Howdy, here's an early chapter... and I'll see you next on the 2nd September. You know, provided I don't get eaten by a shark or poisoned by a spider or- oh my god, why did I think this was a smart idea? Good thing I'm an adrenaline junkie!


Conversations held after two-o-clock in the morning were either full of vulnerability and closely guarded truths or were complete and utter insanity. After a while, the only words left were dark jokes and bad puns and fond memories of a lost world. Sleep slunk through the sealed windows and doors. Dreams mixed with the final snatches of the waking mind to throw them into strange, hazy worlds which were not quite nightmares but undeniably disturbing all the same. Waking in fits and starts became familiar. It was impossible to keep track of time in the dark. The promise of dawn seemed very, very distant.

Scott jolted awake as if he'd been shocked. It took a moment to ground himself in the present – in grey light and Finch's fur brushing against his knees and Alan's death grip still holding his arm hostage. His heart was hammering, his shirt sticky with sweat, skin crawling with gooseflesh in the aftermath of a nightmare he couldn't recall. Unease slithered down his spine. He shivered. In the far-off distance, an infected was howling. He carefully tugged his arm free of Alan's clutches and crawled forwards to tumble into the driver's seat, trying not to accidentally kick Gordon – still asleep in the rear footwells – in the process.

It was just after sunrise. At some point John must have turned the engine on-and-off again to activate the wipers as the windscreen was clear, providing them with an open view of the landscape. It was desolate; everything smothered in ash, broken plants and burnt-out vehicles littering the winding road ahead. Abandoned carcasses had been buried by dust. Stray telephone poles staggered between fields, some collapsed, others listing heavily to one side. Wires swung loosely between them. In the pale light, it appeared to be an entirely new world.

"Morning," John greeted him, without turning away from the fogged window at his side. He was tracing the map in the condensation so he could draw routes without damaging the paper copy.

"You're awake early," Scott commented, allowing himself a sip from one of the precious water bottles. He made a mental note to find the nearest abandoned store to stock up on supplies. Food was a pressing concern, but water was essential. "Any idea where we are?"

John examined the map for a long moment.

"Iowa," he said at last. "If I had to guess."

"How certain?"

"Roughly eighty percent." John turned away from the makeshift map. "It's been a long time since we were state side outside of New York or the ranch."

"Or rescues," Scott pointed out.

John didn't look particularly impressed.

"How much time do you spend memorising the landscape during rescues?" He didn't give Scott a chance to reply. "Although, on the topic of rescues, doesn't this remind you of a volcanic eruption?"

The carpet of grey did bear an uncanny resemblance.

"Don't say volcanic eruption." Scott passed him the water bottle. "You'll trigger Yellowstone next."

John chuckled. "Tracy luck, huh?"

"Well, it is a Tuesday."

"Is it actually?"

"God knows. Probably. I don't even know what month we're in."

John picked at the faded label on the bottle. "February." He tipped back in his chair with a heavy sigh, voice hushed with a sombre realisation. "It's February."

Scott reached out a hand as Finch scrambled between the seats to join them. "Must be around Gordon's birthday."

John patted Finch's back absently. "Some birthday party this is."

Finch settled on the very edge of Scott's seat, partly draped across the cupholders to rest her chin on John's knees. It couldn't have been comfortable, but she certainly seemed content. In the light it was easier to pick out the different mixes of breed – mostly border collie but with a hint of something else in there too: long black and white fur and floppy ears but too small for a pure breed. Scott wondered how history had treated her. Her origins clearly lay with a family but her flinches at sudden movements suggested the GDF had gotten their claws into her early on in the end times. He traced a thumb across her muzzle, overcome by another wave of that exhausting sadness.

John was watching him. "You alright?"

"Sorta." Scott scratched behind Finch's ear and earnt a tail thump. "I don't know." He drummed a hand against the steering wheel, observing dead trees and the ashen wasteland. "I'm just tired."

John was quiet for a moment. In the wing mirrors, swirling skies revealed that radiation storm creeping closer again. Scott studied darkening clouds engulf the horizon and was struck with that uncanny sense of being completely adrift. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Ready to go?"

John beckoned Finch into the passenger footwell. She ignored this in favour of curling up on his lap instead, looking very pleased with herself when he simply placed a hand on her back to keep her from jolting off the seat and didn't protest. In the back, Gordon stirred, looping an arm around John's seat to heave himself upright.

"We on the move?"

"About to be," Scott replied. He tossed Gordon the water. "Drink something."

