I totally remembered it's a Friday. Uh huh. Definitely didn't think it was a Thursday until 30 seconds ago or anything. No sir, not me. I am an excellent time-keeper.
A good tailwind combined with clearer skies at such a high altitude put them nearly twenty minutes ahead of the GDF Transporter and the recon duo, who had dropped back to flank the Transporter through the storm. It took a little while to fix the radio but once the connection was re-established it remained fairly stable with only brief intervals of static when Scott descended below the cloud ceiling, cruising through dull skies above the empty wasteland surrounding their target.
The military base they were aiming for was marked on the navigation system – back up and running now that the link to the GDF server via the Transporter was secure again – but Mitchell ordered them to circle until the others arrived.
"Not all of us are hotshots, Tracy," he warned, voice tainted with dry amusement. "Stay airborne until we get there. Maybe flyby the city if you get bored, give the scouts an idea of what they're walking into."
"FA- I mean, copy that."
Gordon didn't even try to keep from laughing.
"Yeah, yeah," Scott muttered, reaching around to swat him. "Very funny."
"Hilarious," Gordon sniggered, ducking out of range. It was a relief to see him smiling again, especially after the revelations of the past hour, but c'mon, Scott had an image to preserve, so he swatted him again – this time landing the light blow – and turned back to the controls before Gordon could spy his not-so-secret grin. Because, yeah, alright – maybe it was a little funny.
Serious mode engaged once more, Gordon examined the darkening skies above the city. There was smoke drifting from the south-west and, combined with the thick haze of sand and dust, the world was steeped in the angry glow which was fast becoming synonymous with the apocalypse. It was easy to see winds picking up towards the north, swirling dust into a torrent which was sure to strip the paintwork. Scott hadn't enjoyed driving through that mess – the idea of flying into it was even less appealing.
"Have we got enough fuel?" Gordon asked, shifting focus away from the tornado-like wind formations curling sand into funnels along the horizon.
Scott cast an eye over the tanks. The aircraft had been loaded with more than enough for a round trip with a generous safety margin and despite the fact he'd guzzled fuel with that steep climb into fairer skies, they were still well within the green.
"We're good." He picked up the pace, tipping the nose towards the sun as he gained altitude. "Fancy some sightseeing while we're here?"
Gordon tried to crack a grin, but it fell rather flat given the sad landscape beneath them. "When in Rome," he joked, trying not to wince. "Or, when in Cheyenne, I guess."
Scott had been to Cheyenne approximately three times in his entire life. The first visit was a stopover to take a break from an outrageously long drive, the second occasion had been the three days he'd been stationed there during a training exercise and the final visit was rescue related. Consequently, he was hardly an expert on the surrounding scenery or even the layout of the city itself, but he remembered enough to know it should never look like this.
What he could recall of the landscape was significant swathes of green foliage - trees, plants, lush grass, framed by the sweeping mountain peaks in the distance. There was no trace of it left now. Cracked earth, heaps of dust, shrivelled shoots which had once been leaves. Everything was thick with soot. As he flew lower for a closer look, the engines swept great waves of sand into the air, reflecting yellow in the fiery glow. The sky looked as sickly as the land. Even the snow on the mountains was discoloured.
"It's dead," Gordon murmured, sorta strangled. "Really dead. Not just- where the hell are the infected, anyway?"
They flew low over the city itself. The surrounding wasteland was too barren to sustain any living creature – and while the infected themselves could hardly be classified as living anymore, the parasite within them certainly could be – but the crumbling buildings provided enough shade for stray animals to limp into waiting clutches. There were traces everywhere: smeared gore, splashes of blood and rust, remains of fires. Certain rooftops held evidence of survivors – signs created out of old paint, shoes and clothes bundled together to form words, burnt-out signals: HELP US, SOS, HERE.
"They're long gone," Scott pointed out, sensing Gordon tense up. "It's all decayed or mostly covered by sand or ash. If these people were here, they'd be keeping it maintained."
