Chapter Summary: Martin's past during the Pale Wars still haunts him. And after Martin lets something slip, he and Douglas come to an understanding.
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August, 2011, Wokingham
Martin drums his hands on the steering wheel, waiting for the others. It's been a week since the last supply run and heavens knew how long it'd been since the Wokingham Tesco was open properly, what with the disruption of deliveries. The government is doing what it can, he knows, but maintaining what is essentially a war on two fronts means that smaller communities are left to stick it out on their own as best they can. Martin wonders bitterly why the government doesn't withdraw more troops from Afghanistan to handle the Rising, international agreements be damned. Since that December when the dead Rose, chaos has reigned.
Some people are scattered to remote areas, trying to escape the larger cities where there are more cemeteries and the population of the undead is larger. It makes some sense, Martin knows. Rotters - the undead - seem to hunt where there are larger concentrations of people. Scientists are not sure how much of their original mental processes remain but sometimes Rotters return to places that are familiar. Martin shakes his head to drive away the thought. Maybe it's just coincidence - people are buried in cemeteries nearby so families can visit, after all. He'd put flowers on his father's grave a few times himself before… before. Martin wonders what his dad would have done in a situation like this but drives the errant thought away. Best not to think about it.
Martial law applies in places like London, soldiers protecting civilians. In the countryside, he assumes the people who have fled cities are dealing with the undead in their own way. But in little Wokingham? Well, for once living in a small town had its advantages - community spirit. Martin has joined a neighbourhood coalition that works together to look out for each other and share supplies. People don't go out by themselves any more, as Martin reassures his mother. He'd moved home and stayed. What else could he do?
Caitlin, with her traffic warden's knowledge of roads is rooming with a group of self-made militia, setting patrol routes and safe passages. Simon has his own family to worry about in addition to attempting to run a town council that is facing a crisis unlike any the world has ever known before. One would think that with the development of a possible cure, this Neuro-whatever, that life would get back to normal. But even with bounties placed on Rotters to be brought in alive for testing and treatment, there were still rabid ones roaming. Life as Martin has known it has been suspended indefinitely.
A flicker of movement and he sees Janice and Roger push through the Tesco doors, laden with carrier bags, rucksacks and boxes. Martin jumps out and joins them, limping slightly. His damned calf is stiffening up again. He needs to do more physical therapy but oddly enough, it's hard convincing anyone to go on short restorative walks with him and he can't bring himself to sign up for patrol duty. He opens the back of the van and they pile supplies inside.
Several trips later, they're done and Martin pulls out onto the road. "Lots of root veg," Roger says. "No fruit again, just more tinned stuff."
Martin sighs. It's been ages since he's had anything as exotic as a banana. Still, the tinned stuff does the trick. "Good thing we've got everyone growing gardens then. I'd hate to die of scurvy."
"Yeah, well, you might think it's great but my mum? She's got a black thumb," Janice says. "I swear the only things that don't die are the kale and cabbages, and the cabbages get worms."
"Nutritious and delicious, slimy yet satisfying," Roger quips, which makes Martin laugh. "The Lion King taught me that."
"Screw the worms, I'm worried about Dad killing us all with flatulence," Janice says. "Seriously? Kale? You can keep it. Hey, you've got cucumbers in your garden, don't you? Fancy trading?"
"For kale? Not on your life," Roger says. "You could sweeten the deal." He makes fatuous kissing noises at her and she snorts and pushes his face away.
"Dream on. I'll deal with the gas."
Martin grins to himself. He likes doing the runs with these two, with their snark and banter. They're funny, and he doesn't have many genuine chances to smile these days. "Children, don't make me pull over."
"But Da!" Janice whines.
"Why's he get to be Da when I'm older?" Roger asks. "Wait, no, never mind, don't want to be your daddy. Unless that's something you like?"
"Da, he's being gross," Janice complains but can't stop the smirk spreading.
Martin keeps his face straight. "I will definitely pull over if you don't do up your seat belt, young lady."
"You wouldn't do that, would you? Not when I've got you a present." Janice pouts, fastens her seatbelt as instructed. "You've only been moaning for something forever."
"I do not moan," Martin says but is intrigued. "What is it?"
"Promise you love me best first, Da," she says.
Martin bites the inside of his cheek. "Y-yes, darling, I love you best." He's going to burst out laughing in a second.
"Okay then." She rummages in a carrier bag and hands him something. It's an apple. Slightly wrinkled with age and with a small soft bruise but definitely an apple.
"Oh," Martin breathes. "Janice. You're my favourite, definitely."
"Ha. Knew it." She leans over and plants a messy kiss on Martin's cheek before turning to smirk at Roger.