Gordon twisted the cap. "Hey, are you cool to drive? Because I've had my four… five hours? I'm good to take over again."

"On behalf of everyone in this vehicle who actually values their lives," John interjected, "I can safely say we would all rather have Scott driving."

Gordon glared at him. "I'm a great driver."

"You're a menace," John informed him. "Now drink your goddam water."

"Bossy, much?" Gordon took a small sip and pointed a finger in John's face. "Thou art a bitch."

Scott turned the key in the ignition before that particular conversation could spiral any further because Gordon and John were evil geniuses in their own rights and the day they realised exactly how similar they were would be the dawn of the second apocalypse. The car rumbled into life without protest and so, after three sighs of relief and a questioning murmur from the backseat before Virgil drifted back to sleep again, Scott guided them off the hardpacked dust and back onto the road.

Tarmac was buried beneath several layers of ash so keeping within the boundaries of the road was a challenge. Thankfully, they were in a four-wheeled drive. GPS was still broken beyond repair. The time and date had rebooted however and projected above the dash in merry blue. It was the eleventh of February. Gordon didn't draw attention to the proximity to his birthday, for the first time ever. If anything, that was concerning. Scott had to focus on the road ahead – conditions too treacherous to risk looking away for even a moment – but he was vaguely aware of John inspecting their younger brother as if he were some sort of unique scientific specimen that was yet to reveal its secrets.

Death was closer than it had been in a long time. Yet there was something reassuring about being out on the open road, away from constant observation and sinister GDF operatives. It was just the five of them and, for now, their sole job was survival. That sort of basic goal with complete and utter freedom seemed strange but it was also a little bit of a relief. There was no higher power with guns around to order them to do anything. Death was lurking around every corner – and that was before Scott considered the radiation constantly poisoning them – but for the first time in his life he could do whatever the hell he wanted without consequence. No more GDF orders. No more businessmen in suits worth more than their actual shares trying to control Tracy Industries. No more complaints in the press. The only people around to cast judgement were his brothers and theirs were the only opinions he truly cared about anyway.


The nav system may have been shot to hell, but a good old-fashioned compass never failed. Scott kept them heading in a vaguely northerly direction although abandoned roadblocks and smouldering debris forced him to reroute several times. As long as he kept putting distance between the car and the bruised clouds behind them, they weren't in too much trouble.

The first few hours of driving passed in a similar fashion – wheels against tarmac and ash, wipers fighting away dust, the occasional sighting of the infected with a few detours here and there but nothing too strenuous. The land was mostly flat, which was another point in their favour as Scott had been keeping an eye on the fuel indicator and it had been causing him concern for the past twenty miles now. He didn't draw it to anyone's attention, although Gordon caught his eye in the rear mirror, reading the truth off his face. There wasn't anything they could do about it so there was no reason to stress everyone. With no signs of human life for miles, they were essentially stranded in the middle of a wasteland. Scott couldn't remember the last time he'd spied a sign, let alone actual evidence of a dead civilisation.

Stray infected lurched onto the roadsides, scrambling after the car as they were left far behind. Finch growled when one stumbled out of the dying trees and collapsed dangerously close to the tyres. Scott swerved without too much difficulty, although Gordon still made a snarky comment about driving skills. John twisted to swat him with a rolled-up map. Alan wrapped an arm around Finch and hid a smile in her fur. Virgil was still zoned out, staring out of the window without truly seeing any of the passing scenery. Grief was a strange thing, making ghosts of the living.

Dust had fallen so thickly that nothing was identifiable as part of a lost world. Vehicles, buildings, foliage – everything was buried beneath a shroud of deathly grey. It was questionable as to how long the car seals would continue to hold up against the onslaught. The engine was already struggling. Scott could feel tiny judders through the steering wheel and the bottle of water John had stashed on the dashboard was trembling like a scene from Jurassic Park.

Alan swiped a thumb along the brim of the window. "We should put on masks," he reported faintly, examining the fine coating of dust on his skin.

"Are you an actual idiot?" Gordon seized his brother's wrist and immediately dumped half a bottle of water over his hand, washing away the dust. He cuffed Alan around the head. "Radiation, dipshit. Don't touch that stuff. Jesus, Al. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Alan blinked at the water dripping from his fingertips. "Huh." He sounded slightly robotic. Detached. Gordon sent Scott an uneasy look in the reflection across the windshield. "You shouldn't waste water. You're gonna need it."

