He was dreaming again.

It wasn't a conscious awareness of state, more of a drifting acknowledgement that he was not actually in this place or even in this body. He was tied to it by a very thin, unnatural thread; if he tried to think about the fact he was dreaming, the idea flitted away to leave him in the dark again.

He was in a gloomy, confined room with a damp floor. There were heavy brackets bolted across the door. Bolts protruded from metal walls, weeping rust which flaked like dried blood. The world seemed to stagger, rising and falling as if at sea. An eerie groan rumbled through the walls. It was icily cold. Distantly, someone was shouting.

Scott awoke to a sun-washed bedroom and the gentle murmur of surf against the shore, carried up to the house and through the open window by the breeze. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling fan, spinning lazy circles as July heat settled across the land even at such an early hour.

His heart was hammering. He gripped a fistful of his t-shirt and felt that steady pounding against his knuckles, sweaty hair curling at the nape of his neck. He took several deep breaths and counted to calm himself until his heartrate levelled off. There was a residual taste of something rotten in his mouth; he ran his tongue across his teeth with a shiver. He'd had the same dream for the five nights in a row and it always left him feeling as though he'd shaken hands with Death.

Marisa slept on undisturbed beside him. Her face was relaxed in rest, grip loose on the blanket, one hand slack in the space between them as if she'd reached for him in her dreams. Her hair was splayed across the pillow and sunlight picked up warmer undertones in the ebony. Several strands had fallen across her face and Scott brushed them away, unsettled by the tremors in his own hand.

He was struck by the urge to pull her closer, to hold her, feel her steady breathing and let her heartbeat reassure him. But it was their day off – today was Virgil and Parker's turn to ferry their little trio of scientists over to the manufacturing hub – and he didn't want to wake her, so he stayed perfectly still, listening to the gentle song of windchimes out on the balcony.

Downstairs, someone was cooking breakfast. He focussed on the rising smells of heavily salted eggs and toast fried in the last of the butter that Finn had brought them, rich and yellow and gone all too soon. The taste of rot retreated. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and studied the constellations of freckles across Mari's neck to distract himself from his fading dream.

Unsettled energy still fizzed beneath his skin; he needed to surround himself with noise and chaos and everything so tangibly alive. He slid out of bed as quietly as possible, pulled on a pair of sweats and pressed a light kiss to Mari's forehead before venturing downstairs.

The enticing scents coaxed him towards the kitchen where he instinctively sought out Virgil and John only to recall that it was their day to oversee the vaccine. Selfishly, he wished it weren't. He might not have been willing to confide in anyone about any of the weird shit going on in his head, but he still longed for Virgil's and John's ability to know what he needed without having to be told.

Kyrano had taken charge of breakfast plans, standing guard over a large frying pan with a chopping board covered in finely diced tomatoes to his left. He flipped another slice of bread to coat the untoasted side in sizzling butter.

Winter would arrive all too quickly but for now they were happy to make the most of plentiful rations. Well. Plentiful was an exaggeration, but there was certainly a higher production rate in summer and partnerships between safe zones meant that there was enough to be shared around.

Scott stole a slice of tomato and darted out of reach before Kyrano could swat him with the spatula. The man levelled him with a warning stare, somehow managing to appear intimidating despite being dressed in a lilac robe over PJs.

"Mornin'," Gordon sing-songed. There was sand in his damp hair which was drying in salt-tightened curls, proof of an early morning swim. "Feel like an adventure?"

"What?" Scott asked helplessly.

His brain was still muddled by the dream; he hadn't been awake long enough to be able to cope with Gordon's shenanigans. He dropped into a vacant chair and stole his brother's glass of juice.

"We need supplies," Kayo translated. She was perched on the countertop, knocking her heels against the lower cabinets, eyeing her father's cooking intently. "I'm gonna head into town later. Want to come?"

"Town?" Scott echoed, twisting in his chair to frown at her. The nearest settlement was several miles away, not to mention that they were in Year Two of the apocalypse. Most places had already been looted and what remained had started to go bad. "Wait, what supplies do we need?"

"Just a few bits and pieces," Penelope interjected smoothly before Kayo could provide a sarcastic retort. "Some essentials, that's all."

"But we already have enough food and drinks to last until Finn's next supply drop…?"

"Oh my god, Scott," Kayo sighed. "This isn't a discussion. Do you want to come with us or not?"

Gordon propped his feet on the edge of Scott's chair and dug his toes under his brother's knees with an evil snigger.

"Yes," Scott said, a little sulkily.

Breakfast was a drawn-out, convoluted affair; conversations split between forkfuls of scrambled eggs and buttery fried bread, all heavily salted to preserve it but offset by the refreshing crunch of homegrown tomatoes plucked from plants that grew behind the house; laughter and jibes; kicks and quips; sunlight pooling on the table and tiles as the summer heat drew a haze across the cliffs.

The dream soon faded to a distant memory. It was difficult to imagine darkness so oppressive that he could drown in it when he was surrounded by his family. He stacked their empty plates and handed them to Lee who was on washing-up duty, clad in a pair of neon yellow rubber gloves.

Kyrano vanished upstairs to take a shower before they headed into town for the supply run and Grandma claimed his vacated seat beside Scott. He'd been aware of her watching him throughout breakfast and now her knowing look became a warm smile as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Everything alright, Scotty?"

He glanced around the table to check for eavesdroppers. Lee had been joined by Penelope at the sink, whistling as he handed her plates to dry, and Kayo and Gordon were squabbling again.

"I'm okay. Just… didn't sleep so well."

Technically, it wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the full truth either. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting under the weight of his grandmother's stare. A new chill took root at the base of his spine and he rolled his shoulders as if he could physically shake off the uneasiness.

"This house is full of people who care about you," Grandma reminded him gently. "Any one of us would be happy to listen when you decide to talk about whatever's been bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me."

"Of course not, kid," she drawled, tousling his hair as she stood up.

He batted her away with a lazy growl, grinning at her fond chuckle.

She had a point – sooner or later he would have to confide in someone but until then… He liked his current life. It was precious and fragile and he didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize it.

New arrivals interrupted his thoughts. Alan stumbled into the kitchen, tripping over the too-long hems of his red plaid PJ pants. He was mostly still asleep, grinding his knuckles into his eyes as he yawned into the fridge, fumbling for the long-life juice carton. His dishevelled appearance was matched by Jasmin's, who flopped into the seat beside Scott and propped her head on his shoulder.

"Good morning to you too, Jazz," he teased, earning a pitiful groan.

"It's morning," Jasmin mumbled, listing more heavily against his side; he tucked an arm around her shoulders to ensure she wouldn't fall off her chair. "How good can it possibly be?"

"Mornings should be illegal," Alan agreed, looking marginally more awake now that Lee had pointed him in the direction of breakfast leftovers. "Yo, Kayo, why're you murdering Gords?"

"Why wouldn't I be murdering him?"

Alan munched contemplatively on his scrambled eggs. "Good point."

Gordon tossed up his hands. "Dude. What the hell?"

"Betrayal," Jasmin sniggered.

"Yeah, Allie, you frickin' traitor. I'm disowning you."

"Disowning me from what? We're broke now. Money is worthless."

Gordon shrugged. "I mean, technically, but Scott's only like two moves away from literally becoming World President so…"

"What's this about Scott becoming president?"

Marisa swept into the kitchen in an oversized t-shirt emblazoned with a faded LA Lakers logo that had become cracked by so many runs through the wash. Her hair was tied up in a messy topknot that was already falling down and she tugged the band tighter with one hand as she paused to kiss Scott's cheek, flicking Jasmin's temple when her sister made a fake gagging sound.

"Can we quit it with the president jokes already?" Scott sighed. "I just… you know. Oversee and organise a bunch of stuff. And I don't do half as much now that the GDF are talking to each other."

Alan tore off a bite of toast.

"Scott for president," he declared, spraying crumbs over Gordon's shirt with an obnoxious cackle.

"Jeezus." Gordon shoved him away. "You're an animal. I'm gonna feed you to a zombie."

"I'm vaccinated now, remember?"

"And? They'd still eat you. You just wouldn't turn into one."

The idea of rotters feasting on anyone revived Scott's earlier nausea. He swallowed, trying to focus on the pressure of Jasmin's head against his shoulder. His imagination was running wild again, so vivid that he swore the mental images could have been actual memories of skin peeling away; digging down to the bones; the snap of sinew between bared teeth; salty blood, still warm and thick; exposed organs slipping between reaching fingers.

