Chapter Summary: Martin has very good reasons for being jumpy around Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers.

..

.

December 20th, 2009

The thing claws at Martin's leg, heavy denim ripping. He yells and manages, despite the pain in his head, to flip to his belly, trying to crawl away. His pleading is half-garbled with panic, "No, no, nononono, stop, get off, don't, don't hurt me -!" But there's nothing in the thing's pale eyes, he is prey to it, nothing more and how? His mind is staticky with panic and how is this possible? This, this thing is all murderous intent and the sickening smell of mildewed clothing, it's not possible. He flails but icy fingers dig into his bared flesh. Martin screams, thin and despairing as a trapped rabbit when nails and then teeth puncture his calf, tearing at the muscle.

Instinct kicks in and Martin's whole body convulses, yanking his leg free. But the monster's hands manage to retain a grip on the hem of his jeans. He rolls over, the torn fabric tightening like a tourniquet around his calf and he screams again at the white hot pain. Martin hammers at the thing's head as it drags him closer, jolts of pain running up his arms at each blow but it scarcely seems to notice. He clasps his hands together and swings them like a club into its temple, loosening its grip but still, still it has him. He is dragged inexorably closer and now it's looming over him, black running from its mouth to splatter on Martin's jacket. Martin curls up reflexively, hands shoving its shoulders back, bicycle-kicking, the blows landing on its upper body. One kick lands on its chin, driving its head back and pushing Martin free at last oh god, run run RUN! He twists to all fours, gathers himself to leap up but his leg isn't working right. He lands on hands and knees, palms and jeans tearing on rough tarmac, oh god, it - he - IT has his foot again, not human, it's not human.

Martin drags at the ground, nails breaking, breath sobbing in his throat. His shoe slips off and he's free, up and limping. Too slow, run, run, run! His calf hurts like there's molten metal searing into it, hot wetness soaking into his sock but he forces himself on. Martin runs with terrified glances over his shoulder to be sure it's not following, that he's leaving it behind even after the thing has disappeared into the night. He runs until his side is a stitch of pain and his shoeless foot drags, sock frayed open on rough tarmac. And when an automobile finally appears, slowing and stopping, he nearly weeps in relief.

At the hospital, the doctors don't believe him when he tells them, teeth chattering and shocky, that a… a person had attacked him. Sir, are you sure about that? At his continued insistence, the police are called in to take a statement after his surgery. From the look in the constable's eyes, he doesn't believe him either. Not yet.

Martin can't bring himself to tell the entire truth, that a thing shaped like a human but cold as the winter air had set teeth in him and torn and worried at him like a predator ripping flesh free from its victim, trying to cripple him. All right, sir, say it was a person. Was there any reason for the attack? Did you know this individual?

At this Martin begins to giggle, the bubble of hysteria rising until he gasps for breath. The constable eyes him and makes notes, asking the doctors sotto voce if a blood sample was drawn when he came in - perhaps he needs to be kept longer for observation? They think Martin's gone mad or, more likely, that he or his attacker was on drugs. Luckily his mother intervenes and he's allowed to go home.

The constable and doctors believe him later when the special reports on telly began to air. Everyone begins to believe. It isn't just an isolated incident in Wokingham. There are attacks in London, Manchester, even places as remote as Roarton. The dead are rising and attacking living people, killing them, eating brains. His mother is horrified at how close she came to losing her eldest son.

Martin doesn't sleep. It gets to the point where he begins to nod off any time he sits, his body shutting down. He can't bring himself to talk about that night with his mother. Instead he blames his sleeplessness on his healing leg or the paltry painkillers. But it's not until after one of his more vocal nightmares, flailing awake on the sofa at a touch on his shoulder that Martin breaks down. The hand his mother holds to a reddening cheek and the sad look in her eyes fills him with shame and guilt.

