It's easy, there's a trick to it, you do it or you die.
—Shadow, American Gods, Neil Gaiman
C'mon, Zack, he tells himself. Just a bit farther.
He adjusts his grip on Cloud. Cloud is draped over his left shoulder, Zack's hand around his hips as he dangles down his back. He hefts him a bit higher. The weight's usually nothing, not to his strength, but right now it might as well be the weight of the world.
He's running—okay, that's a bit of lie, it's more of a light jog, it's all he can manage at the moment—and he thinks he can still hear the sound of trucks in the distance, the shouts of Shin-Ra troops as they find their trail again. But he's trying, all right? He's moving as fast as he can.
Zack's just so tired. His right side is still bleeding sluggishly even through the bandages; he didn't want to chance Cloud making it worse. Not like it would have been on purpose or anything, but it would still be a problem. He hasn't eaten in two days, hasn't slept in nearly three, hasn't bathed in a month. His knee's busted and materia can only do so much, especially on the fly; it heals, but the bone remains brittle and more prone to breaking, the sinew to tearing unless it's wrapped and rested.
He hasn't had the time.
He needs to stop and think and heal, figure out the best way to dodge the next outpost, but they aren't letting him.
Everything feels so unreal. It's the exhaustion, he knows, It pulls at him until his face is numb, until his eyes blur, until everything shines with an aura that foretells the massive migraines that are growing more frequent as his body starts fighting itself—too much strain for even the advantages that mako provides. Compounded by the hunger, it's a wonder he's even able to move.
But the pain keeps him awake and focused.
His right arm hangs uselessly at his side for now. He hasn't had time to make a sling for it, and he's going to be damned if it heals the wrong way. You can do it, he thinks to himself. Keep moving. If you stop, he'll die. After how far they've gone, he can't allow that. It's become a mantra, and Zack repeats it like a holy prayer.
They'd gotten close, but they hadn't gotten them, and that's what's important.
Sometimes it feels like this has been his entire life, the desperate move from burrow to burrow, avoiding Shin-Ra patrols, taking a circuitous route around the continent as they make their way towards Midgar. The earlier part of his life has to have been a dream, has to have been. No way was he ever that happy. The thought makes him dizzy sometimes, when he thinks of his parents, or of having a full stomach, or a full night's sleep.
All myths—they feel more like half-remembered dreams, phantasmagoria, rather than actual things that happened. Even the survival week had nothing on this. The penultimate week of the SOLDIER selection program, designed to weed out those that couldn't handle the physicality of it, where they averaged three hours of sleep a night if that, carrying a full ruck plus weapons, no food unless his team hunted it down on their own in the middle of the Wastes.
Cloud's lighter than Zack's gear ever was, even with the Buster and his quickly dwindling pack of supplies. He hasn't woken up in months. Zack grimaces at the reminder. He's still breathing; Zack's doing what he can to make sure he eats—and that's a battle and a half, chewing his food for him, akin to how mama chocobos feed their hatchlings, only with more throat rubbing—and liquid's a bitch to get down his throat without choking him. He's still underweight though, and it's a trial to go through Cloud's physical therapy exercises when they're interrupted every five seconds by Shin-Ra or monsters.
He tries though, because if Cloud wakes up—no, when he wakes up, he'll need to be able to move on his own. Cloud can't afford atrophied muscles. Hell, what's he saying? He'd carry him then, too, but it would be so much easier if he didn't have to. He can just imagine it, Cloud's legs giving out at exactly the wrong moment, him falling to the ground in a fountain of blood.
He shudders.
Zack would kill for a saline bag and a team of nurses right about now. Cloud's dangerously dehydrated, lips chapped, skin losing elasticity, skin feverish, though he can't tell if that's from the mako poisoning or the lack of fluids.
They're not going to be able to make it through this. Zack shakes his head. No, he can't think like that.
It does feel futile, though. Sometimes it seems like the whole world is out to get him. Wait, the whole world is out to get him, what is he thinking? Shin-Ra is the world.
And Cloud hasn't woken up in months. Months. Hasn't been aware in years, maybe. Zack tries to stay positive, that's just who he is, but even he is starting to lose hope, just a little. It's been so long since he heard anyone else's voice, had any really significant conversation. Hard to do when you're on the run and can't trust anyone. Shin-Ra has eyes and ears everywhere. They own everyone. Shinra is the world.
You and me against the world, right? He swallows, tightens his grip on Cloud's hip, and picks up the pace, ignoring how his knee protests.
Sometimes he just wants to set him down and walk away. It'd be so much easier to leave him behind. It wouldn't be easy on his own, but it would be easier. He hates himself for feeling that way, but he can't help it on days like this where he's at the end of his rope. Cloud might as well be dead for how responsive he is. Just dead weight.
