Well, I can officially say that food poisoning sucks and fainting in an airport was not my plan for today, but hey at least I'm home in time to post this.


The infected were tracking them.

It was a terrifying conclusion, but the facts were undeniable. The thought first occurred to Scott about three hours after the encounter in the suburbs, but he was able to write it off as his own paranoia. By the fifth hour, he couldn't deny the truth any longer. There were occasional attacks from infected throughout their travels, but the constant chorus of noise echoing from behind them remained consistent – growls and snarls, clatters, the wet squelch of rotten flesh dragging over concrete – and the stench seemed stronger than the wind as a dust storm engulfed the horizon.

"Shit," Gordon said simply, coming to a halt in the centre of the field they were trekking across – all flattened grasses and dead cattle. He stabbed the machete into the dirt and leant heavily on the hilt, examining the sky. "That's not ideal."

Goliath clouds of swirling umber were only increasing in size. Static prickled, indicative of approaching lightning. Of the scattered trees littering the landscape, only one remained alive, and the branches were swaying heavily, leaves hissing warnings. A sharp wind cut across the field and swept yet more dust into the air. Visibility dropped by the second. Darkness flooded the hills, concealing the way ahead in a shroud of impenetrable gloom.

Dust storms cropped up quickly, swallowing everything whole within a matter of minutes. Scott could still recall the damage the winds had done to the car when he'd taken shelter under that bridge with the Hood and Alan. If the weather weren't threat enough, he was very conscious of the new problem that had arisen.

"We can't see the infected." His hand crept to the rifle. "And we know they're following us."

"It's the perfect ambush," Gordon finished for him, yanking the machete out of the mud. "This really isn't our day."

"This really isn't our year," Virgil amended. "We can't stay in the open, that storm will rip us to shreds."

A stray power line ignited in short snaps of blue electricity as the static grew too strong. The entire line flung free of the connection and hurtled across the field, tearing great furrows in the ground. Alan dropped low just in time as white-hot metal sheared through the space he'd just been standing.

Virgil grabbed Alan's arm and dragged him to his feet, breaking into a run. "Go, now!"

"Son of a motherfuc-" Gordon nearly lost his balance, ducking another chunk of flying debris. The storm had clearly picked up rubble from a nearby town and was now scattering it across the fields. It was a like meteor shower on the moon – high velocity meant even smaller shards could be deadly. Each impact zone left a large crater, creating a full-scale explosion, tossing dust and stones into the air which the wind snatched in an instant.

Something was screeching. Scott spun in a wide circle, trying to spy the culprit, because he couldn't tell if it was the wind or an infected closing in, but it was damn near impossible to see. Virgil and Alan had vanished from view despite being only a few metres ahead. There was no clear path to follow. He couldn't be sure he wasn't heading in the opposite direction. Even the trees had been yanked from the ground. It was like storm season in tornado alley – get to cover or get dead.

As the storm descended, the world vanished. The flashlight couldn't glimpse any further than a few centimetres, reflecting back off swirling particles. A fierce covering of mud clung to his mask. Breathing was a lost concept. Bright light sparked to his left, blinding, leaving spots in his vision, instantly followed by an explosion of thunder so loud that he couldn't hear anything other than high-pitched ringing. Lightning strikes, his mind supplied helpfully. Yeah, no shit – stating the obvious much? He ground his heels into the mud and pushed into a sprint but running against gale-force winds was easier said than done. One step forward equated to three steps back.

Metal flashed. He took a sharp left, fighting for balance as the wind smacked into his side. He fumbled for the brief snatches of movement which cut the dust apart. Gordon swung around, caught up in fight versus flight, machete raised to strike. Scott ducked the wild blow just in time.

"There's a rotter," Gordon shouted, scarcely audible above the storm and the ringing which had yet to let up. He stumbled to put his back to Scott's, blade lashing in the wind, seeking those yellowed eyes amid the gloom.

Scott didn't question him, lifting the rifle to aim blindly. "Where?"

"I don't know, that's the entire problem."

Lightning seared fenceposts, briefly illuminating the entire field. A bloody figure bolted on jerky footsteps. Its face was partly collapsed, ugly bone glinting in the clap of light. Chunks of flesh had been torn away and flapped wildly as the wind threatened to tear them free completely. Jaws gaped in anticipation. Scott took the shot as the light faded, blinking stains away, firing into the darkness in the hope that he'd hit something. Even if it wasn't a headshot, it would slow the cursed creature down.

Gordon seized his wrist, shouting so loudly that Scott could hear him above the ringing.

