Hello and welcome to the chapter which I proofread at a station when waiting for my train to arrive whilst slowly developing hypothermia, so if there are any errors please accept my apologies!


Scott awoke in the morning with a jolt as if someone had jumpstarted his heart. He scrambled upright, mentally running a checklist in record time. The street outside stood empty. The house remained quiet. The dip in the mattress beside him was cold, suggesting Alan had been gone for quite some time. Heart leaping into his throat, he stumbled out of bed and bounded downstairs without even waiting to put on his jeans first.

Alan glanced up at the dramatic entrance. He was sat cross-legged on the sofa, a partially deconstructed radio in his lap and a glass of long-life apple juice perched on the coffee table in front of him, a neon pink straw bobbing in the liquid merrily. He lifted a hand in greeting and pointed to his ears with a grin.

"No more ringing."

Scott slumped against the doorframe. "Don't run off like that. You'll give me a heart attack."

Alan rolled his eyes. "I went downstairs, it's not like I left the house."

He reached for the apple juice and took a long slurp, glaring without much heat. His gaze flitted over Scott as if assessing, and Scott was immediately reminded that he wasn't striking a very confident figure in his current state: jean-less, vaguely panicked, decorated in bruises and scrapes and sporting a serious case of bedhead. He waggled a finger at his brother.

"Don't do it again."

Alan heaved a great sigh. "Fine."

Scott peered at the radio. Wires and various other entrails spilled across the sofa cushions, dangling over Alan's knees and looping around his thumb as he jabbed at the contents with a screwdriver and a knife. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to boost the range." Alan stuck his tongue between his teeth in concentration. "Not having much luck." He glanced up and pulled a face. "Dude. We can't fight zombies with you in your underwear. Get some freaking clothes on."

Scott knocked his head against the doorframe. "You," he stated firmly, "do not get to judge me."

"Too late," Alan quipped. He paused in his meddling and offered a sheepish smile. "Sorry for scaring you. But really…" He bit back an amused laugh. "Get it together, Scotty."

"Yeah, yeah." Scott flapped a hand over his shoulder. "Kids these days," he called back so that Alan could overhear him. "No respect for their elders."

Alan's answering laugh may have been hoarse and a little strained, but it was still the best thing Scott had heard in days.


The problem with sleep was that it reset his brain. The fogginess of yesterday was gone, replaced by an anxious clarity that made it excruciatingly easy to focus on the multitude of other things Scott had to stress about. There was still the thought that had occurred to him on the satellite, when Maya had informed him that the parasite was capable of incubating undetected in the human body for weeks, and that it had not been proven as to whether or not those with immunity could still act as carriers. With all the technology at their fingertips and EOS's constant monitoring, surely they'd have picked up on such a threat if that were truly the underlying cause of John's deteriorating condition, but there was still a chance and that possibility was what terrified him, especially as he had no way of sending word back to Thunderbird Five. For now, all he could do was keep Alan safe, so this was the thought he chose to fixate on.

"We need to get out of the city," he said, midway through attempting to heat a can of baked beans on the stove without setting anything on fire or destroying the pan.

Alan, filling extra water bottles at the sink, looked over.

Scott peered out the window at the distant shapes shuffling back and forth near the crossroads. "Sooner, rather than later," he noted.

Alan cursed as water splashed over his sleeve. "Agreed. But how?" He dried the bottles with a paper towel and slid them into the rucksack alongside their raided supplies. "Where are we even headed?"

"Somewhere quiet and relatively rural. There should be less infected around."

"We won't make it that far on foot. It would take too long. We'd totally get eaten."

"Your lack of faith is disturbing."

Alan stole the spoon away from him and elbowed him aside to take over the beans. "So is your lack of cooking skills."

Scott flicked him on the forehead, taking care to avoid the bruises. "Rude."

Alan bit his lip. "Seriously though," he croaked out, ducking his head to hide his expression. "No radio. No GPS. Nowhere to go. No immunity…"

Scott stared stonily at the shapes on the crossroads as if daring them to challenge his protective wrath. The little devil on his shoulder whispered, New Zealand and remember and what if you freeze again? He banished it with a quick splash of water to his face.

Alan stirred the saucepan, gaze fixed on the bubbling sauce. Dread held his shoulders taut. He didn't look up. Scott finally tore his attention away from the infected clustering the crossroads.

"You don't need to worry about the immunity," he said. "I'll handle it."