"Scott?" Gordon's voice broke through the images. "You okay?"

Scott relinquished his white-knuckle grip on the edge of the table. There was a strange pain at the base of his skull which radiated down his spine then dissipated. The taste of rot was in his mouth again and he wanted to scrape it out. He could feel the phantom heat of fresh blood on his hands.

Gordon's foot gently knocked against his ankle. His eyes were wide with concern.

"Zoned out for a second," Scott explained in a rush, forcing a laugh. "I'm gonna take a shower before we head out. Give me a shout when you're ready to leave."

Gordon didn't look unconvinced. "Scott, wait-"

Scott pretended not to hear him. He strolled casually out of the kitchen then, once he was out of sight, bolted upstairs to the bathroom. Thankfully, Kyrano had already vacated it, so he dashed straight in and slid the deadbolt into place.

He braced himself against the sink, head spinning, saliva pooling in his mouth as he fought the urge to be sick. He spat into the basin, rubbed toothpaste across his teeth with his finger, then scrubbed at his skin under the icy shower spray until his mind finally fell silent.

"God," he muttered to himself, leaning heavily against the tiles. Water ran in rivulets down his face like tears. He pushed sodden hair out of his eyes with a brittle chuckle. "What's wrong with you?"


It wasn't a particularly large town but it was big enough to warrant a mention on a map. Located away from the transport arteries that had become clogged with fleeing civilians on Z-Day, it had escaped notice from bandits and nomadic survival groups. Most stores remained untouched and the streets were perfectly preserved, still choked with lopsided chains of traffic that hadn't moved since the outbreak. Someone had spraypainted coordinates across the hood of a battered Jeep.

They took a Range Rover from the garage and left it in an empty parking lot outside a tourist information office that was situated a fair distance away from the main streets. A large Douglas fir tree reached for the sky, throwing shade across the rover's pale blue paintwork so that it couldn't attract attention from afar. But the place seemed quiet and EOS hadn't reported any satellite images of hordes in the area, so it seemed safe to walk away without worrying.

There were more of them than originally planned – Scott, Gordon, Penny and Kayo, joined by Alan and Kyrano – so they split up. It wasn't intentional. They subconsciously drifted into groups; Gordon and Alan; Kayo and Penelope. Kyrano shadowed his daughter much to her chagrin.

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. How do you think I coped when you weren't around?"

Kyrano didn't react. His eyebrows ticked upwards ever-so-slightly, but his voice remained steady, calm and threaded with patience. He palmed the hilt of his knife – freshly sharpened and wrapped in a new layer of cloth – and followed her along the street.

"I'm here now."

Penelope brushed her knuckles against Kayo's upper arm. "Let him stay. It wouldn't hurt to have another pair of eyes to keep lookout."

The streets were more-or-less identical to any other standard town; a convenience store stuck out on a corner; the weary sign of a food-mart dangling above the sidewalk; cigarette stubs and pockmarks of old gum in the gutters; clothing outlets with dark, brooding windows; a tiny café with a red-and-white awning; faded sale signs calling for 30% discounts at the hardware store; dour alleyways leading to anonymous shops that had never seen much footfall even before Z-Day.

Penelope and Kayo were on a mission of their own. Kyrano trudged after them without complaint as they made a beeline for the drugstore. The only movement along the street was a trio of crows perched on an old telegraph pole, judging everyone below with cocked heads and beady eyes.

Scott followed Gordon and Alan, watching the abandoned cars for threats as Gordon crouched down and pried back the warped metal shutter to create a larger gap. Alan wriggled through the space on his stomach, shirt hauled up over his nose to prevent a coughing fit. The soles of his sneakers disappeared from view, then he found the manual handle to retract the shutter.

Gordon bounded inside with hesitation, but Scott entered more cautiously, rifle prepped and ready to fire should any unwelcome guests make themselves known. Nothing stirred. He hooked the gun back over his shoulder and reached out to spin a rotatable rack of tees in various shades of green.

Alan was halfway into the store already, arms laden with new jeans and more shirts than Scott could count at a distance. It had been a while since they'd stumbled upon a chance to stock up on clothes and their current wardrobes were as threadbare as it was possible to get without falling apart.

Gordon swept a baseball cap off a stand and stuffed it onto Alan's head, knocking it down to cover his eyes with a loud laugh. Alan stuck out a foot to trip him up and sailed past with an evil cackle of his own.

"Hey," Scott called although he doubted they had anything to worry about. The street was still abandoned and he had checked the stockroom: no rotters in there either. "We're here to gather supplies, not to mess around."

Gordon turned back to Alan and presumably pulled a face or mimicked Scott in some way for Alan let out a snort and tried to hide his grin behind the heap of clothes.

Scott ignored them both and ventured deeper into the store to explore the shoes. His own boots were falling apart and he knew that Theo had worn a hole in the heel of his sneakers. He snatched up several pairs and paused, attention captured by a selection of plaid shirts. A familiar shade of red-and-black stared at him from the rail. He stole a glance over his shoulder as if he were about to commit a crime, then yanked the shirt from its hangar and shoved it into his backpack.

"Scott?" Gordon stuck his head around the end of a coatrack. "D'you know if Johnny needs another hoodie?"

"It's the height of summer."

"It's John."

"…Grab him one or two."

Gordon's grin levelled up into unholy glee. He vanished back behind the coatrack, steps muted by the thick carpet of dust as he informed Alan, "Scott said yes. Get the alien hoodie."

"Aw, hell yeah."

Scott left them to it. There was no imminent threat and they were clearly going to be a while, so he headed back to the sun-soaked street. He hadn't ever seen the apocalypse in the summer. Last year had been spent in the depths of the Minnesota bunker. He examined the sky, letting the heavy backpack pull his shoulders back. In many ways, the town seemed unbearably still. There was no breeze this far inland. Birdsong broke the silence but it struck him as eerie.

He rubbed his hands over his biceps as goosebumps prickled across his skin. Talk about John needing hoodies in the summer – he was arguably worse at this point and no one could provide an explanation as to why. Admittedly, he was withholding crucial information, but still.

There was an old bar across the road. He gave the door an experimental push, surprised to discover that it opened easily. It was dark inside; windows bleak with smeared dust and the yellowish grime of decades of smoking; shadows congregating in booths; dark red wallpaper and mahogany floorboards that collected gloominess.

He let the door swing shut behind him. The tables were covered in rings of fur where dust had collected in the sticky rings left by drinks. A bowl of peanuts had gone mouldy, surrounded by mice droppings and tiny footprints. The place held a thick, musty smell; a damp mix of stale air, decay and the sourness of spilled drinks that had never been cleaned.

Impulsively, he headed over to the bar in the hopes of finding a few sealed bottles to take home. The display had been mostly drained and a leftover pint glass had grown a coat, but there were bound to stocked cabinets behind the bar itself.

He dropped his backpack onto a table and rounded the bar, nudging the gate open with his hip as he scoured the shelves. He got as far as reaching for an unopened bottle of whiskey before he recognised he wasn't alone.

The rotter blinked at him. One eyelid drooped, attached by only a thin strip of skin. Its mouth gaped as if greeting a new customer. It stumbled between the bar and the broken cooler, grabbing at empty space with clumsy, swollen fingers. It paid him no attention, growling and grumbling to itself.

Scott remained frozen. He had one hand around the neck of the whiskey bottle and the other planted on the bar to steady himself. His rifle was hooked through the loops of his backpack, left on the table across the room. He mentally cursed himself. But then again, the rotter paid him no mind; why kill it when it wasn't a threat?

He'd heard reports from other safe zones about this sort of thing; infected which continued to carry out the roles they had played in life, stuck in muscle memory loops. The bartender was reaching for glasses to fill, cloths with which to wipe down the bar, coolers to restock; it wasn't aware of his presence but he doubted that it would try to bite him even if it did notice him.

He tucked the whiskey under his arm and straightened up. Now that his vision had properly adjusted, he could make out humanoid shapes amid the shadowy booths. Rotten fluids had trickled and dried over vinyl seats. The infected stared sightlessly at menus and empty plates.

Dead flies laid on their backs, legs curled inwards. Every so often, a rotter would squash one under the meat of its thumb and lick it, snarling with displeasure; the creatures were clearly hungry yet Scott entertained an uncanny certainty that they wouldn't hurt him. He stepped out from behind the bar and moved slowly towards his bag.