"We can use the lightning. Every time there's a strike-"

"-I'll take a shot, yeah, I got it."

"If they get too close, I'll take 'em out. You're long distance, I'm backup. If we play our cards right we can provide cover until Virgil and Alan find shelter."

Scott lowered the rifle for a fraction of a second. "Where the fuck is John?"

"No clue. Shit, shit, Scott, on your six!"

Another infected lurched out of the gloom. It was too close-range for an ideal shot, but Scott brought the rifle around anyway. The spray of brain matter felt icy cold, seeping through his suit.

Gordon backed up a pace, looking suspiciously like he was about to hurl, but then another lightning strike revealed a second infected. Rotten fingers reached out of the dust. He plunged the machete into its skull, splitting bone into halves. Black blood drenched the blade, washing over metal and his gloves to trickle down his wrists.

The wind picked up a notch. One of the feebler infected, relegated to the back of the horde where it crawled on its elbows and knees, was hauled airborne, vanishing out of view. It was as dark as night, save for blinding flashes of lightning which were dangerously close for comfort. Static prickled along the seams of the suit. Scott smacked it away, all-too conscious that he was testing his luck this close to the centre of the strike zone. He shoved Gordon into a run and bolted out of range as more lightning exploded where they'd just been standing, flinging chunks of rock into the air.

Gordon shouted something which was lost to the wind. Based off his expression it was probably a mixture between disbelief and a collection of curses which would have had a sailor blushing. He nearly lost his balance. It was only Scott's tight grip on his arm which kept him upright, slipping on sliding rocks and debris as the storm wrestled to yank them off their feet. The dried blood on his face was now concealed by dust and his eyes seemed vividly bright, wide with primal fear as survival instincts kicked in.

Lightning strikes were increasing in frequency. Thunder was an almost constant force, overwhelming to the point where it seemed to rattle bones and claw hearing from eardrums. Scott gave up on trying to spy the infected amid the dust and let Gordon grab his hand, pulling him into a sprint as best they could manage with constricted breathing. Dust felt as if it were physically clogging his lungs, engulfing him whole. It was an uncomfortably similar sensation to how he imagined it would be like to be buried alive.

Snatches of human construction peered out of the gloom, briefly illuminated by lightning. Gordon lurched sideways as an infected plunged into the path ahead. Scott was too close to shoot, but Gordon fumbled with the machete, too slow and already within range of those jaws, so he slammed the end of the rifle into the creature's skull, over and over until he felt a sickening crack beneath his hands. Cold liquid washed over the gun. The infected plummeted to the ground, limp, snatched by the wind almost instantly. Scott stumbled back, heart jolting into his mouth as he felt sickly brain matter seeping through his gloves.

Gordon physically pushed him into a mad bolt for the house ahead. There were more infected rushing out of the storm, snarling at their heels when a mad barking confused the creatures. Scott shoved Gordon sideways, away from the main house, because Finch was barking furiously on the front step and a little voice in the back of his head whispered that something was wrong. He made a beeline for a pair of partly open doors at the side of the house, revealing a dark space below – some sort of basement or storm cellar – where flashlight beams sought the sky like a flare.

An infected lurched ahead of the others, un-mangled legs providing additional speed. It was too fast, too close and they were too far away. It didn't take a genius to do that maths. Scott slammed a hand into Gordon's back to tip him over the edge of the hatch, praying that the fall wasn't too great and that Virgil and Alan and John would catch him before he could do any damage – although admittedly a broken ankle was preferable to a zombie bite – and tried to bring up the rifle in time.

The infected ploughed into him as if the weapon didn't exist. He hit the ground hard, knocking the air clean from his lungs. Nails raked across the suit, frantically tearing at the fabric above his heart. He lashed out, struggling to hold snapping jaws away from his face. His hands sunk into skin as if it were molten butter, dripping rotten fluid everywhere.

Someone knocked the weight off him. Scott scrambled backwards, throwing dignity to hell as he scraped his hands over bits of bone and sharp sinew. He could hear his own breathing – rasping and raw – catching in his chest, choking on the horror as John plunged a knife directly into the creature's throat and twisted it until a godawful gurgling rattled above the wind. John yanked the knife free and slipped on pooling blood, catching himself just in time to tackle Scott into the hatch, Finch bolting after them.

They slammed into cold concrete with a heavy thud so jarring that Scott swore he could feel it in every bone. For a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't even breathe. He was vaguely aware of Virgil barricading the doors shut above them, Finch snuffling at his hands, the damp clang of wet metal hitting the ground as John dropped the knife. And oh shit, John- John, who had taken the main impact. Scott bolted upright as best he could as pain engulfed his ribs, struggling to breathe through the fire rocketing from his tailbone to his neck, blinking spots from his vision as he searched his brother for obvious injuries.

