'd never been surrounded by silence at any point in his life and so consequently found it uncomfortable. There had always been a background orchestra and while many of the instruments had changed over the years – the din of cicadas and night-time crickets replaced by the thrum of engines and then, later, the rush of waves over pebbles on the beach, water splashing against cliffs and distant music or the thunder of video-games – it was still present. So, when the sounds of the infected trying to claw through the door finally ceased, the first thing Scott registered was the deafening silence.
The generator was an eco-model, designed to cut out if it produced more power than was being used and restarting automatically once that energy had been drained. In the space between switching off and rumbling into life again, there was nothing but suffocating silence. Several metres of thick concrete kept any surface sounds from reaching this deep and noises within the archives were stifled by all the paper.
Scott was painfully aware of his own breathing, his own heartrate. The vulnerability of the human body had never seemed so great until it was all he could focus on. He was convinced that he could hear each system shutting down as the fever crept higher and then higher still.
Gordon flattened himself to the floor and stared beneath the door again.
"They're still out there," he reported darkly. "They're just keeping their distance now."
It was hardly encouraging news. Besides, if the parasite was as sophisticated as theories suggested, it knew they were going to have to come out sooner or later. Why waste energy trying to break through the door when it could simply lie in wait?
"At some point," Scott pointed out, "we're gonna have to just make a run for it. Maybe they're more decayed. They might be slow."
Gordon sent a souring look at the door. "They don't look very far gone." He flopped onto his back with a heavy sigh and propped his feet against the wall. "If we're right about the hive mind then these things will be calling to every rotter in the area. Hey guys, look what we found – two humans, ready to eat, no prep required."
It wasn't funny. Scott tried not to laugh and ended up chuckling somewhat hysterically. What the hell was his life? Seriously? Just… what the hell?
"Oh boy," Gordon muttered, pushing himself upright. "That fever's getting bad again." He cast a final glance under the door and came to sit next to Scott. "I wish we had a radio. Or at least meds. How's the uh…?" He gestured vaguely. "Where are we on the pain scale?"
"Normal or Tracy?"
"You know what? Never mind."
"I feel like I got hit by a truck," Scott decided aloud.
Gordon looked torn between laughing and being very, very concerned. "How do you know what that feels like?"
"One time I got hit by a car."
"What the actual fuck?"
"Oh yeah, I never told anyone about that. Except Dad. Because he had to sign papers and shit. It's chill. It was ages ago. I was in college. It was just a minor concussion. The car wasn't going very fast. I think the driver was more freaked out than I was."
"Running a fever makes you surprisingly honest," Gordon remarked, clearly still hung up on the entire getting-hit-by-a-car revelation. "I kind of want to ask questions but I also feel like that would be taking advantage and you might hate me for it when you're, well, you again."
"I am me. Who else would I be?" Scott protested and promptly lost his train of thought.
Was it possible for the human body to actually melt? What was that weird thing he'd seen one time when Alan was binge-watching Buzzfeed Unsolved? He attempted to whack his head against the wall in the hopes that it would knock the thought free of whatever part of his brain it was stuck in, only for Gordon to intercept this action with a hand and a concerned look.
"Not a smart move," Gordon informed him, faintly amused, although this was by far overshadowed by the open worry on his face. "You can't afford to lose any more brain cells."
"Rude." Scott seized upon the phrase he'd been looking for. "Spontaneous human combustion!"
Gordon stared at him for a long minute. "Scott, I love you, but what the hell?"
"Yes." He slid down the wall until Gordon caught him. "It's very hot in here."
"Uh huh," Gordon humoured him. "Jesus, you're not kidding." He lifted a hand to Scott's forehead, wincing at the waves of heat. "You're on fire."
"That's what I'm saying," Scott sighed, flailing a hand just to add to his dramatics. "Spontaneous human combustion."
"Please stop talking about that."
"You're the one who said I'm on fire."
Gordon closed his eyes and took a deliberately deep breath. "You're right, I did. But let's talk about something else, yeah?"
He didn't immediately volunteer a topic. Scott couldn't get his mind to focus on any single thought and so didn't have any conversation starters either. In the absence of their voices and the lack of any sound from the generator or the creatures outside the door, that soul-searching silence returned. It was like water – finding its way into everything, thick enough to drown in it, warping perceptions of reality like the ocean bent light rays.
