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"So, that's… what, nine additional units per person?"
"Provided no bandits strike the convey, yes. It takes us through to mid-January without too much concern, by which time we should have secured the transport links."
There was a brief lull in conversation as the leader of a civilian safe zone – an ebony-haired woman with equally dark eyes and a sly, sophisticated air about her not unlike a panther – turned her cheek to conceal a cough in a tissue. Her counterpart – the ex-US Navy officer who had the gravelly voice of a smoker and ran another safe zone only a fistful of miles away from the first – waited patiently for her to catch her breath before continuing.
Their two safe zones were closest to the radioactive southern states and they consequently suffered frequent violent coughing fits which they blamed on dust but probably bore darker causes. They had been the first zones to attempt to pool their resources, but a theoretical shared supply chain was proving harder to establish in reality. This was mostly due to the threats posed by bandits and scavengers; not many zones had the tech available to build their own surveillance drones to scout ahead and the Sanctuary didn't have enough to spare.
Or at least that was what the issue had been when Scott had last listened. His attention kept drifting away from the holograms; slipping unnoticed out of the window; flitting between low-lying clouds and sidling past snowbanks to creep back home. The target of his concern was presumably still holed up under a motheaten blanket on the couch, staring listlessly at the ceiling while Gordon tried to pelt him with bits of paper from the arts-and-crafts project he was creating for the preschoolers.
Scott tried to return his attention to the room. Little details wavered at the blurry edge of his focus; the bitter residue of ink in his mouth where he'd cracked the pen he'd been chewing on; Finn's tip-tapping heels with undone laces and claw marks from his newly acquired tabby cat; a dark ring on the table leftover from Lou's mug; the dull concrete glare of an overcast sky; scrawled question marks over holograms of outdated maps and a bulleted list of bandit activity south of Montana.
He couldn't stop thinking about how quickly everything could change. It could all fall apart in less than a second. Darker timelines were forged within an instant; a single decision tossing them over the edge into the bleak abyss of an unknowable future.
It was illogical to think that his presence would make any difference whatsoever – and it wasn't even as if Alan were alone right now – but he couldn't shake the idea. He was physically present in the meeting but his mind was very much elsewhere, perhaps even still trapped at Finn's party, rooted to the spot as the world teetered on the brink of collapse, dependent on which side of the railing held a greater pull.
His gaze slid to the clock as he tried to surreptitiously gauge how much longer he'd be stuck here. Finn knocked one of those battered shoes against his ankle, features slightly pinched with a silent warning for him to pull himself back into the present. The wordless message on his face was as clear as a large-print newspaper headline: focus, Scott, goddamn.
Another grating cough erupted from the ex-Navy officer with a vengeance. He pressed a tissue to his flushed face and waved off concerned queries, spluttering apologies between gasps. Scott exchanged a glance with Wren – the Sanctuary's most experienced doctor – and felt something painful twist in his chest at the tiny shake of her head.
Radiation poisoning was more than treatable in the modern world but most of those necessary resources were locked up in bunkers or out of reach. Scott could picture their own collection of decontamination packets back on Tracy Island; it irritated him to think of them collecting dust when there were people suffering who desperately needed them. But at current he didn't even have a way to reach the UK, let alone an archipelago in the South Pacific.
"There's a dead zone approximately ten klicks west of the halfway point," the civilian safe zone leader was saying. "If we're distracted by infected, the bandits could launch an attack. We can't defend ourselves on two fronts and still expect to walk away without losses."
Scott turned over his list of GDF defences and mused aloud, "What if you had air support?"
Silence enveloped the meeting.
"It might not dissuade them entirely from attacking, but a show of force might make them think twice." The ex-Navy officer pressed his knuckles against his chin thoughtfully. "Air support could forewarn us of an ambush too. Are you willing to lend us an aircraft? And a pilot for that matter."
"Yes," Finn confirmed slowly, eyeing Scott, "We have a pilot. I'll have to get back to you about the aircraft though. Our airbase has been… somewhat decommissioned."
Meeting adjourned, Finn wasted no time in whirling on him.
"We don't have any operational aircraft which can make a roundtrip of that distance."
"Not on site," Scott conceded. "But we said that we were going to retake the airbase weeks ago. Our main threat is scavengers. If we go in quietly – a small, tactical group – and scout the place, we can bring back additional supplies and identify which aircraft if any are fit to fly."
"You're just looking for something which can make a transatlantic crossing."
Scott faltered. "You're not wrong. But it's still a good plan."
"It's barely a plan. It's what, twelve percent of a plan? It's an idea."
"I have fantastic ideas."
"Go home."
"Sorry?"
"You're in the wrong headspace to make logical decisions. Go home, check in with your family. Call me tonight, say eight-thirty-ish? I'll have an update for you then regarding the airbase. Go home, Scott. That's an order."
Scott didn't run home per se but he didn't exactly take a leisurely stroll either. The result was an awkward, uneven quick-paced thing which occasionally became a jog and then slowed back down to a walk again whenever the icy air grew too sharp to breathe quickly. He needn't have worried; there had been no changes since he'd left that morning.
John was still folded into an armchair, eyes glazed with intent focus as he studied the equations floating above the holoprojector balanced on his knees. There was a partly drunk mug of something resembling jet fuel cooling on the coffee table which he occasionally reached for, determined to achieve his self-set deadline for establishing a comm link with a UK safe zone. He glanced up briefly, unsurprised to see Scott's early arrival, then gestured to the blanketed lump on the sofa.
The house was warmer these days thanks to Virgil's improvements to the generator, so the blanket's sole purpose was comfort. The blue glare of a tablet screen peeked through the fabric and Scott lifted a corner to be met with a confused pair of eyes.
Gordon blinked slowly at him as if trying to figure out a puzzle, then yanked the earbuds out to whisper, "You're back early."
"Is that a surprise?"
"Not really."
"Is he asleep?"
Gordon had stuck to Alan's side like glue ever since the party. In another world, it would have been funny to see the guy who complained about the smother-hen treatment dolling it out in such vast quantities himself, but in this context it was just plain sad.
Alan was curled between his brother's side and the couch cushions but had his head propped above Gordon's heart. He didn't stir at their hushed voices but held himself too tense to be truly resting.
Gordon traced a lazy circle across Alan's upper back.
"Nah. Just chilling." His light-hearted tone didn't disguise the painful worry in his voice. He trailed his hand upwards to thread his fingers through Alan's hair with a soft smile. "He's like a frickin' cat."
Scott raised a brow. Gordon dropped his tablet onto the carpet and held up a finger with his now-free hand, as in wait for it.
"Shuddup," Alan mumbled as if on cue, turning his cheek to bury his face in Gordon's shoulder.
His voice was rough and Scott winced; the kid had alternated between not speaking at all or gasping out apologies in raw, scraping sobs. Forgiveness for the stolen Zoloft had been handed out immediately – at least in Scott's books although John and Virgil had kept their opinions on the down low and didn't discuss it with him – but Alan refused to accept it.
"Don't tell me to shut up, nerd," Gordon protested, trying to keep his smile from being audible as he carded his hand through Alan's hair again, earning a pleased hum. "See? This is what I'm talking about. All these years you've had everyone fooled with your golden retriever act, but you're actually part cat, my dude. Just accept it."
"Miaow," Alan tried to joke. He still sounded too small and fragile for it to be funny but Gordon huffed a laugh anyway. "Do you wanna get up?"
"Do you?"
