Author's Note: Apologies for the disgusting lack of update! I was out of town over the weekend.
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CHAPTER THIRTY
TO STAND AGAINST OUR DARKEST DEEDS
*
Loneliness is our disease
Where did we go wrong?
Building up walls instead of bridges
Let our lonely hearts collide
We're made to live this life together
Reach across this great divide
Because standing side by side is better
All the pride we defend teaches us to pretend
Like we can make it on our own
But we were never made to walk alone
Let the lines between us disappear
-Together-
Gray eyes penetrate, burning and darkly vigilant. The wolf lies in wait.
Heart pounds loudly against broad ribcage, hammering, anticipating. There's something about the male day stalker. Something in its system that urges its extreme disdain of him. It shies back, engulfed in shadows. This is the one who fights, it remembers. Remembers only from recent encounters. It still knows nothing of its former life. Nothing except instinct. It knew how to trap, to plan. Its instinct was always to destroy, to unleash pain. Instinct is all that's left, all that remains of this shell. It's all that's needed.
Booth takes a breath, his own heart thudding dangerously fast, and kicks away the file cabinet, bursting through the door like the angel of death. The loaded shotgun ready to become his flaming sword. Pupils are wired into rushing focus, every surface of his skin alive and super-alert. But he remembers everything still. His mind isn't lost to ruin.
But the room is empty. Of enemy and shadow, alike.
Out of nowhere, he's suddenly cut down, thrown into the nearest obstruction. Teeth rattle at the solid impact, and he's fallen. Before he can gain any bearings, Cortman's blunt fingernails carve into his shoulders and drag him across the floor. He's slammed against random ailments, his oppressor shouting wordless obscenities. Booth steels his jaw, gripping the frayed jacket of his assailant. Delivers a solid kick to the thing's face.
Reeling back with a howl, Cortman is already on the attack again, driving his shoulder into Booth's midsection. Both alphas tumble into a neraby desk, which is quickly upturned, and the shotgun clatters away. Booth gains purchase, ducking a rabid swing and delivers two sharp blows to the face of the Infected man.
Cortman, barely affected, shakes it off and seizes his spry opponent, tossing him carelessly aside. Booth's back slides across a desktop, collides violently with a series of file cabinets, and eventually he topples to the floor in a bruised heap. Rattling metal echoes throughout the level, engulfing the atmosphere in an invisible thunderstorm.
Cortman throws his head back and bellows, long and deafening. Superior, conquering. Primal satisfaction. He is the greater beast.
Booth rises from behind the valley of destruction, retrieved shotgun in hand. Too bad for Cortman he's better at giving scars that receiving them. "Smile, asshole."
His own voice is something dangerous and not quite human. Two blasts propel the screaming monstrosity back with the force of a pissed off semi truck. The first tears at the flesh of its side, the second is partially obstructed when the thing throws up its arms in a kneejerk reaction.
With an agonized wail, it tears away. The third shot is intercepted by the wall when the Infected disappears from sight. Shaking with the force and speed of his thundering heart, Booth shakily ejects the third shell. He's got one left. He's too hopped up on the virus to feel the throbbing pain stemming from all the fresh bruises and injuries. He'll be well aware of them later, but right now, they're little more than an annoying buzz.
Without warning, he's ambushed from behind, weapon lost again and clattering down the stairs. In a speeding blur, he's thrown aside, crashing into an unfinished wall. Sent through weak framework—wood splintering, loud and snapping—and into the other room. Plaster dust and debris take hostage the air, clouds of it suffocating his lungs. Coughing, he collapses fully onto the pile of rubbage.
Wasting no time at all, Cortman smashes his way through, tearing aside planks and all manner of morsel in his way. He heaves Booth up by the throat, hoisting him right off his feet. The glass of the adjacent observatory spiderwebs under the impact of Booth's solid back. He doesn't notice the black dots corrupting his vision, but his attention becomes snagged, demanded, by something else entirely.