A large infected in a bloodied army jacket jerked its chin with a low growl when he closed his fingers around the barrel of the rifle but didn't step away from the jukebox. Scott stared at it, unable to shake a sudden mental image of music and light and an unfamiliar woman in his arms, dancing around the very same room several years earlier.

He jolted himself awake, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The sharp sting drew him back to reality. The rotter watched him with another groan. A hint of clarity crept into its eyes.

Scott backed up until his lower spine connected with the door handle. His skin was crawling. Every rotter in the room looked up. A dislocated jawbone hung open in a grotesque gape. He tightened his hold on the rifle until it dug lines into his palm yet couldn't bring himself to leave. The throbbing at the base of his skull had returned.

"Don't!"

Alan's shout cut through the silence. A gunshot split the air. Scott whirled on his heels and bolted from the bar, vaulting over the hood of a rusty car in time to glimpse his kid bodily tackle a rotter.

Everything slowed to flashes; snapshots of time; brief moments that he couldn't comprehend despite seeing them with his own eyes.

Gordon, holding a gun that was still smoking, expression twisted with grief. Kayo and Kyrano, sprinting out of the alleyway, Penelope hot on their heels. And Alan, crouched between the rotter and Gordon, one hand flung up as if to shield the creature from any further shots. He was shouting something but Scott couldn't hear him over the high-pitched ringing of panic.

"Get away from it," Kayo yelled, skidding to a halt, knife in her hands, unwilling to risk approaching for fear of triggering the rotter's instinct to feed. Alan might have been vaccinated now, but that didn't make him immune to bacterial infections or any other injury complications.

"You can't kill him." Alan's shout rose to a borderline scream as Gordon's finger crooked over the trigger again. "He's not- He's newly infected and- There could be a cure, there could be- You can't kill him, you can't fucking kill my friend, Gordon, that's not- No. I won't let you."

"Oh, Christ," Scott whispered, meeting Kayo's horrified gaze as the realisation struck her too. He didn't need to see the rotter's face to confirm his suspicions, but then it turned and he saw anyway.

Brandon Berrenger had not long been infected. At first glance, he still looked human. It was only at closer range that Scott could pick out the sickly yellow glaze that had consumed the whites of his eyes; a thin trail of dried blood down the kid's lip, congealed in the curve of his chin; the scabbed bitemark that had dug so deeply into the back of his hand that it had torn out tendons.

"It's not him," Gordon ground out, voice taut in that particular manner which indicated he was trying not to be sick. "Alan, it's not him, you have to know that. It's not your friend. It's a monster."

"Oh, yeah? Then why didn't he attack me? He still hasn't tried to bite anyone. He knows me. I don't know how, but he's still in there. Come on, there's something different about him! You must see that. Gordon, please. You nearly made a mistake with John, remember? Just… give Brandon a chance. Maybe we can cure him or- Or we could- Just… please. Don't do this."

Gordon lowered his gun, tilting his head imperceptibly at Scott. In other words, your call. Across the road, Kayo gripped her knife but didn't step any closer. Penelope didn't look away from Bran- from the rotter, which still hadn't made any attempt to lunge at Alan or anyone else for that matter.

Kyrano had no such hang-ups. He strode over, grabbed the back of Alan's shirt and hauled him away as if he were a scolded kitten. Alan lashed out, smashing an elbow into the man's ribs and spitting curses, but Kyrano remained stoic, having wrangled far worse than an upset teenager in the past. Left in a limp heap on the tarmac, the rotter gave a keening, desolate cry and Scott made his choice.

"He's newly turned. We're closer to a cure than ever before. It's worth a shot, right?"

Alan's eyes grew wide with breathless hope. He caught Scott's gaze, going limp in Kyrano's arms as he mouthed please.

Kayo slid her knife back into the holster at her hip. "It's your choice."

"I think…" Penelope said softly. "I think if there's even a remote possibility that we can save him, then we should take that chance."

"Because we know him." Gordon sounded oddly bitter. "That's the difference here. If it was a stranger, we'd have shot it in a heartbeat."

"But it's not a stranger," Scott pointed out; the hypocrisy tasted sour. "And Alan has a point. Brandon hasn't attacked us. He hasn't shown any interest at all."

"It," Kayo corrected under her breath.

"He," Alan snarled. "You don't get to decide someone's humanity, Kayo. Maybe something went wrong with the bite, maybe it's 'cos he turned after the hivemind collapse, but a part of him is still in there, so you don't get to say that he's a monster just because that makes it easier to kill him."

"You think this is easy for me? For any of us? Grow up, Alan."

Scott steadied himself against a car. His ears filled with a whirring sound, like a swarm of insects, drowning out the argument. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply until he tasted dust and could feel it scratch in his throat.

Scotty.

"What?"

The voices trailed off.

Gordon twisted to throw him a confused look. "Huh?"

"You said my name."

"None of us said your name, bro."

"What the hell are you-? Oh, forget it." Scott pushed himself away from the car. "We'll bring him back to the house, put him in the cellar, see what Ellis has to say when she gets back later. Okay?"

A heavy silence settled across the road.

"Thank you," Alan whispered.


In many ways, complacency was the greatest sin of them all. It blurred the line between ignorance and selfishness; laziness and deceit; an easy road that led nowhere, stuck in the same place until past horrors caught up again; the tortoise and the hare; life and time; friendship and disease.

Everything had been going so well. Summer was sweeter by the coast. Inland, harsh heat radiated the ground, melting tarmac and scorching leaves to yellow crisps. But by the sea, everything remained green and lush and the sun was a gift which transformed the waves into beauty.

There were many benefits to looking on the bright side, but not if you ignored negativity altogether. They were two sides of the same coin, hope and despair; you could not have one without the other.

And now, as the breeze developed into something harsher, more bracing, whipping up the powdered sand at the top of the beach and clanging the wind chimes, Scott was reminded that while he had carved out a little slice of happiness for himself, the apocalypse had not gone away. The brutality and sheer depths of its horror crashed down on him as if he'd been living in zero-gee and had finally returned to Earth. Acknowledging that zombies had once had lives was difficult enough but it became unbearable when it was someone he'd known.

The rotter – he could not bring himself to refer to it as Brandon, not when he could still recall the kid's laughter and cheeky grin and perchance for salted pretzels on gaming nights with Alan – had remained subdued throughout its transportation to the cellar.

Kyrano had restrained it for the drive back and now bound it to the wall with paracord. It snapped at him lazily without any intention of actually biting, but he yanked the knots tighter just to be on the safe side while Scott watched with a growing pit in his stomach and a sudden burn behind his eyes.

The cellar was dark and damp. There was a tiny grate set into the wall which allowed ocean air to circulate. An old fridge stood in the far corner, disused and unpowered. A bright orange kayak laid snugly against the wall. There were several boxes of overflowing fishing gear and a shelving unit of miscellaneous odds and ends. It was very quiet save for the distant crash of waves through the grate.

Kyrano came to stand beside Scott on the steps. He said nothing for several seconds. There was a darkening bruise on his bicep, peeking out from the cropped sleeve of his shirt where Alan had clobbered him. He rubbed it absently, eyes as cloudy as an overcast sky as he thought in silence.

"Do you think I made the right call?" Scott asked, unable to help himself.

"I think," Kyrano said presently, "You are the only person who can answer that question."

"But do you think there's something human left?"

"It did not attack Alan."

"Or any of us." Scott shoved memories of the rotters in the bar to the back of his mind. "It responded to him. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"Perhaps." Kyrano cast him an unreadable look. "It also reacted to you."

"I…"

The rotter's pupils contracted as it focussed its gaze. There was no hunger there, just curiosity, perhaps desperation too and an uncanny note of hope. In fact, there seemed to be far more humanity in those eyes than in some survivors. It was looking directly at Scott.

"I wonder," Kyrano mused with a hint of something darker in his voice. "Hiding from fear does not resolve it. You are already a haunted man. Do not let more ghosts have power over you."

"That's not-"

"You've been hiding something. Whatever it is, it clearly scares you. Would you like to know what I observed earlier? Alan looked to you before he risked his life. He knew this creature would not harm him if you were around. Perhaps that is down to his faith in you, but I suspect it runs deeper."

Scott looped his fingers around his opposite wrist and felt his pulse; elevated; fearful; pushing against his skin as if trying to break free. Kyrano's gaze was clear and cutting and he couldn't escape.

"What are you implying?"

Kyrano studied him for several seconds.