He has to say it, even just once. "Mum. That night. The… when I was attacked." He inhales and gets it out. "It... it looked like… it reminded me of… Dad. It was Dad."

He's immediately sorry he told her. Wendy goes white. But then disbelief fills her eyes, closing him out, pushing his confession away. "But Martin, it couldn't have been. No. Your father would never, never…" She pauses, gropes for words, a better explanation. "It… it all happened so fast! And… and you know your father is buried well across town. Why, if he'd really come back, he'd have had to go miles!" Martin only looks at her, imploring. She sighs. "Martin, I know you miss your father. You were always so close. Of course you're confused about what happened that night. Being attacked, bitten by a, a… an undead person - it must have been a horrible experience. And... it was dark."

Martin bows his head, defeated. He won't force her to believe, not when she wants so badly not to - it will only hurt her more. "Yes. It was dark." It's an acknowledgement, but not acquiescence. Martin knows what happened, what his father had been doing. It was the same thing Martin had been doing, after all.

His father had been going home.

When the police contact them, Martin lets his mother handle it. We're sorry to report, Mrs Crieff, but it appears that the grave of your husband has been disturbed. We'll need to investigate. His mother nods, stiff. Martin closes his eyes. An investigation. It won't be an exhumation, he knows. What had rested under Geoffrey Crieff's headstone is there no more.

They can only wait for another phone call. All over the United Kingdom, the beings called variously the undead, zombies, Rotters or the Risen are being dismembered by an hysterical public, the police, and the Army. At least, Martin thinks with some bitterness, if his dad 'dies' again, it won't hurt any worse than knowing his own father or whatever his father has become tried to kill him. Or that his own mother still can't handle the idea, firmly imagining that it was another Rotter that left her eldest son with a limp and recurring nightmares.

It had been dark, after all.

..

.

March, 2013, Fitton

Douglas played with his whiskey-less glass and unabashedly listened as Martin answered his mother's call.

"Yes? Hi, Mum. No, I'm at work, we've just got back..." Douglas stared as the blood drained from Martin's face, leaving him a shade of pale normally only seen in the deceased or PDS sufferers. "What?" Martin licked white lips. "He… when?" Martin swallowed a few times, eyes wide. He attempted a happier tone. "That's… that's great. How long until… wow. Okay. Okay. What, what about Simon, can't he - oh. No, I mean, yes, yes, of course. I'll drive. Okay. I'll… call you when I've arranged the day off. Yeah. Love you too, Mum. Bye." He clicked off the phone, staring into space.

"Martin…" Douglas wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. Carolyn turned from rummaging in the fridge at his odd tone, a plate of cheese in her hand.

"Carolyn," Martin said, voice cracking. "I - I need to book a day or two off next week."

"Skip, what is it?" Arthur asked, brows creasing in concern.

"I… oh, god. It - it's my dad," Martin said. "They - they found my dad."

"Your dad?" Arthur asked. "But isn't he dead… oh."

"He was," Martin said. "He was. Heart attack. But - but he's… he's… Now he's..." Martin couldn't seem to finish the sentence and Douglas felt his sympathy begin to congeal. "He's been roaming around, hiding. They… they caught him about a year back. Sent him to Halperin and Weston. He was… he's at the treatment centre in Norfolk."

Carolyn shook her head and put the plate on the desk. "Well. No news for eight months is better than worse news. I'd know. My sympathies, Martin. Take all the time you need. I can probably scrounge up a pilot to replace you, as they long as they understand it's temporary."

"Because deadness is contagious, apparently," Douglas said and shrugged at Carolyn's glare. "What? You think I don't know how hard it was to get even Martin for the position?"

"Mum, what do you mean? Why didn't they tell Martin's mum they found his dad?" Arthur's eyes were wide and beseeching. "Didn't they tell you? I was in the Centre for ages!"

Carolyn sighed. Douglas took pity and answered for her. "No. Halperin and Weston never inform the families. Not until you've been put on the Neurotriptyline and show positive medical indications that you will recover. And then there's the therapy. That takes time as well, Arthur."