"Holy shit." The words escaped in a choked gasp. He gripped John's biceps fiercely enough to bruise until his brother finally opened his eyes, still trying to catch his breath. "Are you okay? John? John. Are you okay?"

"M'fine," John ground out. He shoved Scott's hands away, rolling onto his side and propping himself on an elbow to spit blood and what looked horrifyingly like loose zombie flesh onto the floor. "Fuck." He collapsed back against the ground, smearing blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand. "That-" He stared at the closed hatch above them, slowly shattering into hysterical laughter. "That sucked."

"It's not funny." Scott smacked his brother's shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but with enough force to snap John out of whatever strange spiral he was falling into. "Jesus, Johnny, you scared the shit outta me for a second there."

"Well…" John offered him a breathless smile. "At least I'm consistent."

Scott sank on his heels and promptly collapsed entirely onto his back. His gloves were drenched with gore and now, as a dose of cold reality brought sanity, he realised that he was smothered in blood. John was arguably worse, splattered in the stuff. There was even traces of rotten brain matter in his hair. Not that he seemed to notice, let alone care, and Scott wanted to be sick.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"What the fuck?"

John lifted his head from the ground to stare at him.

"It's the goddamn apocalypse, stop being so surprised whenever I resort to violence. What was I supposed to do? Ask it nicely? Hey asshole, please don't tear my brother to pieces, thanks." He pushed himself into sitting upright, bowing his head so that the blood in his hair didn't drip into his eyes. "You're welcome, by the way."

Scott swallowed, suitably chastised. He folded shaking hands over his knees and inhaled deeply until he could feel the air ache in his lungs.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

John shook his head, expression unreadable. "Save it. I was hardly gonna let you get eaten, was I?"

"You shouldn't be in the position where you have to make that call."

"Yeah, well life's a bitch."

Scott didn't bother replying. He didn't need to look his brother in the eyes to know what he'd find there. John may have buried almost all conscience in order to kill without hesitation, but it didn't prevent regret about speaking too harshly without consideration. Scott could practically feel the guilt coming off him in waves. You froze. It was the one line John knew never to cross and yet.

John shuffled backwards to lean against the wall, safe in the shadows. Scott scrambled onto his knees and stumbled upright, catching himself on Virgil's shoulder as gravity tilted from under him.

"Steady," Virgil warned, scrutinising the blood over his suit. "Is any of that yours?"

"I don't think so?"

"That's really reassuring, thanks." Virgil guided him over to a collection of crates and eased him into sitting down. "Is your aim in life to give me a heart attack?"

"Hey." Scott shot him an affronted look. "John made a dumb decision too."

"John saved your life," Virgil corrected. "I wouldn't call it a dumb decision, just impulsive. He was only one step ahead of me."

Scott refrained from smacking his head against a supporting pillar, but it was a near thing. "That's really not what I want you guys doing. If I'm in danger, that's my problem."

"Wow," Gordon deadpanned, trying to clean the blood from his face with a wet shirt. "I love that new shade on you, Scooter. What is that? Oh yeah, hypocrisy." He propped his elbows on his knees, resting his chin in his palms to level Scott with an unimpressed stare. "Do you seriously expect us to just let you die?"

"If the alternative is both of us dying, then yes, absolutely."

Virgil winced. "Okay, time-out. Let's put this conversation on hold for a minute."

He levelled them both with a warning stare that promised nothing good if either of them decided to ignore him. Gordon sank back against a stack of crates, clearly disgruntled but unwilling to push. Scott was too relieved to hear Virgil sounding relatively like himself again to try arguing. He didn't even complain when his brother began hovering over him like a paranoid hen, seeking injuries that didn't exist, thank-you-very-much, honestly. Virgil looked highly doubtful. There was a hint of suspicion mixed in there too, which, given Scott's track-record, was understandable.

"Ow."

Virgil glanced up from probing at the deep gauges across Scott's chest, looking distinctly unimpressed. "I know you have a higher pain tolerance than that."

"Quit bitching," Gordon chimed in, although the humour fell rather flat given he looked like he'd walked off the set of a horror flic. He finally gave up on the shirt, resigning himself to the stubbornest flecks of blood still clinging to his face, and shuffled a little closer so he could huddle within the ring of light thrown by Virgil's flashlight. It was impossible to tell whether it was an infected clawing at the cellar doors or the storm.