"How?" Alan's voice grated against bruised vocal chords, and he cut himself off with a full-body wince. "How," he continued in sign language, "are you going to handle it? I'm not immune. I'm at a greater risk. It's that simple."

"I'll keep you safe."

Alan remained silent. "I'm scared," he whispered at last, hesitantly, sneaking a glance at Scott as if fearing the response.

Scott switched off the stove and moved the saucepan away from the heat.

"Alan."

He put a hand on his brother's shoulder, but Alan stared obstinately at his socks. Scott raised the kid's chin with two fingers until Alan couldn't avoid his gaze any longer.

"I get it. It's perfectly natural to be scared. I'd be concerned if you weren't. But this is only temporary. We'll take things one step at a time. You're not immune, but you have your suit, and you have me to look out for you. Now you and I both know that our family will be raising Hell trying to find us. It won't take them long. We just need to hold out until then and we do that by making ourselves as safe as possible. This city isn't safe, so we'll find someplace else and that's where we'll wait."

"But where?"

Scott offered him a reassuring smile. "One step at a time, bud," he prompted gently. "Remember?"

Alan wiped his sleeve across suspiciously bright eyes. "One step at a time," he agreed, sparing a thought for the baked beans. "First step – let's eat."

Scott retrieved two bowls from the cupboard. "Atta boy. Now you're getting it."


From the upstairs bedroom, there was a perfect view of the crossroads. As the sun rose higher in the sky, it grew easier to pick out details.

There were three infected milling around the intersection. One seemed very interested in a decaying animal – too decomposed to be identifiable – picking at the carcass with oozing fingers so that the guts glistened in the daylight.

The other infected seemed confused, stumbling around aimlessly, occasionally snarling at a passing leaf. It was in bad shape – the parasite had consumed more of its cells than the other two and the resulting decomposition was too graphic to bear observing for any longer. The stench wafted along the street and through the window.

The final infected was in far better condition, almost as though it had only recently turned, and, as Scott watched, it twisted, chin angled, dead eyes fixed on the house. It staggered forwards, nostrils flaring. The other two were drawn by the movement and followed.

Scott ducked down below the window frame. "Shit."

"What?" Alan stuck his head around the door. "What's going on?" His gaze darkened. "Do we have company?"

To give the kid credit, there wasn't a trace of nerves in his voice. He was back in his suit and, despite Scott's unease about it, he couldn't help but feel better to see Alan wearing it. It offered a certain degree of protection, and they could do with all the help they could get on that front.

He backtracked from the window until he was out of view – that recently infected was bothering him – just how efficient were its senses while the parasite hadn't yet had a chance to fully degrade them? Alan followed him into the hallway.

"We're going to make a break for it."

Alan hesitated. "Like, right now?"

"Yep."

"O-Okay. That's… cool."

"Go downstairs. Grab the bag and wait for me in the kitchen: we're going to head out the back exit. I'll be with you in just a moment."

No questions. No second-guessing orders. Just silent communication and understanding. It was almost as if they were working together on a rescue again. There was a brief squeak from the stairs as Alan took them two-at-a-time, but then silence. Scott crossed back into the bedroom and cranked open the closet to reveal the safe at the base, hidden under a pile of coats. He'd witnessed Parker work enough of his 'old tricks' over the years to make short work of the cheap locking system and there, just as he'd suspected, was a gun – loaded but with the safety engaged. Dread trickled down his spine, but he stole it anyway.

Distant howls chorused along the road like a call to arms. Scott risked a glance out the window. Another five infected had materialised from the side streets, loping along on splintering legs and flapping muscles. There was a trail of liquidised skin spreading across the tarmac.

"Scott," Alan called from downstairs, voice lifting to a nervous pitch. An infected lifted its head at the sound, jaw contracting with a sharp snap. A ring of drool splashed against the sidewalk. Scott turned tail and bolted to the kitchen.

"We're leaving. Now." He snatched the knife from the sideboard. Alan remained frozen, back pressed to the wall. Scott gripped his shoulders. "Look at me. We're going to do this. Go fast and no matter what happens, don't look back. FAB?"

"But what if…"

"First rule of rescue?"

Alan closed his eyes. "Don't panic," he murmured.

"Don't panic," Scott agreed. There was another screech outside – inhuman, rattling the windows in their panes. Something smashed against the front door. Alan gave an audible gulp.

"Time to leave?"

"Time to leave."