It's not the gray eyes of the monster glaring daggers into his face, but rather of what spills erratically and without sense from those pale, chapped lips. "Buhhh…" A deep guttural growl is all he hears at first, but then it's said again, with more force, with more deep disdain. "Buuuoohhth." Blood-stained teeth bite over the word as if it's a curse. As if the name is poison on the thing's tongue. It might be tragic, its attempt at speech, if the situation were not so abysmal.
Perhaps it remembers something. Had it been simply offhand dislike he'd once displayed of this prey in his grip? Or had it been instinct from the very beginning? Instinct to make this man suffer… without cause or reason? Just to see him burn?
Booth's eyes widen at the anomaly Brennan never foresaw. Steel bands of fingers dig deeper into his throat and jaw, curling around the outline like a vice with no release.
Cortman heaves a roar, forever undecided because of the state of his mind. A second later, they're crashing through glass and raining shards down like a shower of cutting stars. Flesh splits and tears under the assault, and the sound of the panel glass giving is like mountains colliding. It quickly becomes a battle of titans within a few short seconds.
Booth slides over the glass—the thick fragments biting into him, but not embedding—and rolls over his shoulder onto his feet. His teeth bare in feral retaliation as result of the drug in his system and provocation of attack. Sharp eyes drilling into his opponent with purpose. Something tears from his throat, voice twisted into something almost unrecognizable.
Bleeding, pained and enraged, Cortman growls with a vengeance. Rising like some self-proclaimed Grim Reaper. Intent on greater devastation.
Reinforcements are coming. This won't take long.
The titans collide.
Leg still tender and suffering her gait, Brennan hurries along the staircase with as much speed as achievable. Even through the concrete walls of the stairwell, she can hear the distant approaching wails. Closer, closing in by the second, and she's afraid.
She feels many emotions, too many to analyze thoroughly. Concern, for her partner's safety. Fear, for what lurks in the dark. Guilt, that they will have to kill these creatures. Anxiety, that perhaps this plan of his might kill them both.
She trusts him completely. But this can't end well. Even so–he is her compass. She can do nothing but follow.
She'd heard the thumps and bangs, shots ringing out, from the levels above her. Heard that ear-piercing shriek of the alpha male–Ben Cortman, her partner's former ally. If such a ludicrous word could be used to describe Cortman, whether applied to his former or present nature. If the physically brutal altercation last year had any relevance.
And then she sees dozen or so oxygen tanks in the corner of the room. There's little time to waste, so she doesn't dally a moment. She works the valves loose on each, pressurized gas hissing into the air.
A snapping clatter spears her attention and suddenly, even with the open valves, the room is suddenly too quiet. Colder. Swallowing the burgeoning lump in her throat, she tries to summon the courage she usually upholds at all times. Bravery is forging on even when you're at your most frightened state. She repeats this to herself, continuously. Desperately.
Drawing her sidearm, though wary of the possibility of creating a spark, she soldiers on into the unknown.
Cortman sails across the air, crashing into a corner of the wall and knocking the sheetrock loose. Before regaining balance, he collides with two shelving units and one kiosk. The milestones are quickly demolished. Booth had forced him down the staircase, and not while in an upright position. Capitalizing on the advantage gained, Booth had begun to dig around in his pocket for the lighter that was always there. Only to find it gone. Lost in the fight? Forgotten? No time to wonder. Inwardly letting loose with a desperate curse at the poor luck, he leapt down the stairs five at a time, knowing that his old friend wouldn't be out of the fight for long.
Reckless. Always so damn reckless.
He hardly even glimpses the airborne file cabinet before it's crashing into him and taking him down. There are stars, but the adrenaline poisoning his blood denies them access for any great length of time. He groans under the weight and shoves it end over end and away from himself. Bare footsteps shift into his view, and once again, he's seized. Under capture, he finally sees the old scar, a bite wound, on his pursuer's arm. Faded, but all the more glaring in its cruel execution.
So this was how Cortman became infected.
Shoving his comrade back into the many desktops littering the room, he springs back and kicks out. Boot connecting with a wooden support beam, it snaps and he takes two splinters up, like a sword in each hand.