"Take your suit off," Virgil ordered, gritting his teeth as the flashlight flickered.

Scott knocked his head against the pillar. "At least buy me dinner first."

"I can't tell if they punctured the suit or not, so take the damn thing off so I can properly check before we have another John situation on our hands."

Gordon chuckled nervously. "Is that, uh- is that what we're calling it now?" He cut himself off sharply as there was a metallic screech somewhere above ground, followed by a crash thunderous enough to send dust cascading from the rafters. "Anyway, the infection's passed on by bites, not scratches."

"It's transmitted by bodily fluids," Virgil corrected, redirecting the flashlight beam as Scott tried to peel the suit away from his shoulders. The fabric appeared to have fused to his skin, blood acting as a fast-drying glue. "That includes liquified flesh. Those creatures were fairly decomposed, so there's a possibility that… Look, just let me check."

Gordon made a disgusted sound. "I'm so glad I'm not squeamish."

There came another deafening clatter from above ground. Dust rained thickly enough for it to make it difficult to spy the other end of the cellar. John was sitting silently amid shadows deep enough to drown in. Alan was cleaning mud from Finch's fur as delicately as if the dog were made of glass.

Exhaustion was a sudden, unseen attacker and it stalked hand-in-hand with overwhelming anonymous grief. Scott couldn't breathe under the weight of both. He tugged the suit down to his waist and collapsed against the pillar, unable to fight the offer of care. It was easier to accept kindness than it was to seek sharp edges. God knew there were too many of the latter these days.

The suit had held up against the violence, but only just. Only a few fibres remained underneath the deep scours left by rotten nails and teeth and the layers of protection against radiation were another lost relic. The attack had been sufficiently vicious to leave raised marks, even if the skin hadn't been broken, yet more raw red against a canvas of blood. He'd never wanted a shower so much in his life.

Virgil insisted on one of the precious antiseptic wipes despite the fact it was entirely unnecessary. Gordon backed him up. Scott recognised the losing battle so gave in without further protest. Sinking disconnect was dragging him into its depths again and he just wanted to let it. He still had the echoes of gunshots in his head and his ears were ringing with thunder and howls. The cellar seemed abnormally cold. He pressed his back to the pillar until ice seeped into his spine and carried the chill on every nerve until he couldn't stop shivering but at least it was real and vivid and he clung onto it until he could keep his eyes open without drowning in nothing but his own mind.

Gordon offered him a spare shirt. He shook his head, reaching for words that had never existed and never would. Gordon tilted his head, seeking something, but came up empty-handed, so simply tripped onto his knees and moved close enough to fall into place at Scott's side, knocking their shoulders together. He was a shock of warmth and Scott nearly choked on dust and his own inhale.

Gordon frowned. "You're freezing."

"You're just a- a- goddamn space heater."

"Ordinarily, yes, but right now… You're just really cold, man. Put the suit back on."

The suit was soaked in blood and damp dust and all kinds of rot best left to nightmares. Scott curled his right hand – hidden behind his back – into a fist until his knuckles bit concrete. He could still feel a trigger ghosting his fingers.

"Do you remember how many you've killed?"

Gordon ducked his head.

"No," he replied after a moment, so hushed that the wind almost stole his words like it had stolen so much else. "I tried to, in the beginning, but I lost count and then I just felt so fucking sick of myself that I gave in. Just- Survival, right? We do what we have to. You don't think about it in the moment. It could have been five I killed earlier, but it could also have been seven, I don't know anymore. So no, I don't keep count, not now."

Scott listened to the storm for a brief moment. Not really the wind or the thunder or even the driving dust which was thick enough to hurtle into the sides of the building above like a tsunami, but the spaces in between gusts in which the infected were screaming.

"I lost count a while ago," he admitted, aware of Gordon holding himself painfully still, trying to listen without reacting when really a non-reaction was a confession in itself.

Gordon hesitated. "And… uh… how do you feel about that?"

"I feel that no matter how monstrous they are in the moment, I'm always going to remember them as human."

"You can't."

"Cool."

"No, seriously, you can't- It'll tear you apart. Hell, look at me. I know they're inhuman but it's already messing with my head, so you - you especially - can't do that to yourself."

"Spare me the lecture. John needs it more than I do."

"Yeah, well John also stabbed a person, not just another monster." Gordon caught himself as his voice rose loud enough to echo. "It's different. It's- I don't know what we're doing here."

Scott ground his knuckles deeper into concrete until the sting felt as if it had bled into his bones.

