It's Friday which means I have officially survived an entire week of uni. Survived being the key word, because spending 4 hours on trains every day isn't fun, but hey at least I'm being productive - writing fanfic totally counts, right? Also, unrelated, but this was one of my favourite chapters to write so have fun my friends ;)
The apocalypse had a few light-hearted moments scattered amid all the ugliness and the pain and the constant fear. Life was what you made it, after all – there was no premade happiness, so they had to forge their own bright times, such as squabbles over the mundane aspects of existence or tossing sticks for Finch or the memorable occasion when Virgil got startled by a crow and Gordon proceeded to laugh at him for the next hour and Alan wouldn't stop teasing him either.
But for the vast majority of the time, everything was awful. Killing the infected became physically easier with practise but the cost to your soul never decreased. The world was dying and no amount of forced positivity could dispute that fact. There were long stretches of silent walking. Some nights they decided to forgo finding a safe place altogether, choosing to make more progress rather than sitting in the dark and cold without words while sleep evaded them until dawn made itself known.
Once upon a time, Scott had tried to avoid taking down the infected. He still did, to a certain extent, but he was slightly less hung up about it now. Killing was easier when it was self-defence. Alan had yet to face any of the infected one-on-one and, despite all his previous determination that he would kill a rotter, Virgil had also kept clean hands so far. John had formed deadly instincts to rival Gordon's and the two had probably tallied an equal number of kills between them. Scott hadn't been keeping count and never intended to start.
Breaking into houses grew easier too. To begin with it had felt unnatural and traipsing through someone's home had invited guilt. Taking from cupboards and stealing clothes had seemed criminal. Now, none of them hesitated. Scott taught Alan how to pick locks which was well-worth the admonishing look John sent him – which was fair enough because Alan was sneaky enough without knowing how to get past a locked door – because Alan had been all bouncy and beaming afterwards, the human manifestation of Finch's wagging tail.
Food was an issue. They were all burning more calories than they were consuming, and supplies were only growing harder to find. Many houses had already been looted and there were more traces of bandits the further north they travelled.
"We barely escaped the last encounter," Virgil remarked quietly, standing a short distance away from the others while Gordon scaled a fire-escape ladder to gain a better view. "And we had a getaway plan that time."
"They took us by surprise," Scott reminded him. "If we try to stick to the open, they won't be able to get the drop on us. Besides, we've got a lot more on our side now."
"Such as?"
"Weapons, for a start."
Virgil's gaze dropped to the gun in his hands.
"Yeah," he replied softly. "I guess so."
The conversation was interrupted by Gordon's triumphant declaration as he reached the top of the escape ladder. They had to take a detour by a good couple of miles to avoid a large cluster of infected, but it put them away from the main path of bandit activity. After two days of no signs, Scott relaxed a little and Gordon didn't seem quite as on edge either. They relied on Finch as an early warning system and, with the exception of a few infected, the dog didn't appear as agitated anymore. Hopefully the bandits had started heading north-east as opposed to their own north-western path.
Steering clear of cities was fairly easy – at least for the time-being – but towns were sprawling messes which stretched for miles and were mostly unavoidable. John's map-reading abilities kept them from straying to close to the largest settlements, but even smaller clusters hid threats. But with Finch's warning growls and their own vigilance, they didn't run into too much trouble.
Scott had once again lost track of dates. He guessed they'd been on the road for roughly seven days, but his memory was hazy after twenty-four hours spent under constant attack from a horde of infected who caught their scent and proceeded to track them all the way from one town to the next, so it could have been eight or nine days instead. Either way, they were well into February, possibly even approaching March. John probably knew, but Scott was reluctant to ask, not wanting to hear the confirmation. It wasn't as if birthdays were a priority anymore, but he still felt guilty about letting Gordon's slip past without so much as a single acknowledgement. Not that his younger brother seemed too affected – or if he was then he hadn't let on. Scott wasn't sure which was worse – the idea that Gordon thought they knew the date and had chosen to ignore it or that they had all completely forgotten.
Anyway. The point was that in all likelihood Gordon had spent his birthday killing zombies or running for his life and neither of those options sat well with Scott. It was a little difficult to find a way to hold a belated celebration in the middle of the apocalypse though, especially when he hadn't had chance to talk to Virgil about it. Not John, because John was still distancing himself from all of them, even from Alan, and spent most of his time lost in thought. The irony was that he seemed most alive when plunging a knife into a rotter's heart. Scott tried not to think too hard about that one – there were a lot of implications there which didn't bear considering.