"No. But you haven't had lunch, so." Alan trailed off into a tiny voice. "You should eat something."
Gordon's gaze tracked up to meet Scott's, a collective pool of worry that spread outwards like a tangible force until it infected John too. He quietly set his holoprojector aside and watched on in tired resignation.
"You haven't eaten either," Gordon pointed out as he prodded Alan's bicep. "Yo. Allie? Lemme up, I'll go make us a sandwich or something."
"M'not hungry."
"Well, I'll make you one anyway and you might feel hungry later, 'kay?"
Gordon didn't give him chance to argue, wriggling to flop onto the floor in an extremely ungraceful display of sprawled limbs and tousled hair which looked as if it hadn't seen a hairbrush in several days. He scrambled to his feet and smoothed his shirt down with a satisfied smile, dropping into a bow when he glimpsed John's exasperated stare.
"Sandwich time! Hey, Scoot, sit your ass down and warm up."
The actual translation wasn't warm up but more along the lines of keep an eye on Allie because he seems kind of brittle like he might shatter if he's left alone. This was the reason why Scott didn't protest when Gordon shoved him backwards so that he crashed onto the sofa.
"Thanks," he said dryly, shuffling upright so that he was no longer at risk of twisting his spine into a pretzel in the too-soft cushions. "You're a menace, Gords."
"Thank you."
"Not a compliment."
"It is in my world." Gordon paused, then tilted his head slightly with a meaningful look at Alan, shoulders set in a miserable hunch indicative of overthinking. "Yeah. Uh. What was I…? Oh, right – sandwiches. Space-case, you hungry?"
"Are you offering?"
"No."
John tossed his hands up. "Then why did you ask?"
Gordon's answering cackle floated over his shoulder as he slipped-n-slid across the hallway floorboards into the kitchen. John returned to his holoprojector, pretending to be invested in his work; as if Scott couldn't spy the worried glances he kept shooting over the top of the equations; as if they couldn't see right through the façade, right through him. Worry was a physical presence in the room, invading their space, propped against the far wall to observe them all with a low laugh which rang in their ears to accompany frightened thoughts of which there were too many to count.
Scott dug his ragged nails into the armrest and reminded himself to breathe. He was hyperaware of his own emotions – and subsequently the turmoil they had fallen into – after tossing his empty prescription bottle into a trashcan that morning. From now on, every dark day was a test of whether his tentative grasp over his own mind was real or just formed of medicated locked floodgates.
Alan had yet to move. He had buried his face in the dip between the couch cushions with one arm crossed awkwardly beneath him so that he could bite his knuckles. Finch let out a long, wounded whine as she attempted to nuzzle his shoulder, tail drooping where she stood at the edge of the sofa to stand guard over him. He reached out with his spare hand, quietening her concern with a pat.
Scott hooked a finger under his bracelet and tugged slightly until the elastic band grew taut against his pulse. Guilt floated just out of reach, painting an ugly picture of potential impacts in his subconscious for future dissection.
How the hell could he consider flying that mission when he was needed here? Then again, how could he not? The link between the two safe zones could become a blueprint for other unions and the future was dependent on proof of successful teamwork. He could burn the world for his family, but what would be the point if all that was left were ashes?
"Hey," he murmured in the soft sort of tone which made him want to wince. He avoided John's knowing look and reached over to prod Alan's back. "Have you left this couch at all today?"
"Does it matter?" Alan muttered, muffled by dusty fabric and his own sleeve. He raised his chin to reveal shadowed eyes. "Virgil said to get out of bed, so I did. Now you're criticising me for being on the couch. What do you want from me?"
"It's not a criticism." Scott hesitated. John's gaze was still heavy and he tried not to look over at him, instead focussing on the weak sun rays fading across the carpet. "I was just wondering."
Alan stared at him for a painful minute, then dropped his head back to the cushions. Scott was left with the helpless sensation of having reached for a rope only to have that lifeline slip through his fingers. Someone had once posed a theory that time was doomed to repeat itself; a universe of mirrored tragedies; the unbearable reckoning of having to watch your own past heartbreaks play out in another's life without any way to stop it or make it easier.
"Sit up," John ordered quietly. He scrolled past a haze of holograms without actually absorbing any of the data. "Al, sit up before you suffocate."
"I wish."
"Alan." John couldn't keep the sharpness out of his voice that time. He tightened his grip on the projector until his knuckles paled. "Don't make that joke. It's not clever. It's certainly not funny."
Alan remained motionless for several seconds, then silently gathered himself into a pitiful heap. He drew his knees up to his chest and propped his chin on top, hiding from the twin pair of searching looks. Every word went unspoken. He twisted his fingers together and tilted sideways to rest his head on Scott's shoulder.
"Bad day?" Scott asked cautiously. Alan had been sort of skittish around him ever since the Zoloft revelation but today he sank into the touch with little more than a shaky exhale.
"Loud day."
Technically, that was nothing new. So-called loud days had pre-existed the apocalypse but back then they had involved anxiety spirals and a lot less self-deprecation. Now, they were crueller; constant blows; bruises upon bruises; clouds which blocked out all light until the world consisted of darkness.
In another life – hell, in this life until the trauma had built up to a tipping point – he'd be so happy that it overflowed; glowing like sunlight; warmth and golden goodness that spread to everyone around him too. But nowadays? They were all living haunted lives but Alan's ghosts were louder than most and Scott didn't know how to help him.
"I'm sorry, bud."
"Why are you sorry?"
"I…" Scott tightened his grip a fraction. Alan curled closer into his side, folding under his arm so that he seemed impossibly small, a collection of sharp edges and fearful vulnerability. "Because I don't want you to be in pain and I don't know how to help."
It was a rare olive branch; extending honesty in the hopes of having the favour returned. Alan seemed taken aback by it, tugging his sleeves over his knuckles as nervous energy worsened the tremors in his hands.
"What are you thinking?" Scott whispered, tracing a soothing circle across the kid's bicep.
Alan shivered, voice drifting into a hollow confession. "I don't think you want me telling you. I don't think it's a good thing for you to know."
"Me specifically?"
He swallowed, dropping his gaze to the blanket in his lap as he repressed another shiver.
"Yeah. I don't want you to freak out. And I don't want to, um… You blame yourself for everything. So, if I tell you what's going on in my head, you're gonna find some way to put that on yourself and that's just bullshit."
"Will you talk to me about it?" John asked.
Alan lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. "I'll talk to Gordon."
John exchanged a glance with Scott.
"Just Gordon," Alan elaborated. "You guys and Virg have already… I'll talk to Gords. I'll make you that promise. But you can't bug him for details, okay?"
Goddamn, he knew them too well – that was exactly what Scott had been planning to do. On the upside, at least Alan was willing to confide in someone. He'd been getting slightly better at that; at not pushing everyone away.
It was probably helped by a conversation that Scott had accidentally overheard a couple of nights earlier when Theo had finally learnt about what had happened at Finn's party and had proceeded to toss all grudges out of the window. He had crawled onto Alan's mattress and remained there for three hours; side-by-side, eye-to-eye, trading secrets in hushed voices.
"Your mind might lie to you and say all this crap about deserving to be alone or hurting people just by existing or whatever it is you're thinking right now," Theo had whispered urgently, "But you don't get to make that decision for us. We love you. We want to be around you. That's our choice, okay?"
Where repression failed, distraction was another of Scott's favourite coping methods. Was it unhealthy? Without a doubt. But fixating on a situation over which he had no control wasn't going to solve anything either.