"I need a drink," he muttered, raking his other hand through his hair to feel the sticky tar of drying gore and trying not to cry hysterically.

Gordon let out a cold laugh. "You and me both."

The sound shattered, shaky and damp. Gordon pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, breathing deeply until dust ignited fierce coughs and he doubled over his knees. Scott put a hand on his back instinctively, something twisting in his chest as he recognised the exact moment the tremors running down his brother's spine shifted from coughs to tears.

"We're still here," he murmured. "All of us."

"Only just."

"I don't know – breakdowns aside, I think we made a fairly great team out there."

Gordon raised his chin with a final sniff. "We did kick a lot of zombie ass."

"Hell yeah we did."

"Are you gonna be okay?"

"Oh yeah. I'm great."

Gordon winced. "C'mon, man. If you're gonna lie to my face, at least try to sound convincing."

There was a brief silence in which Scott silently considered the possibility of a blackhole appearing beneath his feet and engulfing him whole – the odds were sadly very low – and Gordon studied him as if he were a rare museum artefact, only to give in with a sigh.

"I'm gonna check in with Alan. Don't do anything dumb."

"We're literally trapped in a cellar. There's nowhere for me to go. You can see me from over there. What do you think I'm gonna do?"

"You're you." Gordon gestured wildly. "You'll find something, somehow."

"You have more faith in me than I do."

"That's…" Gordon took a step back. "Shit, Scott. You have no idea how true that is."

Without the distraction of inventing excuses at any given second as Gordon tried to check on Alan and Virgil remained preoccupied with taking stock of their supplies – one of the bags had been lost during the storm – Scott finally found himself with the chance to process their latest situation.

The cellar was dark and dusty and filled with damp crates where rain had infiltrated the grates. Several steps led up to a door into the main house which remained locked from the outside. Finch flopped across the base, head on her paws, unwilling to lift her gaze from the door for even a second. It was impossible to hear anything above the howling wind, but Scott was willing to bet that something unwanted was lurking within those walls.

Temperatures seemed icy. Then again, he had been sitting against concrete without a shirt for the past twenty minutes. He was reluctant to struggle back into a bloodied suit, so settled for stealing an old towel draped over one of the crates, wrapping it around his shoulders like a shawl. It wasn't ideal but it beat off the remaining shivers so that he could stagger upright without chattering teeth. Dust still streamed from the rafters, but it appeared to have lessened somewhat. Perhaps the storm was drifting over, or maybe the infected had retreated, no longer trying to claw their way through impassable stone. Either way, no one was going anywhere for the next few hours – that much was certain.

"Hey," Virgil greeted without looking up from the final rucksack. He scrubbed dust away from his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "We've lost about half of our food. We'll have to scout the house for rations before we leave."

Scott eyed Finch. The dog remained resolute, staring at that door as if all their lives depended on her observational skills. Virgil tightened the strap on the rucksack and shoved it underneath a spare tarp to protect it from the driving dust. For a moment, they sat and listened to the storm, watching the dog and trying not to fall into the trap of awkward silence in which there were too many words yet everything remained unspoken.

The flashlight flickered.

Virgil smacked it. The bulb shivered but brightened again. The idea of that soul-consuming darkness seemed scarier than usual. Scott took a seat on the nearest crate and held out a hand for the flashlight. He had a sneaking suspicion that the battery was loose, although such a simple fix didn't match with their recent run of terrible luck. A completely broken bulb seemed more fitting.

Virgil moved to lean against the crate, watching without comment as Scott twisted the flashlight apart. The pieces were choked with dust, which clearly didn't help the connection. Scott tried to clean them against the tarp. Virgil took the battery from him and wiped away the grime, passing it back cautiously as if it were a fragile explosive.

"What happened to your hand?"

Scott glanced at his knuckles. In the gloom by the pillar, broken skin had gone unnoticed, but now, in the flashlight and swinging glow from the camping lamp someone had hooked over one of the rafters, there was no more hiding. He flexed his hand, examining the blood welling to the surface.

"Nothing." The lie grated. He fixed his sight on the flashlight pieces, slotting the battery into its compartment, easing wires back together. "Must have knocked it when I was dealing with our friends up there. You try walking away from a fight without a scratch."

Virgil remained quiet for a long minute. "Doesn't look like you hit something."

"Then I probably scraped it. I don't know – we hit the ground pretty hard." Scott handed the flashlight back to him just in time to glimpse raw concern before Virgil had chance to conceal it behind forced neutrality. "Why are you so hung up on this? I'm fine."

"You're many things, but I wouldn't consider fine to be one of them."