Surprisingly, he found an ally in Alan. Partner-in-crime, technically, because the task at hand involved looting the last convenience store before they broke free of town to go cross-country for a few days.
Alan, of course, was delighted by this description, especially when it was for a good cause.
"Partner in crime?" He offered a fist bump. "Hell yeah." He patted Finch's head as she tried to jump up between them, nearly dislodging the axe where Scott hadn't fully secured it over his shoulder and causing a minor heart attack before he managed to steady it. "Do you reckon we could make a cake out of stacked cookies?"
"Do I… what?"
"Stacked cookies," Alan repeated slowly as if it were obvious and Scott was just an idiot. "We can't make a birthday cake, clearly, so we could just stack a bunch of cookies together and put a candle on top. Because the cookies would still be good. They're in sealed packets so."
"Sure," Scott agreed, trying to coax Finch into sitting. "If you can find cookies, grab some. But the important part is to keep everything hidden from Gordon, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah." Alan flapped a hand. "I'm a master of stealth."
Scott could vividly recall Alan trying to sneak into Dad's office as a little kid – for no reason other than sheer curiosity because he wasn't normally allowed in there – via the airducts only to promptly fall through the grate and bellyflop onto the carpet in front of not only their father but half a dozen high-profile businessmen on a conference call.
"Uh huh," he replied instead because he hadn't seen Alan smile this much in days. "You're a master of stealth."
"I'm a goddamn ninja."
"Language."
Alan narrowed his eyes. "Dude. I was right there when that zombie nearly got the drop on you yesterday and you said, and I quote, 'Oh you motherfuc-'"
"Do as I say not as I do. And stop questioning me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm the adult here."
"I thought you said you're not a responsible adult though, so I don't have to listen to you."
"Alan," Scott began, fighting a wave of fond exasperation, only to glimpse the look on his kid's face. Alan looked positively delighted with himself and his capability to annoy everyone within five seconds at any given moment. Also, the thought of cookies was probably helping. "Just don't do anything dumb."
"I never do anything dumb," Alan protested. "Crazy, maybe, but not dumb."
"Oh, great, that's so much better." Scott resigned himself to whatever insane scheme Alan would doubtlessly cook up within the next hour. "Just… try to keep it to Tracy crazy, not Alan crazy."
Alan considered this for a moment. "I'll see if I can find you some hair dye."
"Alan."
"What?"
"I'm serious."
"Wow, I'm so scared."
"Please do not cause me any further unnecessary stress today."
Alan let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine, chill, I'll behave. You're kinda crushing my rebel dreams right now, though."
"And you're destroying my faith in your survival instincts, so…"
"Rude. I'm great at all of this."
The thing was, Alan actually kind of was great at it. Killing zombies? No. He'd steer clear of that, but you didn't need to be a fighter to survive. Fleeing worked just as well, so long as you had that option and so far they hadn't reached a point where fighting was the only way out. And even if for whatever reason Alan did end up cornered, he was concerningly good at parkour, so Scott was willing to bet the kid would just scale a wall and run away over rooftops like some sort of webless Spider-Man.
He was even good at finding food in the wilderness, which was strange given he had never been in the Scouts and knowing the difference between poisonous plants and edible supplies was not a skill Scott could ever recall being a part of their IR training. He'd asked Alan about it, only to receive a nonchalant shrug in response and then, casually, 'I read a book' which made a lot of sense because Alan was a strange little nerd who absolutely read survival manuals for fun in his free time and Scott loved him for it.
So.
"You're not terrible, I guess."
Alan swatted him. "Thanks for the confidence boost."
Scott repressed a laugh. "Anytime, Al, anytime."
The majority of stores had been looted early on in the apocalypse. Scott recalled the state of the shops during his escape from New York – how panicked people had stolen the strangest of things which held no relevance to survival at all, such as TVs and short-life food and alcohol – although to be fair he sorta understood the attraction of that last one. Unfortunately, getting black-out drunk was not on the cards when he had to be vigilant practically twenty-four-seven, so his focus today was finding food and water.
