The end of the world necessitated several vital adjustments. Adaptability was a must, but the biggest trick was actually a mental shift: acceptance. You had to constantly have your wits about you in the apocalypse and that was impossible so long as you kept one foot in the past. Every human left alive was in a period of collective mourning; it was just that some could afford to actually process that grief whereas the majority were constantly looking over their shoulder for the next threat.
Scott had always been slightly paranoid, but the apocalypse had taken that trait and nurtured it into a skill that had helped keep him alive. It was the reason why now - despite being exhausted and battered halfway to hell and back - he forced himself to get up and start planning their next move.
The odds were not in their favour; they had lost almost all their supplies and as they'd released the canaries back in the national park, Finch was now their only early warning system. While the town appeared empty at first glance, it was a near certainty that rotters were on the prowl.
In the aftermath of adrenaline rushes, all good humour was rapidly fading. Their clothes were drenched and uncomfortably clingy as a result. Sand had found its way into everything. The stench of rot had embedded itself in every fibre.
Old blood covered the lake like an oil slick, staining the shoreline. And there were… things everywhere: body parts, bits of flesh, a few splatters of parasitic green, not to mention all the debris which had washed up since the initial outbreak. Once a picturesque holiday town, this place had been transformed into a horror show.
The entire area seemed eerily still. It put Scott on edge. He clambered to his feet, ignoring the sharp protests from his knee, and limped up the shore to reach the little pier which stuck out into the lake. The shops which ran along the beachfront were all shuttered. Houses were locked but windows weren't boarded. It was as if everyone had gone to bed one night and vanished.
He edged into the middle of the street, every muscle taut in anticipation of having to bolt. The breeze off the lake stirred tree branches and roused old leaves in gutters. Two stray cats vanished into a side street. It was too perfect. If anything, that unnerved him more than the sight of overrun Duluth ever had.
"Hey." Alan's hair was faintly rusty from bloodied water. He deliberately avoided spying his reflection in the metal shutters. "We need supplies, right? You guys should stock up on food and water while I hit the tourist office."
"We're not actually here on holiday."
Alan shot him a sour look. "Yeah, I know. But we need a new map. Do any of us know where we are right now?" He lightly socked Scott's shoulder. "Relax, I'll be fine."
"You're not going alone."
"Duh." Alan whistled to Finch, who'd been following the scents of those stray cats. "I'll take Finch with me."
John's shadow fell across the sidewalk as he joined them.
"I'll go with him," he interrupted before Scott had chance to call after Alan. "We'll meet back here in twenty minutes."
"That's not-"
"Twenty minutes," John repeated, breaking into a jog to catch up with their youngest brother. Their voices were muffled so that it was impossible to eavesdrop, but Alan's tense shoulders suggested he hadn't wanted company. Even Finch's tail dropped a little at his hidden expression.
Scott watched them go, finding himself at a loss. He sank his hands into his pockets, grimacing at the wet denim. The flagpole drew his attention as the battered red-and-white fabric writhed like a wild animal in the wind. They might have made it across the border but he couldn't shake the feeling that they were in for a world of new trouble.
"Stop fretting," Virgil teased. He wrang his shirt out in the gutter and pulled a face at the stench of putrid water. "God, that's grim."
"I'm not fretting," Scott muttered.
"Really?" Virgil sounded doubtful. "Yeah, I'm not buying it." He draped his shirt over his shoulder to let it dry in the sun. "Seriously, what's wrong? You know John will keep him safe."
"It's not just rotters I'm worried about," Scott confessed before he could stop himself. He cuffed water from the back of his neck and hoped Virgil wouldn't call him out on his shaking hands; the residual chill from the lake was all too similar to that of the swimming pool.
Virgil tilted his head in the bright sunlight. "Alan, huh?"
"What the hell is going on with him?"
"Nothing that he'll talk to anyone about." Virgil met Scott's worried gaze. "He's not confided in Jasmin or Theo either. He won't discuss it with you or me. He's not even spoken to John. And Gordon's…"
"Not an option?"
"Gordon wants to be an option."
"Yeah, well…" Scott ducked into the shade of a shopfront, crouching to examine the lock. "If only it were that simple."
Virgil propped himself against the shuttered window to keep an eye on the street. "They talked. I knew it didn't resolve everything, but they both seemed better for a while. Gordon's certainly improved and I don't just mean medically."
Scott wedged the tip of a knife into the latch. "He didn't hesitate, Virg."
His voice came out sharper than he'd intended. He took a deep breath and tried to banish the memory of Gordon and Alan vanishing beneath a horde of infected.
"He didn't even-"
"None of us hesitate to save each other," Virgil pointed out quietly. "If this were ordinary times on a rescue you wouldn't call Alan out on it. It's instinctual."
"But it's not just instinctual." Scott steadied the knife, suddenly very glad that his face was hidden from view. "He's always been impulsive but nowadays he's downright reckless. You know why that scares me so much? Because I recognise too much of myself in him. And now he's closing himself off, pretending to be okay. It's- Christ, I don't know. Maybe I'm paranoid. But we raised him, Virgil. I know there's something wrong. You must realise that too."
Virgil wordlessly held out a hand. Scott passed him the knife and stepped aside. The latch clicked within a matter of seconds and they ventured into the abandoned store cautiously. The place was a goldmine – empty of infected but packed with goods. Had Scott not been so worried about Alan, it would have put him in a great mood.
"He's not confiding in anyone," he continued, prising open an old drinks cabinet to retrieve several bottles of water. "That's a recipe for disaster."
Virgil upended a box of cereal bars onto the checkout desk to count them. "Scott, don't take this the wrong way, but… he's not you."
There was a faint undertone to his voice which had Scott glancing across. "What else do you know?"
"Nothing. Just… observations."
Scott rounded the shelves to join him. "Elaborate."
"It's just a lot of pressure."
"What is?"
"You- All of us expect him to be better." Virgil returned his focus to the cereal bars. "Whatever that's supposed to even mean. And living up to those expectations would have been difficult enough before the apocalypse, but we had IR so it was easier."
"So, what, he's trying to make us proud?"
"Not exactly. It's more… We love him unconditionally, but that makes it harder in a way. He wants to earn forgiveness but we've already provided it, so he's stuck in this strange limbo where he's caused pain but doesn't feel as if he's done anything to make amends."
That idea physically hurt. Scott tried not to flinch.
"Those similarities you've noticed?" Virgil continued, more softly. "It's guilt. Yours is misplaced – not that you've ever believed me about that – and Alan's is… complicated, but it's different. He's not self-destructive, Scott, he's sad, and I don't think he knows how to handle it. He won't speak to you or John because he doesn't want to disappoint either of you. He won't tell Gordon because Gordon's essentially a guilt-trip in himself. And he won't confide in me because he doesn't want me to worry."
Scott tried to keep his voice steady. "So how do we get him to talk to us?"
Virgil studied the cereal bars without truly seeing them.