It didn't take long to dismantle the barricade Scott had formed against the backdoor – which didn't say much for the security it was supposed to have provided but hey, they weren't eaten so he counted that as a win. The infected picked up on the sounds. Scott pushed Alan out of the door before he could hesitate further and nearly tripped down the steps. The back fence was collapsing already. Alan hopped it and continued bolting along the sidewalk.

The squelch of human flesh against tarmac suddenly seemed a lot closer than before. Scott yanked Alan aside by the back of his suit just in time for a new infected to lurch out from behind a parked car, tumbling into the space where he had just been.

"Holy fuck!"

Scott grabbed his brother's arm. "This way!"

Glass crunched under Alan's boots. Metal plating flashed under the sun. An infected lunged from the window of a dilapidated house and splattered across the tarmac. There were more – too many to count – emerging from the main road. Alan yanked his wrist free and darted down an alley that ended in a brick wall.

Scott chased after him. "Are you insane?"

"Dead end," Alan gasped out. "For them, not for us." He scrambled onto the lid of an overflowing garbage can and then higher, scaling the wall to swing a leg over the top. "Come on!"

A snarl erupted at the head of the alley. Scott took a running jump at the garbage can and – very gracefully thank-you-very-much – flung himself over the rim of the wall. The impact with the concrete on the other side sent shockwaves of pain up from his heels and yep, he'd be feeling that one in his knees for days. Goddammit.

Alan was already on the run again. The alley led out to a street lined with shuttered shops. Traces of burnt-out fires were everywhere. Bones – crushed to a fine powder in places – littered the centre of the road. Alan pointedly kept his gaze on the street ahead. At his sides, his hands were shaking. Scott hoped it was just adrenaline. Logic told him otherwise. Hello trauma old friend, you haven't been missed.

The smarter infected – those ones with working muscles that hadn't deteriorated past the point of immobility – had doubled around and picked up their trail again. Scott pressed the knife's handle into Alan's hand and caught his brother's half-questioning, half-incredulous look.

"Just in case."

"What about you?"

"I've got another backup, don't worry."

Movement shifted up ahead. They took a different turning. The majority of the infected seemed to have given up and left in search of easier prey and those with a stubborn streak had fallen far enough behind that Scott felt confident slowing to a walking pace rather than the painful sprint they'd been running at ever since leaving the house. He passed Alan one of the water bottles.

"How's the throat?"

Alan made a face. He took another gulp of water then gestured thumbs-down. "Running made it worse." His voice sounded rough. He sipped the water, frowned, then offered it to Scott. Scott batted his hand away. "Seriously?"

"I'm good. You need it more."

Alan narrowed his eyes. "We're not doing that." He held the water bottle out once more. "No martyrdom. I'll tell John."

Scott bit back a surprised laugh. "God, fine. Give it here." He side-eyed Alan as he took a drink. "You're too stubborn for your own good."

Alan grinned. "I learned from the best."


The infected were more active during the day. Or perhaps they'd simply had a chance to pick up on the trail of fresh humans. Yesterday Scott and Alan had been soaked in saltwater and oil from their dip in the ocean which could theoretically have masked their scent and kept the infected from tracking them down. Today, in broad daylight, the creatures were everywhere. They plagued the streets like an infestation of rats – snatches of movement here, traces of bodily fluids there, the distant siren call of a hungry monster. They tended to travel in packs – another new development – and would surge from the shadows at a single flash of light or sound.

Alan had grown quiet. Too quiet – the sort of pensive silence that only ever accompanied dangerous thoughts. Scott checked the street around them for any sign of trouble before daring to speak.

"What's going on up there?"

Alan batted his hand away before Scott could poke him. "Nothing." He tipped his head back to feel the sun's warmth and sighed. "I'm just thinking. They were actual people once. It seems insane, looking at them now." He fiddled with the metal edge of his gloves. "Do you reckon there's any part of them that's still human?"

Scott observed an old takeout leaflet flap across the street. "I think that's a dangerous thought," he said eventually.

"Maybe," Alan acknowledged. He kicked a little cloud of ash away from his path. "But I'm still thinking it. Like, when they're coming at you, or when you see them feeding… do you think there's a human part of them in there that's just… screaming?"

It wasn't cold but Scott couldn't help but shiver. At his side, Alan's gaze was focussed on the sky, on the thin clouds trailing along the horizon. There was a faint grey haze from all the muck that had gone up into the atmosphere during the initial weeks of fires and destruction which hadn't yet faded, and it looked as though someone had thrown a classic Hollywood dystopian filter over everything.