He pressed against the wall so that the uneven concrete dug into his spine, only then he swore he could hear scrape of his own bones and it jolted him back into that moment earlier, hearing that skull crack and splinter, the wet squelch of brain matter between infected fingers, seeping into rotten nailbeds and dribbling like drool from gaping jaws.
Gordon must have felt him tense up. "What's wrong?"
"I'm gonna-"
He doubled over before he could even finish his sentence, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up, so he kept dry heaving. It left him trembling, overcome by a wave of light-headedness and an uncontrollable weakness in his very bones. He couldn't keep himself upright and slumped into a heap. The only blessing was the cold concrete against his overheated skin. He was vaguely aware that this was probably highly humiliating, but his head pounded too badly for him to care. He collapsed against the floor, too exhausted to gag even as his body rebelled against memories and the stench of rot seeping under the door.
"Hey," Gordon was saying in a soft, encouraging voice, as if coaxing a scared child to trust him on the scene of a rescue. It was both patronising and comforting. "Easy, Scotty. C'mon, come here."
Scott had been vaguely aware of the pain. It was like distant thunder – dull, mere background noise only making its presence known if he focussed on it – only now, as Gordon looped an arm around his waist to gently tug him off the floor, the pain returned all at once. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even think. He might have blacked out for a second.
Gordon's voice grew high-pitched with panic. Scott instinctively went to gasp out some sort of reassurance, but he couldn't form the words, so the only thing which escaped was an agonised whimper. Fire spread from the bites, an inferno setting every cell alight. He smashed his head against the floor before Gordon could stop him, trying to escape the pain, but there was no respite, no chance to catch his breath.
He could taste copper. He glimpsed crimson through hazy vision – blurred by spots and strange shadows – dripping onto the concrete. A vague sting told him he'd bitten his lip. There was a different warmth against his back – not the same feverish fire but supportive, familiar, trusted without question. He registered Gordon's arms around him, recognised that he was leaning against his brother's chest. He tipped his head back onto Gordon's shoulder and choked on a scream as he accidentally jarred one of the bites.
"It's okay, just breathe." The words were broken by tears and layers of panic. "Just keep breathing. You'll be okay. It'll pass. All you have to do is breathe. I'll fix this, I swear."
He was halfway to blacking out again. The fever seemed to have sapped every scrap of strength he possessed, so that he couldn't even clench a fist against the pain. He didn't even have the energy to cry anymore, but his bitten lip stung with salt still. He was adrift, tempted to let go completely, to float away to whatever safe place his mind could find, only there were gentle touches begging him to stay – a hand carding through his hair, an arm wrapped around his chest to keep him close, a kiss to his temple, a background murmur of words which he could feel hum against his back – a promise that he was loved and so wasn't that worth fighting for?
"I'm right here," Gordon whispered, resting his chin on the crown of Scott's head for a moment. Scott could hear his brother's heartbeat, could hear how scared he was. "I'm right here with you and I'm not going anywhere. Just hold on a little while longer. Please, Scotty, please." His voice broke. "Please don't leave me."
Scott awoke slowly, coming to his senses one by one. He felt awful, but fixed in the moment, not foggy or detached. Everything ached. He felt as if he'd just completed about ten back-to-back intensive rescues and had the shakes to match, not to mention the pounding headache reminiscent of a bad hangover. He peeled his eyes open and winced at the artificial light.
His head was pillowed in Gordon's lap, his brother's hoodie carefully tucked over him as a makeshift blanket. Gordon himself looked as though he hadn't slept a wink, dazed with tiredness to the point where it took him a good few seconds to register that Scott was awake and even then it was only due to his reflexive reaction rather than conscious observation. He slammed a hand onto Scott's chest to keep him from sitting upright, tensing as if he'd been struck by electricity, a brief flash of some unknown emotion between weary worry and resigned panic cutting across his face.
"Um…" Scott tapped his brother's wrist. "Can I sit up now?"
"Shit, sorry." Gordon retracted his hand as if he'd been stung. "Just habit at this point." He repressed another yawn, rubbing his knuckles against dark-circled eyes. "Rough night."
"I figured."