"So not fair, Jan, he doesn't even swing that way," Roger complains.
"Found it under the fruit display. Must have rolled under." She shrugs. "Anyway, thought you should have it. You're always driving for all of us."
"Everyone chips in for the petrol," Martin points out. "S-so I don't mind."
"Still. Least I can do."
"Thank you." Martin places the apple with care in the drinks holder. "I… it's very thoughtful." They exchange a smile. Roger's street is coming up and Martin flicks on the signal and makes the turn.
She must have been in the bushes. But to Martin it's as if the figure comes out of nowhere. Janice's scream is short and shrill as the van's fender impacts the girl. "Oh, shit! Was that -? We just hit someone! Stop, stop!"
Martin brakes hard, panting. "Oh, god, please let her be okay, please let me not have killed someone!" He reaches for his buckle but Roger is already out the back of the van. Martin throws open his door and jumps down. Roger jogs to a girl in the pink dress lying crumpled in the road but slows. "Roger, what are you doing, you have to help her!" Martin shouts. But Roger is backing away, shaking his head.
"We aren't helping her. She's past it."
The girl shifts, lifts herself to her one elbow. The other isn't working properly, the arm at an odd angle. She doesn't seem to notice the hindrance as she pushes herself to her knees. Blond hair straggles in filthy matts and black is seeping through the front of the dress. Pin-prick pupils focus on them and Martin's heart stops. She opens her mouth and black spills down her chin. Behind him, Janice makes a choked, broken sound.
"It's getting up, come on, get in the van, get in the van!" Roger shouts. "I'll take care of it!" He fumbles for his gun and points it. Janice throws herself on him, yanking his aim away. The shot goes wild and Martin jumps.
"No, no, don't, Roger!" Janice is screaming.
"Get off me! Get off, I'll finish that Rotter -!"
The Rotter levers herself upright and Martin's paralysis snaps. He grabs Roger's shirt and drags him away, half-throwing him into the back of the van. "Janice, get in, we have to go!"
But Janice is standing spellbound before the girl as she sways forward, black mouth opening and closing. "Allie? Allie, don't you remember me? It's Janice," Janice says.
"For fuck's sake, Janice, move out of the way!" Roger yells. He's still trying to aim, the barrel of the gun wavering as he tries to aim around Janice.
"No, you're not killing her, that's Allie!" Janice shouts back. The thing is closing the distance, eager for prey that stands still.
"Janice!" Martin screams. "Get in the van!" She's not moving. Someone is going to die. Someone is going to die if Martin doesn't do something. He slams the rear door on Roger, the window spider-webbing as another shot goes wild. Roger curses him volubly. Martin gets his arms around Janice and drags her away just as the creature's hand brushes her shoulder. He pushes her inside the van. He sprints to the driver's side and tumbles in, shoving the van into gear and gunning the engine. They peel away as the Rotter - Allie - snarls in disappointment.
"You should've fucking let me kill it," Roger says with venom. "Lost my cousin and aunt to one of those fuckers. They should just be put down."
Martin pants, gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands. Janice is pale, tears streaking her face. He looks at her, concerned. "Roger, d-do us a favour. Call the authorities, tell them you spotted a Rotter on Blagrove Lane, just after the Oaklands turning. With - with luck they'll capture it. Her. They won't kill her." He's speaking more for Janice's sake than his own. "They're taking them alive. When - when they can."
"Alive," mutters Roger but pulls out his phone.
"She was in my year at school," Janice says. "She… she took a bunch of pills. She killed herself." She begins to weep in earnest. "Her name's Allie. She was my mate."
"Not anymore," Roger says. "Or did you miss how she wanted to crack your skull open? That's not her."
"Roger, just, just shut up," Martin says between chattering teeth. Reaction is setting in and shudders rack his body. "Please. Please, just shut up right now. Okay?"
Wendy is waiting at the door when he pulls in, having delivered supplies to several houses. "Martin, love," she says. "You look exhausted! Poor dear. How was the trip?"
Martin forces a smile on his face. "Fine. Fine. No problems." None, except for Janice's heartbreak and Roger's rage. He positions himself in front of the van, hiding the fender from his mother's view. "I - I've got something special for you. An apple."
Wendy smiles. "An apple! Lovely. But don't you want it for yourself?"
"No," Martin says. "Definitely not." He isn't sure if he'll want another apple again for a long time after today. "A treat for you. Is that dinner I smell?"
"Yes, just a casserole," Wendy says.