"Thanks."

"Don't be an asshole, you know what I meant." Virgil was clearly itching to press further, ask the obvious questions and demand truthful answers – because they both knew damn well that those marks didn't match those earnt from a hard punch and Scott was not a convincing liar when he was this tired – but he let it slide. "How are you feeling?"

Scott was hard-pressed not to laugh at that. "Just peachy."

"Dumb question, huh?"

"Just a little."

"I'm sorry."

The apology seemed to carry greater weight than the rest of the conversation. Scott slid off the crate to sit side-by-side with his brother, tipping his head back to examine the ceiling where feral cries tore from the surface world as the wind picked up in intensity once again. He was caught in the strange divide between an adrenaline rush and a crash, and it made itself known in the itch beneath his skin. He curled his hands into fists and tried not to notice Virgil studying his damaged knuckles.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked eventually.

Virgil lifted the flashlight into his lap, rolling it from one hand to the other.

"A lot," he whispered, just loud enough to be audible. "Especially for the past forty-eight hours… No, it's been longer than that… well, however long it's been since we left the bunker. I basically forced you back into the driver's seat, and I don't mean the literal- I promised you that I'd take over for a while so you could step back and take a break, but then- So. I'm sorry."

Scott picked at the dried blood clinging to the underside of his wrist. "Let me."

He could sense Virgil staring at him and deliberately didn't look up, because he didn't trust his own resolve, couldn't tell whether this was the right thing to do or not and Virgil would be able to read the hesitation on his face in an instant.

"Let me," he repeated, trying to keep his voice level. "I can- I'd say take control, but that sounds like a dictatorship."

"Lead," Virgil supplied.

"Exactly. Let me lead. I know what I said. I know how it sounded. But it's different out here, in the thick of things. I don't think I'm actually capable of taking a step back. I'd have too much time to think and that's when it gets dangerous. So, don't apologise – you've probably done me a favour."

"What can I do?"

"Be there."

Virgil shot him a questioning look. "Well, yes, but that was never- I'm always going to be there, you know that. You… You do know that, right?"

"Right."

"We'll figure it out together."

"Do me a favour?"

"I'm scared to ask."

"Don't kill any of them."

Virgil fell silent. The flashlight beam stuttered to a halt as he set it down between them, reflecting off wet tarp and dust-stricken pillars. Metallic shrieks ended in a cacophony of thunder as the wind tossed something large and manmade across the yard. Finch bristled, growling deep in her throat.

"Why?"

Scott ran a thumb across raw skin.

"Because…" he began slowly, trying to find the correct phrasing but coming up empty handed. There were no words, only memories. "If there's no other choice, then that's different, but if possible… Surviving's only one part, remember? You've got to live afterwards and that's a helluva lot easier with clean hands."

He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Virgil laugh without that sharp edge and this time was no different. It sounded bitter. Lost. Painful.

"Right, so that just leaves Alan." Virgil kicked the flashlight away so that the darkness could sweep in and hide his expression. "I may not have taken down any of the infected, but that doesn't make me innocent. I've got to live with just as much guilt as you or John or Gordon. You killed because you didn't have a choice. I condemned people because I walked away. At least you can claim to be a survivor. All I can lay claim to is cowardice."

"Virg-"

"Joanna knew they wouldn't last the week. So did I if I'm honest with myself. But I still left them behind."

"I made you. That's on me, remember?"

"I'm my own person, Scott, you didn't make me do shit. At the end of the day, I agreed. I turned my back on them. I could have refused. What would you have done then? But I walked away from kids. So please don't tell me not to get my hands dirty now. It's too late for that. At least killing the infected is a mercy."

"Virgil."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

Virgil took a deep breath. "I'm not looking for an apology. I don't need one from you. That decision was – is - on both of us. My point is that you can't protect me from this. Survivor's guilt – it's in the name. If we get to live after all of this… Even if I somehow escape without ever putting a bullet in one of those things, I'm not going to be the same person as I was before. We're all changing. You can't stop it. I'm going to be here, having your back, like always, but you can't ask me to be okay. I have to adapt, and I know you don't like that, but none of us have a choice."

Any further discussion was hastily postponed by Gordon's arrival. He dropped to sit between them in a slumped heap, muffling a strangled scream in his arms. Virgil caught Scott's gaze, tilting his head ever-so-slightly in question. Scott bit back a sigh and nodded. Yeah. They'd continue that conversation later. Right now, Gordon took priority.

"Uh…" Scott cautiously put a hand on Gordon's shoulder, reassured when he wasn't instantly rebuffed. Small steps. "How are you doing?"