There was a long silence which went unbroken as Gordon seemed reluctant to say anything and Scott wasn't sure of the right words. They sat side-by-side, watching the generator rattle in its fastenings and listening to the grunts and growls of the infected in the archives. There was a strange scuffling sound as if paper had become stuck fast to something wet and was now being dragged along on the sole of a rotten foot.
It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. Scott suspected he now understood Alan's reluctance to get out of bed on anxious days – while he was trapped in this room, he didn't know how John was faring which was terrifying but also meant he was ignorant to potential bad news. Sometimes there was comfort in naivety.
The infected were still too close for them to safely make a break for the stairs. Scott watched them through the gap under the door. Some were in the latter stages of decomposition, but others were fairly decomposed. He had a working theory as to why the creatures bit some people and let them turn but fully consumed others – the unfortunate souls who were eaten had been immune. It made sense – if Virgil and Gordon hadn't rescued him from the rotter in the pool, he suspected it wouldn't have ended well. He caught himself longing for a weapon, which wasn't an instinct he particularly liked. He ghosted a hand over the bite on his shoulder and tore his gaze away from the infected.
Gordon watched him, still caught up in that uncharacteristic silence, sort of pensive but mostly overwhelmed by exhaustion. Insomnia kept him from actual rest, but Scott questioned how effective he'd be at fighting a rotter in this state.
Time kept ticking.
"How's the pain?"
Scott took a moment to assess. "Not ideal, but manageable."
He rolled his shoulders as a test and winced at the shooting pain. It wasn't anywhere near as bad as before – making his head spin but remaining well clear of the brink of passing out. If anything, the worst sensation was filthy clothes – sticky with sweat from a fever which had burnt all night.
"I wish I had a watch," he mused.
"Seven hours," Gordon replied. He had a hand tangled in his hair and tugged absently, flinching at the confused look Scott sent him. "It's been roughly seven hours since we fixed the generator." He dropped his gaze to the blood stain on his knee. "I had to keep counting, so unless my maths is off… yeah, roughly seven hours."
Scott paced around to the other side of the generator. "Why?"
"Why, what?"
He traced an unknown pattern in the dust over a metal rung. His voice came out oddly small. He swallowed, wishing there was a water fountain or another vending machine at hand.
"Why did you have to keep counting?"
Gordon hesitated. "Your fever got really bad. Like, really bad." He drew his knees to his chest and tipped forwards to press his forehead to the top, hiding his face from view. "Don't bother asking, I'm not going to tell you what happened."
"Right, because that's reassuring."
"I don't want to think about it. I don't want to remember last night." The words sounded sharp. Gordon gripped a knife so tightly that his knuckles paled. "I just want to get the hell outta here and see how John's doing. Speaking of which…" He pushed himself upright and held out the knife like an offering. "Ready to make a run for it?"
Scott took the knife and angled the blade towards the door in question. "Have you got a plan for getting past our friends?"
Gordon's smile held just enough of a hint of evil genius to be oddly reassuring, a flashback to normal times when his plotting skills would have been put to use formulating a prank. Clearly he hadn't wasted his sleepless night entirely, although Scott was willing to bet that whatever scheme he had come up with, it was going to be batshit insane.
"I've got a vague idea," Gordon replied, aiming for an air of mystery just to be annoying. His smirk shifted from evil to determined. "Hey, you still enjoy running, don't you?"
Yep, Scott considered, with a slowly dawning sense of dread, I was right – batshit insane.
The archives had three entrances. One was a fire-escape which ran like a spine from the basement all the way up to the roof with a door on each level in between. This was the door they had entered by, situated directly ahead of them but separated by several metres of shelves. Another exit was technically a loading bay, with a slope that led to a rolling door which had been prevented from closing entirely by a truck which sat in the entrance. Several crates and the open rear doors suggested that the truck had been in the process of being unloaded when the hospital had been overrun and workers had simply abandoned their posts – which struck Scott as strange, because if you were trying to escape, why wouldn't you simply take the vehicle which was right there? Man, some people were idiots.
And then there was the final door. It was the furthest away, located in the exact opposite corner to the generator room – on the other side of the shelves at the far-end of the archives. Technically, it was the main entrance, but this raised concerns as to whether it was blocked from the initial evacuations – be that filled with debris or infected. The plan was to aim for the fire-escape but if the infected became a problem then this was their backup exit. Of course, it involved a lot more running which wasn't ideal given neither of them had eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, dehydration was becoming a steady headache, and Scott was still suffering the aftereffects of blood loss, but it was still reassuring to know they had more than one option.