"Well don't go touching radioactive dust then- hold on a fucking minute. That was weird phrasing. We're gonna need it, you mean?"

"Yeah, yeah, that."

Gordon narrowed his eyes. "You're being hella sus right now."

Alan shrugged. "Whatever, man. You're just paranoid."

Once upon a time, such an accusation would have been met with an outraged denial and possibly a flailed cushion – or whichever projectile was within reach – for good measure. It was a sign of the times when Gordon simply chuckled and looped an arm around Alan's shoulders. Scott eyed them in the rear mirror as best he could without losing focus on navigating the road ahead – layers of hardpacked dust were liable to give way at any second and the tarmac beneath was threadbare with potholes. John folded the map into tiny squares then flattened it back out to occupy his hands, uneasiness stamped across his shoulders. The only person who didn't appear overly concerned was Virgil, but then again Virgil was barely present and so didn't count.

Distant howls carried on the wind, audible above the crackling of tyres over ash as Scott slowed to navigate an old pile-up at an intersection. The infected held captive within snapped and snarled but seemed mostly concerned with trying to flee the approaching ash. One had hauled itself from beneath a crushed pickup truck, ripping open its abdomen in the process to leave a glistening organ trail.

Scott hated the fact that such sights no longer had such an impact. He was numb to the entire experience. His biggest concern was not driving over the creature as it clawed its way into the path ahead. The line between human and monster seemed very blurred and that was in regard to the living. At least the infected had no control over their actions. Every decision Scott made had been a conscious choice. How the hell were you supposed to live with the implications of the suffering you'd caused?

"We just passed a state border," John announced a little while later when they were cruising through a nondescript sea of flattened grey, which may have once been a town but was now simply a bombsite. He tipped forwards to brace his elbows against the dash, peering through the whining wipers. Dust was falling thickly here and the headlamps were struggling to pierce the gloom.

Scott had slowed to a sensible pace, but the amber light had appeared on fuel gauge and anxiety pressured him to put his foot down again. He glanced over at John. "Yeah? Which one?"

John shrugged. "Couldn't read the sign through the dust. Just saw the welcome part."

Gordon leant over Alan to look out the window. "We could stop for a postcard," he joked.

Virgil cleared his throat. "Actually, about stopping…" He patted the battered rucksack of pilfered items from Two. "We need to take stock of supplies. Also, it's dawned on me that Alan's wearing Gordon's GDF suit. That's got radiation shielding, right? So technically we have three suits between us."

There was a brief pause in which Scott silently questioned his own observational skills and John looked as if he was debating smacking his head against the dash.

"Did no one else think of that?" Virgil sounded bemused. "Really?"

"We were preoccupied," Gordon protested. He gestured wildly to the ash. "There's death to worry about and you weren't exactly contributing many positive vibes today either. Which is understandable. And, like, same here, but- You know what, stop judging me. I know your judgement face, Virg, and that is most definitely it."

"Gordon," Virgil said wearily. "Shut up."

For once in his life, Gordon actually listened. The following silence was long and uncomfortable. Scott instinctively moved to switch on the radio. Static bled into the mix of crunching ash and faint wails as infected clustered to flee the radiation en-mass. He could glimpse movement in the mirrors as the creatures crawled out of windows and broken doors. The town they were driving through gave him the creeps. He rolled his shoulders and tried to focus on driving, which was a challenge when he'd been at the wheel for over six hours. His head was killing him.

"Here." Virgil stuck a hand between the seats.

Scott glanced away from the road to discover a couple of painkillers on offer. "What else have you got in the rucksack of tricks?"

Virgil's smile was fleeting but Scott felt a strand of anxiety unravel at the sight.

"A miracle or two. Nothing too exciting." Virgil tugged the rucksack into his lap, scattering a delicate dusting of soot over Gordon's knees. "There's some stuff which we should ration, like water purification tablets, but other items are kinda…" He ducked his head. "I didn't prioritise and I should have done, so sorry."

Gordon looked entirely too intrigued by the mystery. "What did you prioritise then?"

He tried to peer over Virgil's shoulder and succeeded only in accidentally elbowing Alan and being pushed into the footwell as a result. He summoned the pleading puppy eyes which Virgil met with a deadpan stare, unaffected and unwilling to back down, cradling the backpack to his chest in case Gordon made a mad grab for it.

"Virg. Virgil." Gordon made an affronted sound. "C'mon, man, what's in the bag?" He abandoned the wide-eyed stare in favour of glowering. "This is gonna bug me so bad, you know that, right?"