"Mum? You didn't know?" Arthur was aghast. "Mum?"

"No, Arthur," she said, voice gentle. "But I was very glad when I found out. You were in a safe place."

Douglas snorted. He couldn't help himself. "Safe. Not everyone gets to leave, not unless they are fit to be re-integrated."

"But. But what if they don't leave?" Arthur looked heartbroken and Douglas felt a curl of shame for having brought it up. "Their families never know they've been found?" Douglas wouldn't tell him that not being released isn't the worst that could happen to a PDS sufferer who didn't respond to treatment. There were rumours in the Centre, spoken in hushed voices. After all, PDSers aren't like living people, and the dead don't have any rights. Not informing families gave Halperin and Weston Pharmaceuticals a lot of space for their work. Their experiments.

"It's… it's sometimes better," Martin said and they all looked at him. "And worse. Not knowing. That way, you can imagine they're either just, just gone or, or otherwise…" He swallowed a few times and Douglas thought Martin just might vomit up the good Talisker he'd drunk. "They're still out there." Like my dad was hangs unspoken in the air. Martin gulped once more. "But - but Carolyn's right, Arthur. At least when you were in the Centre, people were - I mean, you were safe."

Safe being a euphemism for not roaming the country as rabid and eating brains? Douglas stood up. "Ignorance is bliss, isn't it?" He couldn't stay here another minute. The look of sick apprehension on Martin's face was more than he could bear. He'd thought Martin was coming 'round - that he wouldn't be like the well-intentioned people who pretended they were fine with Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers but kept their prejudice mostly to themselves. Clearly he was wrong. PDSers were good enough to work with, it seemed, but not good enough to be family. "Excuse my leaving the celebration early. Congratulations on your father's return, Martin."

Carolyn only nodded over Arthur's protest as Douglas collected his flight bag and hat. Martin said nothing, eyes on the glass in front of him. As he opened the door, Douglas heard Arthur's bewildered comment.

"But, Skip! You don't look very happy. Whyever not? Your dad is back!"

"It… it's complicated, Arthur," Martin replied.

I'll bet it is, Douglas thought, and closed the door.

..

.

April, Norfolk Treatment Centre

The halfway house for families to meet their dear departed ones wasn't bad, Martin thought. A bit spare, but clean and homey. Wendy, Caitlin and he now waited in a small room furnished with comfortable sofas and some pamphlets on 'Living with PDS'.

Martin had been glad for Caitlin's company on the trip to Norfolk - driving alone with his mother's nervous expectations would have been too much. Caitlin had kept the conversation normal, bickering with Martin over the choice of music like any sibling would. If her cheerful pretense was strained at times, he'd never mention it. God knew that Caitlin had her own issues of guilt, though her part in the Wokingham militia had been confined to office work and not actually doing patrols. Martin couldn't imagine how she'd face their father if she'd actually killed a PDSer. Besides, she was a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

"I wonder if Dad will still have all his hair?" Caitlin mused.

"Caitlin!" their mother remonstrated.

"Well, really, Mum! It's not like he wasn't losing it when he died. It's been three years, right?"

Martin forced a smile. "Yeah. Look at what's happening to Simon's hairline."

"Yes, that's true," Wendy said, though she looked sad at the reminder of the passage of time.

"Remember that time after I'd got my first full time job that I got my hair permanently straightened?" Caitlin said with a reminiscent grin.

"Do I ever," Martin said, relaxing at the memory. "Dad liked it, until you told him how much it cost. I thought he was going to blow a gasket."

"It was almost two weeks' wages," Wendy protested. "You know your father - always careful with his money."

"Worth it not to look like an overaged Hermione Granger, as I told him," Caitlin said and Martin grinned. "I love you dearly, Mom, but I don't love getting my curls from you. At least Martin can clip his short. S'not fair. Thank god I dodged the ginger bullet."