Their usual strategy was two remaining on guard outside while three entered and Finch scouted the store for threat beforehand. Typically, John and Alan took up guard duty, although occasionally Alan swapped with Virgil, while Scott and Gordon always entered the store so they could be ready to strike if anything was skulking in the shadows unnoticed by Finch. Finch tended to be accurate ninety-nine percent of the time, however, so this was always an unfounded concern. Today the order was switched, because for the first time John decided he wanted to enter the store rather than guarding the exit.
"Are you feeling alright?" Gordon teased, making to place a hand on John's forehead. "Why the change of heart?"
John slapped his arm away. "I am fine. Maybe I'm just bored of always being stuck on sentry duty, did you ever think of that?"
"No," Gordon replied instantly, "Because you once spent nearly two years on Five without coming down once and you never complained about boredom then."
"That's a completely different situation-"
"Okay," Scott interrupted before the pair could spiral into a full-blown argument. He rapped the head of his axe against the ground when Gordon didn't immediately snap out of taunting John. "So. John's heading inside. That means Gordon's on guard."
Gordon opened his mouth to protest then thought better of it. If John wasn't on guard, it had to be either Scott or Gordon taking his place because Virgil and Alan would hesitate before striking if anything bolted out of the blue and hesitation got you killed quicker than anything. They all knew there was no way in hell Scott was going to let Alan enter a store filled with unknown dangers without him, so Gordon was on the losing side from the get-go.
On a positive note, this made it a helluva lot easier to collect birthday supplies in secret. Scott scrutinised John for a second, trying to figure out whether his brother knew about the entire celebration plan and was therefore making this play to help keep Gordon in the dark, but no. If anything, John seemed nervous. There was definitely something else going on, but, yet again, Scott had no clue as to what.
Virgil had been silent throughout the conversation, observing and drawing his own conclusions. He shot Scott a worried look, clearly also picking up on the anxiety John was trying to hide – badly, it was worth noting, which was another red-flag because John was usually a lot better at hiding his emotions than this.
"Okay," Alan interjected before either of them could raise their concerns, "so Gordon and Virgil stay out here and the three of us go steal some cool shit."
"Food," Virgil corrected. "You're going to steal food."
"Food is cool shit nowadays," Alan explained. "It's like gold dust." He slipped a hand through Finch's collar. The dog was pawing at the ground, eager to get going, well-used to this routine after four previous occasions. "C'mon, let's go."
John seized the opportunity to move on without further interrogation.
"Great plan, let's get it over and done with." He flipped a sharper knife into his hand and followed Alan into the dark depths beyond the boarded window which Scott had pried open ten minutes earlier.
Virgil sent Scott a warning look. "Keep an eye on him."
"He's acting hella sketchy," Gordon agreed, tone oddly serious in contrast to his words. He shifted his weight to lean on his machete, examining the crumbling buildings around them to avoid making eye contact as if Scott hadn't already noticed just how concerned he was. "And he's trying to prove something."
"Prove what?" Virgil twisted to look at him. "Has he spoken to you?"
"Well, no, not exactly." Gordon tipped back against the side of the store. "It's just- Okay, there's definitely something else going on with him and I don't know what but he's being more reckless with the infected and I don't know- Forget it. That's not my point."
He curled a hand into a fist. Light reflected off the gold seams of his GDF suit. He kept his voice hushed so that the sound couldn't travel beyond their little circle.
"Isn't this the first time he's been in a place like this since October? There's a reason he's always on guard duty. That's why I'm worried, you know? It's probably fine, but just in case it brings up bad memories… Keep an eye on him."
The realisation was jarring. Because- Gordon was right. Scott searched his memories only to come up empty-handed because yes, this was John's first time in any sort of store, let alone one which so closely mirrored the New Zealand incident. He snatched up his axe and dashed after Alan and John before Virgil could comment or Gordon could get another word in.
The store was the spitting image of the New Zealand supermarket, so much so that Scott actually froze when he first scrambled through the window – not one of his most dignified entrances, admittedly, as he had to crawl in whilst trying to avoid the broken glass and ended up slamming into the ground heavily enough to jar his knees. In the semi-darkness, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and in those vulnerable seconds the past and the present seemed to overlap. He almost expected to turn and find Gordon and John right behind him as if it were October all over again.
This store had clearly been broken into before, but the looters hadn't taken much. Packets had been torn open leaving their innards over the floor. Crumbs and crushed chips littered the aisles where someone had torn into them like a wild animal. Several empty tins glinted in the glow of Alan's flashlight up ahead.