The infected were milling between the shelving units. Some of the lesser decomposed ones looked healthy from behind, as if they were normal workers searching for a particular file. Those were the ones to watch however, as they were the quickest and therefore held the most threat. Scott kept his gaze fixed on them, anticipating the slightest wrong move, while Gordon eased the door open cautiously, inch by inch, trying to avoid catching their attention.
The archives were lit by fluorescent tube lights – the dull kind found in schools all over the world which provided more shadows than anything else and often invited headaches – which flickered ominously. This actually worked in their favour – the sporadic flashes helped masked their movements as the creatures assumed it was just another trick of the lights. It wouldn't last long but it was enough to enact the next stage of the plan.
Fire suppressant systems – aka yet more flashing lights only red this time, plus sprinklers – thankfully did not include any of the toxic gases occasionally used in more modern constructions. They were isolated to each floor as the hospital was too big to make a full-scale evacuation feasible, so the suppressant systems only went off in areas which were actually at risk. This meant waving smoke under the detectors dotted along the ceiling or tripping the activation panel on the wall at the end of the shelving units. It was surrounded by rotters, so pressing it by hand was not an option. This was where the batshit insane part of the plan came into play.
Scott – grudgingly – had to admit that Gordon was the better shot. Also, his own hands were too shaky to hit a target right in front of him, let alone a small square on a distant wall, so his job was to guard his brother against any sudden attacks while Gordon dropped into a low crouch, shuffled into the archives as far as he dared in order to line up the shot, then proceeded to trip the activation panel with a single well-aimed bullet.
For a moment, nothing happened. One of the infected raised its chin, sniffing, nostrils flaring – which drew attention to the slither of flesh which had peeled from its nose to leave raw cartilage on display. Scott reached for the neck of his brother's suit and hauled him back to the doorway of the generator room.
One of the early stages of Gordon's plan had been to drench their clothes in fuel from the gasoline tank which acted as a backup energy source to kickstart the generator – the theory being that it would mask their scent so the infected would be unable to locate them through smell – but it was just that: a theory. Scott braced himself against the doorframe, counting down the seconds, conscious of Gordon doing the same beside him: three, two, one…
The sudden explosion of alarms nearly gave him a heart attack, despite having expected the sound. It was deafening, overwhelming his ability to think for a second. Maybe that was another result of the blood loss – his reflexes were also slow to recover from the shock. Gordon shoved him into a run before he could hesitate any longer.
To begin with, the plan appeared to be working. The tube lights plunged into darkness, immediately replaced by the flashing red of emergency lighting which confused the infected, blurring their already poor eyesight. Sprinklers made the floor slippery, difficult for rotting feet to grip. Several creatures hurtled after them only to crash into a heap of awkward limbs and pooling flesh. Enraged howls travelled across the archives. Then, as with most plans in life, everything went to shit.
There were more infected than either Scott or Gordon had anticipated. Clearly Gordon's theory that the hivemind would draw more rotters to their location had been correct. There was an entire horde spread across the archives and now they spilled into the narrow corridors between shelves. Scott glimpsed three sets of bony arms and gaping jaws reaching for him and nearly skidded as he bolted sideways, now running parallel to the shelves – a slight issue given all of the exits were on the opposite side. Another creature tore itself free of a fallen crate and lunged for him. Gordon took it down with a gunshot, leapt over the limp corpse and bolted sideways into the empty space between shelves.
Scott made to follow him, only for another infected to plough through the wooden structure as if it were nothing. The entire unit teetered on the verge of falling. Up ahead, Gordon gave up on trying to stay silent, spitting curses as files upended themselves, raining into the narrow space. Scott plunged a knife into the rotter's skull before he could second-guess himself, accepted that the way ahead was blocked, and doubled back on himself. He slammed into the wall which sent shockwaves down his bad arm, but the momentum acted like a springboard and he hurtled along the end of the shelving units as he sought a new escape route.
The flashing lights were now acting against him. It was difficult to glimpse the stumbling figures between the shelving units. He only had one more knife and it was a short blade – if he was within range to use it, then he was already screwed. He kicked a crate of files into the path of the approaching infected in the hopes of slowing them down and finally glimpsed just how many were chasing him.