"Oh, thanks, Caitlin," Martin groused. "I'm quite happy with my hair, thanks very much."

"That's because you're not losing it," Caitlin pointed out.

Wendy ruffled Martin's hair fondly. "You're just the image of your father. Especially the eyes." Martin looked down and fiddled with one of the informational brochures, not wanting to think about it.

"But not the height or hair," Caitlin said. "Pfft. If he'd let us put him in a dress and fluff those curls, he'd be a perfect Little Orphan Annie."

"Oh, come on!" That was going a bit far, Martin thought. "Didn't you get Simon into one of your old frocks once?"

Wendy smiled at Caitlin's laugh. "Geoff thought it was one of your friends come to play. Poor Simon."

"Why isn't Simon here anyway?" Caitlin wanted to know.

"Oh, he said that things were at a difficult state in the government at the moment, and he couldn't get the day off," Wendy said.

Caitlin rolled her eyes. "He's a council member for Dorking, Mum. It's hardly government."

"It's local government!" Wendy protested. "It's still important."

"He ought to be here," Martin said. "You're always making excuses for him!" He bit his lip. He shouldn't have snapped at her. It was just nerves, he told himself. He was all wound up about the imminent meeting. "Sorry, Mum."

Wendy's shoulders rose and fell with her inaudible sigh, though she looked as if she agreed with Martin about Simon's absence. "It's all right, Martin." She patted his hand.

There was a soft knock at the door. Martin was on his feet in an instant, his mother clutching his arm. An orderly opened the door. "All right in here?" she smiled. "Geoff's terribly nervous about seeing you all again."

"Me, too," Caitlin stated with perfect truth for all of them. "We're fine." She took Wendy's hand and squeezed it.

"Grand!" She gave them another bright smile and held the door open. Geoffrey Crieff walked in. His steps slowed and stopped, his eyes taking in his family. The orderly set a white plastic bag on the floor and closed the door on their reunion.

"Dad?" Caitlin's voice was quiet. "Oh my god. It's really you."

Wendy gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Geoff," she managed before her voice choked off. Tears ran down her face. Caitlin turned to hug her but Wendy was already moving towards her husband. "Geoff," she said again and then she was hugging him, weeping.

"Wendy, girl. Wendy," Geoff said, his face twisted up as if he wanted to cry. "I'm here. I'm here."

"You were gone, you left me too soon!" Geoff soothed her as best he could, fingers brushing over the faded red waves of his wife's hair.

Caitlin's eyes were bright with tears, her bottom lip clenched between teeth. "Dad." He held out an arm and she went to him, touching his shoulder tentatively, before accepting his embrace and burying her head against his shoulder.

Martin stood watching, a fine tremble running through his body. His dad looked… normal. As if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't died. He looked nothing like when - Martin thrust the thought away so hard he sucked an audible inhale. "H- hi, Dad." His father looked at him. Martin gulped. "You - you look better. Good, I mean." Martin bit his tongue at the inadvertent slip.

Laughing and crying both, Wendy turned in her husband's arms. "Come here, Martin. Come and greet your father properly. It's been almost four years since you've last seen him."

Martin felt his face freeze. How could she say that, she had to understand, she knew… He unlocked his limbs and walked forward, holding out his hand.

Caitlin scowled at him, wiping at her eyes. "A handshake, Martin? Really? What's wrong with you? It's Dad!"

Geoff's gaze dropped to Martin's shaking hand. "Shush, Cait, it's all right. A proper greeting between men. Look at you, both of you. I swear you've both grown, though I don't see how, since you were all grown up before… Before." He shook Martin's hand, a brief up-and-down before releasing him. Martin breathed relief through slightly parted lips. His father continued, "I'm just happy you're here, Martin, Cait. Supporting your mother. I'm so glad to see all of you again."