Scott crouched for a moment, studying the unnatural reflection of light beneath one of the display units and discovered a hoard of empty shells. He straightened up, running a hand along the shelves. At the end of the aisle, a refrigerator listed sideways. The doors were cracked, shattered lines originating from a bullet hole dead in the centre. He turned slowly, glimpsing bloody footprints smeared along another aisle, leading behind the counter at the far end of the store.
Alan exhaled between gritted teeth and released Finch's collar. The dog didn't need a command to understand her role, darting between the debris to follow the trail of blood. There were no following growls or barks, proof that there were no infected within the store, but death still lurked close by and Scott longed for the sunlight. He hadn't felt this uncomfortable – this trapped – within a place since the bunker. He wanted to grab John and Alan and get the hell outta dodge. Gordon's birthday celebration could be belated for a little longer.
But they needed supplies, so he forced himself to take a deep breath, held it, and released it, cautiously stepping over one of the crimson smears to reach John's side. Alan had a tight grip on his bat, backed up against the wall, staring into the gloom around the counter where Finch had vanished. Scott reached over to lower the bat a fraction. Alan whipped around as if he'd been electrocuted, flinging the bat up to defend himself but instinctual recognition keeping him from actually striking. He dropped it back to his side with a muttered curse.
"Don't sneak up on me like that."
"Sorry," Scott whispered, listening for any sign of trouble from Finch. He glimpsed John in his peripheral vision – on edge, shifting from foot to foot, trying to keep his breathing even and failing miserably at this. He was wearing an old leather jacket they'd found in one of the many houses they'd broken into and now he slid his hands into the pockets to hide the tremors. That haunted look in his eyes was unmistakeable, but he sensed eyes on him and stepped away before Scott could draw attention to him.
Alan dropped to his knees as Finch returned, summoning her to his chest with a low whistle.
"Hey, girl. No zombies hiding around the corner?" He planted a kiss on her fluffy head. "That's always a positive thing. Well done, Finch, good dog."
"Everything okay?" Virgil called through the window.
Scott glanced at John, who turned away to hide his expression. Alan gave Finch a final pat and stood back up, giving Scott a nod.
"Yeah," Scott called back, although he wasn't sure John counted as okay in anyone's books anymore, but what else could he say? "All okay so far."
Alan kept Finch close to his side and lofted his baseball bat over his shoulder, slipping the backpack into one hand as he sidestepped a dead crow – partly eaten, mostly decomposed so that the tiny skeleton gathered dust – tilting his head towards the end aisle.
"I'm gonna start looking for stuff."
"Uh huh," Scott agreed, attention mostly caught by John still. "Hey, be careful, alright?"
Alan saluted him. "Aye, aye, Captain."
"I mean it."
Alan raised the bat and shook it meaningfully. "I know, Scotty. I'll watch my back, I promise."
Scott reluctantly let him go. Frankly, he had more faith in Alan's abilities to keep himself safe than he did John's right now. Speaking of which… He turned on his heels, trying to avoid stepping on broken glass from the refrigerator and tracked John down in one of aisles. There were several packets of dried cereal still remaining on the shelves. Some had been chewed open. Fossilised remains littered the floor. The decaying carcass of a rat served as an ominous warning sign – even with all the supplies in the world at your fingertips, death would still come calling.
John plucked a box of cornflakes from the back of the shelf, away from the contaminated fluids leaking from the dead rat. "What are you doing here?"
"Uh…" Scott spun in a wide circle and seized a fistful of granola bars from the opposite shelf. "Finding food. Helping." He lifted a granola bar. "See?"
John levelled him with a deadpan stare. "Why are you with me and not Alan?"
"Alan's literally flown into deep space on multiple occasions, he can handle himself just fine."
John lowered the cereal. "Scott."
"What?"
"Why are you hovering?"
"I'm not hovering. Feet firmly on the ground, see?"
John made a small sound of exasperation and slammed the cereal back onto the shelf.
"I am fine. One hundred percent, absolutely, without a doubt, fine, so quit following me like I'm a lost puppy. There is no need for it."
Scott studied him for a long moment.
"You know," he remarked quietly, "you used to be a better liar than that."
John flung up his hands. "I'm not lying!"
Something thudded. Scott yanked the axe over his shoulder, planting his feet in case something were about to come hurtling around the corner, heart hammering like a sledgehammer, already listening and picking out details, seeking escape routes and subconsciously putting out an arm to keep John behind him.