"There must be balance in everything. If a weapon has darker potential, then it must be wielded by a good person. I don't know what is troubling you or how you are connected to these creatures, but you have a kind heart and that will make all the difference."

"I don't want to lose everything again."

"It is a risk, I admit."

"Why does it always come down to us? Why can't someone else save the world for once?"

"Because it is very rare for people to care about strangers as selflessly as your family does."

"Yeah, well maybe that isn't a good thing."

"It certainly isn't an easy thing."

Scott reached for the light switch, faltering as he caught the creature's longing look.

"Scott," Kyrano prompted gently. His hand landed on Scott's shoulder. "Let's go. You won't find any answers down here. Not yet."


It was late when the others returned from the vaccine hub, so late that even the long summer day had drawn to a close. There was only a hint of light left in the sky and the moon had not yet risen above the treeline along the ridge of the cliffs. All sound carried further in the dark, so Scott heard One's engines before the Thunderbird appeared. The throaty purr of VTOLs cut out as she landed behind the house and he knew to expect Virgil's arrival in a few minutes.

The rest of the house was wrapped in sleepy silence. Nearly everyone had headed to bed with the exception of Alan, who had been elusive for much of the afternoon, and Marisa and Jasmin, who were camped out in the living room with a set of Uno cards and a shared can of cola that Penny had brought back from town. Every so often, their laughter would trail up to Scott on the balcony.

The rescued bottle of whiskey stared at him from the table. The label had peeled slightly at the corners and his own fingerprints were smudged around its narrow neck but he had yet to open it. Two glasses sat in anticipation of the night's conversation.

He tried to focus on his senses – the residual warmth left in sun-heated tiles; the taste of sea salt in the air; nagging tension in his upper back; a damp, earthy odour on the wind; the soft cotton of his newly acquired hoodie, cuffs pulled low over his knuckles to give himself something to fidget with – but couldn't shake the unease.

Virgil's steps clattered on the stairs, fading into lighter footfall as he abandoned his boots in the bedroom before venturing onto the balcony. There was a tangible energy about him, excitement curated by a successful day of development, deadlines beaten into submission and faults eradicated.

He took a moment to assess the mood, then took a seat on the end of the lounger. His voice was soft as he cautiously eyed the whiskey, uncertain whether it was intended as a celebration or memorial.

"Hey," he said, just to break the silence.

Scott curled his fingers around the cuffs of his hoodie. The fabric snagged on the raised skin of the scars across his palms. Someone who they'd both known – and had, grudgingly in Scott's case, come to care about by extension – was locked within a body that was either dying or was already dead. It all depended on your perspective, he supposed. Some people called the infected monsters, but how could they be when all they were doing was acting upon the instincts installed by their disease?

"There is a zombie in our cellar."

Virgil exhaled. "Gordon called and told us."

"It's Brandon Berrenger."

"I know."

There were two meanings, one obvious, one not so much. I know: knew the identity of the rotter, knew who it had been before the parasite had been released into the world and what that meant.

Scott reached for the whiskey, cracked the cap, poured a single into each glass, then made his own a double despite Virgil's concerned glance. Whatever. It had been a long day, he had something whispering in his head and infecting his dreams with memories that didn't belong to him, and now his kid's best friend was a zombie trapped in the cellar. He needed a goddamn drink.

"Alan tackled it," Virgil remarked, teetering into a question. He ran a finger around the rim of his glass, then took a sip. "That's… terrifying."

"He knew it wouldn't attack him."

"How could he have known? It was a lucky guess. I don't blame him for it, but it could have gone so badly."

He did know, Scott thought privately. He knows I have some sort of control over the infected now. He didn't take a risk on Brandon, he took a risk on me.

He said nothing, just took a slow drink, closed his eyes against the burn, and let the silence resettle.

"We've all killed the infected," Virgil murmured, a strange, almost wistful note in his voice. "Alan's the only person to have rescued one."

The moon peeked above the treeline. Silver dripped through the branches. Sorrowful light painted the bay in shades of white, grey and black. The ocean was an expanse of rippling silk now that the wind had dropped. A lone figure crouched at the shoreline, skimming pebbles across the waves. As Scott watched, they stood back up, stared at the horizon for several moments, then turned to head home. The tide rushed in to fill their footprints with wet sand. A lone seagull called to the sky.

"How was today?"

Virgil blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in conversation.

"Good." He tilted his glass to watch amber pool on one side. "We're ahead on the vaccination programme. There are only a handful of safe zones left. The next big project is looking at a cure. Ellis and Brains have already had some thoughts and the GDF have officially elected a board of scientific advisors, so it'll be a team effort. Maybe we'll get somewhere with it, maybe not, but we'll find out."

Scott leant back in the lounger, lifting his feet on the edge. He should have been elated – and sure, the vaccination programme was a miracle and he was relieved to hear it was going well – but he couldn't help but feel like they had only just cleared the first hurdle.

He massaged his bad knee absently, realising in a rush that it hadn't bothered him lately. In fact, he hadn't been aware of any pain in over a month. It was almost as if it had healed itself but that was impossible.

"Scott," Virgil began, setting his glass aside. "I think…"

Scott dug his thumb into the side of his knee, stretching his leg experimentally. No pain. Not even a dull ache. Paranoia squeezed at the base of his neck. He thought back to Brandon's wide, imploring eyes and the very human hope in them, recalled the voice in town that no one else had heard.

Shit.

He turned to Virgil before he could talk himself out of it.

"I need to tell you-"

Alan's arrival interrupted him. The kid shed sand across the floor, covered up to his ankles in tiny fragments of shell, the hems of his shorts damp with saltwater. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. He forced a smile as he greeted Virgil, then slumped onto the lounger between them.

"So…" Virgil nudged Alan's arm. "It sounds like you had a busy day."

Alan twisted his hands together.

"Don't say it. I know I screwed up. It was a stupid, illogical choice that put all of us in danger. I mean, what if it had gone wrong? What if he- it- he had bitten me? Like sure, I'm vaccinated now, but there are still a bunch of risks."

"It was instinctual," Scott commented quietly, draining his own glass before placing it on the floor beside his lounger and reaching to grip Alan's shoulder. "You didn't see a rotter, you saw your friend and you reacted accordingly. No one can blame you for that. Hell, no one is blaming you."

Alan shook his head.

"I'm the only one of us who hasn't killed one. Everyone else knows they're dangerous. It's so simple, right? Us versus them. They try to frickin' eat us, so we put them out of their misery. So why couldn't I? What, I can pull the trigger on a human but not a zombie? How fucked up is that?"

It wasn't the time to get into another discussion about intentions, how the death of the Hood's henchman back in the bunker had been an accident.

"So, you haven't killed one," Scott said, catching Alan's tearful gaze. "But you're the first person to have saved one."

Alan scraped sand off his knees, shoulders shuddering as he took a deep breath.

"We're going to save him, right? No matter how long it takes?"

Virgil wrapped an arm around him, voice warm as he promised, "We're going to try."


The dream had changed.

Every detail seemed more vivid, strengthened by pure sensory input that seemed as real as if he were awake. If it weren't for the fact that he had no idea how he had gotten there – wherever there might be – Scott would have believed that it wasn't a dream at all. But he experienced a strange lag between thought and action as if he were inhabiting someone else's body, giving commands from afar that took time to process, so he knew it couldn't be real.

He was in a different setting yet somehow knew that it was the same location. The floor still bucked beneath his feet as if riding on the back of a wild horse. The air swelled and then retreated again, leaving a residual stench: the acrid taste of hot metal; a stale, sour smell of unwashed bodies; tangy copper of both old and freshly spilled blood; the thread of rot that wove through the world nowadays and something else familiar but unidentifiable which prodded at his memories.

His vision was foggy. He tried to rub the grit from his eyes but his hands disobeyed the action, petting the smooth metal wall at his side. He blinked but the haze didn't clear. It dawned on him that perhaps it wasn't his vision but rather the air. He couldn't taste smoke nor feel it scrape at the back of his throat but then again dreams didn't obey the rules of reality.

He was in a long, narrow corridor. The floors were smeared with dust and the dark brown of old blood. Heavy-set boots had trodden a path through the centre. Something had torn along the walls violently enough to leave deep gouges in the metal like fingernail scratches. Above, long strips of phosphorescent lights flickered sporadically. Low vibrations ran through the walls.