At least this way, he could try to help someone - a far better use of time and energy. He dedicated sleepless nights to worry; time was too precious to squander daylight hours too. So, while Tycho and Virgil sent a drone north to scout the airfield, he set about taking a stock check of sorts: contacting other safe zones, creating a tally, running the math over and over until he came to a workable conclusion.
The two zones with the highest radiation exposure needed to be transferred to a safe distance. That would eventually be solved once links were established between other zones, increasing their capacity so that they could welcome more survivors. Unfortunately, the more pressing issue were the levels of radiation sickness which both leaders refused to confirm but notably hadn't denied either. The Sanctuary couldn't give away all of its decontamination packs, but if every safe zone gave up a small amount then the total quantity would be more than enough to save a lot of lives, possibly even everyone in the affected areas.
It was easy; messages to other safe zones; explanations; data rundowns; statistical analysis for the logical-headed and emotive facts for those led by their hearts. He had made similar calls in the past, forging new relationships so that IR could operate in yet more places with previously hostile attitudes. Persuasion was a familiar skill and a dash of Tracy charm always helped matters. It took him several painfully long hours which left tension rooted at the base of his neck and blue light stained behind his retinas, but if it meant that even one life was saved it then the pain was worth it.
"You can't save them all," Finn remarked quietly, propped against the doorframe to their shared office. He folded his arms, frown deepened by the grey dawn light; Scott couldn't remember the sun setting but apparently he'd worked through the night for the third time in a row.
"I'm not trying to."
"You're pushing yourself to your limits for a reason." Finn lacked Virgil's exasperation; he just sounded resigned. "You're beyond exhausted, yet you expect me to sign off on an expedition to the airfield. Hell, you're asking me to approve you as physically fit for flight in less than a week."
"I can handle it."
"Who are you really doing this for?"
Scott shoved his chair back and smacked the holoprojector into standby. "Fuck off, Wolvin."
"Scott." Finn caught his arm. "Your family don't need you to save the world for them. They just want you around."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I am around. It doesn't seem to make a difference. At least this way I can-" Scott accidentally met Finn's knowing look. "People are dying. They need our help."
Finn released his grip with a weary sigh. "Don't be reckless. John tells me that's a stupid thing to ask of you, but I'm asking anyway. I've buried too many friends since this war began. Don't make me bury another."
"It's not like that. And this isn't a war."
"Yes it is," Finn replied heavily. He turned a tired gaze on the pinned maps across the wall; infected fronts and bandits patterns; little flags representing scavenger activity and blotted sections to show radioactive hotspots. "What else would you call it?"
Scott left the query unanswered. He could feel the weight of Finn's eyes on his back all the way down the hallway until the elevator doors closed behind him and even then the question continued to haunt him. His mind was groggy, sluggish as if fogged with cotton wool. Each thought seemed overly complicated. Logic was a distant dream; feelings ran the show. He cast a final glance over the data fed back from the drone, then crashed face down on the sofa for the next five hours.
Awareness returned slowly with a series of observations which trickled past the languishing haze of sleep. He noted them absently at first, unwilling to return to sharp-toothed reality and its fierce bite; oh-so-many things which were falling apart.
He was still stretched across the sofa, but someone had taken the trouble to remove his boots. A pillow had been tucked under his head and a tartan quilt was arranged so that he was protected from the winter chill. Fingers threaded soothingly through his hair in a steady rhythm which promised that it had become a subconscious action. Sure enough, when he glanced up, the culprit was distracted by holograms; drone imagery, highlighted maps, red-flagged alerts and signs.
Scott didn't move initially. He let seconds drift into minutes. It was the first time he'd let himself stop in nearly a week and the exhaustion crashed down like a brick wall despite having slept for several hours. He was comfortable and warm and on a purely selfish level he just didn't want to be made aware of any unwanted developments. Sadness still clung to the house in a perpetual cloud and he couldn't bring himself to face it. Not yet. Just… give him a minute. Or two.
"I know you're awake," Virgil remarked, dimming the projector to a gentler glare before setting it aside entirely. "How are you feeling?"
Scott searched for a suitable adjective, came up empty handed, and instead neatly summarised with a vague groan into the pillow. Virgil gave an amused huff, lifting his hand to pat Scott's back before snatching the pillow away to encourage him to sit upright.
Oh great, Scott realised, this was going to be an actual conversation. Yay.
"Let's hear it then."
"I didn't say anything."
"You've got that face on again."
"What?"
"You know. The expression you pull whenever you're annoyed."
Virgil yanked a sleeve over his hand and scrubbed the fabric over his face.
"M'not annoyed," he replied, layers of emotion successfully muffled. "I'm just… I don't know. Worried? Tired? Both?" He lowered his hand, gaze soft and searching as he continued, "Are you done running?"
Scott was momentarily struck into silence.
"Am I… what?" He propped an arm on the back of the couch and twisted to face his brother. "I'm not running. That's not what- I've been trying to organise supply drops and… I've not been avoiding you."
"You've been avoiding all of us."
"If you needed me, you could have asked."
"Scott, I asked you to come home on two separate occasions."
Okay, hold on. Record scratch moment. Because… what? Scott didn't remember that. He pretended to study the snow gathered along the grooves of the windowpane as he tried to recall any instance in which Virgil had been in his office over the past days.
"Sorry," he said grudgingly. It felt too much like a confession. "I don't think I really, uh…"
"Knew I was there?"
"Something like that. I was busy."
"You were distracting yourself."
Virgil was quite possibly the only person in the world who could call him out on that and not be met with immediate protests and irritated jibes in return. If John had raised the topic, they'd have been at each other's throats already.
"Can you blame me? I can't see him like this. It's… God, it's terrifying. And as far as distractions go, this is a worthwhile one. These people genuinely need help and I'm going to get it to them."
"I know." Virgil shook his head with an infinitely sad smile. "I could ask you to stay but I know there's no point. You never do. You're going to fly this mission no matter what. I just need you to promise that you'll come back."
"What kind of question is that?"
"You get reckless when one of us are hurt."
"Oh, for God's sake."
"Scott, I'm serious."
"Yeah, I know. That's kind of the problem." Scott let the irritation drain away. "I'm okay, Virg. Genuinely. I needed a distraction because this situation is really putting me on edge, but it's not like that. You don't need to worry."
"I worry about everything all the time, you know this."
The brief glimmer of humour flickered and died.
"Here." Virgil held out the projector. "Airfield analysis came back green. Finn's approved a three-person mission to scout the place. You're team-leader, Marisa's your second and I'm coming too."
"No."
"Yes. You need an engineer. Unless you're saying that you trust Tycho more than me?"
"Don't do that."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're a manipulative bastard sometimes, you know that, right?"
Virgil gave him a sunny smile. "If you won't stay when I ask, then I've got no option but to follow."
"That's really not- And what about Alan?"
"Gordon can handle it."
"He's-"
"He can handle it." Virgil's tone left no room for argument this time. "Trust him."
They were allocated three days for the airfield mission: two for a round trip including any possible last-minute detours and another twenty-four hours in which to scout the base itself. It was rare for anyone to exit the Sanctuary, so the door was stiff and unwieldy, finally opening with a mournful shriek as metal hinges protested.
The immediate quiet outside the walls was eerie, filled with the forgotten signs of old society. It felt like trespassing in a cemetery. Everywhere Scott looked he found remnants of humanity: ghosts in the form of scrappy clothing, tattered leaflets, rusted cars and drooping powerlines.