"Sorry," Alan called, voice faintly muffled by his mask. "I knocked a shelf over. My bad!"
Scott dropped the axe. The head thumped against the floor with a metallic ring. He inhaled until his lungs ached and reminded himself how to breathe in the face of an adrenaline spike severe enough to have his heart doing somersaults – and not the good kind, either, no, he meant the kind that invited nausea and dizziness and made him want to crawl into a corner and hide from the world.
"Jeezus, Alan," he muttered, still gripping the fabric above his heart as if he could banish the anxiety through sheer stubbornness alone. A muted apology rang above the aisles, accompanied by the patter of Finch's paws over dusty tiles. He shoved the granola bars into his rucksack before he could forget them and turned back to John. John, who was staring at the collapsed shelving unit at the end of the aisle as if it had personally murdered the entire world right in front of him.
Scott frowned. "Hey, uh, Johnny? You good there?"
There was no immediate reply. He took a step closer, sidestepping so that he could block John's line of sight because he was pretty sure his brother wasn't seeing a simple collapsed shelving unit. In fact, if Scott thought too hard about it himself, he could also glimpse red where there was empty dust and hear growls in place of silence. October really wasn't so long ago in the grand scheme of things.
"John," he prompted, unwilling to reach out because who knew if touch was on the cards, but equally as unwilling to do nothing.
John physically shook himself. His grip on the knife was white knuckled, biting his palms in a manner that had to be painful.
"It's nothing."
His voice was sharp, snapping the silence and splintering the tension so that it broke into razor-edged shards, earning flinches from both of them.
"It's nothing," John repeated, gentler this time, finally meeting Scott's searching look. "I'm fine." He forced a smile, ghostlike and faint and painful in all the ways that mattered. "You shouldn't worry about me so much."
Shouldn't worry, Scott noted, not don't need to. It was a deliberate choice of language. He propped the axe against a shelf and left the backpack next to it to allow himself a pair of free hands and stepped closer so that the fine line of space between them became a choice. Come on, he urged silently, talk to me.
"You're really asking me not to worry?"
He tried to keep his voice light as if John couldn't read the truth between the lines without needing to even think about it.
"I know," he continued, gently, because someone needed to be soft when there were this many sharp edges lying around. "I know this is the first time since October. Why are you pushing yourself? You have nothing to prove."
"Not to you maybe."
"You know this won't do any good. All you're doing is hurting yourself."
John took a step back. "I seem to be pretty good at that lately – hurting everyone."
Or, unspoken, but painfully clear: hurting you.
"Why won't you talk to me?"
John faltered. There was broken glass under his heels and in his words and it dug deeper than his actions ever had.
"Because I'm a fucking mess, Scott," he replied wearily. "And I won't put that on you. I refuse to, so please stop asking."
There was no sudden battle against bandits or infected which could be blamed or used as an excuse for why Scott let the conversation slide – hell, why he'd let so many similar conversations go without fighting harder for the truth. He just let John walk away. He wasn't sure why. Some might accuse him of taking the easy path but in his books there was nothing easy about knowing his family were in pain but being unable to help. The reality was that something between himself and John had shifted, shattered, ever since that day when John had killed that first infected while Scott had frozen, and maybe it had been a long-time coming, maybe it had been inevitable, but now he feared whatever it was that had changed was irreparable. Then again, he had to question whether it was John's fault or his own. Perhaps he was so scared of losing people that he subconsciously drove them away. If you clung onto someone too tightly, they had no choice but to flee for fear of being suffocated.
Logically, he was aware that this was complete bullshit because history showed just how fiercely the Tracys fought for each other. Unfortunately, his mind was a quagmire which refused to absorb aforementioned logic, so instead he spent the next few hours slowly spiralling, examining each event of the past few months in a new light until he had somehow convinced himself that he was royally screwing everything up.
No one voluntarily talked to him anymore – wasn't that just another case in point? Admittedly, John wouldn't talk to anyone and so could theoretically be considered an outlier, but Virgil and Gordon were keeping to themselves too and Scott couldn't figure out whether it was because they'd seen his breakdown back at the bunker or because he'd done something wrong but either way he needed to fix it. Alan was the only exception, still sticking close to Scott's side like glue, but then again Alan didn't exactly count because- Well, Alan was basically his kid, wasn't he? So it was different – a good different – the kind of different that Scott clung to just as desperately as Alan seemed to, so in that regard at least they had each other.