"Oh, I know," Virgil agreed, sounding more cheerful than he had in days. "Why do you think I'm keeping it a secret?"

As amusing as it was watching Gordon revert to similar tactics as a five-year-old – please tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, dude you know I'm not gonna give it up, tell me, tell me – the strange tension persisted, drenching the car in uneven silences occasionally broken by comments on the landscape outside or a recurring thought which had to be shared before it festered or even a painful coughing fit which couldn't quite be stifled in time to keep from drawing concern.

Silence didn't suit them as a family. It especially didn't suit Gordon, and yet he was keeping just as quiet as anyone else after giving up on Virgil's backpack – so much so that Scott wondered whether he'd fallen asleep. But no, a glance in the mirror revealed he was very much awake, just not fully present in the moment. That mile-yard stare was back with a vengeance, even with Finch sprawled across his lap like an anchor.

Not that Scott could really comment on the silence without being a massive hypocrite. He could count on one hand the number of words he'd spoken in the past hour. In his defence, his grip on reality was a little hazy again. Not to the extent where he felt unsafe to drive, just- not quite real. Not quite human. Ghostlike. He turned up the heat to blast hot air over his hands but even a change in temperature wasn't enough to ground himself in the present. The repetitive driving didn't help either, although it seemed to grow easier to breathe with every mile he put between the car and the ash. Whether that was the result of lessening anxiety or dropping radiation levels remained unknown. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

There were odd moments of light-heartedness – such as an excruciatingly bad pun from Gordon which had Alan sniggering and John sliding down in his seat with a groan, smacking himself in the head with the rolled-up map while Virgil hid a tiny smile and Scott sorta jolted halfway into the present before the creeping sense of dull wrongness returned – but they were few and far between. The car ate up the miles while the engine grew increasingly choked and dust swirled into the air behind them as if every place they passed had been lost to an erased history. What was civilisation without anyone to remember it?

The heater broke as dusk was falling. Vivid red light settled over the world as the sky continued to bleed. Temperatures plummeted as soon as the sun vanished behind hazy dust. Gordon hunted for the spare blanket he'd stashed in the trunk, yanking the seat down to access the space without having to pull over and actually go outside. Alan laid claim to a raggedy patchwork quilt that had clearly been pilfered from the ranch while John accepted a ratty green blanket without comment.

"Think fast."

Scott was all too used to random objects flying at his head, which was the only reason he caught the hoodie Gordon flung at him without accidentally hurtling off the road in the process.

"Jesus Christ."

"Nope, pretty sure my birth certificate says Gordon."

"I am driving. Don't throw things at me when I'm driving, are you insane?"

Gordon gave a nonchalant shrug. "Dunno. Jury's still out on that one."

"You're an idiot," Alan informed him brightly.

Gordon promptly pulled the blanket over the kid's head and cackled at the ensuing shrieks of outrage. Despite nursing a kick to the ribs, he appeared immensely pleased with himself. Finch slunk into the footwell to flop over Alan's feet, away from the chaos spreading across the backseat. Virgil wrapped an arm around Gordon's shoulders and pulled him close to prevent any further squabbling before Alan could turn murderous because there were only so forms of revenge before you had to resort to violence. Gordon didn't protest, slumping sideways to pillow his head on Virgil's shoulder. Alan shot him a final glare, attempting to coax his hair to lie flat again without much success, but settled back against the door without further argument.

Darkness seemed a physical creature, sinking its claws into the land. It stalked closer, bringing an increased sense of danger with it alongside hungry howls. Once upon a time Scott had been a fan of night drives. Now, he just wanted to get off the road before he could lose his concentration completely. He kept glimpsing monsters where there was nothing but shadows. It didn't help that the headlamps were almost completely smothered by dust. Visibility was at an all time low. He squinted, trying to distinguish between the edges of the road and a ditch full of dust, which did nothing to ease his headache. The painkillers had only helped so much and they were beginning to wear off. Which-

Huh.

No one had noticed.

Not that it was a bad thing. He most definitely did not want anyone fussing over him. But it did raise a few worrying questions about their varying mental states. Virgil and Alan being caught up in their own thoughts was hardly surprising given the circumstances, but John usually called Scott out on his BS before he got the chance to run himself past his limits and Gordon was just an observant little shit – too observant ninety-nine percent of the time, actually – so for neither of them to have noticed anything was up… In fact, Gordon hadn't even tried to reclaim the wheel, despite the fact Scott had been driving for God knew how many hours now. John hadn't made a sarky comment in at least six hours. It was just wrong.