"This is the first time I've properly seen them," Alan continued after a brief pause. "And the world. Like this."

Scott thought back. "Weren't you flying One to pick up survivors?"

"Only transport." Alan rolled his shoulders self-consciously. "Virgil and Grandma refused to let me fly into the thick of things. I picked up Penny and Parker-" His voice broke slightly on the names. "-but after that… I followed Virgil and Gordon into the zones but all I did was remote evac. I didn't even leave One's cockpit. I didn't really see much, not like they did. The closest I got was when I rescued you from New York."

He hesitated as something clattered up ahead then carried on when only a stray cat emerged from a scorched restaurant.

"It's different, seeing it in pictures. It's like… you know on the news when they show pictures of disaster zones? And it's bad, it looks awful, but it never quite manages to capture just how horrific it is actually being there." He trailed into a whisper. "It's like that. Being here is so much worse than I ever imagined."

The world stood eerily quiet around them as if all the underlying noises of life that they had once taken for granted – birdsong, social chatter, the faint hum of electricity – had fallen silent to honour the gravity of the words. It was just another sign that they were surrounded by death. Scott fell into step beside his brother so that their shoulders brushed as they walked. Alan wordlessly offered him another drink from the bottle. Ash crunched underfoot. That stray cat had vanished into the depths of the fallen city behind them.

"Every time I think I've come to terms with it," Alan murmured, "or at least… I don't know, accepted that this is reality, something will happen and it'll hit me again like it's brand new, like I've woken up on that final morning when John rang us and you were in New York still and I just tell myself over and over that it's gonna work out but if it doesn't… I've grown up preparing for a life in a world that no longer exists. And now we're here, and we're stuck – at least for now – and I have so many questions."

"Such as?"

Alan faltered. When he spoke, it was to his shoes, unable to meet Scott's searching look. "How do you kill them without knowing if there's a part of them that's still human?"

Scott was suddenly very conscious of the weight of the gun. He tugged absently at a strap of the rucksack as he considered the question. "If there's nothing left," he said eventually, "then it's just another monster. And if there is, then… I consider it a kindness. It's mercy, don't you think? If I were like them, in their state… I would want someone to do that for me."

"But you never will be like them," Alan whispered. He sounded deeply tired. "It's impossible for you to be like them. You don't have to even consider it." He knitted his fingers together until the metal knuckles connected with a faint chime. "But I do. I could end up like one of them."

"You won't," Scott cut him off, a trace more sharply than he'd intended, but Alan didn't react, simply kept putting one foot in front of the other without so much as a frown. Scott almost wanted to shake him because this… this sense of disconnect was uncanny. It wasn't Alan. And Scott didn't know what to say, what to do. Alan had been… not fixed because he had never been broken, but he'd been doing better but now they were here, in Hell. Scott had been in different variations of Hell before but none of them had ever been quite like this – without end – and he'd have sold his soul to the Devil himself to have kept Alan from ever stepping foot in such a place.

Do you realise that you've failed him yet again? How many times is that now?

"But I could," Alan countered. "It's possible. And when you're infected… knowing what you're going to turn into… Is it like dying? Does everything just end? Or… if there's some humanity left in them, does that mean you're aware of all that's happening? Because then… if you know you're going to be trapped like that… It's terrifying knowing it's a possibility, and it must be even more so if you actually get infected. It's a different sort of fear." He wrapped his arms around himself. "I… uh… I asked John about it."

"You… you did what?"

"I asked John what it was like when he got bit." Alan glanced up at him nervously.

Scott ignored the instinctive urge to reach to his shoulder where his radio would be on his regular IR-suit. "What did he say?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Alan flipped the knife over and over in his hands like a circus performer. "Um… He said that it was scary, and it was painful. But he also said that the possibility of becoming one of those things just didn't cross his mind as an option." He gave a tiny shrug. "I guess because the thought is just too horrifying to actually believe."

Scott knew very well that there was a specific reason why John hadn't ever considered turning into one of those creatures and that reason began and ended with a gun, but Alan's theory was a kinder version of reality, so he didn't correct his brother.

They didn't speak for a while. An infected attempted to get the drop on them, stumbling out from a sideroad with a throaty snarl but it was too far gone to run so they left it behind within a ten-minute sprint. There were other sightings, but they were few and far between.