"Why?" Gordon muttered. "Not like they believe anyone's coming anymore. You've heard what they say at the bunker. Everyone thinks we're dead. No one's hoping to see a Thunderbird anytime soon."
Something about his defeated tone struck a chord. Because this was Gordon, the eternal optimist, possibly even more so than Alan, and yet he was giving up. And yes, they weren't in a Thunderbird, but they were right here, still fighting for the future. It came down to that old question – were they still International Rescue even without their ships, without any equipment?
The city had been destroyed for months, that much was clear, and this was before the GDF got their hands on it. Human existence, condemned to dust and decay, as if none of it had mattered, as if none of the stories here, the thousands of lives and experiences and emotions had been worth a dime. Scott was reminded of a line he'd read somewhere – ghosts aren't scary, but tragic. This place was poisonous in so many ways now, but it was also deeply sad. Streets which had once housed human individuality now buckled under the weight of loneliness and death. Even the infected, when Scott truly thought about it, were a tragedy in their own right. But he didn't want to think about that, didn't want to consider the possibility of humanity trapped within monsters. He'd faced enough of his own demons for one day.
"There's no survivors here," Gordon noted quietly. He rested his head against the window, cheek turned to hot glass, tracing invisible images. "Looks like the parasite hit this place badly. Not gonna be many supplies left either – those buildings look like they got ransacked months back. Any survival parties would've headed for the mountains. Cold slows the rotters and altitude gives you the obvious advantage of seeing what's tracking you. That's if the radiation didn't hit 'em first."
Scott trusted the GDF about as far as he could throw them, but for once he found himself very glad that John, Virgil and Alan were safe below ground. Jenkins was the devil in disguise, but at least he wasn't infested with a parasite or exposing anyone to radiation leaks. Sometimes, in the dark hours when sleep evaded him, Scott wondered whether the entire world was like this. Because this? He had no idea how to fix it. The planet was ruined and the ability to fully terraform Mars was still decades away. But he couldn't entertain the thought for long because that was dangerous, that was what led to ideas such as what the hell is the point anymore?
The point was people. But what were people without their humanity? They'd all made sacrifices against their morals and what was society without compassion?
"Do you ever think that maybe…" Gordon faltered. He'd tugged one of his gloves free and was examining the seams to distract himself from the view, but it didn't keep that ache in his soul from creeping into his voice. "…maybe this is always how it was meant to go? The parasite breaking out of containment – yeah, that was an accident, but it was still the result of human actions, you know? And so… maybe that's always been the endgame. Humanity is its own downfall, or something along those lines."
Scott eased the jet back on course for the military base. "You're overthinking it."
"Maybe." Gordon gave a dark laugh. "God, I'm taking John's place."
"Don't say that."
"Sorry. Shitty joke. My bad." He sighed. "But… really. It's literally the apocalypse and humanity still isn't coming together. There's bandits and men like Jenkins and rich fuckers who don't seem capable of basic empathy cooped up in their own private bunkers, stealing kids and running fighting rings."
The sun was fading behind dust clouds. In the dull light, the world looked very broken.
"And that's not even- fucking fighting rings, with the infected, and what if- The infected were human. And now we consider them animals. And every decision just seems to end badly. I don't know anymore."
"Don't know about what?"
"If the future's like this – constant fighting for survival, all the pain and exhaustion just for five seconds of happiness once in a while – I don't think… I don't want that future."
"We'll fix it."
"I'm not that naïve. I wish I was. It would be nice to believe in lies again."
Scott glanced over his shoulder. Gordon refused to meet his gaze.
"I wouldn't call it lying. More like a goal. Something to hope for."
"Isn't hope a lie in itself?"
"People hoped in us once."
"And look where it got them."
Faroe and Rogers dropped out of the sky first, performing a final survey of the city before neatly setting down on the runway, taxiing onto the damaged apron outside a delipidated hangar. Scott landed after them and parked a short distance away, closer to the runway, only realising how tense he'd been when he released the controls to discover his hands were cramping. He listened to the familiar clicks of cooling engines, soon drowned out by the roar of the Transporter, VTOLs ablaze and scorching the battered remains of dead weeds which had woven cracks in the tarmac.