He and Cortman circle. Light and dark of one powerful breed of man.
His old nemesis seems to be enjoying this too much–even in his broken state of mind.
A biting snap, a growl. Cortman moves first, and this time, Booth is there to meet him. Like a clash of thunder. He's gotten into so many fights with this man, more than he cares to tally. But he's certain–and for this, he feels a little remorse–that this time shall be the last. Regardless of the outcome.
Crack! Slam! The hulking post connects against the jaw of his opponent, the second meeting shoulder joint. Bones fracture, voicing their grief. Cortman howls, enraged further. Bares his stained teeth in a manifestation of carnage, screams. Each of them shout against the oppressive attacks leveled their way. He'll kill Bones, Booth reminds himself as they fight across the room. Brutal, both charged with electric adrenaline. Blood pumping, instincts alive and sharp. This is the outcome if he should fail.
I don't care how you have to protect her, by what means… just make sure no one else lays a hand on my little girl. The voice of his partner's father rings in his ears.
Ducking a frenzied attack, he dives forward, rolling over his shoulder, abandoning the double beams in his hands. Seizes a grip on what his hand was always meant for. Like a rising force, he unfolds, smooth and sure.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he is.
The barrel levels at Cortman's challenging visage, and he pulls the trigger.
It's Them.
Just as she's feared.
Pulse quickening, Brennan digs the sidearm out of her duffle and assigns it ahead of her. Pace cautious, nerves on fire. She fears to breathe–to make any fathomable sound. She doesn't dare fire, even if she must. Any spark this close to the basement could set off the tanks prematurely, endangering herself and Booth. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she regains some of her bearings. Focuses on the calm as he'd taught her.
That god-awful wailing–she loathes it all over again. Drawing near, assaulting her ears, burrowing into the core of her chest without forethought. These demons, these hidden skeletons of her innermost dark half she's been running from for more than a year's time. She knows she must face them now.
A racing shadow to her left, and she's on the move again. Darting through a dim hallway, knuckles firm and white around her saving grace. Their cries come louder. Tearing around a corner, she feels a steel grip clamp onto her arm without warning. And suddenly she's screaming, but those eyes cut off the strangled cry before it can fully manifest.
"Come on," he says, beaten. Haggard. There's blood on his face and regret in his eyes.
Cortman's dead. But Booth is alive. This is all that matters. He's here now, always, and he's going to help her face what she's been suffering to avoid. This is a defining moment for them both. Shining, echoing.
Everything has led to this. A defiant stand, against those who would see them fail. These creatures that have been craving their blood, their destruction, for so long. Always from afar, always lurking where the sunlight didn't dare journey. They'd existed in a forbidden graveyard of her greatest disappointments.
Oh, but they're coming now.
"Do you have a match?" she asks–anything to break the sound of approaching judgment.
"Something better," he replies, digging a Tasmanian Devil lighter out of his pocket. Agent Tucker's desk drawer hadn't failed him.
She doesn't question his method, but she does question her abilities as he loads his firearm with more shells, snapping the barrel closed with stunning finality. He's still shaking, fingers still quivering around the stock of his weapon, from the adrenaline high. He can't stand still, shifts from foot to foot impatiently. Waiting, knowing what's coming.
Her duffle drops from her grip, thudding against the carpeted floor. Crouching low, she digs a second syringe–she has several–from the confines. Loads it, poises it over her arm. Partners, her eyes tell him. Gazing up at him with purpose. Partners, his answer back. Words aren't needed.
It's them.
The floor is vibrating, just noticeable, with the force of the small army charging up the stairs from ground level.
The virus shoots into her system, like a rush of liquid fire. Rising, she joins him, armed. Poisoned by the dark power she's created. Equals. Her heart hammers, his too, in perfect sync. Afraid and ready, her hand finds his. Seeks him amongst the reigning turmoil. His fingers respond, curling around hers. Grip tight, sharing strength.