Being reckless with his own wellbeing was one thing but putting his brothers at risk was quite another. Scott recognised he'd surpassed his limits over an hour back but now, for the first time in years, he acknowledged that he needed a break without anyone having to point it out to him. Instinct had him reaching for the indicator like an idiot, as if there were any other cars on the road in the entire state let alone this tiny town. He flicked it off again and set about searching the streets for a suitable stopping point.

John lifted his chin from the window, halfway between sleep and shock as the past twenty-four hours continued to catch up with him. His clothes still bore scorch marks from both his own fiery encounter and Two's inferno and the details hit Scott like a sledgehammer. No wonder they'd all been so tense and silent and generally lost in the minefields of their own minds. Trauma was a bitch and, when they hadn't given themselves chance to stop and process, she'd decided to take them as her prisoners anyway. Nightmares didn't need permission, especially when your waking life was already hell. They'd all been slipping into shock since their escape from the bunker and Scott silently cursed himself for taking so damn long to notice.

"Are we outta gas?" John queried, rubbing a porthole in the condensation to examine dark streets. He sat up straight, blanket falling around his shoulders and pooling over his knees like a kid in an oversized hoodie. It was oddly endearing. "I think I saw a station about a mile back. You should have said something."

Scott had also noticed the gas station but unlike John he'd taken note of the infected swarming the place. He cast a worried glance at his brother because John didn't miss small details, let alone glaring red flags like a horde of zombies spilling out into the road.

"We've got enough gas to last until tomorrow," he replied eventually, biting back concerned words to save for later. "But we need a break."

Gordon lifted his head from Virgil's shoulder with a questioning murmur. "Sup?"

"We're pulling over," John explained.

Gordon pushed his knuckles into his eyes, yawning groggily. "Wha- Oh, shit, do you need me to take over? I can drive. I'm good."

"We're pulling over," Scott stated firmly in the tone of voice he had once used when chastising Alan into completing schoolwork.

Gordon sensed there was no room for argument. He reluctantly peeled himself away from Virgil's side and leant between the front seats, bracing himself against John's headrest. He was still blinking back tiredness but was certainly more alert than Scott or John, gesturing wordlessly to a turning which led to a street of detached houses in relatively good condition. Scott was reminded of that night with Alan when they'd first been flung into this hellscape for a second round. He bumped his shoulder against Gordon's in silent gratitude and felt warm for the first time all day when he glimpsed his brother's smile – weak but genuine.

One of the houses had a garage with the door still open. Scott pulled into the space and cut the engine, overwhelmed by the sudden silence. Without the steady rumble, everything was impossibly empty. He tipped forwards to lean his head against the wheel, breathing deeply until his chest ached. Gordon's hand landed on his shoulder with a light squeeze.

"You okay?"

Scott closed his eyes and focussed on the weight of Gordon's hand. "Yeah," he murmured. "Always."


As it turned out, dissociation had some benefits as Scott had driven a helluva lot further than he'd realised. So far in fact that they'd put sufficient distance between themselves and the radiation storm to walk around without fear of being poisoned. Levels weren't normal and it definitely wasn't ideal, but Virgil assured them that the amount of exposure was within acceptable limits. Gordon jammed a helmet on Alan's head for the short walk from the garage into the depths of the house anyway, despite the kid's muttered complaints that it was unnecessary.

The house was a wide, open-plan design. It looked as if the residents had upped and left in a hurry. Time had frozen. Cereal bowls were fossilised on the table. Sneakers lay discarded on a rug. Family photos looked out from the mantelpiece. Virgil stared at them for a long moment, expression broken by an odd mix of grief and deep hopelessness. He wiped the dust from the pictures and set them back down with such gentleness that Scott wanted to cry.

One of the uncanny aspects of the apocalypse was the darkness. As soon as night fell, it was impossibly, incomprehensibly dark. There was no light for miles and when the clouds obscured the stars there was no feeble shine from the sky either. Beyond the beacons of their own flashlights, the rest of reality ceased to exist for the those long, drawn-out hours until dawn. It was the sort of darkness found in the middle of the ocean at the deepest depths where not even the tiniest pinprick of sunlight could reach – cold and empty and suffocating. Darkness held a pressure that could crush you if you stayed still for long enough and forgot what the light looked like.