Wendy began to tear up afresh and Geoff rested his head on her hair. Martin looked away, ashamed that for a brief instant his father's face had worn a look of resigned unhappiness at Martin's cool reception. But at least Geoff hadn't betrayed anything beyond that. There was no clue that he remembered meeting Martin under very different circumstances while he was untreated. No, it was plain all Geoff could see was that Martin afraid of his undead parent. Instead of calling attention to it, he'd done his best to smooth the uncomfortable situation over, as stolid and kind as he'd ever been.

Martin could only be grateful.

Martin was all too happy to let his mother and Caitlin keep up the burden of conversation during the two hour drive to Wokingham. Geoff was full of comments on how little or how much things had changed and Caitlin was all too happy to answer Geoff's questions about pieces of his missing years. The commentary grew more lively as they drew near to Wokingham.

Geoff smiled as familiar landmarks and buildings hove into view. "The place has hardly changed, has it?"

"That's good, though, isn't it?" Martin said. Yes, he should focus on the positive.

"That's Rodney Beasley's place!" Geoff said as they drove past an old brick place. "Huh. Still hasn't replaced his TV antennae. I remember how he had to call me in because he tried a do-it-yourself repair on a wall socket. Nearly burned the place down, and he had the nerve to argue about the bill!" He sniffed. "Old skinflint."

Martin laughed in spite of himself. "Yeah. Some things never change. You should have told him to plug himself in and see how that went for him." He focussed back on the road and stiffened. The turning for the shortest route back home was just ahead. He couldn't take it, he just couldn't. He kept his eyes forward and drove past the narrow road with its edgings of hedgerows.

Caitlin eyed him. "Martin! What are you doing? You missed the turn."

"Uh, no, no I didn't," Martin stuttered. "I, I checked the route before we left and it said they were going to start road surfacing. Today."

"I didn't hear about any road work," Caitlin said.

Oh, god - why had he used that excuse? Caitlin was a traffic warden. "Maybe they didn't tell you? Anyway, that's what the website said!"

Wendy was puzzled. "I didn't see any road work signs."

Geoff sighed. "Typical road crew. Probably forgot to put the signs at this end of the road. Might not have even started yet. Some things really never change at all, do they? Never mind, Cait, we're almost home. Martin knows what he's doing."

Martin swallowed and summoned a brotherly smirk. "Yeah, Cait, don't argue with the driver."

Caitlin made a scornful noise but let it go.

Dinner was a strange affair. Wendy had prepared a lasagna that she knew her husband liked and only needed to be reheated after their long trip. It was Martin who had to explain as she set out four place settings.

"Mum. It smells great and I can't wait to have some but Dad… Dad's not going to be able to eat any of it. Or drink anything."

Geoff coughed and ran a hand over his head. "That's right, Wendy. I'll only lose it again. And it'd mess up my makeup besides!" Martin dropped his eyes. He didn't want to think about the makeup rubbing off, revealing what was underneath. His neck was aching from the tension that had risen and waned all day. Geoff smiled at his wife. "Looks wonderful, though. I appreciate the thought."

"Oh." Wendy looked crestfallen before laughing. "Silly me. I'd forgotten. Martin did tell me. But you can still sit with us and talk. There's so much to catch up on!"

Geoff smiled fondly at her. "Yes, pet. Couldn't keep me from the table for the world."

They all seated themselves and Martin managed to shove his nerves away while he ate. Over dinner he interjected a few comments, inwardly thankful no one had noticed his reticence. Or so he thought. It wasn't until he'd spooned up the last of his ice cream that his father cleared his throat, turning worried grey eyes upon Martin. "So, Martin. You seem to know a lot about my, uh, syndrome. Did you read up on it when you heard the news about your old dad? You always were a one for studying, head stuck in those flying textbooks all the time." His voice was cautious though the words were affectionate.