"B - better check on it. Don't worry, I'll get the groceries." Anything to keep his mother from seeing the state of the van. The bullet hole in the rear window. The dent. He'll take the van in for repairs to an acquaintance who can be convinced not to let the news get back to his mother. He hopes she never finds out. But for tonight, all he can do is carry in the groceries and have dinner with his mother. When she's in front of the telly he'll sneak out with a bucket and sponge to scrub away the black smears on the van's silver paint.
He hopes he won't vomit.
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Fitton, 2013
Martin surfaced from the dream with a gasp, heart pounding. He reached for his phone and checked the time. Four a.m. He groaned. God, he was so tired. It was the third time this week he'd been woken by nightmares, no doubt courtesy of the trigger of Douglas' black-bleeding palm. He was only glad that he had his own little place in Fitton now and his neighbours couldn't hear him during his worst dreams. He turned over and thumped his pillow into a better shape. He needed sleep, they had a flight today. The problem was that sometimes he would plunge back into another nightmare on the heels of the first, waking him again.
He pressed his lids closed and tried to imagine the sensation of flying, the lift he felt when in the air. But sleep wasn't to be. When birds began to twitter outside, he flung back the covers and limped to the kitchen to make a pot of extra-strength coffee.
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Jersey
"Captain, if I didn't know better, I'd have said that you're the dead one between us, not I," Douglas said. "You look terrible."
Martin did look ghastly, dry-skinned and pale with dark circles under his eyes. Martin glared but Douglas pretended not to notice. Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Can you radio for the weather over the Channel?"
"I certainly can," Douglas said. He considered Martin's wan face and decided he'd better shoulder the responsibility and give Martin a break. "Even better, I can take control. Really, are you sure you should be flying? I thought you would dislocate your jaw on that last yawn."
"I'm fine," Martin insisted but the mere mention had him yawning again. "Really."
"No, not really," Douglas said. "You look as if you haven't slept in a week."
"Yeah, well," Martin muttered. "I get that way sometimes." He shifted in his seat, stretching his leg and rotating the ankle.
"Stiff leg?" Douglas asked. "I suppose one benefit of my condition is that I don't feel the old aches from my sporting days. Ironic, but I suppose becoming an overly uptight airline captain so young has aged you prematurely. A hot water bottle and some liniment should set you right up. And a nap."
"It's not a sporting injury," Martin protested, the words half garbled by another yawn.
"Captain," Douglas said, his irritation growing. "Be sensible. We have about forty minutes until we reach Jersey. We have no passengers and Arthur's not going to tell his mother if you have a snooze."
"I can't, there's supposed to be a, a... A living person in command -"
"No, the regulations state only that one of the pilots not be Partially Deceased. Don't try to regs-lawyer me, I did read them carefully, as befits the conditions of my employment." Martin's continued reluctance was making him even more determined. "You don't even have to leave the flight deck. Just tip that ridiculous hat over your eyes and let me fly."
"No," Martin said.
"For god's sake, stop being a stubborn child and see reason!" Douglas snapped. "You're in no fit state! What are you afraid of, that I'll crash the plane to spite you?"
"I don't want to," Martin shouted back. "I can't, because the minute I close my eyes some damned Rotter is going to run me down and catch -" He broke off, visibly appalled at what he'd just said. "I'm, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean -"
Douglas clenched his jaw and counted to ten before answering. "And that is why you're turning control over to me, Martin."
"I'm… you're right, I'm just so tired, I'd never -"
"I know, and that's why I'm letting it go this once." Douglas said, and let the merest edge flow into his voice to relieve the bubbling anger within. "You undersized, annoying, uptight fucking pillock."
"Uh?" Martin blinked. "What did you just call me?"
"Something to even the scales a bit. Let's strike a deal - don't ever call me a Rotter, and I'll use only minor forms of vituperation on you in future. Sound fair?"
Martin flushed to roots of his hair. "Yes. I'm sorry. That… that was extremely…"
"Bigoted of you?"
"I was going to say unprofessional, but…" He sighed. "You have control, First Officer Richardson."
"I have control," Douglas repeated. Martin dropped his hands in his lap and leaned back, exhaustion lining his face.
"I still don't think I can sleep," Martin said in a low tone. "I'm sorry, Douglas."
"Well, who could, locked up all tight and cosy with my charming self. Though in my indecorous past, there were those who would've jumped at the chance. Alas, poor Douglas." A glance showed him his little joke had gone awry. Martin's brow was furrowed, lips tightening. Oh, sod it, it was time to get a few things out in the open. "Oh, come now, my captain, it's not as if I'm suddenly going to leap the console and try to eat your brain. You don't seem to use it much anyway. I highly doubt it's more than a mouthful."
Martin's mouth fell open, his expression caught between horror and affront. "I - I - I… you can't…! I thought you weren't going to insult me any more!"