"We don't," he replied at last in a voice layered with so many levels of grief that Scott didn't know what to say. "We just… keep an eye on him and wait until he comes to us. Because he will. Eventually. It'll just take some time."
When compared with his lifespan so far as a whole, Scott had actually spent very little time below ground. Yet, despite the statistics, it still felt like a novelty to be in the open air. Late summer brought heat and humidity, so although his clothes dried quickly he soon sweated through them again. Logic dictated to tie his shirt around his waist but he was hyperaware of his scars from the Hood, so risking heatstroke still seemed a more favourable option.
"This place is too nice," Gordon declared as they passed a series of cheery houses. The only evidence of the apocalypse were the overgrown lawns. "I don't trust it."
"It does kinda feel like we're about to get jump-scared at any second," Theo agreed, scuffing his heels in the hot tarmac.
The conversation floated over Scott's head. His attention was mostly fixed on Alan's back. His brother struck a lonely figure, having split away from the group to take the lead. His nose was buried in town maps, but it seemed more than mere eagerness to guide them to a safe zone. He wore the desperate sense of someone trying to distract themself with a task. Finch trotted at his side and kept casting concerned looks up at him.
Scott knew how she felt. But it wasn't only Alan who was the focus of his concern; Virgil was acting off. Not notably, not to a degree where others had noticed, but enough for Scott to pick up on it. If he asked John and Gordon, they'd probably agree with him too. He hung back to fall into step alongside his brother.
Virgil didn't register his presence at first – yet more evidence that something was wrong – but then noticed the second shadow alongside his own and glanced up. "Sorry, what?"
"I didn't say anything," Scott replied slowly. He surveyed Virgil for any obvious injuries. "But thanks for proving my theory that something's off with you."
"Nothing's off with me."
"Uh huh."
Virgil sent him an exasperated look. "Stop hovering. I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
"Shouldn't you be more worried about someone else right now?"
It was a low blow and they both knew it. Virgil looked dismayed by his own words as if he wanted to claw them back but wasn't sure how.
Scott tried to pretend that the comment hadn't stung. Of course he was worried about Alan. Actually, thinking about Alan was a potential minefield at current given it threatened to knock him into a spiral – seriously, how badly had he fucked up as the kid's guardian/sort of parent to let Alan reach a point where he felt undeserving of his own family's love? Worse still, he didn't know a single way to help. All he could do was show that he cared but then again that was the very thing Alan was refusing so-
"Sorry." Virgil's voice broke through the thoughts. "I didn't mean-" He cut himself off with a sigh. "If I share something with you, I need your promise that you won't tell anyone. And by anyone I mean John, because one of us needs our head in the game and I can guarantee it won't be Gordon or Alan."
Not even the apocalypse could teach them that keeping secrets never ended well, Scott mused, stealing a glance at the rest of their group.
Theo was talking a million-miles-a-minute again and Jasmin was signing something to Gordon. Marisa watched their six while Ellis eyed every empty house like a potential threat, which, to be fair, was a good survival strategy. Alan remained up ahead with John keeping close tabs on him.
No one was eavesdropping, so Scott turned back to Virgil with a silent nod, trusting his brother to read the promise off his face.
Virgil cast a final suspicious look over his shoulder to check for prying eyes, then lifted the hem of his shirt to reveal a flash of white bandages. They were still pristine, so either they'd been newly applied or the injury beneath wasn't serious.
Either way, Scott was struck by a sharp jolt of pure panic. Wounds out here could easily become a death sentence regardless of their magnitude. If the GDF safe zone turned out to be a myth, they had no access to antibiotics and no backup.
His voice trailed into the realms of a shout. "What the-"
Virgil slapped a hand over his mouth. Scott recovered his composure and shoved his brother's wrist away with narrowed eyes.
"What the hell did you do?" he hissed.
Virgil looked suitably abashed, but there was still a hint of defiance in his voice. He tugged his shirt back down to conceal the bandages and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep the fabric from flapping in the light breeze.
"It's not a big deal."
"Virgil, I swear to god-"
"I ended up on the wrong side of some debris when the engine blew, that's all."
"Oh, that's all?"
Virgil forced a smile as John glanced over his shoulder at them.
"This is why I didn't tell you," he muttered through gritted teeth, "Because I knew you'd overreact. It isn't an issue. I cleaned it and dressed it. It's not a deep laceration. It doesn't need stitches."
"Fine, then let me see."
"I don't you to micromanage me, Scott. I've been a medic for long enough to know what I'm doing."
"I'm not micromanaging you."
"You're second-guessing me."
"I'm not doing that either. I'm fucking paranoid, okay? Christ, Virg." Scott raked a hand through his hair and tried to ignore the tremors in his fingers. "I'm just- We're due for something to go wrong. And all things considered, so far we've been very lucky and…" He took a deep breath. "Okay."
Virgil let the silence drag on for a moment before prompting, "Okay…?"
"Yeah. Just… okay."
Scott took another steadying breath. The air seemed sort of thick out here, heavy with the threat of an electrical storm and the idea of thunder reminded him vividly of the radiation storm which had chased them all those months ago. He surveyed the sky to reassure himself.
"Okay," he repeated, "I trust you. So. If you say you've dealt with it and there's no reason to worry then, uh, I'll try to…" He waved a hand vaguely. "Not freak out, I guess?"
Virgil's smile was genuine this time. "Really?"
"I said I'll try. There's no guarantee involved, so you can't get annoyed at me if I start-"
"-flapping?"
Scott shot him a deadpan stare. "I was going to say worrying, actually."
"You'll worry anyway. Flapping is far more accurate."
"I don't flap. You flap."
Virgil patted him on the back. "Sure, Scott. Whatever you say."
"Virgil!"
Scott jogged a little to catch him up, having slowed to a halt out of outrage – because it was absolutely true and he knew it but there was no way in hell he was going to admit as much.
"I don't flap. I… I express a perfectly normal amount of concern."
"Uh huh."
"Don't uh huh me."
Virgil, with the utmost glee, shot him a sunny smile and repeated, "Uh huh."
Well, if Scott had needed a reminder that Virgil was still very much a younger brother at heart, then this was it. He looped an arm around Virgil's shoulders and hauled him close for a few seconds until the summer heat grew unbearable.
"You need a shower," Virgil reported with a grimace.
Scott repressed a sigh. "Thanks."
His gaze tracked unbidden back to those hidden bandages. Virgil didn't display any symptoms of blood loss but that didn't take away from other potential risks. Scott could make a mental tally of all the possible dangers right there and then. Seriously. All it would take for an infection take root would be a single slip-up. Just one. What if-
"Scott," Virgil chided.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"Am I not allowed to think?"
"Given your track record, it doesn't seem like a smart plan." Virgil dropped the teasing tone, knocking their shoulders together as Scott started running mental simulations again. "Listen to me. I am fine. It's just a scratch. But if it'll make you feel better, you can help me change the dressing later."