"Let's not talk about that."

And it was that tone of voice which knocked alarm bells not only ringing, but practically wailing. Not detached, not even resigned, but something in between that remained unknowable but suggested prying further would reveal answers best left unspoken. Scott retracted his hand and caught Virgil's eye, trying to translate the hidden message his brother was sending him whilst also keeping the silent discussion from Gordon's notice. Not that this was much of a concern given Gordon seemed determined to make himself as small as humanly possible and hide from the world – hunching over his knees like that had to be painful.

Virgil narrowed his eyes, faintly exasperated. In other words, get outta here for a minute. Scott reluctantly listened because emotional conversations were definitely more Virgil's forte than his own and whatever had happened in the past fifteen minutes between Gordon and Alan, the fallout wasn't pretty. He left his brothers to their whispered confessions and set about scouting out the cellar.

The space was relatively large but much of it was taken up by crates. It appeared as though the residents had been stockpiling supplies. Perhaps they'd survived beyond the initial Z-Day, possibly even several weeks into the end times, or maybe they'd caught wind of the approaching apocalypse before the parasite had awoken. Sometimes Scott recalled the pure terror in Eddie Walters' voice on the eve of the end of the world and wondered how the hell he'd written off his friend's concerns as mere drunken ramblings. How many other signs had they all ignored as paranoia, coincidence, conspiracies without foundation?

The majority of crates had survived the leaking rainwater. All the tarps had helped and someone had nailed a series of wooden boards over the single window at ground level, sealing it with a generous coat of resin. Scott stole a flashlight from one of the rucksacks and clambered onto a crate to reach the window. He could spy the outside world through only a few thin cracks where the wood had splintered, but it was sufficient to see that the majority of the infected had wandered away. Only the most determined remained, hunkered down beneath the porch or flattened against the walls of the garage. One of the more intelligent creatures caught onto the beam and tracked it back to the boarded window with cold, lifeless eyes.

"What are you looking at?"

"Holy fu- Don't do that."

Scott switched off the flashlight before the infected could show any more interest and slid off the crate. Alan didn't look particularly sheepish, just curious, as if he hadn't given Scott the biggest jump-scare of the entire apocalypse.

"So?"

Scott pressed the flashlight into Alan's hands. "Nothing. Just checking on the storm. Hold that, I want to see what's in these crates."

Alan took a step back as a cloud of dust rose from the tarp when Scott hauled it aside.

"I think the wind's dying down." He directed the flashlight over the crate. "Lightning strikes are still pretty frequent but the storm's definitely moving further away. I've been counting the seconds between flashes and thunder."

"Very scientific," Scott teased, easing a knife into the rim of the crate to prise the lid open.

The nails held fast but wood strained under pressure. Several splinters exploded over his boots. He wedged the knife deeper until he heard that distinctive crack. A nail jumped free, rattling over damp concrete until Alan pinned it under his heels. With the hard work over, it was easy to push the lid aside and examine the contents. Scott had been hoping for food – tins or long-life groceries – but while there was no trace of anything edible, the supplies were definitely a useful and much-welcome asset.

Alan prodded a folded square of what looked to be silver foil.

"What is that? Recovery blanket?" He tucked the flashlight under his arm for safe-keeping and lifted the fabric. "Yeah, this is definitely mylar." He hid a grin behind the blanket. "Awesome."

The crate appeared to be dedicated to shelter supplies. There was a second piece of mylar fabric and three sleeping bags, alongside a spare tarp which was folded into a neat square, a solar-powered camping light and several rolled metres of paracord. Scott stole the flashlight back from Alan – who was now wearing the mylar blanket as a superhero cape like an absolute child – and discovered several smaller items concealed in the shadows at the very base of the crate. There were two boxes of matches, three lighters, candles and a set of fishing tackle with an extra line.

"Hey, Al." He held the fishing line aloft, twisting it to shimmer in the flashlight. "Fancy taking a trip?"

Alan seized the line from him with a faint laugh. "Dude. What the hell?"

"Don't call me dude."

Alan prodded at one of the hooks dubiously. "Isn't everything dead? Are there even any fish to catch?"

"Maybe further north." Scott retrieved the box before Alan could break anything. "We need to eat something with proper nutrition at some point, so this is actually useful."

"All of it's useful," Alan corrected, flapping a corner of the blanket at him. "…Are you wearing a towel?"

Scott reached for the half-empty rucksack. "It's a fashion statement." He paused halfway through stashing the paracord into the bag. "What, you don't think I look super cool?"