Faroe and Rogers were joking around, elbowing each other, parrying jabs and only packing it in once Mitchell emerged from the Transporter. He didn't look too rattled by the challenging flight conditions but examined the stretch of broken land between the base and the city with a tight frown.
"Not a lot's survived 'round here," he commented, examining an old takeout leaflet fluttering across the tarmac, a relic from a lost time. "This can't be worth the fuel we wasted getting here."
Propped against the side of fighter jet as Scott completed the final post-flight checks, Gordon shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He folded his arms across his chest and wrapped his hands around his biceps, trying to force a smile when Mitchell's gaze swept over him.
"Scouting unit's getting ready to set off, Coop. Better make sure your ass is with 'em."
Gordon gave a sharp nod. "Right-io, sir."
"Tracy." Mitchell tilted his head in question at Scott. "Any issues up there?"
"Nothing major." Scott shot him a teasing look. "You sure took your sweet time in getting here though."
"Well, we're not the Thunderbirds up there."
"Speak for yourself."
Mitchell chuckled. "Isn't there a parable about not always having to be the fastest in order to win the race? Not everyone's flying the fast bird, hotshot. Nice work avoiding the worst of that storm though. God knows Faroe could learn a tip or two from that display."
"Fuck you, man," Faroe shouted across the tarmac, terrorising an abandoned coke can with the steel cap of his boot. He didn't sound particularly upset, just amused, flipping Mitchell the V without too much regard for the chain of command. At his side, Rogers was holding back laughter.
Gordon pushed himself away from the hull with one hand. "Scott," he muttered, twisting to face the desolate mountains so that no one could read his lips. "Watch your back. This place is creepy."
"They're all creepy," Scott replied dryly.
"Yeah, I know." Gordon scuffed his shoes in the dust. "Just…" He sighed. "I dunno. Something feels off. Where are all the infected? We didn't see any during the flyover. That's not- And weren't there supposed to be bunkers here? GDF took those over in 2043, didn't they? Why aren't they in use? Did they get overrun?"
Once upon a time, Scott would have made a joke about role-reversal and serious cases of paranoia, but he'd learnt the hard way that it was far better to question everything than to be complacent. He gripped Gordon's shoulder until his brother glanced up.
"Relax. I'll keep an eye out. You're the one wandering into the hot zone."
"No," Gordon shot back before Scott got the chance to even raise the question. "You can't come with me. Don't start."
"Wasn't gonna."
"Liar."
"Get outta here, kid."
"Yeah, yeah. Catch ya on the flip side, old man."
The rest of the scouting party had congregated at the end of the runway. The original metal fence had collapsed and now sat buried beneath several hard-packed layers of sand and rubble. Flattened grass – long-dead and yellowed – crunched underfoot, leading down to the old road which rolled towards the city. The tarmac was cracking up, interspersed with ashen weeds and old tyre tracks. Over the scattered buildings in the distance, the sky was filling with dark clouds. Thunder grumbled in warning as the scouts faded into the wastelands.
Scott stood at the end of the tarmac and watched them until he could no longer pick out Gordon's figure amid the blackened bracken. Thin wisps of smoke curled against the sky where fires were burning. Grit crunched underfoot as heavy soled boots approached. He exhaled slowly and turned to face Mitchell.
"Time for the waiting game, I guess?"
Mitchell studied him for a moment. "Not exactly. Come with me. We've got a few places of our own to clear out."
Scott cast a final glance over the horizon. Shifting movements caught his attention, but it was merely old branches swaying in the harsh wind. He couldn't see Gordon anywhere.
"Tracy," Mitchell prompted.
Scott turned away from the city and attempted to ignore the sinking feeling. "Lead the way."