Alan startled when he wandered too close to an abandoned car without spotting the infected pinned behind the wheel. The creature smashed its head into the glass over and over and over in a desperate attempt to reach him. Scott wordlessly led Alan away. When he looked back, the infected was still writhing, but without a face. The window was smothered in blood. Scott didn't turn around a second time until they had left the sight far behind them.

They'd reached the city outskirts by the time yesterday's events caught up with them for a second time. Alan tapped frantically at Scott's arm, eyes wide with warning before he clasped his hands to his mouth in a desperate attempt at stifling a cough. It caught in his sore throat, triggering another and then another until he was struggling to breathe, too panicked at the idea of drawing more infected to their location.

"You're okay," Scott promised him. "Try to hold your breath." He gripped Alan's shoulders and squeezed. "You can do it."

"I'm… too loud."

"You're alright, bud."

"But-"

"Trust me, Al, you're alright."

Coughing fit under control, Alan leant heavily against him. Scott wrapped an arm around him and tucked his chin over that mop of blond hair, scanning the street for any movements. At first glance, they appeared to have gotten away with it, but instinct told him that the brief respite wouldn't last for long. He drew back and cupped Alan's jaw to examine the kid's face.

"How are you feeling?"

Alan sniffed, eyes still watery from the force of coughing. He wiped a hand across his face. "Alright, I think. Just… sore. Need more meds." He offered a small smile. "Cough drops, too."

A faint crash rang along the empty road. Leaves fluttered in the shockwaves. Alan shivered.

"Come on," Scott muttered, leaving a hand on his brother's back, not just to comfort Alan but also to reassure himself. He could have sworn that he could hear lumbering footsteps. Alan was watching him, and he shook himself back into focus. "Let's get outta here."


A ransacked pharmacy came into view as dusk was beginning to settle. They seriously needed to find a place to hole up for the night, but first Scott wanted to ensure Alan was doing okay – his health remained the top priority. Scott had given him the pain-meds and the cream that reduced swelling throughout the day, but the supplies had been meagre to begin with and they were almost out. The pharmacy was like a gift from the universe. That meant it couldn't be trusted. He put Alan behind him and gingerly pushed the door open with the gun at the ready, safety off, ignoring his brother's questioning murmur at the sudden appearance of the firearm.

The floor was covered in shattered glass. Several cabinets stood lopsided. The place had clearly been heavily ransacked in the early days of the apocalypse but there were a few things left on the shelves, pushed back beyond the waterline of bloodied handprints. Scott remained in the entrance a moment longer, assessing the scene, before lowering the gun, satisfied that the pharmacy was empty.

"Okay, let's stock up." He stepped aside to let Alan enter.

Alan trailed a hand along a dusty shelf. "What do we need?"

"Uh…" That depended on how long they were stuck on Earth and Scott had no possible way of even estimating a timeline. He peered over Alan's shoulder and stole a pack of band-aids from the very back of the shelf, dropping them in the rucksack. "Get anything that you think will be useful."

"Like antiseptic?" Alan queried, dropping onto his stomach to retrieve an unseen bottle that had been kicked under a collapsed unit.

Scott took it from him. "Exactly."

The glass underfoot seemed as loud as an explosion. Scott trod lightly but it was impossible to move without creating noise. He kept an eye on the window just in case.

"Hey," Alan piped up, stretching to reach the tiny reserves of fever-reducer that remained. "How come you have a gun?"

Scott hopped the desk to rifle through the spare stocks. "I found it," he replied absently, snatching up cough drops from a box in the cupboard. "Ah ha! Gotcha!" He waved the bag in Alan's view. "No more coughing fits for you."

Alan beamed. "Awesome." He wandered closer, away from the door. "Wait, so… did you take the gun from that house?"

"Alan," Scott said wearily, stooping to search under the desk for anything of use. "I don't think those people will be coming back to look for it. They won't miss it."

Alan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, no shit Sherlock. I got that part. I just meant… I dunno. It feels wrong, doesn't it? What if Brains can find a way to reverse all of this?"

"If Brains can do that, then I reckon all these people will be too relieved to be alive and well again to worry about a missing gun. Or the missing clothes. Or anything else we took." Scott stuck his head over the counter to flash a grin at his brother. "If it makes you feel better, we could go back and leave a note?"

"Oh, ha, ha," Alan drawled. He hopped onto the counter with a heavy sigh. "Do you reckon they can see us?" he asked quietly. "From up there? On a thermal scan maybe?"