"No," Alan replied flatly without hesitation. "You look like one of those abandoned animals they find on rescue shows. You know the ones – they find a lost dog and it's all scrawny and sad, so they wrap it in a towel."

"Thanks? I think?"

"Oh no, it wasn't a compliment."

"Get your ass down here and help me pack. Jesus. I let you keep Finch and in return all you do is insult me. Unbelievable."

"Sucks to be you."

"Such disrespect."

Alan swatted him with the mylar blanket. Scott caught the edge of the fabric and yanked it over his brother's head, trying not to laugh as Alan lost his balance, struggling to free himself with a series of outraged squawks. Instinct had them both quiet in an instant, laughter replaced by watchful stares at the barricaded window and hatch, just waiting for the infected to follow the sound with those gaping jaws and dripping fingertips, but for once the storm was a blessing, concealing all humour behind gusts of dusty wind.

They returned to rolling up sleeping bags as small as possible. Alan was right – the storm was definitely moving eastwards. The worst was over, but Scott didn't plan to make a move until morning. Night had set in quickly and the only thing scarier than having the infected tailing them was not being able to see the creatures coming. Besides, they needed to scout the house for food, and he had a sneaking suspicion that something far deadlier than mere dust lurked within those walls. If he listened carefully, he swore he could already hear scratching in the ceiling.

"Did you punch another wall?" Alan asked quietly, not looking away from tucking the final sleeping bag into the rucksack. He reached for the matches, slotting them between the rolls. "Your hand's kinda busted."

"It's not busted."

Scott caught the flashlight and directed the beam over his knuckles for closer examination. Now that he'd knocked himself out of the unreal dazed state, it was easier to take a logical stance and consider his previous self an absolute idiot. Any open cuts or grazes invited infection. What the hell had he been thinking?

Alan sent him a long look. "Uh huh."

"Don't do that."

"I'm not doing anything."

"It's not busted."

"Okay."

"Alan."

"What?"

Scott shone the flashlight in the kid's face. Alan blinked owlishly, squinting, batting it away with an agitated hiss. Scott repressed a laugh. Alan, deeply unimpressed, turned away with a huff, before realisation struck.

"Hey, quit trying to distract me. What happened?"

Scott pulled the rucksack closer and tugged it shut, pulling the ties taut until there was no chance of any water seeping inside.

"What is with you and Virgil tonight? I am fine. John and I hit the ground pretty dang hard but that's it. I probably smacked my hand against the concrete. Why are you both so concerned?"

"Really?" Alan dropped the sarcasm. "Wait, like, really? You're actually asking? That's a serious question? Everything that happened in the bunker… you think we've all just forgotten that? That stuff doesn't go away on its own. We're just…" He picked at a loop of the rucksack. "We're just worried," he finished softly. "You know?"

"I know." Scott sought Alan's gaze. "Hey," he repeated gently. "I know. I get it. I'm sorry. I'm okay for now, I promise." He lifted an arm and let Alan scoot against his side. "But I'd like to know how you're doing."

Alan tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling with a faint sound of protest. "Do we have to do this?"

"Absolutely." Scott tightened his grip in case Alan got the idea to escape – not that there was far to go given they were trapped in this cellar for the foreseeable future. "C'mon, bud." He softened his voice. "Just talk to me. Please?"

Alan let the silence settle for a moment. Gordon and Virgil had finally finished their hushed conversation and looked to be trying to get some sleep, while John had yet to move from his place against the wall, staring resolutely at the hatch as if anticipating an attack at any second. There was doubtlessly numerous weapons hidden on his person, but Scott couldn't see any. All that leapt out was the drying blood from the infected, which only proper running water could clean – a damp shirt could only do so much and mostly just smeared the red deeper.

"I don't want to talk about it," Alan said all of a sudden. His gaze was fixed on Finch, unwilling to look away for fear of being caught out – emotions were difficult to hide from the people who'd raised you. "Can you just… let this go? At least for now?" He took a deep breath. "I get why you want to talk, but I can't have that conversation. Not yet."

"Okay."

Alan twisted to look at him. "Wait, really?"

"Really." Scott wasn't particularly happy about it, but he knew when Alan was likely to give in and talk and right now he was painfully aware that they wouldn't get anywhere. "I've gotta trust you to know your own limits. All I'm asking is that you know I'm here and you come to me when you're ready to talk."

Alan tipped sideways to rest his head on Scott's shoulder. "Okay." He traced the seams of his suit absently, barely audible above the wind as he whispered, "Thanks."

"Anytime."