Suitably appeased, Scott tried not to let his relief show on his face. The underlying sense of panic at the idea of an injured brother hadn't fully faded, but at least he could reassure himself by checking the wound with his own eyes when they stopped for the night. Overnight winds and stronger currents than anticipated had dragged them further eastwards than anyone had realised and so now they were faced with a lengthy hike. The only blessing was that infected activity had been minimal so far.
Yeah, he'd definitely just jinxed them with that thought, hadn't he?
Their run of good luck looked set to turn with the approach of a heavy storm. A shallow incline had brought them uphill so that they could finally glimpse the lake through the thick treeline again. After two days of non-stop sunshine, the weather was finally ready to reveal why it was renowned for being unpredictable.
Clumps of dark cloud rolled in from the south to conceal the horizon. The lake itself looked bleaker as the water became steely grey. Even from this distance, Scott could glimpse white horses tossing their heads as wind whipped the waves into something dangerous.
"I wouldn't want to be on that yacht now," Gordon muttered, one foot propped on a tree stump as he retied his laces. He surveyed the expanse of clouds steadily sweeping towards them. "We should find shelter. I don't want to get caught out in that, you know?"
Finch let loose a low growl as if to agree with him. Her fur bristled as a distant clap of thunder unravelled across the bay. Alan patted her head soothingly, but it did little to calm her. Clearly all that time they'd spent fleeing the radiation storm had left its mark. She gave a short bark as lightning lit up the treeline.
Gordon whistled. "That's definitely getting closer."
John eyed the clouds, trying to estimate the speed at which they were travelling. In the short time they'd stopped for a break, the storm had significantly closed the gap between them. He wiped his knife – still tacky with rotter blood from a jump scare ten minutes previously – against the heel of his shoe and tucked it back into his belt.
"Those lightning strikes are frequent," he reported, joining Scott at the roadside. "We should keep moving. The maps put us only a few miles from the next town. We could find shelter there."
"We could also find more rotters there," Scott pointed out, reluctant to venture any closer to a large settlement than strictly necessary. They'd been warned that Duluth was a hot zone in advance but the northern shores of Lake Superior remained a mystery.
He cast a glance over his shoulder. Alan appeared to be lost in his own thoughts, Gordon was entertaining that strange little head tilt indicative of his left ear ringing again, and Virgil looked pale with pain. Last night's camp had been in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by howls of the infected without any fire with which to dissuade them, and as a consequence hardly anyone was properly rested. They weren't in good shape to be entering a rotter hotspot.
"We can handle it," John said quietly, as if reading Scott's mind. "We'll stick to the outskirts, find the first house which looks reasonably easy to defend. It'll just be for a few hours until the storm blows over."
Scott ran a mental tally of weapons. They were running low on ammo and it wouldn't take too many more encounters for their blades to be blunted beyond usefulness. If they ran into a horde, the odds wouldn't be in their favour.
That being said, the storm was growing more vicious by the minute. Violent winds were already sweeping up the slope. Tiny needles from pine trees swept into a frenzy, as sharp as razors when they smacked against bare skin.
"Alright," he conceded, then raised his voice to call to the others, "Wrap it up, we're moving."
Gordon gave his laces a final tug and made a joking salute. "Yessir." He socked Alan's shoulder on his way past. "Look alive, Allie."
Alan slapped a mosquito away from his bicep with a grimace. "Can we go somewhere without bugs this time?"
"I vote for aircon," Gordon agreed cheerily as if they were discussing possible hotel options for a family holiday as opposed to a safehouse to withstand a thunderstorm in the zombie apocalypse.
He hooked his newly acquired denim jacket – pilfered from a store in one of the small towns they'd come across – over his shoulder and trudged back into the centre of the road.
"Come on, folks, pick up the pace. It'll be Thanksgiving by the time we reach Thunder Bay at this rate."
Alan held out a hand to haul Theo to his feet. He staggered a little and Alan steadied him, open concern flashing across his face as Theo listed into his hold before catching his balance.
Neither Jasmin nor Marisa seemed affected by the heat or hike but it was getting to Theo. Sleep deprivation was taking its toll and his sneakers had worn blisters into his heels. When he'd shed his socks last night, the fabric had peeled away the top layer of skin so that every step was now painful.
Based off the stains on his shoes, his feet were bleeding again and it made him the perfect buffet for insects. He'd given up on swatting mosquitos and even his chattering had diminished. He'd woken with nightmares in the early hours and the lack of rest had left bruises smeared beneath his eyes.
But the biggest threat was dehydration and that was getting to all of them. Scott silently willed the storm to bring rain as well as lightning. The clouds certainly looked water-logged, he considered as he turned away from the lookout post.
The question was how much pollution was held within those droplets. In their original trek across the states, he'd sanitised any water they'd collected with purification tablets but they had no such supplies with them this time. He almost wished they'd taken the SUV around the lake rather than the yacht, only his helicopter flight had shown him just how far back most highways were blocked.
The first few drops of rain struck thirty minutes later. They were still in the middle of nowhere; stony sky; desolate road stricken with weeds; thick treeline on either side; rugged mountains poking above the canopy without even a hint of civilisation on the horizon.
Scott was tempted to steal one of the maps from Alan or John to check for himself that they were heading in the right direction. He'd never missed motorised transport so much in his life. Seriously, he'd even opt for a bus right now and with his speed-demon nature that was saying a lot.
The world behind them had been engulfed by thick cloud. It was low-lying and towered so high that it looked as if it would topple over at any second. Weeks of excessive heat had built up to an explosive finale as cool air drove in from the east. Lightning strikes were frequent and seemed to be increasing, causing near constant thunderclaps.
Finch was so unnerved by it that Alan stashed his weapons to carry her, a task which left him mildly breathless on top of exhaustion and dehydration. He just lofted her higher, gritted his teeth, and pretended not to notice anyone's concerned looks.
Scott assessed their little group and came to the sinking conclusion that they weren't faring so well.
For his own part, he was limping again. The ache in his knee had grown more intense so that it now felt as if something were scraping within the joint itself. And then there were blisters from his boots which still hadn't fully dried out from the lake; he couldn't tell if the interiors were damp or if his heels were bleeding which given how badly his feet hurt was a distinct possibility.
But then again, everything hurt. The heavy atmosphere had given him a new headache on top of the perpetual tension in his shoulders.
And that was purely physical issues – his hands might have been steady but he couldn't shake the chill from Lake Superior which reminded him of that swimming pool. Keeping his head in the game was fast becoming a challenge. If they didn't find shelter soon they'd be in serious trouble.
He fell into step beside John. "I thought you said we weren't far from a town."
"I know what I said," John snapped. He exhaled slowly, then added in a calmer voice, "There's a slight possibility that I miscalculated."
"You miscalculated?"
John shot him an indignant look. "I had other things on my mind."
His gaze tracked back to Virgil. There weren't many secrets anyone could keep from John for long, so it was unsurprising to learn that he already knew about their brother's injury. Scott suspected Gordon was also aware but was keeping quiet about it. He'd certainly stuck closer to Virgil's side today, although that could also have been related to whatever night terror had left him bolting awake shortly before dawn, gasping for air and seeking Virgil with frantic eyes.