There were infected roaming the streets – distant shuffles and grunts betrayed this fact – but it was impossible to see them. Glancing out the living-room window revealed nothing beyond the flowerbed beneath the 'sill. In the fragmented flashlights, the house seemed ominous too. Scott half-expected an infected to lurch out of a partly closed door or a closet or stumble around a corner with one of those crazed howls. He smacked his flashlight as the beam flickered.

"We should find some new batteries," Gordon remarked, hovering halfway up the stairs as he waited for Scott to join him. "Flashlights aren't gonna last forever. Or maybe more glowsticks. There were kids living here, so there should be some, right? Kids love glowsticks. Hell, I love glowsticks."

Gordon ran a hand along the banister. A cloud of dust rose into the beam, spiralling up and up without end. There was something strangely captivating about the fine patterns, until he sneezed, and the moment was broken.

Scott shot him a deadpan stare.

Gordon offered a sheepish smile. "Sorry?" He shone the flashlight across the landing. "Huh. This place is big. We could pick a room each."

Somehow Scott suspected none of them were going to be spending the night alone. Not with monsters lurking in the dark and especially not with nightmares starring recent memories on repeat. Hell to the no. At the very least he was keeping Alan close by, if only so he could monitor that cough.

Aside from the thick dust clinging to everything, cobwebs drooping under the weight, upstairs was empty too. The bedrooms were chaotic with clothing flung across the floor, evidence that the residents had packed in a hurry. Gordon crouched down to check beneath the bed.

"Are the infected clever enough to ambush us?"

Gordon shrugged, trying not to inhale more dust. "Dunno. Worth checking though." He studied the flickering flashlight distractedly. "Also, it's uh- not really zombies I was looking for."

"Bandits?" Scott tugged a corner of the curtain back. A spider scuttled away. "All the way out here?"

"Or ordinary survivors. Anyone's a threat nowadays."

Finch met them at the foot of the stairs, tail wagging cheerfully as she led them into the kitchen. Virgil was sat at the table staring into space while Alan was halfway into a cupboard trying to reach the tins on the back of the shelf. John was in the process of lighting more candles than a séance.

Gordon slammed a flashlight down on the table and flung his arms up. "This house is clean!" He repressed another sneeze. "Okay, not clean, clean, but, you know, there aren't any zombies or murderers, so we're good for tonight."

Finch curled up in an abandoned dog bed in the corner. An old rope chew stuck out from beneath the pillow and she tugged it free, gnawing at the frayed fabric before growing tired and dropping her chin to her paws, observing strange shadows thrown by flames across the tiles. Scott patted her head on his way past, trying not to jump at the slightest sound. Thunder grumbled in the distance and every so often vividly blue lightning overtook the glow of candlelight.

There was no power and no water. The faucet protested with several harsh shrieks when Scott tried it, so instead he gave in and went to scout the cellar for bottles. Finch sprang up and kept close to his heels. Her claws clicked against stonework, overwhelmingly loud in the silence. The cellar had flooded and the acidic stench of rot was too similar to that of the infected for Scott's liking. He wiped mildew away from a case of bottled water and whistled to Finch, locking the door behind him just to ease his own paranoia. Maybe he'd watched too many horror movies as a teen, but there was something about the cellar that had given him the creeps, as if there was an unseen menace lurking behind the shelves.

He kicked his boots off in the hallway before he could traipse filthy water into the kitchen. Finch ran on ahead, ducking her head under Alan's arm to nose at his chest where he was slumped against the cupboards, squinting to read the use-by dates on a tin in the dim light. Scott handed him the spare flashlight, setting the bottles down on the table.

"What is that? Ten litres?" Gordon estimated. He peeled the label free to examine it closer. John nudged a candle across the table for better lighting. No one else spoke up. It was creepily silent as if speaking could shatter everything or draw an unwanted presence out of the dark. Scott still wasn't entirely certain as to how the parasite could track victims down – sight was off the cards right now but just how sophisticated was its hearing? Could it sense heat too?

John kicked out a chair. "Sit down, you're making me nervous."

"Ditto," Scott muttered, watching his brother run a thumb through the candleflame. "Can you- Is that seriously helping?"

John didn't look up from the fire. "No idea. Doesn't hurt though."

Silence descended again. Virgil buried his head in his arms. Uneven breathing betrayed the fact that he was still awake. John pillowed a chin in one palm and continued drifting his other hand in and out of the fire. He seemed almost entranced by it, gaze fixed on the tiny flame as if nothing else in the world existed. Gordon drew his feet onto his chair and started tapping against his knees, catching Scott's uneasy look with a mirrored version. Finch flattened her ears with a faint whine.