On the plus side, Virgil and Gordon were talking a lot more, as if they had reverted back to their easy friendship pre-apocalyptic times. On the downside, Gordon was at just as much of a loss as anyone else when it came to breaking through the walls Virgil had built since losing Two. Virgil was still determined to take down one of the infected as if it were some sort of requirement for achieving self-acceptance – ironic given it was in fact the complete opposite – but so far John had been quicker on the mark every time and so Virgil hadn't had the chance. Scott had quickly concluded that John was doing it on purpose – understanding how deeply it scarred the soul to kill anything, even a monster, and so preventing Virgil from having to go through that pain too. On one hand it was reassuring because it meant that there was still some of the old John in there. On the other, Scott was very concerned, because he knew damn well it had to be tearing John up every time he put a knife in a skull. Just how much guilt could one person carry before they drowned in it?
So. John wasn't talking to anyone, Gordon was secretly hiding enough guilt and newly acquired self-esteem issues to fill a swimming pool, Virgil was grieving Two and trying to change his entire sense of self in the process, Alan was pretending he wasn't absolutely terrified of whatever-the-fuck was medically wrong with him and Scott was silently freaking-the-hell-out twenty-four-seven. It was not a good combination. It was also a terrible strategy for survival. International Rescue had drummed the importance of teamwork into them and right now they were barely a family. Scott could only hope that his plans for tonight would change that and, glancing at Alan who was bouncing at his side like a gleeful puppy, he saw that same hope reflected in his brother's eyes too.
Travelling cross-country on foot was a lot harder than any of them had anticipated. They'd crossed a lot of miles off the map in the past forty-eight hours and yet there were still no signs of any towns or human existence on the horizon. It was tiring and temperatures kept nose-diving or rocketing sky-high without warning, making conditions worse than they already were. They couldn't escape the dust storms either, battening down the proverbial hatches in a ditch with a tarpaulin pulled over them for an exhausting couple of hours.
"This is cosy," Gordon quipped, holding the fabric taut against the wind, grin breathless and bright. They were huddled so close together that they were practically replicating one of their old puppy piles from movie nights. "We should do this more often."
"Never again unless you've showered next time," Virgil warned him, earning a loud laugh and a fond elbow to the ribs. Alan openly sniggered only to accidently inhale dust which then resulted in a terrifying coughing fit. After that, all traces of good humour fled along with the wind. Scott bracketed his youngest brother against the dried grass as the final gusts of the storm tried to yank the tarpaulin away and for once Alan didn't complain about the obvious overprotectiveness.
The coughing fits were increasing not only in frequency but in intensity. Without any tech at their disposal, it was difficult to make a diagnosis. There was always the contacts but without a link to Five or a network they weren't a reliable source of information and besides, there was no one to wear them because Scott, Virgil and Gordon didn't have the first idea how to work the damn things and John and Alan were banned from using them.
Helplessness was the worst feeling in Scott's books. All he could do was carry Alan's backpack as well as his own and secretly sneak extra food and water into the kid's bag from his own rations whenever Virgil or Alan himself weren't watching. He was pretty sure that Gordon had noticed but he had yet to say anything. Besides, Gordon was the one secretly giving his own blanket to Alan once the kid had fallen asleep at night, so he was clearly on the same wavelength as Scott.
Being out in the open was disconcerting. Scott was relieved when they made it to the woods. The forest stretched for miles. It would take them at least two days to reach the other side, but once they got there they would be faced with several large towns and one city, so while they wanted to put distance between them and that radiation storm, they also weren't particularly eager to hurry.
So. It was the perfect time to throw a very belated birthday party.
They set up camp in the middle of the forest in a hollow bracketed by a thick rock face with a slight overhang to protect them from rain. Trees framed the sky and it didn't take long to find dry firewood. It was the first time they'd been concealed enough to light a fire without fear of drawing anything to their location and the smell of woodsmoke was a comfort, evoking memories of childhood adventures and even nights on the beach back home. Gordon swept dead leaves away from smooth rock to arrange the sleeping bags while Virgil went on the hunt for enough kindling to see them through the night, John volunteering to go with him.