Refreshed radiation warnings accompanied the dark clouds billowing along the horizon. They were gigantic, tall enough block out the sun at the peak of its journey across the sky. Thick rainfall was sweeping in from the south, mixed with enough grit to strip the remainder of the paint from the hull and damage the shielding if exposed for too long.
Mitchell gave orders to move the aircraft into the old hangar, vanishing through a battered side-door to open the entrance manually. The panels rolled back with a rusty screech revealing skeletal ships which had been mothballed for months and stripped for parts at some point between the two dates. Once Scott had parked the jet, he snuck aside to examine them. Wiring had been torn away, metal panels stolen, tyres missing too.
"Sad sight, huh?" Rogers remarked, trailing a hand across a warped aileron. "These girls were gorgeous back in the day. Real smooth rides." He shook his head. "Bandits, raiders – man, those guys have no respect. They just take, take, take and they don't give a shit about how."
Scott paused. His back was to Rogers, reflection clear in the glass of an empty cockpit, so he could examine the man's reaction without needing to turn and reveal his own. "I thought only GDF personnel had access to this base. The emergency power kept the security protocols online, didn't it? Mitchell had to use his iD just now for the outer door."
Rogers visibly tensed. He retracted his hand from the wing, balling it into a fist which he hid behind his back, fixing a friendly smile back on his face.
"I mean, yeah, that's- Shit, did I say bandits? My bad. Nah, this was back during the first twenty-four hours… No proper procedure in place then, people running all over the shot, taking whatever they thought was useful, you know?" He coughed, gesturing to the Transporter on the other side of the hangar. "I'm gonna check in with Mitchell. Coming?"
"Yeah," Scott replied slowly, watching Rogers' steps fall into a jog, as if he couldn't escape the conversation quick enough. Suspicion scuttled down his spine. He ran a thumb along the leading edge of the wing where the wiring had been removed from the fragile interior. Only someone with extensive aviation knowledge or an experienced engineer would know how to remove the parts like this without damaging them beyond a state of workable usefulness. Either this particular group of bandits held GDF access codes between them and an engineering background, or it was someone on the inside.
There was no way, was there? He rounded the plane to catch a closer look at the opposite side. Marks of the same precise removal procedure could be seen there too, mirrored on the other aircraft sitting in the webs and shadows. Jesus Christ, was there someone from the GDF feeding coordinates to the bandits? Was there a working partnership – the GDF providing supplies while the bandits offered… what, survivors with desirable skills?
"Holy shit," he realised aloud in a faint whisper. "Bandits take those with immunity. The GDF and WHO are working on-"
He reached for the radio. It only took a short minute to transfer onto a private relay between his own device and Gordon's – helped by the fact Gordon had suggested this back in the air and so they had pre-set the frequency.
"Gordon, come in."
There was a brief splutter of static.
"Reading you, One. What's up?"
Scott took a moment to consider just how long it had been since he'd last heard his IR call-sign over a radio. He cleared his throat, ducking under a wing to check for any prying eyes or ears, but the others seemed to be gathered around the Transporter, waiting for Mitchell to finish securing the entrance.
"Can you talk?" he asked instead, trusting Gordon to read the hidden meaning.
There was a brief pause.
"Uh huh, Scotty, go ahead. I'm alone now."
"This vaccine-"
"Not technically a vaccine, more like genetic alteration, but sure, carry on."
"-required research, obviously, but how much of that research was obtained from tests on live subjects?"
"What, like zombies?"
"No, like people with immunity. Like me, or Kayo."
Gordon hesitated. "I don't know. They wouldn't tell me- I'm a guinea pig, Scott. I'm like a little lab rat. No one tells the lab rat what's going in the test tube. The lab rat doesn't even know what a test tube is." He sucked in a breath between gritted teeth and the radio squeaked in protest. "That's not- I'm kinda scared to know why you're asking."
"One more thing."
"Fuck. Alright. Hit me."
There were footsteps against concrete. Scott ducked down behind the body of the plane and silently cursed whoever it was to high heaven. He clapped a hand over the radio to soften the feedback and whispered, "You said the GDF never gave you orders to track down or stop any bandits. Correct?"