Shuttered windows watched their GDF vehicle encroach on lost streets. The thrum of the engine seemed deafening. Ice crunched under tyres. A distant crow squawked. Cloud enveloped the horizon, erasing the past and the future so that all that remained were their own uneasy heartbeats.
"I forgot how creepy it is," Marisa commented under her breath. She was sat in the back of the truck, watching for threats out of the rear window. There were more weapons on her person than there were supplies and every so often the dull light would catch her gun, reflecting off the barrel in a blinding flash. "It feels haunted."
"Maybe it is," Virgil replied after a moment. He didn't sound like he was joking. "Turn left. Drone footage suggests there might be a bandit hideout in the old motel, so we want to avoid that part of town as far as possible. Follow this road and we should hit open country again in ten minutes."
"I love how you say that as if it's a good thing." Scott eyed the snowdrifts which had formed small mountains even this deep into the suburbs. The GDF truck was winter-rated and designed for extreme conditions but he still dreaded driving without shelter. The winds had dropped for the time-being but the nights seemed to encourage fiercer gusts and they would be totally exposed unless they made good time. "It's like an ice age out here."
"It's certainly cold enough," Marisa muttered, scrubbing her gloved hands over her chin as she reached to pull her hat further down. "I can't feel… well, anything."
"That's encouraging," Scott deadpanned. He caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "You know, given you're supposed to be our marksman and all."
"Relax, Tracy. I can still take a shot when it counts." She folded herself against the door with another violent shiver. "Virgil, hon, look alive. You're making me nervous."
Virgil tore his gaze away from the desolate landscape. "Sorry, what?"
Scott risked a glance across at him. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just…" Virgil leant forwards, bracing his elbows against the dash so that confused holograms bobbed around his arms. He rubbed a clean circle in the condensation to inspect the passing world. "…thinking. This is beautiful in a very disturbing way."
"Beauty is terror," Marisa mused.
Scott stared at her reflection. "What?"
"Oh my god, have you never read The Secret History?"
"I was a little busy, oh, I don't know, saving the world. Goddamn, Mari. Not everyone can be like you and John. I swear you don't even read, you just absorb the words."
Marisa leaned between the seats and swatted his bicep.
"Hey! Don't hit the driver!"
"Don't tell me what to do."
"You're both children," Virgil informed them. "And before you ask, Mari, yes, I've read it."
"See? Virgil knows."
"Virgil's a nerd," Scott retorted sulkily.
"Virgil's educated," Marisa corrected.
"So am I! I have a math degree! From Yale."
"I know. It's concerning. Do they just hand those out to anyone?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"Okay, that's enough," Virgil interrupted, cutting off Scott's reply. "Time out. Not another word from either of you for the next twenty minutes. Seriously, if I wanted to lose my sanity I'd have brought Gordon along."
There was a pause. Marisa tucked her chin over the back of Scott's seat to watch the world blur as the road guided them into the heart of the fog. He could practically sense her trying to repress laughter, which nearly set him off too. Virgil's offended look at being thrown under the bus didn't help matters either, but then the distinctive lurch of tyres slipping on ice jolted him back into cold, hard reality.
"Shit," Marisa breathed, hand tightening to a claw on the headrest. "The road conditions might actually be a bigger threat than bandits."
The suburbs were a sea of lonely ghosts – buildings engulfed by heavy layers of snow, old powerlines weighed down by icicles, a modern ice age brought to life by manmade mistakes – but it was the open rural road that led northwards to the airfield which held a true sense of apocalyptic horror.
If the dust-stricken heat of the summer had held the ashes of humanity, winter storms were now erasing those last traces. Snow slunk into every crevice, burrowing into the fibres of reality and suffocating the sky with impenetrable clouds. Abandoned cars roosted under the ice sheet. Decrepit buildings loomed from the gloom like strange creatures. The only splash of colour was the occasional infected; weak, staggering monsters, clutching their frozen organs with slippery fingers as their skin cracked from exposure to such low temperatures.
Deep snowdrifts cloaked the world. Occasional tracks marked bandit activity, skidded tyres and heavy-duty tacked boots. Animals flitted in-and-out of existence, fleeting glimpses of fur and fowl amid the treeline. Low clouds looked unstable; distant groans seemed to reverberate from the atmosphere itself. The darkness was inescapable. Headlamps cut a path through the gloom, but murky light still crowded the edges; the shadows could not be evaded forever.
Temperatures had been low enough back at the Sanctuary. It hadn't occurred to Scott just how much protection the walls had offered. Out here, the wind dropped into unbearable negative digits. It was a sharp, physically painful chill; the kind which identified weakness and infected it with an exhausting ache. His grip on the wheel hurt. Blinking stung. Snow flurries drew hypnotising patterns across the glass and it took constant concentration to stay focussed.
"It's a fine line," Virgil murmured. "The parasite can't survive at high temperatures but its hosts can't function if it drops too low either."
"Neither can we," Marisa pointed out. She propped her head against the window and watched as her breath formed a ghost. "My radio's gone offline. This weather is causing malfunctions. If we travel as far as the airfield, we might lose contact with the Sanctuary. We'd be reliant entirely on your drone, Virg. Are you sure it can withstand another blizzard?"
"Yes." Virgil didn't hesitate. "I built it. I know its limits. We're within those parameters. Besides, we still have two other radios as backup."
Scott made a vague noise of agreement. His sole focus was dedicated to the road ahead. Even the tiniest slip of the tyres felt as perilous as an earthquake. Distant words stirred at the back of his mind, some long ago observation; destruction could not be understood until one had looked death in the eyes. Out here, death was a face in the mirror and destruction reigned over all things. It would be too easy to become lost in the snow.
Evidence of human activity grew apparent as they approached the airfield. The outer perimeter had once been contained by a chain-link fence. One section had been removed using the distinctive preciseness of modern bolt cutters. Other swathes had been mown down by a high-speed vehicle; the metal loops had been dragged along by some sort of truck, gouging deep wounds in the soil.
"Scavengers or bandits?" Marisa wondered aloud. Tightly wound tension threaded her words. She blew hot air onto her fingers, then reached for her rifle. "Which is worse?"
"Scavengers," Scott replied darkly, blinking away mental images of barbaric fates which had befallen GDF scouts from the Sanctuary. Finn's warnings about this mission had been dire for good reason.
Virgil stared at the passing fenceposts. "Let's hope we don't run into either of them."
Night was already a whisper on the horizon; finding shelter was a top priority. Scott eased the truck off the main road and onto a stretch of uneven snow which had once been a track around the circumference of the airfield. The fence was in various states of disrepair but he steered clear of the sections which had been deliberately removed. Drone footage suggested that external activity was minimal but that didn't mean there weren't still enemies lurking within the base itself.
That uncomfortable itch of paranoia pushed to the forefront of his mind again. A sudden chill scuttled down his spine, somehow even colder than the falling snow. He followed Virgil's directions to an old side entrance in the outer fence then stuck to the lower ground as far as possible to hide from both potential onlookers and the strongest winds. Primal instincts assured him that he was being watched yet he couldn't pick out any signs of life amid the encroaching darkness.
A distant hum fought through the wind. Virgil folded over the dash to peer up through the frosty windscreen. A pair of blinking lights were just visible through the driving snow.
"And there's the drone." He reached for his own radio. "Sanctuary, please confirm that your signal is holding steady."
"FAB, all lights are green."