It got dark quickly. For once, the lack of light didn't feel ominous. The woods lacked that eerie sense of presence found in urban areas. There were less threats out here – most animals had long-since fled or died off and, as there had never been many humans living in the wilderness to begin with, there weren't any infected as a consequence. Not having to glance over your shoulder at every sound was a freeing experience. Once they had the fire built, framed by several solid rocks to keep the flames from escaping, it was almost as if they'd finally gotten around to taking that dreamt camping trip. In fact, excusing the entire apocalypse part, it was nice – campfire, just them and the forest, a family dog by their sides too – which was disconcerting because history had proved time after time that anything good was immediately followed by tragedy.
But for now: time for a belated birthday celebration.
As the final traces of sunset faded from the sky, firelight blanketed the campsite in soft amber while gold sparks chased a hazy canopy of stars beyond tree branches. Kindling crackled, thin wisps of smoke drifting beyond dark trunks on a faint breeze. Finch flopped as close as she could get to the fire, tail dangerously close to the flames until Alan coaxed her to a safe distance. She nestled her head on her paws, eyes bright and wide so that tiny fires reflected within her pupils, happily licking at a piece of jerky Gordon had found in the depths of his backpack.
Once upon a time, Scott imagined these woods would have been alive with wildlife. He put his back to the rockface and leant back, craning his neck as he closed his eyes to listen for a noiseless symphony of long-gone life. Bird song had been replaced by soft rustles as the breeze stirred dried leaves and dying bracken and the fire consumed more wood. Finch yawned, the noise high-pitched and vivid in contrast to the gentle background hum. Gordon tossed her another piece of jerky.
"Y'know," Alan began with a slow-dawning smirk, "It should probably tell you something when the only other person willing to eat that stuff is a dog."
Gordon flapped a hand indignantly. "Yeah, it tells me that Finch is the only one with good taste."
"Uh huh." Alan gave a solemn nod, grin fiendish in the firelight. "Sure."
Twigs cracked underfoot. Scott pushed himself upright instinctively, despite knowing it was only Virgil and John returning after gathering a top-up for the fire. He let himself relax again upon spying Finch's wagging tail and, sure enough, Virgil shouldered past a low-hanging tree branch to enter the circle, John at his heels with the axe and a bundle of wood.
"That should last us until dawn." Virgil dropped the final stash of wood on top of the meagre pile that they'd eaten through already. He claimed one of the sleeping bags for himself and tugged it closer to the fire so that he could lie within the circle of warmth. Alan made a protesting squawk as his brother's boots came dangerously close to his face, smacking Virgil's ankle and only receiving a laugh in return.
John slid the axe back over to Scott. "Thanks for letting me borrow that."
To chop firewood or to dispose of any potential infected, Scott wondered, but simply nodded. It wasn't the right night to pick a fight and God knew John took any comment as criticism these days.
Gordon rolled onto his back to squint up at John. "Since when are you such a lumberjack? You're stealing Virgil's thunder."
"It's because Vee hasn't got that shirt anymore," Alan chipped in.
Gordon nodded gravely. "We've gotta find you a new shirt, Virg. It's urgent business. Johnny's taking over your whole thing."
"Do you ever hear yourself speak and think, huh, I'm an idiot?" Virgil asked, not even attempting to keep the fondness out of his tone. He reached for his backpack, rifling through the contents for a spare blanket which he tossed at John. "Sit down. You're making me nervous."
John sank to the ground with some reluctance and Scott tried not to look too pleased by the fact John had chosen to sit next to him. From the deadpan stare his brother treated him to, he didn't do a particularly good job at hiding these feelings, so he gave in and let himself smile without hindrance when John flung the blanket halfway over him too so they could share. It was a peace offering after days of awkwardness and Scott was so eager to accept it that he didn't care whether he made himself look like an idiot in the process.
Alan kept shooting him looks. Scott knew fully well what the kid was trying to ask but the sun had only just dipped below the horizon and the moon had yet to rise fully, so he wanted to save the celebrations for a little while longer. Besides, it always took them all a couple of hours to relax, still in a state of vigilance from travelling and unwilling to trust supposed silence as safety. He caught Alan's eye and stared until his brother got the message and flopped onto a sleeping mat with an exaggerated sigh. Gordon, none the wiser as to this silent interaction, took the opportunity to stuff his sweaty socks down Alan's shirt and proceeded to use Virgil as a human shield when Alan let out a battle cry.