"Correct."
Scott really, really didn't want to believe this, but there were too many matching puzzle pieces.
Gordon sounded nervous, even over the radio. "Why?" he asked, voice tainted by dread.
"This is a conversation we should have in person. As a family, probably."
"Scott, tell me or so help me I will make your life a living hell."
"It already is."
"…You know, it kinda ruins the effect when you say shit like that."
"Oh, I know."
"C'mon man, just tell me."
Scott checked for the owner of those footsteps. There was a shadow standing in a concealed doorway on the observation deck above. When he blinked, the person was gone again, leaving him wondering whether there had ever been anyone there at all.
"Scott? You good?"
"Yeah." He shook himself. "Sorry, yeah. I'm here. Uh… I think the GDF are the bandits."
"…What?" Gordon asked flatly.
"The GDF and the bandits – one and the same."
"That's insane."
"I know."
"That's- Shit, that makes too much sense."
"I know."
"What the fuck?"
"Yeah."
"But that's-"
"Tell me about it."
"Oh, we are so screwed."
Mitchell's voice bounced around the rafters. "Yo, Tracy! Get your ass over here."
Scott mentally flipped him off, because Mitchell seemed like a decent guy, but come on, talk about terrible timing. "Gotta go. Stay safe."
"Yeah... You too…"
The majority of the facility had been cleared out within the week prior to Z-Day or during the twenty-four hours afterwards. Baseline power was still active but somehow the emergency lighting set Scott even more on edge than he would have been otherwise, bathing long, mind-bending corridors in faint white light, interspersed by crimson glows marking doors. There were no windows in this part of the building, and he kept resisting the urge to check over his shoulder whether anything was following him.
Overhead, the rain thundering on the roof sounded like artillery fire. He wanted to be sick, pausing by a door to brace himself against the wall, breathing heavily. Red light dripped over his shoes like blood. Rain was something far more ominous. What the hell was he doing? He'd got back into that cockpit without allowing himself to truly think about the implications or repercussions and now the repression bucket was overflowing and-
Something crashed.
Scott jolted upright.
Fuck.
Suddenly he regretted agreeing to check this section of tunnels alone. On the plus side, adrenaline had smacked his anxiety onto the backburner for the time-being. He blinked away spots from his vision and took a deep breath of overly recycled oxygen through his mask. The red light by his shoulder flickered briefly. Up ahead, strange patterns cut ribbons through the fine layer of dust coating the floor.
"Mitchell? Faroe? Rogers? Anyone there?"
Not a word.
Wonderful.
He'd been supplied a gun with his new field gear but using it in such an enclosed space ran the risk of a) the shot bouncing back at him off reinforced walls and b) drawing every infected in the area to his location. He checked the ammo anyway and shifted outta safety mode, feeling cold metal bleed through his gloves, crooking a finger over the trigger as he crept closer. Even in the dull light, the patterns were clearly prints left by heavy-duty boots. He ground a foot into the dust beside the marks and compared the sole. It was a carbon copy. That GDF-bandit theory was gaining weight by the minute.
There was another crash. He spun in a wide circle, trying to pin-point the origin, but sound travelled strangely in long corridors, funnelled between vents and metal panels. It seemed as if it were coming from all around him, faint howls shivering in the ceiling and growls snapping at his heels. A spiderweb snagged on his visor. His pulse was thundering in his ears. His palms were sweaty and if it weren't for the glove he was certain his hand would have slipped on the gun. He knew that sound, that whining screech which had plagued his nightmares and then spilled over into his waking life ever since he'd crashed back down to Earth.
There was an infected in the building with him.
"This really isn't my day."
Even muttering seemed as loud as a scream. He shivered, icy chills sinking their claws into his bones. The faint howls could have been the wind or even his imagination. It was impossible to tell the difference between his own mind and reality when he was caught in a spiral like this, anxious lies and whispers of potential flashbacks all wound up with fear of the present moment too. He pressed a thumb against the metal line where the suit swept over his shoulder until he could feel the sharp rim against his skin and tried to fixate on that, focus on the undeniably real sensation. But it was difficult alone. Just thoughts and noise and red light and a gun in his hand again.