It was the first time that the dream had led him out of that cramped, dark space. Freedom from captivity filled him with a delicious rush of adrenaline so strong that he momentarily forgot he was asleep. It was growing increasingly difficult to recall that it was a mere dream. His connection to the body – his body, he reminded himself, caught off guard by his own odd phrasing – tightened like a reel of fishing line being drawn in, closing the gap between the subconscious and physical form.

Something was trapped between two of his molars, stretched out like a brittle elastic band, thick and repugnant. He probed it as he relearnt his ability to walk and staggered along the corridor in an awkward, lurching gait as if the muscles in his left leg had atrophied. The air stunk of rot but the taste in his mouth was a rich, unfamiliar flavour that made him nauseous. Recognition stirred at the back of his mind – slotting clues together – but fled as soon as he reached for it.

It was a slow process. The uneven wobbles of the floor slanting one way and then the other muddled his sense of balance. Walking was a challenge. There was a weakness – an ice – in his bones which he couldn't overcome and his mind kept trying to float away. He ran his tongue across his teeth and tasted salt and iron and something like raw chicken that had left a slimy residue on the roof of his mouth. A faint pressure pounded at the base of his skull. The lights flickered. He ventured deeper.

The passageway was divided by a series of hatches; heavy-duty, metal creations that would be practically impenetrable once sealed. One at the far end had been bolted shut but he shuffled closer to check it anyway. The contoured metal had been bludgeoned by a colossal force strong enough to strike dents into the surface so deep that they resembled lunar craters. A flicker of blue light highlighted the shadowy caverns. Congealed blood had dried within the welts. Chunks of bone crunched at the base of the door where fingers had snapped clean off.

Scott backtracked to the passageway division. The second corridor veered right and ended in a steep flight of stairs that led into the bowels of the place. Progress slowed as he navigated the steps with clumsy feet; awkward, lurching lunges that nearly sent him head-over-heels.

His hand dragged along the wall, identifying rivets and protruding bolts like vertebrae. In a new flash of light, he swore he glimpsed a gaping wound across his knuckles - exposed bone; slithers of flesh; wet tendons – but darkness descended again before he could process the sight nor experience true horror. He felt it distantly, an afterthought too dull to leave him truly terrified.

He stumbled across another open hatch. This led to a room which been the scene of carnage. Blood streaked the walls, splattered over computer monitors and blinking security camera feeds. He jabbed a thumb onto the keyboard experimentally, surprised to discover that the video was live.

The screen was still moist with blood and drool. He wiped it away and peered closer. The feed wasn't high quality and was often interrupted by static but he could pick out rotters from the various squares. Several had congregated in the boiler room, others in the mess hall, a surprising number in the chapel too. The detail that leapt out at him was the healthy figures of which there were many.

A deep, unsated hunger writhed beneath his skin. It crawled up his throat, invading his vocal chords with a strange gurgle that echoed into a growl. Disconcerted fear sparked in the conscious part of his brain, a longing to wake up now, please, please, let me wake up, this is wrong, it's all wrong.

He blinked. No. He couldn't leave yet. This place had to be important; he needed to figure out how.

There was a bracket on the wall; rectangular; bronze; stained by blood; flies crawling in the sticky fluids that had dripped into the grooved letters. He tilted his head, trying to focus his vision. The letters whirled out of reach, rearranging themselves. A thick droplet rolled down his chin. Intuition pressed closer at the back of his mind, urging him to let himself wake up. He stumbled closer.

GDF Romero.

So, it was a ship.

He turned back to the desk. Blue light shattered across the floor, broken by shadows and his looming presence as he smacked his hip against the chair. It rolled away and clattered into the hatch, pushing the door shut with a heavy clang. The sound made him recoil. Movement caught his attention; his own reflection, lurking onto the computer screen. Only-

Only that wasn't him.

That was-

The unfamiliar face was partly consumed by the parasite. Flesh peeled from a cheekbone, a strip of white blubber that dangled like a Christmas tree ornament, glittering with old blood. Teeth rattled in the space left behind. Chunks of skin had been ripped from the neck; purple veins spilled out; light glinted off the wet spinal column. Gore coated the chest. A mauled piece of muscle stuck between two of the exposed molars. Bones peered through the mangled tendons of the left hand.

Wake up, wake up, oh Christ, oh fuck, wake up, please, wake up-

He bolted awake as if he'd just plunged through an icesheet into freezing water. Pain sparked in his chest as he tried to gulp down air too quickly. His head was pounding, but his heart was threatening to launch into orbit; he could feel his pulse in his fingertips. A godawful wheezing rattled in his throat as he curled over his knees, digging his nails into his scalp as he grabbed fistfuls of his hair.

He still couldn't get air into his lungs and it hurt. Images swam behind his closed eyes. He dug his knuckles into the sockets until colourful sunbursts exploded across his vision, chasing away blood and bone. His shirt was glued to his skin with sweat from both summer humidity and panic. The room was thick with hot air, stirred briefly by the ceiling fan, but goosebumps coated his arms.

He could still feel it; the phantom caresses of frayed skin dangling from torn-open organs; veins tickling his collarbone; droplets of congealed blood caked onto his chin. None of it was real but it had been so vivid as if he had truly been there, had genuinely inhabited that rotten shell.

He ghosted his hands across his arms, up to his neck, trailed fingers across his face and fumbled for the light switch to examine the backs of his hands. It took several moments to register that the lamp was already on. His senses reconvened slowly. Gentle touches guided him back down to Earth while a voice whispered assurances.

"You're okay," Marisa murmured, lifting her hand from his wrist to let him cling onto her. She linked their fingers and squeezed fiercely. "It was just a dream."

"Mari?"

His voice wobbled. He clamped his jaw against the humiliating crack, recoiling at the memory of human flesh caught between molars.

He let go of Marisa's hand to dig his nails into his knees and doubled over as he fought not to be sick. Apologies pressed against his teeth but he didn't dare speak as another wave of nausea rose. Panic constricted his lungs. Jesus, he still couldn't breathe.

Marisa's voice was drowned out by the static in his ears. Her fingers carded through his hair, smoothing sweaty strands back from his forehead. She uncurled his nails from his knees and coaxed him to hold onto her, to anchor himself, but he couldn't risk that, feared holding on too tightly.

"Scott," Marisa whispered so fondly that it stung, "You're not going to hurt me, honey. It's okay."

Aren't I, he thought desperately, filled with terror at distant memories of theorised doors work both ways and John losing his control to the hivemind only the hivemind was gone because Scott had broken it, hadn't he? Couldn't he recall tearing it apart? But he could see brutal injuries overlapping with his reality of unmarred skin whereon the only marks were faded scars and it seemed so real.

The door clanged open. Parker was breathing heavily, shirt rumpled and voice rough with sleep, John hot on his heels.

"I 'eard someone scream."

Marisa ran her thumb over Scott's knuckles. "We're okay, Parker."

Parker's gaze was warm as he glanced to Scott. "You alright, lad?"

Scott kind of wanted a sinkhole to open up beneath his feet, because oh god this was embarrassing. Then again, Parker had seen him in far worse states. He wanted to claw off his own skin or scrub himself raw in the shower or just not exist until the dream had faded. And wasn't that the worst horror of all? The possibility that it hadn't been just a dream? God, he was going to be sick…


Dawn arrived slowly. Summer was turning to the heat-heavy days of August in which sunlight took on a bronze hue and a sluggish breeze stirred up scents of fermenting fruit in the salty air. Light streamed through the window of the en-suite and Scott watched it tiptoe across the tiles.

He had spent the rest of the night slumped over the toilet, occasionally upchucking his guts and trying to chase away the taste of rot with toothpaste and whiskey while John rubbed his back and Marisa carried blankets and pillows into the room so that the three of them would be more comfortable. The impromptu slumber party had not been a fun experience.

Now, as sunrise dusted the sky in dusky pink, he gingerly rose to his feet, taking care not to disturb John or Mari. Marisa had curled up on her side, her head pillowed in the crook of her elbow whilst John had fallen asleep upright, sat with his back propped against the wall. Neither of them moved as Scott slunk out of the room and headed downstairs.

The kitchen was deserted. A gentle breeze slunk through the ajar window, carrying the calls of seagulls and splashes of surf against the shore. He stole a carton of long-life apple juice and crept into the living room on light feet. Virgil's hoodie was abandoned over the armrest of a couch and he wrapped it around his shoulders as he sank into the cushions and pulled a holoprojector into his lap.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure whether the call he was about to make was a smart move. But if he didn't ask, the question would continue to haunt him. At least this way he would know for certain whether the supposed dream was rooted in reality and could then react accordingly.