"Hey, Al?" Scott repressed the instinct to whisper. "What's uh- the-" He took a deep breath. He felt jittery, like that lighting outside was under his skin instead. "What did you find?"

Alan lifted the can. "Campbell's." He tipped his head back against the cupboard with a dull thud, gesturing to a second tin. "Pineapple. Dunno if any of us are actually hungry though."

Scott retrieved the water from Gordon's clutches and tore open the packaging. "We can eat in the morning if no one wants anything now, but all of us are downing at least one bottle, no arguments. Clear?"

Gordon hid a fond smile in the crook of his elbow. "Smother-hen."

Scott slid a bottle across to him. "Drink your damn water, kid."

"Aye, aye, Captain." Gordon twisted in his chair to toss a bottle at Alan. "Yo, Allie, look alive!"

Alan caught the bottle on instinct just before it could collide with his face. He stared at for a long moment with wide eyes.

"Holy crap, dude, gimme some warning next time." He clasped a hand to his chest. "Jeez. I think you gave me a heart attack. I'm having, like, palpitations or some shit." He wiped his palms against his knees. "I'm actually sweating."

"Suffer," Gordon told him cheerfully, taking a long swig of water. "Ah, yes. I can totally taste the… fresh minerals of mountain springs. False advertising is a bitch."

"Shut up," Alan announced in the sort of voice that suggested the complete opposite. "It really didn't take you long enough to start rambling again."

Gordon dropped into a low bow. "You're welcome."

Alan cracked his water bottle open. "Whatever." He took a small sip. "Hey, do you want to share the pineapple?"

Gordon slid out of his chair and dropped onto the floor. "Hell yeah."

"John." Scott tugged the candle out of reach. It took a moment for John to realise it was gone, slow blinking like a cat at the empty space with one hand hovering mid-air before he shot Scott an accusatory look. "Drink the water."

John stared at the bottle as if it were a puzzle without a solution. He picked at the peeling label, seemingly reluctant, about half a second away from stealing the candle back. Scott moved it a little further out of reach.

"Water."

John didn't look particularly impressed. "Fire's of significantly more use to me right now."

"I would feel a lot better if you drank the water."

"You're a manipulative son-of-a-bitch, I hope you know that."

"I can live with that, provided you drink the water."

Some people bounced back from shock quicker than others. It was a helluva lot easier when you had access to proper resources such as medical supplies but making do wasn't exactly an old strategy and Scott was entirely too used to it. Hydration was essential. Eating would have been helpful, but morning wasn't too far away to make it a problem. Keeping warm was the next move. Candles provided light but not enough heat. He drained the rest of his own bottle and headed upstairs to retrieve blankets and pillows from beds.

The dust was so thick that he was forced to use a mask, finding a bandanna on a dresser that was breathable. Downstairs, Gordon met him in the living-room, having already dragged cushions off the sofa to form a makeshift mattress across the floor. Alan was perched on an armrest, pineapple stabbed on a fork which he was slowly eating while watching his brothers do all the work. He seemed a lot less robotic than before, so apparently Gordon's idea of giving him an adrenaline spike had worked to a certain extent.

Dust clung to everything, especially when you were sweating. Scott couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten something, so he couldn't be blamed for being exhausted by just moving blankets and pillows and heavy couch cushions around. He didn't actually know how long it had been since they'd left the bunker. It was all a hazy mess. He couldn't trust his memories. For all he knew, there were aspects he couldn't remember, details that he'd blocked out. The only way to stay alive was to stay in the moment.

Gordon stripped his shirt off and flung it at Alan's head.

"Gross!" Alan kicked it aside. "You really need a shower."

"You can sleep on the floor tonight. You don't get a cushion. The disrespect, I am shocked." Gordon stole another cube of pineapple from the fork, grinning at the enraged squawk that followed. "Yo, Scotty, control the gremlin before he tries to murder me."

"I'm not gonna murder you," Alan sulked. He smacked Gordon's hand away as his brother tried to ruffle his hair. "I spent entirely too much energy saving you, why would I let that go to waste?"

Gordon's teasing remark faltered. "Y-yeah."

He picked up the closest blanket – a fluffy thing patterned with racing cars which Scott had taken from the kids' room upstairs – and flung it around Alan's shoulders, trying to act nonchalant as if Scott hadn't already spied his heartbroken expression in the mirror for the split-second it took for him to plaster a mask back on. Alan picked up on the hesitation too, words escaping unspoken as he tried to find the right phrase and finally settled for offering him the final pineapple cube instead.