Scott tilted forwards on his heels to press his head against the cupboard door. "Maybe," he answered softly when he'd recovered his voice. "I hope so."

"Me too," Alan murmured.

For a moment, all was still. There wasn't a peaceful silence, but it was an acceptable tranquillity that Scott was grateful for until about a minute later when all hell broke loose.

It took about five seconds for the world to flip on its head. The door crashed in and collapsed on its hinges. Shelving units toppled like a series of collapsing dominoes. Glass screeched. The stench of rotting flesh consumed the air. Snarls and screeches erupted as hordes of the infected surged into the space.

Alan flung himself over the counter with a choked shout and collided with Scott just in time for a previously unseen door to a hidden office behind them to give way and reveal yet another creature. It lurched forwards. Scott yanked Alan to his chest and rolled to pin the kid beneath him.

Thick gloopy substance – tacky and a mixture of parasitic green and raw crimson – splattered across his back. He enveloped Alan in a tighter grip and lashed out. His feet connected with something wet and rigid. A howl triggered a high-pitched ringing in his left ear. The horde from the front were still coming – a sea of mismatched rot. Scott fumbled for the gun, closed his finger around the trigger and flung himself upright to direct it at the infected from the office.

Brain matter exploded across the far wall. The gunshot was deafening. Scott could barely hear himself think. Alan was shaking uncontrollably, scrabbling backwards. Scott yanked him upright and shoved him into the office, slamming the door behind them. A bony arm stripped of the sinew shattered in the gap before he could close it and the rest of the corpse forced its way through. He turned on his heels and barrelled over to the door on the other side of the room. Alan tried to open it, hands slipping on the bloodied lock. Scott smashed it down with a single kick, ignoring the agony that immediately ignited in his knee.

Alan burst into the outside alley, tripping in his haste. He crashed onto the concrete, scraping his gloves so violently across the stone that sparks cascaded from the metal knuckles. Scott grabbed him by the arm and practically threw him out of reach, just in time for an unbearable weight to knock him flat against the floor. He couldn't draw breath, the air knocked clean from his lungs. Something painful seared across his back. Sharp bones clawed at his ribs. Alan's screams distantly registered. He struggled for the gun, but it was pinned beneath his hip.

Something tackled the creature from the side. Scott didn't hesitate. He rolled into a crouch and pushed himself to his feet in a single fluid motion, taking out the next infected with the gun before it could launch itself at him. A series of howls exploded from the pharmacy as the horde filed into view like sharks preparing for a feeding frenzy. He slammed his entire body weight into the door to force it shut and barricaded it with the helpful metal beam that was offered to him.

"Thanks," he gasped out breathlessly, expecting to see Alan at his side only to come face to face with a very familiar pair of yellow eyes. "You."

"Save the pleasantries for later," the Hood snapped. "We need to move. That door won't hold for much longer." He jerked a thumb over the torn shoulder of his suit. "I know a place. Come with me."

Scott trusted him about as far as he could throw him – actually, he trusted him significantly less than that – but he didn't see a better option and, as much as he was loathed to admit it, the man had just saved his life. There was bound to be an ulterior motive but for now they didn't have much of a choice.

"Alan," he shouted. "Come on!"

Alan was still in the throes of a panic attack, but International Rescue had drummed the importance of obeying commands into him so deeply that his subconscious mind recognised the order and followed before he could truly think about it. He broke into a sprint. Scott caught his hand and didn't let go. The Hood darted around the corner, taking strange twists and turns that threw off the final infected on their heels until they finally came to a fire escape ladder, broken at the base. The Hood made the jump easily, hauling himself up the rusty rungs to vanish onto the roof of the building. Scott bunked Alan up, waiting until his brother was halfway to the top before following.

The Hood was waiting for them. Scott staggered upright, keeping a hand on Alan's chest to motion for him to stay back.

"What do you want?"

The Hood gave a dramatic sigh. "Oh, please. Save your suspicion for after you've stopped shaking. Your brother is hyperventilating. Make him stop, would you? It's quite off-putting." He lowered the bottle of wine that he'd retrieved from a small hamper of supplies stowed at the edge of the roof and levelled Scott with a deadpan stare. "I wouldn't have gone to the trouble of saving you only to kill you myself so quickly."

"You want something," Scott snarled. "You always want something."

The Hood neatly popped the cork. "Obviously. But not just yet. Now, while we recover…" He tilted the bottle questioningly. "Can I offer you a drink?"