Oh, I am so fucked.
Half a horde. Maybe more. Relatively recently turned or having consumed enough healthy human to avoid rapid decomposition. The sight acted like a goddamn defib, heart skipping a beat, palms sweaty as he gripped the knife. He was briefly aware of Gordon's shouts. He dropped to the floor and skidded beneath an abandoned desk, rolling to his feet to keep running without stopping. The infected smashed through the table, but it slowed them just enough for him to get ahead.
Movement caught his eye. Gordon kept pace with him on the opposite side of the shelves, gesturing frantically to the end of units and back again, miming a push and oh, Scott caught on in an instant. Suddenly that horror story about the kid being crushed between rolling shelves seemed a lot more real. He caught his breath between gritted teeth and steeled himself. Gordon vanished, sprinting on ahead, and Scott spared a second to pray to whoever was listening that this would actually work before bolting down the closest corridor.
The shelving units screeched on their metal rollers. On any other day, he would have cringed – the sound was harsh, like nails against chalkboard – but today all he could focus on was running. His heartbeat was thunder in his ears as he hit his own limit and pushed past it. There were infected less than a metre behind him and his exit was disappearing as the walls closed in. Gordon had evidently pushed the shelves harder than intended, or maybe Scott was just not as fast at sprinting as he had been pre-apocalypse.
Everything faded to background noise – frantic shouts which pleaded for him to hurry up, the snarls and screeches of infected, his own boots against the ground, groaning shelves closing the gap as they drew together, the hiss of water from the suppressant system, gunshots, a wailing fire alarm.
All that existed was his own adrenaline rush and the diminishing space between shelves. The world was quite literally collapsing in on him. He stumbled over files and bits of bone and the wreckage of past lives. Lights flashed in time with his own heartbeat. Even breathing seemed unnecessary. He never seemed to get any closer to the exit, but the space was getting smaller and the infected were getting nearer. The entire situation seemed like a metaphor really – death at his heels and life just out of reach. For too long he'd dithered between the two, uncaring as to which side he ended up, but now he ran towards life like a bat outta hell.
He burst free of the shelves just as they crashed into each other. The infected trapped within were crushed, but the parasite kept them alive even as their bodies failed. Blood gushed underneath the shelves. The creatures howled. Scott grabbed Gordon's hand and hauled himself upright, dashing for the door without sparing a glance back. The rest of the horde were less than a breath away and their screams were deafening. Their running feet were a thunderclap. His heart was in his throat. Gordon had given up on fight and resorted to flight. He didn't let go of Scott's hand.
The door loomed out of the red light like a guardian angel. Scott skidded through the exit and slammed it shut behind him, jarring his shoulder against the heavy-duty fire door. Gordon jammed the bolt across and wedged a discarded chair underneath the handle for good measure just in case the lock failed.
And then there was silence. The growls of the infected and that fire alarm were deadened by the thick layer of metal. Scott collapsed against the door and tried to catch his breath. Next to him, Gordon flattened his hands against the metal and tipped his head back, gasping for air like a fish outta water.
"We made it," Scott realised aloud.
"Yeah. Yeah, we did." Gordon shot him a breathless grin. "Still like running?"
Scott let out a faintly hysterical laugh. "Think I'll take a break from it for a while."
"Sounds like a plan." Gordon clapped a hand to Scott's good shoulder. "Holy shit though, right?"
"Holy shit," Scott confirmed. He let his head fall back against the door with a dull thump. "Hey, good thinking back there – pushing the shelves together."
Gordon tapped his temple. "I keep telling you – I'm secretly a genius." He pushed himself away from the door to examine the stairwell. "I fucking hate hospitals. Let's get outta here."
Leaving via a different door to the one they had entered put them in an entirely unknown part of the building. The signage here was erased by graffiti or acid rain which had infiltrated cracked windows or even smears of blood where desperate hands had clawed. The corridors were a maze, impossible to navigate when they didn't know where they were on the map. Half an hour of walking later and they had to accept that they were, in fact, lost.
"Hospitals," Gordon growled as if it were a dirty word, holding the map taut against a window to examine it in closer detail. "I keep telling you man, they're cursed."