Scott cast a glance across at the radio. "John? Since when are you monitoring missions?"
"Would you prefer someone else to be your eye in the sky?" John didn't give him chance to think of a suitable retort. "There are five hangars in total. Aim for Hangar Two. It's the furthest from last-known scavenger activity, plus the roof is in better condition. Keep your heads down for the night – you've got a strong blizzard headed your way but skies should clear again shortly after sunrise."
"Copy that, Five," Virgil murmured, unable to look away from the reassuring promise of those drone lights. There was a brief beat after which he registered his own words. "That was your fault. You're the one who called yourself our eye in the sky."
Marisa propped her arms on the back of Scott's seat with a lazy grin. "I'd like a callsign too."
John's smile was audible in his voice. "I'll get back to you on that, Mari."
The runway had already been engulfed by spreading cloud. It leaked from the sky and flooded the airfield. Taxiways could just about be spotted; stretches of scruffier snow in irregular straight lines, pushed into jagged lumps where concrete flagstones had been torn up and some great force had pressurised melted tarmac into folded mountains. Strange shapes flickered in and out of sight. Hollow husks wailed; wind whistled through looted plane hulls.
The base was an aircraft mortuary; parts stripped, haphazard dissections carried out in all elements, scavenged technology melted down and presumably pieced into a monstrous creation elsewhere. And that was only as far as Scott could see – doubtlessly the true extent of the destruction was worse than he could imagine. The secret fear that this would be a dead-end – that no flight-worthy craft existed here at all – flourished in his chest no matter how much effort he put into squashing it.
Like the rest of the base, Hangar Two was in a state of serious disrepair. Thankfully, it was slightly less motheaten than the rest. For a start, the roof hadn't collapsed and the hatch could be rolled down and locked after the truck was safely stashed inside. The immediate silence was deafening. The unsteady ticks of the engine winding down seemed as loud as explosions. Eerie groans bounced around the vast space as gales buffeted the hangar from every direction.
"Huh," Marisa murmured, sliding out of the truck. She hooked her rifle over her shoulder as she ventured away from the vehicle. "This is… different."
The hangar was mostly empty. Snow had built strange sculptures where it had blown in through the previously open hatch. It had already been looted months ago. The skeleton of a GDF quadjet watched over the space, reduced to scrap metal.
Scott trailed a hand across the scratched hull. It had been gutted entirely. The engines had been removed and the wings had been torn away and melted down. He entertained a wave of pure grief; it made no sense to feel sorrow for an inanimate object yet how could he feel anything other than empathy for something created for flight doomed to see the sky forever out of reach.
"Do you think it's all like this?" he questioned as footsteps crunched on the ice behind him.
"I don't know," Virgil admitted quietly. He winced as he traced the deep scars where wires had been yanked from sockets which had once held wings. "I'm more concerned about what they're using this for. What are they building? It can't be defences. Neither scavengers nor bandits stay put in one place long enough."
"You think they're developing weapons?"
"Possibly."
Scott just looked at him.
"Probably," Virgil amended. He yanked his hand back before he could accidentally slice his palm open on the jagged metal. When the wings had been removed, it had been violent and without care.
How much force was required to make metal crumple like paper? Scott didn't want to even begin to consider what kind of machinery the scavengers or bandits had access to. He cast a final glance over the haunted structure and forced himself to step away. The ruined aircraft left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't shake a chill that ran far deeper than the cold installed by mere snow.
Marisa had hauled most of the firewood from the trunk into a rough circle. The roof had been partly shredded, allowing a few flurries to drift down but also allowing smoke to escape. The blizzard would obscure it from view, so it was safe to light the kindling. They heated rations over the flames and dried snow from their coats as the wind outside steadily grew louder. No one said much.
Scott stared into the embers. The kindling crumbled as amber light consumed it, as deadly and hungry as guilt. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Rations tasted like dust all of a sudden.
They were less than a hundred miles from the Sanctuary yet he could feel the distance like a physical wound. He studied the radio – perfectly innocuous, waiting patiently for their next check-in – and resisted the urge to call early. The same horror that he had felt at Finn's party was stronger out here.
"Not every safe zone keeps a precise record," Virgil was saying, seeking Marisa's eyes with his own worried gaze. "There's still a possibility. Or they could have found refuge elsewhere. There are plenty of bunkers who have weaker radio signals."
Marisa curled her hands in her blanket. Weeks of no word about her old survival group had taken a greater toll than she cared to confess. "But what's the likelihood?"
"Of their survival?" Virgil brushed snow off his knees. "I don't think probability is a reliable source anymore. Look at Joanna's group – all the odds were stacked against them. According to the math, they shouldn't be alive. And yet."
Marisa conceded the point with a little tilt of her head. A new wave of snow flurries struck them all into a shivery silence for several minutes. Scott lifted a corner of his blanket around Virgil's shoulders as his brother pressed closer to his side.
"You've got to believe in that hope for their survival." Scott held out a hand to let snowflakes settle on his glove; an infinite collection of possibilities; unseen patterns of unknown beauty. "Because the alternative is… what, giving up? Even before Z-Day, the same principle applied. Shit happens and you hope that it'll get better because what other choice do we have?"
"Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Marisa offered him a fond smile. "It's the same wherever you go – hope spreads like wildfire."
The night was filled with threats. Even mundane details seemed ominous; the wind became a warning; their own shadows stalked their every move; snow floating in slow motion like radioactive ashfall. The fire burnt low until only weak embers were left. Snowflakes hissed as they settled on the hot remains. The blizzard snarled all around, clawing at the gaps in roof but unable to reach them.
Marisa took herself off to the truck after Scott agreed to take first watch. She stuffed a spare coat beneath her head and flaked out over the backseats, a leather-handled blade pinned under her hip for swift retrieval just in case. Virgil made no move to join her despite Scott's not-so-subtle comments about how tired he looked. They huddled together and watched more snow settle on the tortured remains of the GDF quadjet like a shroud.
The radio fizzled into life with a burst of static.
"Check in."
Scott shot an exasperated glance at Virgil as he startled awake.
"We're good, John. Do me a favour? Tell Virgil to stop hovering and go to sleep."
"Virgil, go to sleep." John sounded on the verge of falling asleep himself. "How's the weather?"
Scott grimaced. "Uh… Remember that rescue at McMurdo Station?"
"Probably best not to venture outside then."
Virgil made a vague, half-asleep sound of irritation. "Wasn't planning on going for a walk, Jay."
"See?" Scott stage whispered. "He's grumpy."
"…For once, I'm on Scott's side. Go to bed."
It took another forty minutes before Virgil finally allowed himself to be persuaded into getting some proper rest. The truck was cramped but after some awkward contortions, he found a relatively comfortable position stretched over the front seats while Scott remained by the remnants of the campfire for a better view of the hatch.
Tiny scuttles betrayed mice amid the shadows. He could spy their tiny tracks left in the new layer of snow, still fresh enough to be powder as opposed to ice. There was something reassuring about the presence of innocent life. He leant against the side of the truck and settled the radio in his lap, gun a dull weight by his hip. Darting movements revealed the mice flitting in and out of the old quadjet.
Without the fire or the truck's protection, the wind chill from the holes in the roof was bitter enough to sink its claws through his coat. He was wearing more layers than he knew what to do with yet still he shivered. He cupped his hands and blew hot air into them with another full-body shudder. It was probably some dark time between midnight and two-AM; dawn couldn't come quick enough.