But he has a responsibility to Cloud. They'll make it to Midgar or die trying. Zack's not a quitter, no matter how rough things get. He's got to save at least someone. He couldn't save Angeal, couldn't help Sephiroth. Cloud will make it. He'll make sure of it.
As Zack rises over the ridge ahead he sees a stream. A stroke of luck, finally. It doesn't take him long to slide down the bank and carefully ford it, balancing Cloud carefully in a half-fireman's carry, unable to lift his other arm the way he needs to but unwilling to get him wet.
This time of the year, the night gets cold, and he doesn't want to expose Cloud to that, not when he's already out of it.
He stops in the middle, deciding to head upstream since downstream is where they'd figure he'd head. The water goes up to his chest, and there's a bit of an undertow he'll have to be careful about. He travels that way for five, six miles before the stream breaks into rapids, and he leaves the safety of the water.
The sun's setting, and fog is rolling into the valley, dulling their scent, covering their tracks as long as he's careful. The sky's a dull pink mixed with a brilliant vermillion, mostly covered by clouds. It was still pretty, and any other time he might have stopped to appreciate it. Not now.
He shivers. Every step it feels like he can't go on, but he takes a step anyway. If he's remembering correctly, there's a network of caves here. Adjusting his grip on Cloud so he's carrying him in his arms, he zigzags low against the ground until he reaches the hills.
There.
He sees the entrance, partially hidden by a thicket of brambles and darts inside, checking it for enemies before he lays Cloud down just outside the light. He weaves the brambles together to hide it a bit further (at just four feet it's a rather tight fit with two people, maybe that'll throw them off if they do manage to pick up the trail) and the thorns scratch at his hands, but the entrance expands not three foot away into a cavern large enough to stand in and walk around comfortably.
Zack desperately wants to sleep, pulse in his head reminding him he's exhausted and not thinking clearly, threat of pursuit still at the forefront of his mind, but he can't welcome oblivion.
Not yet.
He reaches into his small pack which miraculously has remained dry, pulls out a MRE (he's getting low on those, too) and mechanically works through it, washing it down with carefully rationed water. He can't risk a fire, so that means finding the headwaters or the source. He's got a few bottles of water left for Cloud, and his canteen has a rudimentary filtration system, but unboiled water still holds bacteria and tiny organisms, and he doesn't want to risk it unless he has to because that has a whole host of problems on its own.
Doesn't want to risk Cloud's health unless he has to. God, he's so not cut out for this. Zack's in over his head—about six feet too deep. Has been ever since Genesis deserted. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't see a way out of this. Shin-Ra is the world.
He rubs his palms into his eyes, hoping to get feeling back in his face. It doesn't work, and he stares unseeing at the fading light. He can just make Cloud out in the dim cavern, his pale skin shining out like a beacon.
Aww, screw it. He's hidden them well enough. Zack crawls over, crawls because he doesn't think he can manage to walk now that he's finally sitting.
"Hey buddy," he says, picking up his hand, feeling the warmth, leaning back against the wall of the cavern. "Been a long time since we could talk like this." He keeps his voice low because he's lonely, not stupid.
Cloud doesn't answer. He never does. Zack imagines it though, just like the time between the tests, before Cloud went comatose and things became so much worse. It'd be a soft, quiet, Yeah.
"How was your day?"
Tough, he hears.
"Yeah. Mine too. Those Shin-Ra are tenacious bastards, aren't they?" He lets out a woosh of air. "Almost got us, this time."
Cloud's voice would turn flat and the slightest bit wry. Understatement.
"Yeah, I know."
Nice to have a moment of rest.
"Just a little." he sighs again. "It'll be easier, once we get to Midgar." He ruffles his hair. "It'll be large enough to hide, and the slums are a law of their own. They won't think of us hiding under their noses."
Mercenaries, right?
Zack grins, but it's a little weak. "Yeah, Cloud."
Shin-Ra may be the world, but Cloud has become his world, and he'd do anything to save it. He lays down, tucks Cloud to his chest to keep him warm as the air cools from the approaching night, and squeezes their joined hands.
Zack sees his eyes flicker open, feels Cloud's hand squeeze just the tiniest amount against his. His heart stops. He can't breathe, he feels tears welling up before he can stop them, a rush of adrenaline and the faintest spark, deep in his heart. Zack holds his breath.
"Zack...?" Cloud slurs, barely understandable, eyelids fluttering rapidly, shifting. He stills soon after, eyes closing, but it's more than he's done in the past month.
His name on his lips feels a little like absolution, a little like healing.
Zack tightens his grip on his hand, closes his eyes, and hopes.