There was a row of plastic chairs outside a private room. Scott sank into one heavily and braced himself against his knees as his vision swum. His adrenaline rush had begun to ebb a few minutes ago, leaving nausea and light-headedness in its wake. He examined his shaking hands. Gordon's mutters were out-of-focus and hazy in the background. The sound of his own name jolted him back into reality.
"Sorry, what?"
Gordon tucked the map into his pocket again. "No, I'm sorry. I should've checked in sooner. How are you doing?"
He lasered in on the tremors before Scott had chance to hide his hands in the pockets of the leather jacket he had yet to give back to John. John, whose name evoked such a visceral sense of pure panic that Scott was hit by another wave of dizziness. He wrapped his arms around his middle as the ache from the bites wound its way around his ribs and stole the air from his lungs.
"Hey." Gordon crouched in front of him, eyes wide and concerned like a lost puppy. "Scott? Talk to me."
"It hurts again," Scott confessed, catching himself with a bitten-off hiss and only registering just how much he sounded like a little kid after he'd already spoken. He curled a hand into a fist in his pocket, discovering an empty gum wrapper and a couple of dollars, both leftover from the jacket's original owner. For some reason, evidence of the lost world made his chest hurt. He took another deep breath, unable to keep from flinching when Gordon cautiously laid a hand on his knee.
"Dude," Gordon murmured, more of a reflex than an intended phrase. He rose to his feet and gently pushed Scott to sit upright in the chair rather than curling over his knees like a wounded animal, probing the edge of the bandages. "Let me see."
Scott propped his arms along the back of the chair and rested his head against the wall. Exhaustion returned slowly, edging into his vision in a tired blur before making itself known in the form of an ache in his bones. With the combination of blood loss from the original attack and last night's fever, he was mildly impressed he'd lasted this long without hitting the deck. He zoned out, something which he would have mentally kicked himself for had he not been mildly delirious, until his big brother instincts whispered that Gordon seemed upset.
He blinked spots from his vision, noting the flash of fear across Gordon's face as Little Brother slowly tightened the bandages again before rocking back on his heels.
Scott summoned a smile. "Not too pretty, huh?"
"It's fine," Gordon replied as quick as a flash. He inhaled sharply. "We just need to find you some meds. C'mon, let's get moving. I'll even give you a hand."
This was not particularly reassuring. Gordon had a thing about the word fine. Hated it. Detested it, even. Claimed that fine was a word saved for bullshitting victims on rescue when the situation was dire. Fine was reserved for moments which were anything but. If Gordon claimed everything was fine, then Scott was in deep trouble. He was half-tempted to lift the bandages to check for himself, but the idea of peeling the fabric away from tender wounds made darkness flirt with the corners of his vision again.
So. He forced another smile, trying to appear confident even if his heart was sinking because he knew what fear looked like on his brother and right now Gordon was really scared.
"I'll accept a hand, but you're sure as hell not carrying me."
Gordon huffed a laugh, eyes suspiciously bright as if he were fighting tears. "I don't think I could carry you. You're freakishly tall."
"John's taller, technically, but don't tell him I admitted it."
"It's our secret, I gotcha."
Gordon was suspiciously gentle as he eased Scott to his feet, catching him as he staggered but careful not to jog any injuries. Scott was struck by the thought that his brother was treating him with little kid gloves, as if he were something fragile made of glass and liable to break. For some reason, that unnerved him more than Gordon's uncharacteristic silence.
Their footsteps seemed overly loud in the quiet hallway with only the wind and the distant shuffling of rotters for company. He longed to break the silence, but the only words he had were stifled curses as pain seared his skin from the bites and low-grade fever.
Gordon's grip tightened as he listed sideways. "Scott?"
"Yeah, yeah, still with you. Fuck. Just- gimme a minute."
"Um…" Gordon hesitated, staring at something to their left. Scott followed his gaze. "I'm gonna be real with you – I'm not sure this is the best place to take a breather."
The ceiling had partially collapsed. Light streamed through from the room above. Tangled wires hung limply, tangled, weblike, with a jagged shard of rebar in pride of place, smothered in old blood. But beyond the hole in the ceiling were a set of double doors, closed and chained. Two planks of wood had been jammed through the handles for good measure. Black spray paint warned don't open, dead inside. As they stood staring, faint growls picked up. The doors jostled as whatever lay behind tried to escape.