It was debatable as to whether he'd been drifting off or if the cold had drugged him into a sluggish daze. A sudden noise startled him back into full awareness. He nearly smacked his head against the truck door and spent a breathless instant praying that he hadn't woken Virgil or Marisa. Another mumble of static later drew his attention to the radio in his lap.
"Hello?" Alan sounded uncertain; not fearful but uneasy. "Um, Scott? Are you there?"
"Yeah. Yes." Scott made a mad grab for the radio. "I'm here. What's wrong? Are you okay? Talk to me, Allie."
"Well, I would if you'd let me get a word in."
It was the first time in weeks that Alan had sounded like himself. Scott pressed his knuckles to his mouth to fight back a smile, then realised that no one was watching.
"Sorry. Go ahead."
"Okay. Um. Yeah. So…"
The brief burst of confidence evaporated as nerves once again laced Alan's voice. He hesitated, pausing for so long that Scott wondered if he was going to speak at all.
"I need to, um, speak to you. I mean, we should talk. But that's kind of… a lot. So, uh, Gordon suggested talking over the radio instead because there's less pressure when it's not an in-person thing, you know? Is that… is that cool?"
"Very cool."
"Okay. Cool. Okay. This is, um… okay."
"Alan. Stop saying okay."
"…okay."
A damp laugh shattered over the poor connection.
"I'll be serious now. Sorry. This is just… weird. I don't know what to say. I know what I should say and what I had planned but now I can't get the words to… Um, but yeah. I freaked you out and I'm sorry. I mean, I couldn't really control most of it but I definitely made it worse with crappy decisions and that's the part I'm sorry for. And I'm really, really sorry for the Zoloft thing. I don't know what I was thinking. I don't think I did think. I was just… desperate, I guess? But that's not an excuse. I can't- I'm probably never going to stop feeling guilty about that, so… yeah."
"Alan," Scott exhaled shakily. "God, kid. You shouldn't have done it. But you did and I forgive you."
"That's kind of the problem."
"Alright, then I'm very angry and you're grounded until you're twenty-five."
"You're not though."
"No, I'm not."
"Scott?"
"I'm listening."
"Are you sure you're okay?" Alan faltered. He sounded a little muffled as if he were biting his nails again. "Because Gordon thinks I should tell you but I don't want to hurt you."
Scott forced himself to loosen his grip before he could crack the plastic casing.
"I'm okay. I can handle whatever it is, I promise."
"Don't get mad, but, um… swear on Mom?"
"What?"
"You pretend to be fine all the time. So, I don't know if- Swear on Mom that hearing about my dumb thoughts isn't going to make you spiral or upset you. And by upset I mean… you know what I mean."
It was the one fundamental oath which couldn't be broken and so Scott took a moment to assess. Being brutally honest, he had spiralled over the past week but now…
"I swear," he promised thickly. "You can tell me."
Please.
Ten seconds of silence seemed to last an infinity.
"I've hurt people." Alan drew a sharp breath. "It's not intentional. But it keeps happening. And I can't- I replay the moments over and over in my head but I can't change the past, so it just… haunts me."
"Alan-"
"No, no, let me… Sorry. But if I don't get the words out now, I never will. It's just- I know you guys have always tried to protect me, so I didn't want to tell any of you because I knew you'd think you'd failed me or something dumb like that and none of this is your fault. None of it, okay? It's just… I can't fix anything. Sometimes I feel invisible but other times I feel like the whole world is watching and judging and they can see right through me and I don't know which is worse. Life is… It's really heavy and the truth is- The truth is that I don't like myself very much anymore. So, um… yeah."
Scott reached for words and found himself at a loss. His eyes were stinging with such a fierce burn that it could not be contributed solely to the icy wind. He swiped the back of his hand across them and tried not to let the emotion creep into his voice.
"I'm upset with you about one thing – the fact you've told me this when I can't give you a hug."
Alan gave a damp chuckle. "Don't worry, Gordon's in octopus mode."
"Gordon's there?"
"Yeah. I would totally have talked myself out of this otherwise. Yo, Gords, say hi."
"Hi, Scott." Gordon put on that particular blend of forced joviality which promised that he was secretly on the brink of tears. "Pretend I'm not here. I'm just providing hugs, that's all."
"Thanks," Scott ground out, trusting Gordon to understand. That single word covered a lot of territory: thanks for being there when I can't and so many other variations too.
The silence dragged on; a fragile balance between understanding and defeat as if they were all standing on that icy railing. Time stood still; time ran away from itself. Scott couldn't escape the question of how the hell they had ended up here, but also knew there was little point in contemplating it in depth. History was immovable; regrettable but still unchangeable.
It was probably time to take his own advice, he considered wryly, to hope in the future because every other option was unacceptable.
"Alan?" He faltered, glancing over his shoulder through the fogged window as he briefly entertained the idea that this was a conversation Virgil should be awake for. "Thanks for telling me. I understand – and I mean I really, really understand. I wish you didn't have to go through this. But you're not alone. There's nothing wrong with you, okay? Sometimes we have to make difficult choices that we regret but those actions doesn't mean there's something fundamentally wrong with us as people."
"I know."
"But do you?"
Alan fell silent again.
"Kind of?" he confessed in a tiny voice. "I still feel like there's something bad in me which needs to be, I dunno, carved out or something. It's weird. Because you guys have gone through so much worse and you'd all be entitled to fall apart but you're handling it, so why the hell can't I?"
"Hey, here's an idea," Gordon interrupted. "How about we don't compare trauma?"
"I'm not."
"Yeah, Al, you kind of are."
"Okay, no, that's not- We're getting off topic." Scott repressed a sigh. "I get it. But you're not responsible for how your mind reacts to situations. So, you can be a complete mess and that's okay. We'll figure out what works for you, yeah? If Dr Briggs isn't a good fit then we'll find someone else. It's trial and error, but we'll get there."
"It doesn't…" Alan trailed off, then spoke in a rush. "I know I've been saying that I want to get better, but… it doesn't feel right after all of the things I've done."
Scott got the sense that all of the things referred to more than everything which had occurred in the Minnesota bunker.
"I feel like all the lives you saved as IR outweighs the apocalypse crap," Gordon interrupted, accompanied by a rustle of fabric which implied he'd tightened his limpet grip. "Also, morality isn't a pair of frickin' kitchen scales. It's not like, oh no, I messed up and that mistake is bigger than every good decision I've ever made. But even if it did work like that, all the good you've done would outweigh the bad. The point is that you're allowed to move forwards without feeling guilty for it."
"Line in the sand, Al," Scott continued as Gordon's rambles finally quietened. "Leave it in the past. And I know that's hard. I know it feels wrong. But you'll get there."
"Exactly," Gordon chimed in; so much for pretend I'm not here. "Shit happens, but it doesn't make you unlovable. Also, I hate being told what to do, so I'm just gonna keep on loving you anyway. Your brain can suck it. I have no idea what I'm saying anymore, so I'm going to shut up again."
A new wave of intensity ramped the blizzard up to monstrous proportions; the radio signal spluttered, spitting static and silence. But between the interference, it was still possible to pick out the layers of complicated emotion in each of their voices.
"Thanks," Alan said in a choked whisper. "For, um, you know. Not giving up on me. I know I've been a lot lately and that's probably really frustrating so, uh, yeah. Thanks."
Scott stared at the radio and silently longed for a holoprojector. "Gordon, hug him for me."
"Way ahead of you, Scotty."