Her pulse is rebelling dangerously, speeding up, pounding harder. Her eyes flutter shut as every nerve sparks. His voice finds her, somewhere within the din. "Embrace the silence," he whispers.
And she does.
Everything else dies away from her consciousness but his voice. Together, they'll do this.
The pressure builds inside her. Like lava in a volcano, about to burst. Unleash havoc. Devastation. Like a fever dream, everything is tangled, separate. But it's united a second later, in perfect symmetry. She becomes as he is.
All at once then, the world floods back, and she's hyper-aware. Siren eyes snap open, tainted like his. Contaminated by the faint gray halo–even more discernable by the force of dilation her pupils take on. Each of their hold tightens around the hand of the other. And she's alive.
Sharing in this drug, this battle, war, fight–with him. Suddenly, it's as if a single thread severs, and everything falls apart. The Infected swarm the room, howling, screeching, demanding affliction. The damage to her leg is forgotten, and she's moving like a swift, newborn force. She hasn't known speed, agility. Nothing like this. The power is intoxicating, but unlike a disreputable few, she knows how to ration it. Use it, without becoming enamored.
Booth is no smith, but he knows what it is to be forged. From that guy to soldier, from loser with an addiction to selfless protector. From atoning soul to redeemed human being. But always her partner. He's been broken so many times and every time he's reassembled there are pieces missing. He'd always been so crippled by the fear and realization of what he could never have. But she loves him, still. Unfailing. It's redemption, in many forms.
This is his moment, too.
Time to face the music.
"Cover your six!" she shouts to him, cautioning. And he's proud of her. All the training he's put her through makes her shine like nothing he's ever seen. Learning curve ever steep, as always.
Three to his left as he whirls, and he levels his sights to fierce precision. The shotgun's weight in his hands is familiar and comforting. Guns have always been his method, his chosen ability. Really, it's a talent that chose him. "I love playing shooting gallery," he comments humorlessly. Unleashing the full power of the short-barrel weapon. Just like the figurative clay pigeons, the three offenders break under the power of the weapon, cancelled from the fight. Brennan incapacitates two, another with a flurry of snapping blows.
Everything feels delayed. The fierce adrenaline coursing through their systems brings about an unnatural phenomenon. Sound is deeper, slower. A subtle shift. The not-so-subtle portion consists of their raging heartbeats. Pounding, thundering. Reflexes are quadrupled. It's similar for the Infected, but they don't have the luxury of higher brain function. Rational thought.
Cortman proved They could plan, but not make immediate decisions. Emotional and social response is damaged. This gives the partners the advantage, no matter how outnumbered.
Seizing her arm, Booth heaves her out of the way of a charging male. It crashes into a small congregation of file cabinets. Despite the slowed audio the adrenaline rush provides, everything is painfully loud. Booth's temples throb. Brennan's ears ring. Gunshots are like sonic booms, the screams of the Infected like soaring fighter jets.
It's becoming dicey to use their weapons. With every blast of the shotgun, shells slamming against metal and Infected alike, minute sparks dance like swarms of fireflies. "Make your way to the South window!" he shouts, catching the chin of his current opposition with the stock of his gun.
She doesn't respond, doesn't need to, but obeys. Employing his training, her instincts, she battles across the floor. Her weapon clicks empty, but she doesn't deter or stall to reload. Pale fists find her targets like heat-seeking missiles, fast and deadly. Her weapon drops and she's taking up the nearest office chair, swinging it effortlessly into the clear pane. Glass shatters out into the night, raining down onto the street below. The moon greets her, pale as she. The stars whisper promises, winking absolution.
They're about two stories from ground level. She seizes one of the heavy sheets dangling forlornly over many of the bulletins in the bullpen. "Booth!" she cries, not sure how long she can hold some of the straggling Infected back from the window and her.
Sensing her exigency and the moment of opportunity, he files his weapon away, the last shell put to use. Digging the lighter back out of his pocket, he clutches at one of the fallen file cabinets, tilting it upright. Locks break away under the abuse of the pistol now decorating his hand. Jerking open the drawers, he sets light to the manila folders, all the documents inside. Ears pricking at the approach, he whirls and fires two shots point blank into the screaming visage of the attacking male.