Scott cleared his throat. "Should we-?"
"Yeah."
The floaty sensation was back. Detached. Not fully present. Only this time, Scott couldn't attribute it to his brain being shitty or a not-so-fun trauma response or anything along those lines. He wondered whether maybe he was a carrier. John had never fully explained what it felt like, only that it hurt a lot of the time and made him feel weak and feverish, which were all symptoms Scott currently shared. Part of him wanted to tell Gordon to get as far away as possible for fear of somehow transmitting the infection – and the knowledge that Gordon's lack of immunity made him more vulnerable played on repeat in his mind like a bad loop – but the feverish delusional side of his brain was in control and that part was scared of dying alone and so wanted to cling onto his brother.
"Okay," Gordon whispered. Scott couldn't tell if he was pitching his voice low on purpose out of consideration for his godawful headache or if it was mere coincidence. "There should be some stuff in here which we can use."
There was an office chair in the corner – memory foam with back support which was luxurious after a full night of sleeping on cold concrete. Scott sort of fell into it and prayed Gordon hadn't noticed. His brother seemed preoccupied with rifling through prescription boxes, making swift work of picking the locks on multiple cabinets but abandoning the refrigerators as a lost cause as there was no way of telling how long the power had been out before they'd restored the generator.
"Here." Gordon materialised in front of him. Scott tried not to jump. "Drink all of this. You were dehydrated even before that fever had you sweating buckets."
He pressed a bottle into Scott's hands and returned behind the desk. Scott cracked the cap and took small sips to keep the nausea from crawling back up his throat. Plain water had never tasted so good. His mouth still felt dry even after he'd drained it, but it help beat back the fogginess in his mind. He reclined the chair a few degrees and closed his eyes to the sound of Gordon tossing aside confidential paperwork and rattling pills.
"Scott. Scott."
"Woah- What?" Scott bolted upright and nearly smashed his forehead against Gordon's. "Jeez, Gords. Don't do that."
Gordon stared at him incredulously. "You don't do that. Christ, I thought you were- Don't ever do that again."
"I don't even know what I did!"
"You just stopped responding! I thought you passed out again or worse! You can't just stop replying, you asshole." Gordon stepped back, breathing shaky and rapid. "Sorry." He bit his lip. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I just- You scared me." He wrapped his arms around himself, noticeably pale so that he looked ashen against his black suit. "Stay awake, okay? Talk to me while I find the right meds."
Scott twisted the neck of the bottle. "Talk about what?"
"I don't know," Gordon called over his shoulder, ducking down below the desk to rummage through the drawers. "Ramble about dumb Top Gun or something, I honestly don't mind."
"You're asking me to talk about Top Gun?"
"Believe me-" Gordon poked his head over the table to grin. "-I'm shocked about it too." He vanished out of view again. "So?" His voice was muffled. "You gonna tell me about Maver-dick or not?"
"You know it's Maverick."
"Same thing."
"You're killing me here."
"Not literally, I hope." Gordon popped into sight again, squinting at the label on an unopened sachet of something strong enough to murder a man at a high dosage. "Ah, shoot." He tossed it aside and turned to peer at the wall of cabinets. "Come on, where is it?"
"Where's what?" Scott sat forward in his chair. "Can't you just throw me the nearest painkiller and have done with it?"
"No. For so many reasons, no." Gordon turned to face him. "For starters, I'm not just giving you straight pain relief, I'm also trying to find antibiotics and you can't just mix and match. I've also got to figure out dosage because you've dropped a shit ton of weight so if you start popping pills like free candy at the rate you're used to then you're going to find yourself in overdose city before you even realise you've fucked up."
Scott considered this. "You know an awful lot about drugs. Should I be concerned?"
"If I was anyone else, probably. But prescription cocktails and I are old friends, so it would be weird if I didn't know a lot about meds. Particularly painkillers… which I could do with myself, actually, so if I'm right then there should be some in this cabinet here… Ah ha! Gotcha! Suck on that, shitty filing system!"
Gordon swept pen pots and an old calendar off the desk and counted out various pills, occasionally scrawling on the back of his hand with a biro. He twisted to scrutinise Scott for a long minute.
Scott raised a brow. "Would you like me to pose? You gonna draw me like one of your French girls?"