Another screech.
"Find the infected," he whispered to himself. "Find the infected, check it's not a risk to anyone, and get out."
Each step seemed impossibly loud. He cringed at the crunch of broken glass under his heels. His pulse was a jackhammer, overwhelming the roar of rain. Howls infiltrated his mask, prompting screaming feedback from the radio earpiece. He jammed his shoulder against it until the sharp sting of electricity against his ear and cheek proved that he'd crushed the damn thing outta commission. If anyone needed him, the backup radio strapped to his hip would do well enough.
The corridor wound around bends and turns for seemingly miles until finally he came to a barricaded door, metal, blinking red where the locking mechanism demanded an access code. He could really do with John right now. However. He'd been around Parker long enough to have picked up a few tricks of an alleged trade. He pressed a hand to the door and felt it tremble as another howl echoed from within. Definitely the right place.
Logically, there was no reason for him to continue. The door was locked and the infected was contained within. However. What was the creature doing inside a secure facility? And if the GDF and the bandits were the same, then… Curiosity was one helluva drug and he couldn't walk away. A few unofficial trade secrets later and he was slipping inside, leaving the door ajar so as not to accidently trap himself in the dark with a flesh-eating monster.
His GDF-issued flashlight paled in comparison to his old IR gear, but he had no option. Beyond the door, the corridor continued for a few short paces before ending in an elevator. Scott had no desire to end up trapped inside if the power cut off completely, so slipped through a door to the left and found himself in a stairwell. Memories of New York flickered to the forefront of his mind. He leaned over the railing and shone the flashlight to the base. There were no immediate movements, so he cautiously made his way down.
The howls had grown silent. Steps were slippery underfoot. It was only the reinforced grip of his boots which kept him from falling and smashing his head against bare concrete. He directed the flashlight over the floor and discovered traces of blood and the smeared gore of decomposing human flesh, leading into the darkness like a zombie snail had passed through. He toed at it and observed a glob of rotten skin collapse into dark fluid. Clearly the infected which had left the marks hadn't been here so long ago.
The GDF masks weren't as heavy-duty as his IR gear. Consequently, he was treated to the stench of rotting flesh, fuel, blood, excrement, and a general collection of chemical taints which burnt at the back of his throat. Do not puke. It was a near thing. He focussed on putting one foot in front of the other, holding the gun steady over the flashlight. If anything snuck up on him right now – human or otherwise – then he was far too trigger-happy to check for friend/foe before taking that shot.
He wasn't sure what he was trying to find. He didn't have a clue what he was expecting. But reaching the base of the stairs and following the incriminating trail of horror through another set of double doors into a hallway of cages was not on the list. He halted, boots sliding in entrails, breathing through his mouth because the stench was too awful. The row of enclosures stretched the entire expanse of the hallway and in each one, chained to the wall, snarling and snapping and hurling themselves to the end of the cuffs over and over, were infected.
"What the fuck?" he breathed, taking a shaky step forward. The closest creature flung an arm towards him, skin mottled with heavy bruising, chunks of flesh squelching as the cuffs cut deep to the bone in the struggle to keep it chained back. It was fairly heavily decomposed, but, as he moved along the line, the creatures appeared to be in lessening stages of infection. The final zombie looked to be in relatively good shape, evidently only recently infected. When he shone the flashlight at it, its pupils contracted in response. It didn't immediately lunge at him, but cocked its head, considering.
Scott caught himself holding his breath. He lowered the flashlight a fraction and it caught on something small and metallic on the floor. He crouched down to retrieve the object. It was an iD tag from the bunker, confirming his suspicions that the GDF not only knew about this but were probably the forces behind it. Whether there was a cure or not, these creatures had been human once and keeping them chained in the dark awaiting experimentation at best or being sold to a private bunker for a fighting ring at worst – it was barbaric. It was cruel. It went against everything the GDF was supposed to stand for – everything Colonel Casey had believed in, anyway.