The three-hour time difference didn't mean much; Finn was an early riser anyway. Sure enough, he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when he answered the call, reclined in his office chair with his feet propped on the desk and a bowl of breakfast balanced on his knees. He lifted his spoon in greeting.

"Mornin', sugar. What can I do for you at this hour?"

"I need a favour but I want you to keep it a secret."

Finn paused. "Depends on the favour, I guess."

"Can you find out if the GDF ever had a ship registered as Romero?"

"Theoretically, yes, I can do some digging. But you know as well as I do that most of those records have been destroyed. We've only got a fraction of accessible data left. Nearly every server is still offline. I'll try my best, but I can't guarantee anything. EOS would probably have better luck."

"Telling EOS means telling John and I don't want anyone else involved. Not yet."

Finn studied him intently. "I'd love to ask, but somehow I get the feeling that you won't tell me."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not. Dammit, Scotty." Finn's thumb hovered over the disconnect icon. "Alright, I'll see what I can find. But whatever you're playing at… try to be safe, okay?"

"No promises."

"You're insufferable."

Scott grinned. "I'll speak to you later."

"Hmm. You'd better."

He sat in silence for a few minutes. Exhaustion had dulled his senses and the room seemed soft around him. He sank into the embrace of the couch as though gravity had overwhelmed him. A bead of condensation rolled down the carton of juice and he took a sip, focussing on the sweet taste.

Eventually, he ventured down into the cellar. The rotter observed him through partly lidded eyes. It seemed to have accepted its fate, hanging limply from its paracord bindings. Occasionally, it raised its head with a lonely mumble.

It bared its teeth as he took a seat on the steps, not a snarl but an unthreatening expression, perhaps a feeble attempt at a smile. One finger twitched. It gave a strange, warbling sound like a sigh that had been twisted or like something had tried to stamp it out but its cry for help persisted.

Scott watched it for a little while. He was struck by a surge of revulsion which triggered renewed grief too, because a large part of him couldn't look at the creature without seeing the bright, bold teenager that had once inhabited that body and he couldn't let go of the exhausting hope.

Maybe being here wasn't healthy. Not when he could still recall the grainy texture of human tissue between his teeth and the heavy, loose-limbed sensation of walking as one of the rotters. But he also couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

Scotty.

"Scott?"

John's call broke through the pulse of pressure at the back of his head. Scott scrubbed a hand over his face and dismissed the voice in his mind as an echo. His curiosity was not so easily settled and continued to crawl around his subconscious, throwing out ideas such as how similar it had sounded to Brandon's voice and other such hivemind impossibilities that simply couldn't be.

He eyed the infected. It stared back at him. There was such depths of desperation in those cloudy pupils that he had to look away again. The only comparison that sprung to mind was the pleading eyes of a prisoner shown a taste of freedom before having it snatched away again. It was as if there was human consciousness trapped deep within the hivemind void which could see him and hoped that he might be able to perform another rescue, pull another miracle out of thin air.

"You're suspiciously quiet," John commented, taking a seat.

"And you're suspiciously chatty." Scott glanced sideways at him. "Go on then."

"Go on…?"

"Ask about last night."

"Do you want to talk about last night?"

"No."

"Then we won't."

The gentle understanding in John's voice somehow set Scott more on edge. He ran his thumb along the edge of the step where the stone had been smoothed by many boots over the years. There was no pressure to talk yet the lack of expectation inspired a flare of guilt.

"When you were…" He searched for the best phrasing. "…linked to the hivemind, what was it like?"

He could practically see John close himself off. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees as palpable tension drew a line between them. He almost regretted asking.

"Loud," John said at last, clipped, clearly unsettled. "I can't describe it. Why?"

"No reason in particular."

"You don't get to ask that and then backtrack. Tell me why you're asking."

"It's not…"

Scott swallowed, scrabbling for words that fled before he could catch them. A knot of unease twisted in his chest. He cupped his neck, digging his fingers into the skin where vertebrae had been exposed in his dream. Tension coiled beneath the surface. Part of him wanted to crawl back into bed and draw the duvet over his head.

"Sorry," John said, blending the line between sheepish and awkward. "I didn't mean to snap. Especially not after… last night was rough. I get that. But asking questions about- The hivemind is gone. We destroyed it. You destroyed it. It's not a threat anymore, Scooter."

"Oh, boy."

"What?"

"You, calling me Scooter in that stupid soft voice. I'm not a kicked puppy, John. You don't need to treat me with kid gloves just because of a crappy dream."

"It was more than just a crappy dream," John observed quietly. "Parker and I both thought- You don't need to be okay all the time, remember? If you need a day, tell me."

"I know." Scott took a steadying breath. "It's… I don't know. Fuck."

"Eloquent."

He shoved John off the step with a good-natured huff.

"Get outta here, smartass."

John grinned up at him. He pushed himself upright, gaze earnest as the mischief faded from his eyes to be replaced with warm concern. It was the same worry that had kept him crouched at Scott's side, rubbing circles into his back while he gagged over the toilet at three in the goddamn morning; unconditional love, an artform their family had perfected.

It would be so easy to tell John. Out of everyone, he'd be able to understand most clearly. But he was so much happier now; lacked the sharp self-loathing and guilt; freely gifted affection to their friends and family and didn't hide from their love in return.

So, seeing how much progress John had made, how could Scott tell him? Hey, remember how the hivemind nearly destroyed you? Surprise, I think it's back. Yeah, right. No, he'd keep it a secret until there was no more uncertainty about it. Once he knew for sure, then he'd say something. Probably.

He got up and held out a hand to haul John to his feet when the infected let out another growl. But it was different this time. It contained the hoarse scratch of a disused voice struggling to speak.

Scott froze, unable to bring himself to look. He caught John's wide-eyed, startled stare. Together, they turned around to face the creature.

A low, raspy whisper broke on clean ocean air.

"Res-cue?" Brandon croaked.

There was a long silence.

"Holy shit," Scott breathed.

John grabbed his arm. "Did it- Did he just…?"

"What the fuck?"

"How is that possible?"

They stared at each other. Across the room, still locked in paracord, Brandon let out a desperate keen. Scott shrugged off John's hand and bolted over to the kid. Behind the glaze of infection there was a distinctly cognizant gleam, a spark of human sentience and self-awareness.

"Be careful," John warned.

Scott waved him off. Brandon's eyes tracked the movement. A tiny bead of congealed blood clung to the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head with a pained whimper and oh, there was genuine, human fear in his face. His nails scraped against the wall as he struggled in the bindings.

"Hey," Scott whispered, lifting his hands to show that he wasn't a threat.

He held his breath as he gently brushed his fingertips against the kid's temple. Brandon tensed, jaw clamping shut with a clack of teeth, pupils contracting as he fought against the parasite's influence. Then, ever-so-slowly, he melted into Scott's hand. It was the first gentle touch he'd experienced in God-knew-how-long. When he opened his eyes, the infected glaze was masked by human tears.

"Hey, bud," Scott said softly, his own voice thick with emotion. He brushed stray hair back from Brandon's forehead, wiping the bead of blood away. The kid made no move to bite him. "We're going to fix this. You're going to be okay."

Scotty.

Whether it was a resurgence of the hivemind connection or some other unorthodox explanation, Scott didn't particularly care because he just knew. Maybe it was a link to Brandon specifically because he'd known the kid pre-Z-Day, perhaps it was something else, but either way it didn't matter. For the first time since the hivemind collapse, Brandon wasn't alone; Scott could hear him.

Rescue?

"Yeah, Brandon. I hear you, kiddo. You're right – this is a rescue."

It was proof that even after the hivemind collapse, there were still humans trapped within their bodies. Maybe that was only in newly infected, but it was a start, somewhere to begin when it came to forging a cure. There was a chance to save them, time left to rescue people.

"This is insane." John shook his head, blindsided by the vertigo of the moment. He dared to take a step closer. "Is this real?"

"It's real," Scott confirmed, unable to believe it himself. "It's real."


It took six days for Finn to call back.

In that time, August unravelled into the hazy days of young September. Time seemed to slip away so quickly; it wouldn't be long until the ocean currents brought cooler weather: dark, damp clouds, thick fog and driving rain.