Caitlin answered for Martin. "Oh, no, Martin knows all about Partially Deceased. He works with two of them at his charter company."

"Charter company?" Geoff's brows rose.

Wendy smiled in pleasure. "Oh, yes, that's one of the best pieces of news for you! Martin finally passed his exams, not long after - well, you know. He's a pilot now."

"An actual captain," Caitlin added with unusual sisterly generosity which she then spoiled. "You ought to see his hat! Bolivian generals have nothing on him!"

Geoff's expression was both wondering and impressed. "A captain? You're not just a pilot, but a captain, too? Martin, that's great!" His smile was full of genuine gladness for his son's achievement. "I'm so proud of you."

Martin's throat felt tight and funny. His dad… his dad was proud. Proud of him. All those times that he and his father had argued over his studies, how Martin wanted to continue despite repeatedly failing his CPL, and then his father had died four months before he got his first real job. He'd never dreamed he'd hear these words, his father's praise. This… this should be a moment of triumph, a time to smile and accept his father's congratulations, maybe even jokingly gloat a little over his sudden success.

Martin's lips stretched into a smile. "Yeah. Thanks. Isn't it great?" It almost sounded natural, but the words came out strained from his aching throat. His mother reached over and put her hand over Geoff's where it rested on the table as if consoling him and Martin abruptly knew he couldn't do this anymore, not tonight. He'd hit his limit. He had to get out or, or...

"Actually, about that, Mum, Dad. I do have to go in tomorrow, we've, we've a trip to Paris," he lied. "N-nothing major, it's not overnight, but you know how it is, a pilot's supposed to get at least eight hours sleep between duty periods, well, maybe you didn't know that." He knew he was babbling but it didn't stop him pushing his chair back and standing up. "Sorry to eat and run, or is it eat and fly? Anyway. Sorry, Mum. I'll help with dishes next time."

"Don't worry about it, love," his mother said. His father nodded, a pinched line between his brows. Caitlin's face clearly stated she thought he was acting weird. Martin hesitated. Should he kiss his mother goodbye? If he did, she'd expect him to at least hug his father. His father forced a chuckle.

"Don't just dance about on the carpet, Martin. You've got to go. Have a safe trip."

"Uh. Thanks. I will. It… it's good to see you again, Dad," Martin said, knowing his words were inadequate but unable to say more. He went to the front hall to gather his jacket, hearing the low undertone of his father's voice.

"...been that jumpy? And he's been limping whenever he thinks I'm not watching. What happened, Wendy?"

Caitlin's voice answered. "He, uh. He was attacked, back when it started, Dad. Had to go to the hospital -"

"Not now, Caitlin," Wendy said. "I'll tell you about it later, Geoff. Just be patient with him."

Caitlin snorted. "He works with PDS sufferers, he ought to be used to them by now! He's being ridiculous. This is Dad, after all."

"Caitlin Theresa Crieff, not another word about your brother," his father said. "He'll come 'round in his own time. Now, who's up for a DVD? I keep missing all the pop culture references, makes me feel old."

His mother laughed. "Never that, dear. I don't understand what young people are saying, either. Caitlin, which movie -"

A chair scraped as someone began to get up from the table.

Martin fled.

Halfway to his little flat, the pressure that had built up from the day's events finally crested and washed over him. Martin pulled to the side of the road. Oh. Oh, god. A dry sound tore from his throat and he pressed his mouth into the crook of his elbow, bowing forward until the steering wheel pressed into his forehead. Oh, god, his dad was back. The second sob and all the following were mostly stifled by his jacket. He cried, miserable, until he couldn't catch his breath, uncaring if anyone looked into his van and saw him. Dad.

He loved his dad, but his dad had died. His dad had tried to kill him. And now he'd returned with no memory of that night.

And Martin was afraid of him. Who could he tell? Not his father, never. He wouldn't do that, not with Geoff home and everyone else so happy about it.

Oh, god. What was he going to do?