"No, I only said I'd censor myself," Douglas said blithely. "Somewhat. You're quite safe - it's not as if I have any appetite since my… rehabilitation. Pity. The threat of alcoholism and potential liver failure no longer looms on my horizon, which I suppose is all right. Not really an even trade-off in my books. But I do miss… food." Douglas drawled the last word with all the longing of a man who hadn't had normal food in years.
Martin swallowed a few times before he managed, "...Oh? Oh. Right."
"Though I do pity you," Douglas said.
"What? Why?"
"I saw Arthur loading your catering," Douglas said, wrinkling his nose. Martin choked a laugh and Douglas found himself grinning. "That's better, Captain. I was beginning to wonder if your sense of humour was fully deceased. Now I see it's only partially."
"And this is you being less insulting, is it?" Martin said. "How lucky I am." His sarcasm was weak but at least his face had more colour, Douglas noted.
"My first ex-wife always said my sense of humour would be the death of me," Douglas remarked. "Imagine how happy I was to call her and tell her otherwise."
"Oh, my god. Douglas! You - you didn't actually!"
"No, not really." Douglas took a moment to check dials and correct their flight path minutely. "Martin, you are in no danger. I'm a good old dog, I roll over when regulations require, I've had my shots. You saw the last one the airport medic gave me. Hamfisted amateur that he is."
"He's licenced. How is he an amateur?" Martin said.
"Because he uses the injector as if he's trying to drill to China through my spine. I know how to give injections, I trained to be a doctor before packing it in to be a pilot."
"Really?" Martin's brows lifted. "Huh. I can see that. Why did you quit?"
"Wasn't my thing. Too gloopy. Being a pilot, now… Glamour, a uniform that's great for pulling, travel, money... " Not that his current salary was a patch on what he'd formerly been used to, nor was he doing much pulling these days. Douglas shoved the thought away and smirked at Martin. "Who wouldn't want to be a veritable sky-god?"
Martin's head bobbed in a slow nod. "I always wanted to be a pilot. But a sky-god?" He laughed in self-deprecation. "I don't think I'm quite up to that class yet. You… you were a senior captain at Air England, weren't you?"
"I was." And the slight wistfulness in his own words silenced Douglas a moment. "The thing is, Martin, that in order to even be here, in the flight deck with you -"
"Locked in," Martin pointed out.
"As you say, locked in with you for my sins..."
"Hey!"
"As unfortunate as it is for me," Douglas smiled at Martin's indignation. "And the reverse, you being confined with me like a fellow animal - it is safe. The regulations state -"
"I know the regulations!" Martin snapped. "Applicants for a Special Issuance of Medical Certificate and Assisted Special Issuance under Title 14 of the Code of Regulations, subsection concerning Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers, Section Five states that because of the risk involved with the condition, you are required to take Neurotriptyline not less than once every twenty four hours and on days when you fly the prescribed dosage is to be administered by or in view of a duly licensed medical technician!"
Douglas narrowed his eyes at Martin. "That. That's not natural."
Martin was defensive. "What? I'm supposed to know the regs!"
"No, not that, though your memory is impressive. But I don't think you even took a breath during that recitation. Gosh. You sure you're not undead?"
Martin choked. "You - you can't make jokes like that!"
"Who better?" Douglas said with a wry smile. "Apologies. My humour is a little black these days."
"'S'alright," Martin said, and he was, to Douglas' view. His shoulders had relaxed from their tense posture.
"All in all, my point is - and it's a roundabout path I've taken to coax you along to it - is that you'll be fine. You don't even need to rattle off the regs governing the use of that taser you sometimes stroke. I'm not going to harm you, though I will, on occasion and as needed to keep from going mad locked in this steel tube, take the piss. Don't worry."
"But - sometimes. Well, it's just that sometimes I can't help..." Martin grimaced down at his hands.
"'Sometimes' - well, that I can deal with. So long as we have an understanding. Do what you need to do, and take the advice of a sky-god with over twenty years of experience, Captain. If you are feeling nervy, concentrate on your flying. You've improved a great deal -"
"Thanks for that." Martin scowled at him, but it was half-hearted.
"But there's nothing like minutiae for taking your mind off things."
"Okay." Martin yawned again. "I take your point. Thanks… for being decent about this."
Douglas hummed in acknowledgement. "Stay in here and try to get some sleep while Arthur and I handle the pick-up. I'll operate back."
"I suppose you'll just threaten to eat my brain if I don't," Martin mumbled. His eyes were half-closed.
"I already told you, Captain," Douglas said. "Not appetising enough. Small portions were never my thing."
"You're horrible, first officer Richardson." But Martin had a small smile on his weary face and that was good enough.