"He needs to rest," Scott replied quietly. "Not to mention meds. There's gotta be Tylenol or Advil left somewhere." Worry crept into his tone unbidden. He tried to focus on the tackiness in his left boot where blood had leaked down his heel. "We're lost, aren't we?"
John rolled his shoulders self-consciously. "Not necessarily."
"Oh, great." Scott let the sarcasm drip freely into his voice. "That's really reassuring."
Another snarl of thunder had them both jolting. John walked a little closer to Scott's side so that their shoulders brushed with every other step. Scott knew better than to mention it. Besides, the contact was grounding. John was warm – and wasn't that a change for the better? – and Scott couldn't rid himself of that phantom chill despite the heat.
Droplets swiftly turned to drizzle. It didn't take long before clothes were drenched and hair was plastered to scalps. Morale divebombed into the realms of misery within minutes.
Finch pushed her muzzle into the crook of Alan's neck with a low whine. Her tail was dripping. The rain was cold, an icy shock from the heat of the past few days. John gave up any pretence and pressed closely to Scott's side to leach warmth from his brother, already shivering in his own soaked shirt and too skinny to retain much body heat despite the loss of the hivemind connection.
Somewhere within the storm, there came a howl. It was too warped by the wind and rain to distinguish its exact origin but it had everyone stopping in their tracks.
Scott withdrew his machete, putting out a hand to place John behind him.
"Um…" Gordon looked younger than usual, hair flattened by rain so that the scar from his surgery seemed rawer. His eyes were wide as another howl echoed along the lonely road. "Was that…? It could've been a coyote, right?"
"Possibly," Marisa conceded, but didn't lower her gun. "I couldn't tell. This weather is becoming a problem."
"Becoming?" Jasmin muttered, wringing out her hair with a grimace. "Visibility's at an all-time low and I'm shivering too badly to make a clean shot, but you don't think it's a real issue yet?"
Marisa shot her an exasperated look. "I was trying this thing called optimism."
"Well, don't," Jasmin retorted. "It doesn't suit you."
"Scott," John murmured, so quietly that Scott nearly missed the words.
Virgil was trying to surreptitiously brace himself against a tree. All colour had drained from his face. He curled his fingers into the bark, breathing deeply to fight against nausea. The tightness in his drawn brow betrayed pain; the deep, overbearing kind which consumed every scrap of energy.
"Sonuvabitch," Scott muttered. He pressed his machete into John's hands and stormed across the road to Virgil's side. "Let me see."
"It's fine."
"I'll be the judge of that." Scott gripped Virgil's shoulder as his brother listed against the tree. "For Chrissake, Virg, I'm a trained medic too, did you forget that? I told you last night that it looks deep enough to need a stitch."
"Have you got a sterilised needle lying around?"
Virgil's uncharacteristic bitterness implied that he also secretly knew the wound needed attention. The worst part was that it was such a simple fix. It truly wasn't that deep, not enough to warrant fears of blood loss, but a single stitch would do him the world of good.
Scott softened his tone from Commander/Survival Group Leader/Whatever the Hell to Big Brother.
"Just let me see," he coaxed, moving to block Virgil from view of the others. He sought his brother's gaze and held it. "C'mon, Virg."
Virgil relented but kept his attention on the forest at their backs. So far they hadn't come across any infected this deep into the wilderness but there was a first time for everything.
Scott trusted him to keep watch and switched focus to the bandages. They were mostly clean but crimson had stained the centre. If the wound was still bleeding after all this time, he was concerned and if Virgil admitted the truth then he probably was too.
"When we find somewhere safe to stop," Scott began, holding up a hand as Virgil went to protest, "I am going to take a closer look at this. There's got to be a first aid kit in a house somewhere."
"Most houses have been looted already."
"Then I'll figure something else out."
Scott forced a reassuring smile and prayed Virgil didn't read the dark thoughts off his face because without sutures there was only one other way to close a wound and it was an option he dreaded.
"Come on." He wrapped an arm around Virgil's shoulders. "Lean on me for a while. There's gotta be a town around here somewhere."
Virgil sucked in a sharp breath as his injured side was jostled. "I'm fine."
"Careful," Scott teased, trying not to sound as worried as he felt, "You're starting to sound like me."
"So, the bad news is that we're definitely lost," Gordon declared brightly. "But the good news is that this cabin is a whole vibe." He flopped backwards onto a quilted couch. "Check this out. Is this memory foam? Oh my god guys, the couch is made of memory foam."
Scott slammed the door shut against the gale and pinned it in place with his hip as he locked it. In addition to a regular latch there were nearly ten deadbolts. Someone had scoured words across the woodwork with a knife. He stepped back to read the jagged letters. Nowhere is safe anymore.
"That's cheerful," John deadpanned, reading over Scott's shoulder.
The cabin was a rustic, wooden structure tucked away down a dirt track from the main road. Alan had spotted it through the trees. It seemed like a miracle, so Scott was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He eyed the ceiling suspiciously as though a rotter might plunge through and land on the couch alongside Gordon. Speaking of which…
"Gords, you're drenched. Get off the couch."
Gordon rocked back to his feet. "Oops." He lifted an arm to watch water steadily dripping from his soaked jacket. "Hey, do you think this place has spare clothes?"
"Hopefully," Scott muttered, shucking his own jacket.
It was heavy with rainwater, so he left it in a soggy heap on the welcome mat to deal with later. When he tugged off his boots, they formed a small lake across the floorboards. It had only been a few hours earlier that he'd longed for temperatures to drop, yet now he couldn't stop shivering. Towels were definitely his first port of call, he decided, withdrawing his machete just in case as he headed for the staircase.
The cabin wasn't overly large. There were two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom upstairs. The master bedroom boasted views over the landscape and had been mostly untouched. The bed was still made and the curtains were drawn.
Scott ventured into the space, feeling uncannily as though he were trespassing and the real owners were about to return at any second. They were too far from the lake to see it anymore, but he was faced with the sight of an untameable wilderness.
The forest was engulfed by low cloud as though the rest of the world had been extinguished, rekindling a fierce sense of solitude. He could hear voices from downstairs yet couldn't shake the sense that he was unbearably alone. The paranoia had returned too, a strange, foreboding certainty that they were all on borrowed time.
He yanked the curtains shut and went on a hunt for dry towels. By the time he located them, John and Marisa had managed to get a fire lit. The living room was bathed in golden light, a beacon of warmth as the wind howled outside and thunder lurked in the darkness of oncoming night. Clatters from the kitchen proved that Marisa, Jasmin, Theo and Ellis were attempting to find something edible in the cupboards, but Alan and Gordon were still by the fireplace.
Scott snagged two towels and dropped the rest onto an armchair, sinking onto the couch beside Virgil. His heart leapt in his throat when Virgil didn't react, but then his brother took the offered towel and scrubbed it through his hair, shivering as cold water trickled down his neck. His movements were sluggish with exhaustion, but he summoned a tight smile of gratitude.