Alan let out an undignified yelp. "Gordon! Dude, you're heavy, get off. I can't breathe like this. Gordon. Ow, ow, get your weird lumpy elbow away from my ribs."
"I do not have lumpy elbows!"
"You are heavy though."
"Tough luck. Suck it up, buttercup. You're stuck with me. Cat pile time."
"Isn't it a puppy pile?"
"With just two of us? Nope. Cat pile."
The radio provided another ear-splitting screech. The storm was playing havoc with every piece of tech at their disposal.
"Hey, I have to go," Scott interrupted the squabbling. "But I love you both and I'll talk to you tomorrow. Look after yourselves, okay?"
"FAB, cap'n."
"Gordon, I swear to god."
Alan's laugh seemed more genuine than it had done in days. "Love you too, Scotty. Stay safe."
"Bye cap'n!"
"Gordon, I'm going to-"
A new wave of ice fractured the connection completely. Scott was left with a silent radio and a fond smile despite the threat that had gone unspoken. He huddled deeper into his coat and tipped his head back against the cold metal door. His mind was as muddled as the snowstorm; feelings in turmoil; an entire hurricane of emotion squashed between his ribs. Alan was hurt but he was also confiding in him and it was just… They should never have reached this point but at least there was still hope. Because of course there was. There'd be hope until the last star faded from the universe.
The quadjet groaned under the weight of new snow. Scott eyed it with a growing sense of urgency. He reached for Virgil's tablet and scrolled through to the file notes on the airbase; pre-Z-Day forms and recent observations; dangers and potential wins; snow and scavengers.
"Find anything useful?" Virgil asked, rubbing the tired blur from his vision as he took over watch.
"Hangar One."
"Scott, that has the highest concentration of infected. Even bandits avoid it."
"Which is exactly why it's the only place which might still contain flight-worthy aircraft."
Virgil considered the readouts. "This is a terrible plan."
Scott patted him on the back. "Those are my speciality."
The blizzard broke approximately an hour before dawn, just as predicted. The sky was still weighed down by cloud but the air was clear and all snow had already settled.
Everything was bathed in sickly, grey light. Mangled helicopters with stolen rotors roosted in a line along the apron, mournful with a hint of menace like a row of skulls. It was bitterly cold; every breath ached. Occasionally, ice sheets dislodged from roofs and sent thunderclaps echoing around the base.
They made an early start. Rations were hastily consumed, weapons retrieved, maps checked and committed to memory and radio contact reattained. The drone sped on ahead to confirm the seemingly empty expanse of tarmac between the hangars. Even so, they avoided open spaces as far as possible, ducking and weaving between decrepit walls and brutalised aircraft. Where the snow grew sparser, ugly scorch marks had seared the ground beneath. Blood stained the fuselage of a stripped Lockheed fighter jet; unable to escape violence even in times of disuse.
Hangar One was situated closest to the very heart of the base. When the defences had fallen and the place had been overrun, it had been transformed into a bloodbath. Perhaps drawn to the residual traces of human remains or possibly led by the muscle memory of their hosts, the infected milled around this area, rarely straying beyond the outermost ring of burnt-out trucks where attempts at evacuation had been too late.
The hangar itself was still sealed. Old blood smeared the doors but the lock appeared intact. Getting past that wouldn't be an issue – Finn had provided them with the access code – but the horde blocking their path was a slight problem. Using the guns would draw scavengers and bandits to their location. Blades would be dulled too quickly. Approaching from above wasn't an option as drone scans suggested the roofs were unstable. Taking the truck would create too much noise.
Scott flattened himself against the wall of an anonymous brick building. Virgil crowded close behind, peering over his shoulder. They were downwind of the infected but it would only take a slightly raised voice to draw the creatures' attention. The cold weather had preserved them so that their horrific injuries didn't seem to hinder their movements at all. Even at a distance, Scott could glimpse their yellowed eyes rolling in sockets as they began to pick up on the presence of healthy humans.
Virgil reached forward and lightly smacked his bicep twice before holding up three fingers. Scott eyed the infected then offered a thumbs-up. They both turned to Marisa expectantly.
She stared at them with a blank expression. "Sorry, am I supposed to understand what any of that means? It's like you're speaking another language. Now I get what Gordon means when he claims you two are creepily good at reading each other. That was some psychic bullshit right there."
"It means," Scott began, then cut himself off as movement caught his eye. He clamped a hand to Virgil's shoulder to silence his brother, ducking into a crouch as a distinctly human shape loomed on the roof of Hangar Three.
"Bandits," Virgil breathed.
"There are more behind us," Marisa reported in a low voice. "They've got us surrounded."
Scott's internal monologue was an incredibly unhelpful repetitive chant of oh shit. He rocked forward to see above the hulk of the rusted car in front of them. Virgil seized the back of his coat and yanked him down as a bullet whizzed through the air, slamming into the bricks where he'd just been. The shot seemed to originate from empty space; bandits were uncannily good at camouflage.
"Where are they?" Marisa growled, trying to line up a shot. "I keep seeing movement but they're gone again before I can actually locate the fuckers."
"They're moving too quickly." Virgil kept a close eye on the infected. "And they're riling the rotters."
The heat of an unfamiliar gaze prickled across Scott's back. He twisted to spy a lithe form on the roof of a nearby flightless helicopter; rifle trained on his heart; eyes hidden behind polarised ski-goggles and face coated in a thick layer of dark, tacky substance. Yet they didn't take the shot.
Something about them made him suspect they were young, probably Alan's age at the oldest but more likely to be around fourteen. As he maintained eye contact – as best he could through the goggles – the bandit lowered the rifle and tilted their head ever-so-slightly towards the hangar. The meaning was clear: go.
"If we can get inside the hangar, we can buy ourselves some time." He gestured to the infected, nostrils flaring as they scented the air. "The bandits are just as susceptible to rotter attacks as we are. We can use the zombies as a barricade."
Virgil recoiled as another bullet cracked the air. "Any ideas on getting past the horde?"
"Actually, yes." Marisa grimaced. "But you're not going to like it."
A rotter in the final stages of decomposition – Totalitas recalled a little voice in Scott's head which sounded suspiciously like Ellis – had collapsed in the snow not far from them. The back of the skull was concave where the parasite had consumed the bone. Rotten brain matter marred the snow, tacky like black treacle.
Marisa tied her scarf around the lower half of her face in a makeshift mask and inched closer on her stomach. She physically recoiled as she plunged her hands into the soup of brains and blood. Slime dripped from her fingers. She dry-heaved at the squelch, then, with an apology in her eyes, turned back to Scott. He flinched instinctively. At his side, Virgil shuddered.
Marisa's stare was urgent. "Do you trust me?"
"I-"
"Dammit, Scott. Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
The reply was instinctive. He hadn't realised just how deep that trust truly ran until he found himself keeping perfectly still as she lifted her hands towards him.
Marisa held his gaze. A deep-rooted apology glimmered within her eyes and she whispered it again as she scooped rotten fluids into her hands then gingerly cupped his face. The gloopy substance was cold and sticky. He closed his eyes and repressed a wave of nausea. Marisa's fingers swiped gently across his nose and over his cheeks. Another shudder ran down his spine.
He forced himself to look at her. Her hands trembled slightly at the eye contact. The entire act seemed sinful. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. It took deliberate concentration to keep breathing. Marisa's gaze was glossy with unshed tears, but her touch remained determined. He caught her wrist as she lifted her hands away. For a moment, nothing was said. He let her go with nothing more than a simple nod. She inhaled deeply, then turned to Virgil.