For now, they made the most of the sunshine. The main focus was on research – specifically the question hanging over Brandon's head – but the lingering hints of summer had to be cherished while they were still around; clambering over seaweed-laced rocks; hands wet with saltwater; buckets sloshing with mussels and agitated crabs; exploring shadowy cliff alcoves with Finch; sand finding its way into everything; huddled around campfires on the beach to watch sparks join the stars.

But in the end, it always came back to the infinite list of questions. Each new answer posed more queries. It felt as if they were constantly scrabbling in the dark for clues to an unknowable puzzle, both infuriating and bewildering in equal measures. It was a new field of science. Ellis was the closest person to an expert and even she was mystified by Brandon's condition.

"Maybe it's a mutation," Gordon considered aloud.

He'd been roped into their latest discussion thanks to his background in marine biology - everyone had opted to ignore the marine part. He was perched on the windowsill and Scott had to resist the urge to yank him back down because the windows were open to let the air filter and he kept nearly tipping out of them.

"In a human sense or relating to the parasite?" John blinked to summon a new array of holograms. His reflection on the tabletop looked almost alien with those glowing contacts. "Because we know the parasite is capable of adaption, but could this be an example of human evolution too?"

Grandma hmm-ed. "As in the development of our immune systems to counteract the parasite?"

"I guess?" Gordon shrugged, knocking his heels against the wall. "Brandon's still infected but he's mostly in control, right? He hasn't tried to bite anyone and he can sort of speak. So, somehow his body's held off the parasite sufficiently for him to keep some human functions."

Virgil studied the results of the blood tests they'd taken from Brandon. Every day he stared at those readouts as if they might magically rearrange themselves into something meaningful and nothing ever came of it. He ran a finger down the page, brow creased with a frown.

"Is that even possible? I thought evolution took years."

"It'll be the Two-Year anniversary of Z-Day in a couple of weeks," Gordon pointed out, ducking his gaze to the tiny smears of ink across his palms. An awkward hush settled. "I'm just saying."

"Two years is nothing in terms of development," Virgil continued quietly.

"Rapid evolution." Brains' voice was soft, distracted by the theories splayed across the holoprojector under his hands. He subconsciously shuffled closer to Virgil to draw up an example on Virgil's own console. "It's been observed in s-species over a span of as little as ten years."

Virgil glanced up at Gordon. "Eight years is a big jump."

"Only based off our current knowledge and expectations," John interjected. "We still can't explain the hivemind. Hell, I could feel Scott's emotions, remember? That sounds like something out of a bad sci-fi script, but it happened."

"Maybe that's the problem," Scott mused, repressing a smile as several heads turned in unison like a clan of meerkats to look at him.

It was the first time he'd spoken in a long while. He'd been propped against the wall in the corner, listening and observing whilst leaning into the pressure at the back of his mind which he now suspected was some sort of hivemind link. Every so often, he'd sense a rush of otherness that he couldn't pin down: some sort of emotional cocktail mixed with the unsettling chill of seeing death for the first time and knowing it would one day come for you too. He was having great difficulty fighting against the big brotherly instinct to go downstairs and hug Brandon.

"It's a thing, isn't it? When your, uh, perceptions of something are shaped by previous knowledge? Rejecting possibilities because they contradict established beliefs?"

"Semmelweis reflex," John supplied.

"Nerd," Gordon muttered.

"But do you get what I'm saying? We're trying to apply outdated knowledge to something entirely new. I mean, go back a few centuries and try explaining the Thunderbirds to someone. They wouldn't be able to comprehend what you were talking about because they didn't have the knowledge yet."

"Our bias is making us blind to other evidence," Virgil translated. "We've been looking at this as if it's a medical dilemma, but it could be something else entirely."

"Exactly."

Gordon slid down from the windowsill. "How sure are we that the hivemind is definitely gone?"

Scott spared a second to be incredibly grateful that neither Kyrano nor Alan were present. He feigned nonchalance, busying himself with the blood test analysis. John's eyes narrowed but he didn't say anything, still suspicious after Scott's nightmare and Brandon's reactions.

"If it is the hivemind having an effect," Ellis suggested, "Then why don't we wait and observe any further developments? The creature is securely contained, so it doesn't pose a threat. Further data could be crucial in our understanding."

"No." Grandma's snap held an icy edge. "That poor kid is already suffering enough. We're not going to use him as a test subject."

"Not to mention that the longer he stays infected, the further the parasite will progress." John sounded sickened by his own words. "If we don't find a cure soon, he'll run out of time."

There was a minute of brittle silence.

Scott hadn't really considered that possibility before. He'd been aware of it but had chosen to avoid any related thoughts. Because yes, Brandon was sick, but he could sort of form words and he could reach out to Scott through the hivemind and he flinched from touches but then melted into them, so there was a sense of life about him that every other infected had lacked. The idea of him getting worse – the theory that he was actively dying in that slow, excruciating way which fed on his humanity by the day – was inconceivable.

"That's not an option."

The level of raw emotion in his voice surprised even himself.

Virgil looked up, taken aback. "Scott…"

"I said it's not an option. There's a solution, we just need to find it. So, we're gonna work the damn problem until we figure it out. Is that clear? We're International Rescue. This is what we do."

The tension could have been cut with a butterknife. It engulfed the room, leaving everyone uncertain and distinctively uncomfortable. No one wanted to point out the obvious: that nearly every scientific mind around the world had been working on a cure for the past two years and hadn't gotten anywhere. Sure, they had a distinct advantage – they had a talking rotter for Chrissake – but that didn't mean anything if they still lacked a full understanding of how the parasite worked.

Gordon let out a low whistle. "So, uh… Anyone got any new ideas for saving the Bear? And, you know, the other billions of infected?"

Ellis removed her glasses, cleaned them with the hem of her shirt, then slid them back onto her nose, opening a new holo display so that they could start afresh. They all stared at the empty space above the projector. Distant shrieks from the beach as Kayo chased the teens into the sea were loud and jarringly cheerful in the silence. Even Brains didn't volunteer any suggestions.

Scott nearly jumped outta his skin as his console buzzed. He snatched it up, making some excuse or another as he sidled past Grandma and fled upstairs to the balcony to take the call in private.

It was easier to think in the open air. He stuck his console on the end of a lounger and stepped to brace himself against the railing while the call connected. The air tasted of salt and a deeper, richer smell akin to fresh earth and the crisp undertones of fall. It wouldn't be long until the leaves began to turn copper. He could already see autumnal whispers in the trees.

He curled his hands around the wooden railing and inhaled deeply. Sunrays played across his face, creating marble patterns over his closed eyes. The warmth was a welcome distraction from the strange sense of melancholy that had plagued him over the past week.

Brandon's speech should have brought hope but all Scott could think about was the confirmation that there were still human consciousnesses trapped within the infected, condemned to solitude since he'd attacked the hivemind. Even if he hadn't destroyed it completely, he'd certainly damaged it to such a degree that it couldn't use the rotters as drones anymore.

The closest relative to the indescribable feeling he couldn't shake was grief or perhaps despair, maybe a mixture of the two; a desperate, nagging sadness for all that had been lost; homesickness for places and people he had never been and never met but mourned on the rotters' behalf's.

The call connected after a few seconds. There'd been issues with comms for the past couple of days – increased static and such – which John had promised to take a look at as soon as they'd gotten a handle on the Brandon situation. Research was a greater challenge without the support of a scientific community, but no one was willing to tell the GDF about their talking zombie. Ellis had only suggested using the kid as a test subject but the military wouldn't take no for an answer and there were only so many strings that Finn and Mitchell could pull in Scott's favour.

Finn's voice sounded deeper than usual, scraped into gravelly tones by lack of sleep. There were dark circles stamped beneath his eyes like dark crescents and a faint bruise highlighted the hollows of his collarbones where his shirt was wrongly buttoned.

"What happened to you?" Scott blurted out.

"Gee, thanks."

Finn pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a yawn and failing miserably. Despite his obvious exhaustion, there was a warm fondness in his eyes.

"This is what happens when I go chasing after leads for a week to gather information for you, alone might I add. Or, well… Not quite alone. I needed EOS's help with a few things so I had to lie to her to keep it secret. If she goes all Skynet on me, I'm directing her to you."

Scott dropped onto the end of the lounger and pulled the holoprojector closer.

"Don't worry, she's already gone through her killer AI phase. We're beyond that now."

Finn visibly double-took. "Okay, that's… concerning. Do I want to ask?"