He hears her call for him again. Now, now, now–it has to be now. Cringing inwardly at the repercussions this will hold against his back if they survive, he heaves the smoldering file cabinet into his arms. Hauls it across the room, tosses it crashing down the stairs like a child's toy.
It clatters to a stop on one of the landings far below. Flames flickering, danger lurking.
Move.
And he's running for her. Infected at his heels, snapping. Howling. Their haunted cries consuming his every awareness except his sight. All he sees is her, palm outstretched, eyes tainted like his, wide and urgent. And just like before, everything is warped, slowed. Sound dulls until the only thing he hears is his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Everything comes rushing back when their hands join and together, they're plummeting out the window. The sheet provides a crude parachute, delaying their speed of descent just enough. A second later, they're collision atop the roof of a small station wagon is imminent. The frame caves under the weight, glass exploding outward. Teeth rattle at the impact, bodies jarred.
They don't necessarily feel it now, but later the pain will come. There's no time to worry over it now. "Come on," he urges, wincing at the movement. The drug is weakening in his system already. Vision's become a little foggy.
Above, the Infected wail their vindictive rage. Some of them dare to scale the building, crawling through broken glass. Ignoring the way it bites into their flesh. She gasps at the small nerve attack that shoots up her leg. But allows him to pull her from the wreckage, arms locked around his neck.
They're on the move for the Mustang, loping strides a little awkward with the fresh waves of pain appearing through the patches of remaining adrenaline. "How many oxygen tanks were there?" he pants, expelling extra energy to make sure she's in pace with him.
"About a dozen," she says, tone grave.
Her answer bulldozes into him like a ton of bricks. "Holy shit, we've gotta move." Nodding furiously at him, they pour on the speed.
Car doors slam, ignition roars to life, and tires squeal frenziedly into the fresh night. Some of the Infected have reached ground level, dashing off in limited pursuit of the rapidly shrinking vehicle.
Gas pedal to the floor, speedometer increasing dangerously, the first wave of explosions behind them hits. The concussion from the blast rocks the sports car even from a block away. She stifles her reaction to scream, fingers curling around his arm. Her other hand finds the safety handle. Small pieces of rubble rain down around them, striking the road.
Boy, that stuff's really unstable. He braces against the torrent of manipulation, steadying the car's path. Knuckles pale, constrict tightly around the wheel. "Hold on," he whispers, foot never easing off the gas.
His eyes shift, and she catches it. Grips his hand tighter. "Don't look," she tells him, voice heavily weighted down, thick with empathy.
Behind them, his own harbor is being destroyed. Glass and bricks detonate, burst outward in a startling dispersal rate. Smoke and rolling flames consume the edifice, floors crumble in on each other. Retreating Infected are pummeled with debris, blown from their feet with the force of the blast. To say nothing of the ones still trapped inside.
And all malevolent intent is extinguished.
But the rearview mirror is giving him a painfully perfect THX version. It's loud, so loud. So damaging. Something inside him cracks, but he can't look away. He navigates with his peripheral.
He shudders violently, and she's certain it doesn't have anything to do with the slowly flagging adrenaline that still courses through them. Though her grip on his hand tightens further, softness is conveyed. Shared regret. I'm sorry, her touch tells him.
Glancing at her, his eyes read the same. Reflect her silent words back at her. Yes, the Infected wished them harm, plotted–however brokenly–to arrange their demise. But They were just like them. Had been people, once. It wasn't Their fault what happened to Them.
The annihilation of the Hoover Building backdrops their grief. But in the greater outlook, it's less. "We're safe," he says. This is what matters.
You're safe, he silently adds.
This is who they are. Social creatures, as ever and always, do irrational things, move mountains, betray, blow up government buildings, sacrifice, for those they love.
And if it all falls apart, I will know deep in my heart
The only dream that mattered had come true
In this life, I was loved by you.
-Colin Raye-