This was the closest he had gotten to any of the infected in a very long time. It was certainly the first chance he'd had to properly inspect one in person without fearing it was about to rip his throat out – the cages and the chains were enough to keep the creatures from breaking loose. He moved as close to the bars as he dared. It hit him in a rush – not fear for once, but an overwhelming sadness. He wasn't an empath in the way that Virgil was – or how Gordon had been before that sharp-edged sense of brokenness had taken root in his soul – but he could recognise the heartbreak in seeing people reduced to this.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, despite knowing they couldn't hear nor understand him. "I'm so sorry. You deserved better."
There was a tiny camera in his suit which could be used to record anything useful, presumably odd behaviour in the infected or the effects of radiation in various locations, or potential fuel sources, but now Scott activated it and walked slowly from cage to cage, catching each creature's face on film. He might not be able to save them but one day, if he ever had access to Five's resources again, he could identify them so that any potential surviving loved ones could finally mourn them without being left with the constant question of what had happened to them. Too many people had died unknown. He couldn't do much, but he could do this.
"I don't know what I could have done," he admitted, coming to a halt in front of that newly infected creature. "But I should have done better than this. I was- I mean, shit, I was one of the most influential people in the goddam world and yet I didn't know this was coming. How could I not have known? Did I just not listen? Because I'm listening now, I'm paying attention now, and I think… I think I'm too late. And it's- I was first to the rescue for all these years and now I'm the last and I'm too late to save anyone. And I'm sorry that you paid the price. I'm sorry that the guys with the power didn't protect you. But I'm gonna change things. I don't know who you were, what lives you had, if you've got people out there still, but I'm gonna… I'm gonna rescue them, somehow."
The infected snarled – all of them twisting and drooling and growling – except for one, the recently turned, which stared at him, head tilted as if it could hear him, as if it was listening.
"I've gotta fix things," Scott told it softly. "Because this can't be… if this – this shitshow down here – is how we plan on living then we can't call ourselves human anymore either, because this isn't humanity, this is evil."
"Nice speech, but you know they can't hear you, right?"
Scott whirled around, gun at the ready, and Mitchell lofted his hands in surrender.
"Easy, tiger. I'm just here to check on you, make sure you didn't find trouble. Which evidently you did." Mitchell side-eyed him. "You're not supposed to be down here, Tracy."
"And the GDF is supposed to protect people, not chain them up and prolong their suffering."
"Believe me, I'm on your side. Look, can you just-" Mitchell reached out and lowered the gun with two fingers. "Scott, I get it. Really, I do. This is wrong. But we can't do shit, you know that. They have a gun to our heads the entire damn time. Do you know what the bullet aimed at my thick skull is called? Elle. My sister, remember I told you about her? If I put a foot outta line, she's gone. And if she puts a foot outta line, I'm gone. This is horrific but we can't change it."
Scott switched the safety back on the gun. For a moment, he stared at that final infected, aware of Mitchell's neutral expression which didn't match the sadness in the man's eyes. He seemed defeated, and Scott understood that, but at the same time change wasn't supposed to be easy. The right thing to do was rarely the simplest.
"Mitchell," he asked quietly, "have you got kids?"
"I wanted them. Never met the right girl."
"Well, I have. I- not biologically, it's complicated, but the point is- This kid… he's incredible. He still sees humanity in monsters. He's been through so much and yet he's still kind. I know he'll put on a smile when I walk through that door tonight even if he's had the worst day ever. He's smart and he's funny and he's brave and I am so fucking proud of him – and god knows I don't tell him that enough – but if this is the future now, if we stand back and do nothing and accept this without trying to change anything, then what the hell kind of life is he going to have? So yes, this is dangerous, and I might get the people I love torn away from me, but if I don't at least try, then I'm condemning them to this. And this, in my books? This isn't living. The culture of fear in the bunker, treating people like this- The cost of living in this society, in this future we're currently creating- well, it seems to me like the cost is your soul, and I refuse to let that happen to my kid."