"Probably not. Colonel Casey thought that looking the other way was a good strategy and I'm inclined to agree with her."

As ever, Scott was gripped by a flare of grief at the mention of Casey's name. It only lasted a couple of seconds – he was far too good at repressing those feelings to let it drag on – but it was as sharp as a glass shard between his ribs, momentarily stealing his breath.

The knowledge that she was most likely dead haunted him and referring to her as if she were nothing more than a passing acquaintance made the loss even rawer. He studied the scruffy clouds as he tried to squash memories of Aunt Val back into their designated mental box. The quiver of tension in Finn's jaw served as a reminder that the GDF officer had a link to Casey too; they sat in silence for a few seconds, nursing their shared grief as if it were a couple of stiff drinks.

"Sounds like a sensible plan," Finn said eventually. He cleared his throat and continued more brightly, "So, you're in luck. I found more than I expected. For starters, the Romero is one of ours. A pretty important one, actually. She was an aircraft carrier stationed in the mid-Atlantic when Z-Day hit, but here's the interesting part: one of our satellites kept receiving her signal for a week afterwards. Not an automatic beacon, but a deliberate transmission."

"They were trying to call for backup?"

"That was my first thought too. But no, it gets even weirder. They were using the satellite as a relay, trying to keep the signal cloaked. This thing was hidden even from GDF servers. It's only thanks to EOS that I uncovered it at all. They were trying to contact a base I've never heard of."

"Which is…?"

"Well, that's the bad news. I got a rough location, but they must have some sort of jamming bubble in place because EOS couldn't find any trace of it. It's somewhere in the Himalayas."

Scott waited for him to continue. Incredulity set in as he realised that Finn was finished.

"That's it?"

"I told you it was a rough location."

"Buddy, that's not a rough location, that's an entire goddamn mountain range."

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger." Finn took a sip from the mug cradled between his hands, then added, "But think about it. This place doesn't officially exist. It's a ghost. There's no trace of it in any GDF records. Believe me, I searched pretty much everywhere. Yet the Romero was sending a signal to it, which means someone on board must know its exact location."

Scott took a moment to process. There was a graze across Finn's left knuckles and a thin red line which travelled across the underside of his chin as if something with claws had taken a swipe at him. Scott wondered just how difficult gathering information had been. He hadn't expected his friend to go on actual missions. He'd assumed Finn would scour the digital archives using his higher clearance.

"Are you okay?"

Finn gave a low chuckle. "Aw, sugar. Don't worry about little ole me. You've got bigger fish to fry. EOS did manage to get precise coordinates for the Romero. I guess you're going after it?"

"We can't fix the world if we still don't know the full story of how it got broken in the first place."

"Valid point. Which reminds me – you know the official line about the World Council being holed up somewhere in the Swiss Alps? Apparently that was another lie. No one seems to know where they are, just that they're not where we were told."

Finn tipped back in his chair, stifling another yawn.

"But you know what I'm wondering? How the hell did you know to ask about the Romero?"

Scott had been expecting the question – Finn might have been his friend but no one climbed the ranks of the GDF so quickly without that deeply rooted instinct to know which secrets held power.

"I can't tell you."

"Bullshit."

"It's not personal-"

"It feels pretty fucking personal. I'm putting a lot on the line for you, Scott. A lot. I mean, you went off-grid for two weeks – I had to call Virgil to find out if you were okay – and who was the one left to pick up the pieces when the Safe Zone Coalition started asking questions? Me. Now, I get you have your own shit to deal with. But if you know something that could have a wider impact then you need to tell me. If I'm gonna have to keep covering for you, I want to know why."

"It's not that simple."

"It's exactly that simple. We're trying to rebuild and you're… what? Keeping everyone in the dark? That's not your choice to make. Christ, if you don't trust me by now, I don't know what to say. I've got leaders from all over the place asking questions to which I don't have answers and there are only so many times that I can vouch for you."

"What questions? What are they asking? Because I'm not- That's not my role. I'm not a survival group leader. I'm not in charge of a safe zone. I'm just another nobody right now and the only reason the GDF still want me involved is to keep civilians in line."

"That's-"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong."

Finn looked away, staring at something out of range of the projector while he collected his thoughts. There was a note of betrayal strung through his voice and Scott wanted to sink through the fabric of reality as he recognised the distinctive edge of disappointment too.

"You're wrong," Finn repeated. "I believe in you. We all believe in you. Don't disrespect us by claiming that doesn't mean anything. A nobody? Give me a break. You're the one holding all of this together. This… what do we call it? A revolution? A rescue? It starts and ends with you."

And the worst part was how easy it would be to tell him. Scott wished that he could. The confession would be as simple as falling; it was only the initial fear of letting go which kept him captive. Trust me, as if it came down to a matter of trust, as if it came down to anything other than the fact that for the first time in his life, he wanted to let himself be selfish.

He wanted to hold onto this little slice of peace that he'd carved out for himself in the midst of great violence, wanted to dig in his nails so that if his secret did end up dragging him back into hell then at least he'd leave a mark. But on the other end of the spectrum, he was tired of the fight. Not of fighting itself – he would struggle until the bitter end and live loudly rather than crawling away quietly – but of the violence.

Because this secret? The realisation – the godawful, bitter acknowledgement that haunted him in the sun and cursed him in sleep – that the hivemind was still around in some variation? That he had failed to destroy it? It was a secret that could split the world open.

And maybe, just maybe, he couldn't shake another creeping thought. It was cold and clingy like wet fabric as it slunk around his shoulders at night and left him pacing the living room where no one could hear him, a fear that grew stronger by the day. There were many people with immunity yet none of them could interact with the rotters like he could. So, was he the final tie to the hivemind? Was he the link keeping it alive?

The hivemind had to die. If it didn't, it could potentially recover, reinstate itself to its original glory, regain enough power to release those spores which would lie dormant in humanity until the entire ugly mess of the apocalypse was repeated in the future. Rebuilding society would be pointless. The world would truly be doomed and every struggle of each survivor would have been for nothing.

So, if he was the thing keeping it alive – if he'd somehow destroyed its link to everything except for himself – then did that mean he had to die too?

This starts and ends with you.

For once, he really, really didn't want to be the final sacrifice.

"Scott?" Finn prompted. "Hey, are you okay? Talk to me. What's going on?"

"Sorry. Gotta go. Sorry. Talk soon."

The holoprojector clattered onto the floor. The thud would probably bring someone running but not for the precious seconds it took to clamber up all those stairs, so he could take a moment to catch his breath. His ears were ringing. The rush of claustrophobic terror at the back of his mind wasn't entirely his own and he wanted to shut it out, push it away, because it wasn't just Brandon's feelings but every other infected mind beginning to wake up, discovering a spark of consciousness amid the dark, trying to latch onto him like a parasite.

The thought buzzed around his skull, a particularly persistent wasp with a sting that could paralyse his nervous system. He fisted his hands in his hair and doubled over his knees. It had been a miraculously long time since his last panic attack and a hysterical part of his mind suggested that perhaps his body had been storing up all the anxiety to make this one especially vicious.

"Easy, kid." Grandma's arm wrapped around his shoulders, warm and familiar like a childhood blanket carried into adulthood and brought out when the world seemed too harsh and too big and too much. She rubbed her thumb over his bicep in a soothing circle. "I've got you."

The world filled with grey spots, little flares of static all over his vision and fizzing in his ears so that everything sounded as if it were underwater. He tilted sideways; let fingers ease through his hair, coax him into resting his head on Grandma's shoulder; tightened his arms around his middle as if he could physically hold himself together; gritted his teeth against burning eyes despite the fact he couldn't get enough air into his lungs as it was.

"I d-don't want to die."

"You're not dying, Scotty." Grandma's voice rumbled against his ear and oh, yeah, this was embarrassing, because she was practically cradling him but he still couldn't breathe. "It's horrible, but it'll be over soon."

And he nearly choked on the words that's not what I meant but then he had to focus on breathing and apparently Virgil was there too so now he definitely couldn't allude to the truth but it was still pinwheeling around his mind and crashing into all sorts of hopes and dreams so that they came crashing down like a house of cards.

It dawned on him distantly that perhaps the panic wasn't solely his; he wasn't the only person trying to cling onto life so desperately that he drew blood.

He didn't regret going into the hivemind. He never would. Even if he could go back in time armed with the knowledge that it would condemn him, he would still make the same choice because John was safe and that was worth everything. But dammit, Scott wanted to live too.