John kicked the hallway door shut behind him as he lugged a final armful of kindling into the room. He stacked it in the box beside the hearth then stole a towel of his own.
"There's firewood on the back porch," he reported, spying Scott's questioning look. "The wind's driving the rain away so it's still dry, but I figured I'd bring extra in just in case that changes." He dropped a towel over Alan's head. "Alan, that shirt is drenched. Take it off before you get pneumonia."
Gordon tipped his head back to glimpse John. "What about me?"
John tossed a towel at him. "Happy now?"
"I would kill for a hot shower, but hey."
"Wouldn't we all?" Virgil mumbled.
It was the first thing he'd said in nearly an hour and although his voice was mostly muffled by the towel, its strained quality was undeniable. He had one arm curled around his ribs to protect his injury, but the bandages were as wet as the rest of his clothes, tinged pink where rainwater had washed blood into the upper layers.
The hushed silence was filled with anxiety. The fire leapt higher, casting monstrous shadows over the walls and ceiling. Alan pulled his towel around his shoulders like a safety blanket, hands tightening to fists as he stared into the flames. Gordon's worried look flickered between his youngest brother and Virgil, finally settling on Scott with a helpless query of how the hell they could begin to fix any of this.
Another thunderclap rocked the cabin. Lightning must have struck closer this time for the aftershock was so violent that windows shook in their frames.
"It's almost directly overhead," John reported, silhouetted against the window. Rain lashed against the glass, nearly as loud as the thunder. He turned back to Scott. "Is there anything useful upstairs?"
In other words, did you find a first-aid kit or something similar?
"Whoever was here last cleared nearly everything out."
Scott tried to keep the faint panic out of his voice. He didn't do a particularly good job which was what made it so much worse when Virgil didn't seem notice. Scott reached over to brush a hand across Virgil's forehead and bit back a curse. While everyone else was chilled from the storm, Virgil was warm. Too warm. The unnatural heat of fever was unmistakable.
"Shit," he muttered, pulling the towel out of Virgil's protesting hands. "Virg, you've gotta let me take a look."
Alan glanced up sharply. "Is it infected?"
Okay, so apparently everyone knew. Scott wasn't really surprised. Alan was annoyingly observant sometimes and Virgil hadn't done a great job of hiding the injury despite his best attempts.
"M'fine," Virgil declared, convincing absolutely no one with his slurred words. "Jus' tired."
"Sorry, bro," Gordon murmured, moving to crouch closer. Worry wrestled with pure horror in his eyes as he tried to gently peel away the bandage. "I'm calling bullshit on that one."
Virgil knocked his head back against the couch with a groan. "G'way."
Scott looped an arm around him and eased him upright. Virgil gave a series of half-hearted protests. There were a few curses mixed in there too as he staggered, gripping Scott's wrist hard enough to hurt as pain seared from the gash on his side. John swooped in to support him while Gordon scrambled backwards to avoid tripping anyone by accident.
More thunder rumbled overhead. The air seemed to crackle.
"What do we-?" Gordon began to ask, but Scott cut him off.
"Upstairs."
Somehow, between himself and John, powered by determination and sheer force of will, they managed to get Virgil into the main bedroom. Gordon and Alan followed, although Alan trailed behind, pale with fear and nauseous with exhaustion.
Virgil buried his face in a pillow and refused to move. Scott sank onto the edge of the mattress, murmuring vague assurances as he manipulated bandages which had fused with dried blood. It took several painful minutes to peel them away.
The skin underneath was worryingly hot to touch, flushed red with the first stages of bacterial infection. It was exactly what Scott had feared and also happened to be the one thing which had been inevitable; the injury had been doused in water filled with rotten fluids and body parts. It was a miracle that Virgil had gotten as far as he had or that the wound wasn't more badly infected by now.
"Shit," Gordon choked, more collapsing onto the bed than actually sitting. He shuffled closer to grip Virgil's shoulder. "You're an idiot, Vee. Why didn't you say anything?"
Virgil didn't reply, but uneven breathing promised that he was still awake. His shoulders were rigid with tension, jaw clenched against pain as he tried not to flinch from Scott's hands. Another thin trail of blood trickled from mangled skin and this time he couldn't quite bite back a strangled whimper in time. Gordon's grip tightened, trying to force himself into his first responder headspace but too tired and stressed to feel anything other than overwhelmed.
Scott tried to recall his training but every useful scrap of medical knowledge had abandoned him. All he could think of were pointless details that were inapplicable given they had no access to equipment nor antibiotics. His mind was a quagmire of growing panic and the more he tried to focus, to grab hold of useful information, the further it fled.
John set the camping lantern he'd found in a cupboard on the chest of drawers. The bright light was harsh with cold undertones which only drained more colour from the room. Panic looked more like dread when tainted blue.
"There's got to be something we can use." He yanked open a drawer as if a first aid kit might have magically materialised there. "We can improvise, find some way to close the wound."
"No." Alan sounded small at first, looking very lost where he was leant against the doorframe. He stepped into the room, twisting his hands together to hide the tremors but gaining more confidence as he spoke. "We need to drain it first."
The rest of them might have had more experience, but Alan had the knowledge. He'd always claimed that his sudden interest in Virgil's medical books had been part of a desire to prove his readiness for IR. It might well have been part of his motivation, but Scott had always suspected that the real reason was rooted in the fear of losing them. If Alan had the knowledge required to help, then he could reduce that risk.
But whatever had led him to study first aid more vigorously than his actual school subjects didn't matter, because right now Scott was just so grateful that at least one of them knew what to do.
He sat up to give his full attention. "Talk to me, Alan. What do you need?"
"Uh…" Alan swallowed, shoving all feelings aside to focus. "Okay, we need a ziplock bag or something similar. Fill it with sterile water, then we'll make a hole in it. We don't have a syringe, so it'll have to do." He tossed a clean towel at John. "Make that damp and warm, I'm gonna use it as a compress. Um… is there any kind of medicine here?"
"There were some other bottles in the bathroom cabinet," Scott admitted.
Alan frowned. "Like what?"
"Nothing useful. There was aloe if that helps?"
"It's got anti-inflammatory properties." Gordon slid off the bed, catching himself on the dresser. "I'll get it."
Orders restored logical thought. Perhaps it was because they had something to focus on other than potential tragedy. Scott found himself slipping instinctively back into IR-mode, compartmentalizing his fear to focus on the next task. After they were out of the woods he would undoubtedly have the mother of all panic attacks but for now he had a job to do.
He lost count of how many times he ran up and down those stairs, replacing compresses or bringing more water. They'd run out of bottled water, so Ellis was now sterilizing it by boiling it in pots above the fire and letting it cool.
It felt wrong for it to be Alan in charge of a medical situation, no matter how proud Scott was of him. He kept going to ask Virgil questions, only to remember and be faced with that sharp stab of fear, so fierce that managed to cut through his first responder headspace. Alan still looked sick, but his eyes were clear with grim determination. He held out a hand for a new compress which Gordon handed over without needing to be asked.