Mitchell offered a sad smile. "Sounds like you've done a good job raising him."
"I don't know about that. But Alan's… I can't walk away from this because if I do… I don't just betray myself, I kinda betray him too, and I refuse to do that."
Mitchell was quiet for a moment. "They'll kill you, Scott, do you know that? When they realise threats don't work… they'll kill you. They'll make it look like an accident. Engine malfunction, radiation leak, training accident, hell, I've known 'em fake suicides. It's- You're not the first person to connect the dots and decide to try to change things. It never ends well. I've lost four guys in six months."
"You gonna rat me out?"
"Never. And that's a promise. But I don't want to see you end up like the others. You're a good man. You deserve better. And Coop- Gordon does too." Mitchell appeared very tired for a moment. "I can help. If you- Look, I've got a good decade on you, so take some advice: sometimes doing the right thing is selfish too. You want to save the world. That's been your job for years. I get that and I also get why you're so determined to change things now. But your kid's relying on you. And I saw Gordon when he was playing the lone-wolf act, trying to find you… People need you. So, yeah, go ahead, try to change things, but Christ, Tracy, be careful. Be smart. If I were you, I'd take my family and start running. Come back with a proper plan once you've got your loved ones safe."
"You're telling me to choose," Scott read between the lines.
Mitchell sighed. "Honestly? Yes. You can't have both, not in this reality. You save the world, or you save your family."
"That's a shitty choice."
"Tell me about it." Mitchell placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. "When you've decided, tell me. Either way, I'll help you. I'm damn near sick of all of this. I've hit a point where… Well. Never mind that. But c'mon now. No one can know you were down here. Let's get going."
The rain was still rushing down in torrents, so they stayed inside the hangar but cranked the door open so they could watch out for the flashlights of the returning scouts. Faroe and Rogers and the remaining pilots of the Transporter were playing cards in the cockpit and light spread across the hangar floor like a warm blanket. Scott sat on a wing of a mothballed plane and watched rain drive across the tarmac. The sky looked bleak and threatening.
Mitchell joined him after a while. "My therapist always said it's dangerous to be alone with your thoughts." He offered Scott half a ration bar.
"I'm good, thanks."
"Suit yourself." Mitchell took a bite. "Alright. Shoot. What burning questions are top of your list? I might be able to help."
Scott drummed a hand against the wing. Mitchell crunched on dehydrated oats as if it were popcorn.
"I was told the parasite which caused this got out of containment when it was being moved following an attempted attack to steal a sample. Where was the first containment breach?"
Mitchell tipped back on his hands. "You're quite the investigator, aren't you?" He tugged his mask back into place, thoughtful. "First containment breach was on a road outside the GDF facility in the Gujarat region. Victims didn't show immediate signs of… well, this… so they took 'em to the facility where they proceeded to bite one of the doctors on call. The entire group turned within ten minutes, including the doctor. They were incinerated within that same room, according to rumours. Of course, the parasite had already infected the driver and attending paramedics and so on."
"Jesus."
"I know." Mitchell glanced over at him. "Did you learn the identity of the terrorist attempting to steal a sample in the first place?"
"What, as in the person behind the attack that prompted the relocation?"
"Uh huh."
"No. I, uh-" Maya's face flickered into his vision, and he blinked it away. There were phantom hands on his waist. He swallowed past nausea. "I didn't get that far. Why? Do you know?"
Mitchell gestured vaguely. "Yeah, I know. Remember that guy who threatened the World Council? I think he's had dealings with your International Rescue before, actually, trying to steal your Thunderbirds? Anyway. Goes by the alias The Hood."
You have got to be fucking joking.
"Yeah," Scott choked out at last, sorta strangled, overwhelmingly relieved to spy Gordon's flashlight in the doorway, marking an end to the ill-fated conversation. "I've definitely heard of him."