"Ready?"
Virgil steeled himself. "Go ahead."
Marisa looked physically sick by the time she had finished. She balled her hands into fists, took a breath, then flinched as she scooped another handful of congealed cerebral fluid out of the hollow skull. The horror of it all was too great to comprehend. They had essentially desecrated a corpse. The pure revulsion of the act had nothing on the sickening sense of guilt.
"Mari," Scott whispered so softly that she almost missed it. Her hands were shaking too badly to wipe the rotten liquid close to her eyes. "Let me." He offered a tiny smile. "Do you trust me?"
Marisa swallowed. "You know I do."
The entire process had only taken a couple of minutes yet it seemed to have lasted hours. Marisa kept her eyes closed. She seemed to lean into his hands. Goddamn, adrenaline was playing havoc on his imagination. He cleared his throat and she blinked, snatching up her gun as she snapped back into action.
"One of the guys in my old survival group tried this once. I don't know how effective it truly is, but it kept him alive so it's worth a try." Marisa scoured the rooftops and surrounding snowdrifts for movement. "We'll need to run."
"Run from the guys who want to kill us towards the monsters which want to eat us," Scott clarified. He tried to surreptitiously gauge Virgil's thoughts on the plan. "Sounds like fun."
Virgil glanced up. Pale spots bled through the cloud where the drone remained out of sight whilst still monitoring their positions on a thermal scan. It spokes measures that John hadn't tried to contact them on the radio; he clearly had eyes on both the bandits and the infected and didn't want to distract them.
Marisa shouldered her rifle. "Are we doing this or not?"
"Virgil?"
Virgil exhaled in a rush. "Let's go."
Sprinting didn't offer chance to think. Scott had less than a heartbeat to process before he plunged headfirst into the horde. The gory details surrounded him in high definition; all-around technicolour like a cursed IMAX movie in 4D. He reached for Virgil's arm and hauled his brother closer before Virgil could get lost in the horrific sights: molten flesh, gaping sores, compound fractures which pierced skin like fresh shoots bursting from soil.
None of them dared to speak until the hangar door locked behind them.
"Did that…?" Marisa knocked her head against the wall with a hysterical laugh. "Did that actually work?"
"It worked," Virgil confirmed breathlessly. He activated the radio. "Sanctuary, come in."
Scott stepped deeper into the hangar. His attention was held solely by the masterpiece of engineering at its heart. The newest generation of surveillance craft; designed for high speed and high altitude. She could hold a maximum of four passengers including the pilot.
Part of him reeled under the crushing disappointment that he still hadn't found them a way across the Atlantic but he was mostly overcome by elation because holy shit, he could get those meds to the safe zones. Hell, he could get them out of here. Bandits might have guns but they didn't have wings.
"Is she air-worthy?"
Virgil clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Give me five and I'll find out."
Marisa wedged an old broom through the door handles just in case, then moved to join him. She craned her neck to glimpse the cockpit, letting out a long whistle as she spied the wingspan.
"She's beautiful," Scott declared gleefully.
"Uh huh," Marisa deadpanned. "Close your mouth or you'll catch flies."
"Oh, shut up. Look at her."
"I'm looking."
"You're not impressed?"
"Well, it's hardly a Thunderbird, is it?"
Scott shot her a wolfish grin. "A Thunderbird would impress you? Noted."
Marisa folded her arms. "Can you fly it?"
"Oh, boy," Virgil whistled, half-buried in an engine. "Here we go."
Scott let mock offence fill his voice. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that."
"It's a valid question!"
"I'll have you know that I can fly anything, Miss Falcone."
"Okay," Virgil interrupted loudly, stooping to duck under a wing as he joined them. "Everything looks good, but we'll need power to run a full diagnostic." He cast Scott a knowing look. "Yes, that means you get to sit in the cockpit."
"Aw," Marisa teased. "Look at that smile."
Scott summoned a great deal of self-control and chose to ignore that remark. Marisa's laughter chased him into the aircraft. He hovered behind the seats for a moment, struck by the realisation that this was the first fixed-wing craft he'd flown… God, since the GDF bunker?
"Hey." Virgil knocked on the hull. "Wipe your face."
Scott caught the cloth in one hand. "Thanks."
"And do all of us a favour?"
"Which is?"
"Don't overthink it."
All lights showed green. There was no manual and he technically hadn't flown this particular variant before but it was similar in style to jets he had handled, so he ran through standard pre-flight checks and tested back-up systems for extra peace of mind. Virgil confirmed his conclusion that the aircraft was in perfect condition save for a damaged paintjob.
They reconvened in the cockpit.
"I'll get the doors open," Marisa said. "Don't wait for me, start rolling. I'll make it back, okay?"
Scott twisted in his chair to catch her eye. "Mari, that's-"
"Relax, Tracy. I've got it handled."
"Get back here in time. I'm not leaving you."
"Of course not. You'd miss me too much."
Scott flexed his hands above the controls and tried not to obviously stress as he glimpsed her approach the hangar doors. Anything could go wrong. His heart was trying to beat some kind of speed record in his chest. He craved the sky more than ever – the safety it offered, to be precise.
Virgil's hand landed on his shoulder. "This isn't the time, but for the record? We're talking about this when we get back."
"Talking about what?"
"That's a joke, right?"
"What is?"
"Scott, sometimes you're so oblivious that it's actually painful to watch."
Scott turned to throw him a wounded look.
Virgil waved him off. "Later, okay? Get us out of here first."
There was a terrifying instant in which it seemed as if the infected might be sucked into the engines – that was certainly one way to cripple an aircraft in under five seconds – but then the force pushed them backwards. Technically, the aircraft was designed to take off on a full landing strip but Scott knew if he pushed the afterburners to their limits then the unbroken taxiway would be sufficient.
"Tell me you're not planning what I think you're planning," Virgil pleaded in a tone which implied he already knew the answer and had resigned himself to it. "Scott, no. You cannot recreate that scene from Maverick in real life."
"Ten bucks says I can."
"Sorry, what?" Marisa swung into her seat and locked her harness into place. "Are you placing bets?"
"VTOLs would give those bandits more time in which to make a clean shot." Scott couldn't quite keep the smugness out of his voice and frankly he didn't want to. "I can do this. And if you don't believe me – just watch."
Five minutes later, a radio link activated on General Lieutenant Finn Wolvin's personal comm. He scrambled to answer, heart in his mouth as he considered the reasons for a call when he was marked as off-duty on mandatory rest. The airfield party wasn't due back for another twenty-four hours and all data suggested that they would be unsuccessful. The obvious reason for a call was that something had gone very badly wrong and Finn couldn't breathe past sheer dread.
"Hey, Finn," a very familiar voice greeted him cheerfully. "How's your evening going? If you look out your window in approximately - hey, Virg, how long d'you think? Two minutes? – then you'll see a state-of-the-art supersonic jet fly past."
Finn palmed his temples with an astonished laugh. "You're not expected back for another twenty-four hours."
"What can I say? I aim to impress. Don't worry, I won't charge extra for the express delivery."
"Jesus Christ."
"Nope, my birth certificate says Scott Tracy. Hey, quick question: is my brother still at the GDF hub?"
"I… Yeah. Yeah, John's still there." Finn winced at the background chuckles which echoed through the radio link. "Do I want to know why you're asking?"
Scott didn't even try to hold back laughter.
"Tell him I'm gonna buzz the tower. He'll know what I mean."