Gordon summoned a weak smile. "Nah. It's all yours."


Carrying candles into the lounge took longer than anticipated, mainly because Finch kept getting underfoot and tripping whilst holding fire was not a risk anyone wanted to take. It was well after midnight when they finished. Gordon faceplanted onto the centre of the makeshift bed and didn't move even after Alan shoved his socks in his face. John took up residence at the edge, sights set on the clock on the mantelpiece. He looked dazed again, hypnotized by the passing seconds until Alan rolled over and promptly claimed his knees as a pillow.

John tore his gaze from the clock, brief panic flitting across his face. "You okay?"

"Uh huh." Alan passed him a spare blanket. "It's cold. Aren't you cold?"

"I…" John blinked, only just registering that he was shivering. "Apparently so. Thanks."

Scott left them to it. Gordon was already out for the count, Alan was part of the way there too and John still wasn't grounded in reality but at least he was trying to focus on Alan now rather than time and space and the gaps in between where monsters of the mind lurked. He'd been avoiding sleeping for the entire drive and Scott was willing to place his bets on nightmares formed from memories and an unwillingness to draw this to Alan or Gordon's attention.

Virgil no longer had his head buried in his arms which, technically, was progress but it sure as hell didn't seem any better when he was staring into space and still hadn't moved from that chair. The water bottle was undrunk in front of him, alongside the rucksack.

"Virgil." Scott knocked on the doorframe. "Hey, Vee."

He waved a hand in front of his brother's face. Virgil jolted backwards.

"What? What? Don't sneak up on me like that."

Scott chose not to point out the fact that he'd deliberately kept his steps louder than usual and hadn't made a secret of his entrance to the kitchen. He tapped the water bottle.

"Drink that."

"I will."

"Really?"

Virgil slumped against the tabletop. "Maybe," he mumbled.

There was a script of unspoken words which would forever go unheard, hanging in the air between them. Scott partly wanted to press further but exhaustion was growing overwhelming, clogging every thought as if the dust had infiltrated his mind as well as his body. He clawed a hand through his hair and fought against light-headedness.

"Everyone's in the living room. You should join us."

"Maybe."

He held out a hand. Virgil looked at him, searching for something unknown between the lines of that silent script. Scott braced himself against the back of a chair as another wave of dizziness washed over him, and it was that which had Virgil finally rising to his feet.

"You need to lie down."

"Uh huh." Scott blinked away spots. "You're telling me."

"C'mon."

So. Apparently nearly passing out was a great way to knock your brother out of a dissociating spiral or whatever-the-heck was actually going on in Virgil's head. Scott extinguished the final candle and left the kitchen in darkness, accepting Virgil's arm around his shoulders without protest. Whoever's sake it was actually for was up for discussion.

Finch was curled across Alan's ankles, tail tucked over her nose. John had finally given into sleep too, but Gordon had not been quite as lost to dreams as Scott had first thought as he sat up. Most of the candles had burnt out, leaving the room cast in the faintest of gold, just sufficient to see their way to the blankets but not enough to glimpse expressions.

"Everything okay?"

Scott claimed a blanket for himself. "Just about."

Gordon remained propped on his elbows. "Virg?"

Virgil rolled over to face the door, putting his back to the rest of them. His voice was muffled by fabric and some painfully fragile strain of emotion. "Ask me again in the morning."

"Okay."

There was a rustle as Gordon flopped back down. The final few candles burnt low. The flames were barely even embers. Finch whined, low and fearful. In the street outside, something was scuffling, the low dragging sounds of flesh against concrete overly loud in the darkness. Scott held his breath until his chest ached.

"Scott." Gordon found his wrist amid the gloom and squeezed. "Go to sleep. I'm gonna keep watch for a bit, so relax, yeah?"

"You sure?"

"Get some sleep, man. You need it. I've got this." His voice wavered. "You've just gotta trust me."

And that was the hidden question. Which wasn't really a question at all, was it? Because obviously Scott still trusted him. Even the dumb decisions Gordon had made had held good intentions. Everything he'd done had been for love. Human emotion was just as much a weakness as a strength in that regard, but the point was that Scott had always trusted him in the past and forever would.

"Okay," he replied at last. "Thanks, Gords."

Gordon inhaled sharply. "Go to sleep. Dumbass."