"Fuck off," Gordon replied cheerfully. "Get over here so I can drug you."
"Do you want me to fuck off or do you want me to come over there? I'm getting mixed messages."
Gordon levelled him with a deadpan stare. Scott pushed himself out of the chair and moved to join him at the desk, staggering at the last second.
Gordon caught him before he could faceplant onto the floor. "Careful."
Scott made the executive decision to sit on the desk before his legs could give out again. He studied the collection of various medicines in front of him to avoid meeting Gordon's concerned gaze. After a moment, he sensed Gordon look away with a faint sigh, and felt oddly guilty about the entire thing. He reached for the nearest pill, trying not to smile as Gordon smacked his hand away.
"Don't be an idiot."
Scott grinned. "There's a serious role reversal going on right now."
"Tell me about it." Gordon gave a mock shudder. "I feel responsible and I don't like it."
He returned his focus to the meds.
"Okay, so this is strong shit. You've got to be careful with these. This is the kinda stuff that people get hooked on. I was trying to find you the same meds that I'm prescribed, but they don't have it in stock, so instead…" He gestured to the collection of pills. "Voila, you get these. I won't bother explaining all of it to you. But I'm serious about the pain meds. You don't fuck with opioids."
"Yeah," Scott said slowly. "I know."
"Great. I just wanted to be sure."
"What's the deal?"
"I don't have a deal."
"Gordon."
"What?"
Scott resorted to silence. Sure enough, Gordon cracked. Ah, Gordy – so predictable.
"It's ridiculously easy to OD on these, alright? I wouldn't be as worried if you were in good shape, but you're not."
"Thanks," Scott deadpanned.
"I'm not screwing around. It's- John's suit fits you. John's suit. That's insane, Scott, and none of us talked about it because when have we had chance? But maybe we should have, because… You push the limits. I get that. But it's dangerous. You wouldn't be in such a bad situation now if you didn't keep prioritising everybody else all the time. Here's an idea – divide rations equally."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Scott snapped, wincing at the defensive edge to his voice, knowing it just confirmed Gordon's theory.
"You take the smallest share, every damn time. I'm willing to bet that's been going on ever since you and Alan got back to Earth. Even in the bunker, you'd sneak part of your rations onto John's plate. And then you keep forgetting to eat. Is that genuine, or are you just trying to make supplies last longer so the rest of us don't miss out?" Gordon took a deep breath and forced his voice to remain calm. "So, yes, I'm worried and now I have to trust my own maths and pray I haven't fucked up these calculations because if I have then there's a good chance I might accidentally kill you."
Scott shrugged. "I trust you."
"Oh my god." Gordon buried his face in his hands. "I can't. I genuinely can't. Just- Okay, please, please, universe or Dad or Mom or whoever's watching, let me be right about this."
Scott swept the meds into one hand. "Here's hoping."
"Wait, wait, wait, no, Scott, seriously, what if I've fucked it up? We should wait, ask Virgil, I just- I don't think trusting my calculations is the best idea and-"
"Gordon," Scott told him, sounding undeniably fond even to his own ears, "You're ridiculously clever. Trust yourself, okay?"
Gordon stared at him. "I don't know whether to be more concerned by the fact you took those dry, or by the fact you took them at all."
Scott figured confessing that he was genuinely on the verge of becoming delirious with pain would not go very far towards reassuring his brother. He patted Gordon's back with another forced smile, before sliding off the desk. The walls were fuzzy, but like ocean waves, sorta calming.
"Oh wow."
Gordon winced. "Already hitting you, huh?"
"I feel great. And hey, I'm not dead!"
"How did I forget how loopy painkillers make you?"
The pleasant lull evaporated in an instant. Scott came to a sudden halt. There was an icy chill seeping into his bones. In the absence of pain, it was easier to think, easier to remember clothes stained with blood and the rotten fluids of the infected, terrified tears, skin-tinged blue and oh-so-cold to touch. He jolted as Gordon moved to stand in front of him.
"Breathe."
"What about-?"
"I know. Breathe first, then we'll find them." Gordon wrapped him up in a warm hug, not firm enough to hurt but tight enough to hold him together. "Breathe," he reminded, burying his face in Scott's good shoulder so that his voice grew muffled. "We'll find them."