"Not bad," Virgil commented breathlessly, propped against the headrest with several pillows. He bit back another curse which instead escaped as a hiss between his gritted teeth.
Alan winced in sympathy as he increased pressure. "Sorry."
"N-nope, you're- fuck- you're okay." Virgil clenched his fists around a pillow. "Keep going."
It took twenty minutes to solve the issue of closing the wound. The gash wasn't deep enough to be truly dangerous – in ordinary times it might not have needed a stitch, but they'd been so physically active that it kept tearing open. Marisa was the one to discover a sowing kit in the other bedroom.
"I don't think…" John began, casting an uncertain look at Alan.
"Do it." There wasn't even a hint of hesitation in Virgil's voice. "Sterilize the needle in boiling water. It'll be fine."
Gordon shifted against the doorframe uneasily. "But what about-?"
"I can do it." Alan ducked his head under the sudden scrutiny. "I can do it," he repeated firmly, muttering something else to himself that sounded all too like this is my fault anyway. He shouldered past John before Scott had chance to question him about that last part. "But Virg, this is gonna…"
"Yeah, I know. Just… keep going. No matter what." Virgil reached out and caught Alan's hand. "Hey. Look at me." He offered a weak smile. "I trust you, Allie. You've got this."
Nearly six harrowing hours after their initial arrival at the cabin, Scott finally let himself breathe. Adrenaline had been the only thing keeping him on his feet and now he dropped heavily into a chair as it abandoned him.
Exhaustion slunk closer. He fought it off, pressing his knuckles against his eyes. His hands were raw where he'd scrubbed them clean, but the ache was muted by fatigue. He folded over the table, aware of watchful eyes on his back as Gordon stole a chair beside him.
"So," Gordon ventured cautiously, as if saying the wrong thing could tip them both over the edge into the pit of fear which still lurked within reach. "That sucked."
Scott let out a hollow laugh. "No shit."
There was an empty bottle of water on the table. Gordon reached for it to occupy his hands, picking at the faded label while he tried to sort his mind into some semblance of order. His eyes were dark with the same thoughts currently spinning in Scott's head too.
What-ifs were inevitable even if you knew how dangerous they could be. It didn't matter that they knew Virgil's chances were far better now, neither of them would be able to shake the unease unless he was right there with them. But given he had essentially kicked them from the room with strict orders not to return until they'd eaten and were significantly less jittery, that wasn't yet a possibility.
Finch was curled up beneath the table. Her ears were flat, eyes owlishly round, feeble whines occasionally escaping her. Scott nudged her gently with his foot and she crept closer to cower beneath his chair. Maybe the storm was bothering her again.
He reached down to pat her muzzle, thoughts drifting back to Virgil and then Alan. It was bad enough remembering the stubborn heat of infection under his hands as he'd inspected the gash in Virgil's side, but now he couldn't shake the memory of just how stricken Alan had looked. It had more than mere worry, it had been guilt too; the kind which ate a person alive from the inside out.
"You know what I hate?" Gordon declared, leaning back in his chair until it teetered precariously. Scott put out a hand to steady it. "I hate that I get angry when I'm scared. Because I'm like crazy worried about Virg still, but I'm also pissed at him. And it's so much worse because I get why he tried to hide just how bad he was feeling. I'd have done the same thing in his shoes. But I'm still mad because he's supposed to be smarter than that."
Scott was so unbearably tired that he didn't know what he was feeling anymore.
"Virgil didn't see the point in telling everyone when there was nothing we could have done," he explained. "We're on our own out here. We have no resources, no back-up, no second chances."
Gordon shot him a curious glance. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just… tired."
"And that's all it is?"
"Gordon." Scott cut himself off before he could snap. There was enough earnest concern on Gordon's face that it almost hurt to look at him. "I'm just tired and worried. It seems like every time we make progress, the universe kicks us back down again."
Gordon shrugged. "We won't let it stop us."
"Of course not." Scott shook his head with a weary smile. "We're too damn stubborn for that." He reached over to grip Gordon's shoulder. "I'm alright, kid."
Gordon grinned. "Less of the kid, old man." He caught Scott's wrist as he went to lift his hand away. "Seriously though. Can we stop trying to…" He waved vaguely. "What's the point in lying to each other anymore? We're all gonna worry anyway so let's stop pretending."
His voice was strained with carefully restrained emotion.
"Okay," Scott whispered. He cleared his throat and repeated, louder, "Okay, Gords."
"Everyone's keeping secrets."
"Such as?"
"John's story keeps changing. One minute he claims he started running as soon as the infected grabbed the Hood, the next minute he says he waited and watched to be certain the fucker was actually dead. Which isn't necessarily a big deal except it's John. You know how much he loves details. So, I dunno. It's weird. And don't get me started on Alan."
Scott was mostly caught up on the suggestion that John was hiding details about the Hood's death. The man was definitely dead – Scott had heard enough grisly sounds to be confident of that – so what reasons could John have for lying?
He returned his attention to Gordon as his brother kept talking, clenching that water bottle so tightly that the plastic crumpled. His nails were stained with Virgil's blood and Scott sort of wanted to hit pause on the moment until it no longer felt as if there was a hurricane trying to squash itself into his chest.
"He's being really fucking dumb," Gordon complained, sounding almost offended about it. "I can't get it into his stupid head that what happened to me was an accident. Also, it was sort of idiotic of me to step in front of him anyway. Like, he'd already raised the bat so why did I think that was a smart idea? I should've just frickin' tackled him from the side. He's scrawny enough, I could have taken him down without any issues. Seriously, he's like a toothpick. Try hugging him, he's kinda… sharp and it's weird and I hate it."
Scott made a mental note to keep an eye on how much Alan was eating, because there was no reason for him to be quite so skinny given they'd had ample access to food back at the bunker.
"He keeps blaming himself for everything," Gordon continued, haunted by the same heartbreak that Scott had grown used to hearing from Virgil whenever he voiced his own dark thoughts. "Even stuff that couldn't possibly be his fault. He thinks Virgil getting hurt is on him because he came up with the idea to blow the yacht up. And now he's blaming himself for getting us lost even though John was navigating too and- I can't get through to him. He's pushing us away. We're losing him, Scott."
"We're not going to- We're not going to lose him."
"You can't make that promise."
There was thunder overhead and voices in the lounge and Finch was whimpering under the table again yet somehow the resulting pause seemed deafeningly silent. Gordon slumped forward to bury his head in his folded arms. Scott remained frozen, struck into a whirlwind of dread and despair. He pushed back his chair with the intention of heading upstairs when Finch fled from the room with a frightened yelp.
Gordon raised his head. "What the hell?"
"It's the storm," Scott guessed, uneasily eyeing the window. "It's spooking her."
Lightning split the room in half – deep shadow versus blinding light.
"Yeah, well…" Gordon shivered. "Maybe she's not the only one."
It was an unknown length of time later when Scott woke to voices. He was still lounged against the headboard with a pillow stuffed behind his back. Someone had thrown a blanket over him. Virgil's head was a warm weight on his shoulder and he was relieved to discover that the fever had dropped.
His mind was still foggy with sleep, so it took a few moments to register why the room seemed so strange; it was consistently lit with flashes of pure light as if there was a faulty bulb in need of replacement, only it originated in the sky. There was no thunder. Even the wind had dropped. In its place was an eerie, unsettling silence. The world seemed to be holding its breath as the light show ran its course.
"It's creepy," Gordon was saying, whispering for fear of waking Scott and Virgil and unnerved by the sight around him. "I don't like it."
Alan gave a full-body shudder. He was sat at the very end of the bed, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, turned ghostly by the flickering light. When he spoke, his voice was tiny.
"It's kinda… spooky."
"It's just lightning," John pointed out quietly from his place on Virgil's other side. He looked even sharper than usual, framed by shadows, but his reassuring smile was impossibly soft as he tried to catch Alan's eye.
"Creepy lightning," Gordon muttered, drumming his hands against his knees where he was sat cross-legged beside Alan. He pressed their shoulders together. "Dunno about you, Al, but it's freaking me out a bit."
Alan sort of deflated.
"Yeah," he agreed, relieved at sharing the fear with someone else. "I thought it was just me."
"Lightning should have thunder," Gordon continued, picking at the callouses on his palms. He tilted his head to glimpse the clouds through the crack in the curtains. "This feels like an alien invasion."
"Heat lightning," John informed them, still in that soft voice only ever used around family. "The storm's moved too far for us to hear the thunder, that's all."
"Doesn't seem like it's far away," Alan murmured, hugging his knees to his chest. "Seems like it's still overhead."
"Well, that's the difference between reality and perception," John replied gently. "We can't always trust our own judgement."
"No." Gordon's gaze was thoughtful as he looked at Alan. "We can't."
The otherworldly lightshow continued without a sound.
"It's just lightning," Alan echoed a little shakily, trying to convince himself.
Gordon wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Still creepy though."
Alan exhaled slowly. "Still creepy."
It took them nearly two weeks to reach the outskirts of Thunder Bay. Their daily progress was limited by their various injuries and setbacks such as blistered feet and dehydration as water proved increasingly difficult to find. Any abandoned cars they came across were either smashed to hell or outta gas. They spent the nights under an unforgiving canopy of stars feeling as though they were the last people left alive on Planet Earth.
Occasionally, they stumbled upon small towns or clusters of houses with a parade of shops pretending to be a tourist attraction when all they had ever attracted were hikers. Alan struck lucky in one of the homes they raided, locating an old antibiotic prescription in a bathroom. It was still in date and Virgil's improvement after taking them for even just a couple of days was noticeable. Looting houses would always feel wrong, but the relief was more than worth it.
Summer heat wrestled with storms as autumn ventured closer by the day. They were well into September and Scott prayed they'd reach the safe zone before temperatures plummeted. It was approaching the anniversary of Z-Day, but no one wanted to think about that. Thunder became a near-constant presence, so much so that the world seemed unnaturally silent without it.
It was on the highway to Thunder Bay – close enough that they could glimpse the city on the horizon – when Scott first noticed signs of trouble. He initially attributed his unease to paranoia, but then he spotted the physical evidence.
The road had been cleared, cars shoved aside with force as if a series of tanks had passed through. Broken glass glittered in the sunlight. Some of the vehicles were pockmarked with bullet holes, windows shattered and tyres deflated. The ground was littered with empty shells.
A cold chill scuttled down his spine. He withdrew his machete. The sharp click of a gun's safety being disabled came from his left where Marisa was standing, but there was no sign of movement.
"I don't like this." Virgil threw another glance over his shoulder. "It feels like we're walking into a… a…"
"Crime scene?" Gordon suggested.
Virgil shivered. "A cemetery."
The road did have a haunting quality. Scott swore he could feel hundreds of eyes on him. His pace quickened subconsciously until John caught his elbow and reminded him to slow down.
An abandoned tank was discarded halfway down the grassy bank at the roadside. Its hull was smeared with dried blood, dark with age and clearly months old. A distant groan echoed from within, accompanied by thumps as something tried to get out.
"Infected," Ellis whispered, startled by the sound of her own voice in the silence.
Scott exhaled past gritted teeth. "Keep walking."
It was about twenty minutes later when they came across a bridge. Cars were backed up nose-to-tail along the top and bloodstains promised it had been a massacre when zombies had struck.
Gordon's footsteps faltered. "This feels wrong."
"What part of the apocalypse feels right?" John asked wryly.
"No, no, but like…" Gordon rolled his shoulders, trying to repress a shudder. "My squid sense is screaming at me right now."
"Squid sense?" Ellis mouthed, utterly confused.
"It's what he calls his instincts," Virgil told her. "Just go with it."
Scott ventured forwards. Apprehension prickled across the back of his neck. His grasp on his machete was tight enough to make his fists ache. He edged into the shadows beneath the bridge. Glass cracked underfoot. The tacky squelch of decomposing flesh clung to his boots. Cold sweat trickled under his shirt. He took a sharp breath, held it, then let it go in a rush.
Nothing moved.
"Anything?" Virgil whispered.
It was a toss-up between John, Gordon and Marisa as to which of them saw it first. Marisa pulled Jasmin to her chest, tucking her sister's face against her shoulder. Gordon surged forwards to drag Alan into a hug, twisting so that his brother couldn't glimpse the sight ahead of them. Scott glanced up and couldn't stop himself from letting out a choked cry, instantly muffled by John's hand across his mouth, yanking him backwards.
Three bodies dangled from nooses. They were relatively fresh, only a couple of days old at best. Their faces were swollen, lips blue, tongues thick slabs of meat and lifeless eyes glassy with blood. Knife wound scoured their chests. Rope burns circled their wrists and ankles. They swung limply from the railing above, twirling in the breeze like pendulums.
The sight was sickly hypnotising and Scott couldn't look away. Pain in his lungs reminded him that he wasn't breathing. His ears were ringing. He reached up numbly to tug John's hand from his mouth now that he was no longer in danger of drawing every rotter to their location with a shout.
"Scott," John murmured, still holding him close. "Breathe."
Gordon had yet to let Alan go, despite his brother's protests. His hands were coiled in the Alan's shirt so tightly that his nails threatened to leave bruises. Fear battled revulsion in his eyes, face drained of colour to paint him as a ghost.
Not far behind, Virgil looked similarly horrified. He'd shoved Theo behind him, but a little too late and now they could all hear the kid's retches as he doubled over on the cold concrete.
"John," Ellis breathed, drawing his attention to the wall.
Red paint had bled like tears but the angry letters were still legible.
THIEVES.
"Bandits?" Marisa guessed shakily.
Gordon swallowed. "Whoever they were, they stole from people I really don't want to run into, so I suggest we get the hell outta here."
"Scott," Virgil prompted, exchanging a worried look with John.
Scott couldn't tear his gaze away from those bloated faces. They were riddled with terror but snatches of relief too. They had been so terrified in their last moments that death had come as a mercy.
He tried to breathe but the air seemed too sharp. His vision was swimming. Alan caught his hand and pulled him into a brisk walk without a single glance at the bodies, gaze set firmly on the horizon. When Scott looked across, John had an arm around Virgil's shoulders and their brother's eyes were filled with silent tears.
It was easy to tell when you were approaching a city in the apocalypse because the air grew thick with dust and particles of everything which had burnt to ashes. Thunder Bay looked to be in better shape than most of the US cities they'd come across, but then again it was difficult to tell at a distance.
Scott was reluctant to venture any closer without more intel, so they set up camp on a hill in the outskirts. He planned to observe the suburbs and the cityscape as best he could for the next twenty-four hours. With any luck, they'd catch a glimpse of GDF activity or at least some sort of lead to follow. They knew the safe zone was somewhere north but that was a very vague description which covered a lot of unknown territory.
Besides, he was overly conscious of just how low they were running on supplies. Their water situation was dangerous and it was coming up for three days since rations had run out. Everywhere this close to a major city had already been looted. His vision kept doing strange tricks and his pulse was tripping over itself again. The weakness in his muscles had spread to every part of his body and the gnawing hunger pangs were unbearable.
"It's the first stages of starvation," Gordon mumbled, flat on his back with his arms crossed beneath his head. "Right?" He turned his cheek to glimpse Virgil. "Virg?"
Virgil was slumped in the overgrown grass. It took him several minutes to process the question.
He licked his cracked lips and replied hoarsely, "Yeah." He hesitated, struggling to think past his pounding headache. "Dehydration."
Yeah, Scott thought absently, that makes sense. He should probably have been a little more concerned with the fact he wasn't sweating anymore. It definitely wasn't a good sign.
He dug his fingers into the powdery soil – when had he sat down? – and tried to breathe past the waves of nausea. The air seemed too thick as though he was inhaling water. It was probably all the dust. He could see it swirling in the air – why was he on his back now? – like patterns twisting in a kaleidoscope.
"We need to keep moving." Alan's voice was sharper than broken glass, drenched in pure urgency. He wavered slightly, catching his balance against an old bench. "Guys."
Scott turned his head to spy the others. Marisa appeared to be asleep and Virgil wasn't far behind her. Jasmin was shivering which made no sense given the heat. Theo seemed equally as unresponsive while Ellis had buried her face in her hands to hide from the overly bright sunlight. Gordon was still sprawled on his back, chest rising and falling rapidly with shallow breaths.
"Alan's right," John ground out, head bowed in an effort to fight against dizziness. He tried to haul himself to his feet but crashed back down with a curse. "Oh, fuck."
"Don't throw up," Gordon groaned. "Because I will too."
Alan pushed himself away from the bench, jaw set with grim determination. "We've got to go. If we don't leave now, we probably never will. C'mon, we need to find water." His voice wobbled. "I'm not messing around right now. Get the hell up. Please."
"In a minute," Scott promised, vaguely aware that he was slurring his words. He winced as they scraped in his dry throat. Coughing left him with darkened vision and fierce muscle cramps which refused to go away.
5% total bodily fluid loss, IR knowledge told him, moderate dehydration at the least – Alan's right, you've gotta get up or you're gonna die here.
He didn't have long until total disorientation would set in. The thought filled him with fear, yet he couldn't bring himself to move. It was if his mind and his body were separate entities. Sorry, he thought, uncertain as to who he was apologising to: Alan? The others? Mom and Dad? Himself?
"N-no, you've got to- We've got to…" Alan's footsteps seemed louder than usual, sort of clumsy as if someone had dialled up the gravity. "John? Johnny, come on."
"Just…" John doubled over his knees again. "…need a minute."
"Well, you don't have a minute. Virgil? Virg. Wake up. You've gotta wake up. Shit, shit, shit- Gordon? I know you can hear me. I swear I'm gonna hit you with another baseball bat if you don't get your ass up right this second."
"M'kay," Gordon mumbled into the crook of his arm, rolling onto his side to put his back to Alan's increasingly desperate pleas. "Sounds like fun."
The sky was impossibly blue. Endless. The sort that Scott could float away into without fear. He was vaguely reminded of those clear skies in deserts. He half-expected to see vultures circling. What did that make him? Bad thoughts. God, why couldn't he just focus?
Someone was shouting.
Alan.
"Please get up." Alan's voice broke on a small, strangled gasp which would probably have been a sob had he been able to produce tears. He sank to his knees in the dust. "Johnny. Please." Panic left him trembling. "No, no, n-no, you can't fall asleep. John! You can't- I need you."
In another world, things might have gone differently. In another world, the apocalypse might have never happened. In another world, the four of them wouldn't have secretly been slipping some of their own water/food into Alan's rations for the past few days – not enough for him to notice but enough to have made a difference.
Scott vaguely registered a shadow falling across him, blotting out the relentless sun. His vision was too foggy to distinguish details. Fingers dug into his biceps, desperately trying to coax him to sit up. Violence was swiftly replaced with gentle desperation. An overly warm hand pressed to his forehead, then moved to the underside of his jaw to check his pulse.
"Scott," Alan was pleading, voice cracked with so many layers of pain that it was impossible to tell if there was any peace left in his heart at all. "Scotty, get up. Get up, dammit. Scott? N-no, don't- Look at me. Don't close your eyes. You can't go to sleep, you can't- Scotty, please. Don't leave me alone. Don't leave me. You can't leave. I'm sorry, I'm s-so sorry, I'm sorry-"
"It's okay," Scott tried to murmur, but he wasn't entirely convinced he could remember how to speak anymore. Alan's hands were trembling on his face, leaning forwards to rest their foreheads together, begging for him to wake up and he wanted to but he couldn't twist the rules of reality.
But wasn't it so unfair? Hadn't he fought too hard to die like this? Could fate truly be so cruel?
But it was an uncaring universe: an indifferent universe.
And at the end of the day, they were only human.
"I'm sorry," Alan repeated over and over in that same shattered voice filled with pure agony, choking on dry sobs. "I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. I messed everything up and I'm sorry. I don't know how to-"
He drew a ragged breath, collapsing in on himself until he curled against Scott's side to rest his head above his brother's heart and Scott was mostly lost in the fog but the conscious part of his mind was screaming for Alan to take Finch and save himself, not lie down here with him and wait to die.
"I don't know how to save you. I'm not enough. I can't- This is all my fault. I- I don't- I'm not the person you think I am and I really wish I could be because then I'd figure this out and I'd find a way but I can't. Oh, God, I can't- Wake up. Wake up, Scott, please. I'll do anything. I'll be better, I swear, just wake up. Please. I love you- Scotty- Please- Don't leave me."