"I'm convinced they're both five-year-olds in disguise," John remarked dryly, partly muffled by the blanket he had drawn to his chin, the corner twirled around his thumb where he kept tugging at it in a similar fashion to how Alan usually pulled at hoodie drawstrings.
Scott followed his gaze. Gordon had given up on trying to fight off Alan's mad flails with the socks and was now simply cackling like a madman, sprawled on his back with his hair in the dust and a wide grin to match Finch's smile. It was difficult to correlate this image with the same guy who had decapitated a zombie earlier that day.
"It's nice," Scott replied quietly, trusting that John would be able to translate the real meaning, because nice didn't cover it but the truth was too overwhelming to be encompassed by mere words.
He drummed a hand against cold stone absently, feeling cracks in the rockface snag against the callouses of his palms from days of fighting with the axe. It was strange being able to breathe without the constant stench of rot and the crisp forest air was almost too pure. He tipped his head back until he knocked against stone and inhaled deeply. The blanket shifted as John moved momentarily to reach for the knife, twisting and turning the blade as he flipped it between his hands. Scott repressed a wince, but John caught the gesture.
"Spit it out."
Scott didn't hesitate. "Do you have to do that?"
"I need practice. I've never been described as coordinated for a reason."
"But right now?"
John faltered. "I get a free pass tomorrow," he warned, reluctantly sliding the knife back into its makeshift holster at his hip. "No comments or judging stares whenever I don't meet your expectations."
Scott sent him a confused look. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Bad phrasing," John considered. "Not expectations as such, just… You have a preconceived idea of who I am and how I behave, but that's changed. It doesn't match anymore and every time I prove that you get…" His gaze drifted to Alan. "Weird."
"Weird," Scott echoed, and it came out more wryly than he'd intended.
John repressed a laugh. "Weird," he confirmed. "Look, we're not having this conversation here. Not even tomorrow. Not until we're safe."
"But we will have it, right?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Seriously, yes. We need to fix… well, this, and you can't rebuild when there are still secrets standing in the way."
"Not just talking about rebuilding the world, huh?"
John elbowed him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Scott repressed a smile. "Okay then. Deal. I'll try not to be weird and you don't act all stabby stabby tonight."
"Stabby," John repeated slowly with a long-suffering sigh of exasperation. "Deal."
Scott offered him a grin. "Wanna shake on it?"
"Fuck off."
He openly laughed. "Such bad language. Wash your mouth out."
"If you keep this up, you'll be the next thing I stab." John side-eyed him. "I mean it."
"Bullshit," Scott shot back, aware he sounded obnoxiously confident about it. "You nearly broke your hand just because that guy in cafeteria started talking shit about me."
John made a face. "God, talk about a role reversal. It used to be you punching people in cafeterias in my defence."
Every so often the fire would send up a flurry of sparks, like a tiny firework storm amid the dark. They glowed a brilliant gold until they slowly faded beyond the treeline or into the shadows. Finch tried to paw at one. Alan sat criss-cross like a little kid, gaze fixed on the fleeing sparks, wide-eyed and wonderous at such a small sight that somehow held great beauty, but then again he always had been good at seeing magic in mundanity.
"They're a bit like shooting stars," he mused, tipping back against his hands so he could see higher. Finch curled up against his hip, resting her chin in his lap. He laid a hand on her head. "Burn out hella quick but for a short while they look incredible."
Gordon had his chin propped in his hands. "You gonna make a wish on one?"
"Maybe." Alan held out a hand and let a spark ghost his fingertips. His smile was golden in the fire glow. "I dunno. Do you reckon it's possible to run out of wishes?"
"Damn, Al, how many wishes have you been making?"
"When I was little? A lot." Alan drew his knees to his chest. "Like a lot."
"I don't think there's an allowance," Virgil remarked, fondly amused, "but even if there is, wishes don't count before the age of thirteen. Every little kid wishes on everything."
"Little kid?" Alan joked. "I was talking about last year."
"Last year?" Gordon chimed in. "I thought you meant last week."
Alan glowered at him. "I'm going to shove you into the fire."
"Try me, tiny gremlin."
"I'm basically your height."
"Basically is not the same as actually."
"You're so annoying."
Gordon winked. "Danke." He dropped his chin to the bundled sweatshirt at the end of his sleeping bag. "So? Are you gonna wish for a miracle or not?"
"Miracles are made by human hands," Alan announced in a faux serious voice.
Gordon blinked. "Damn. That's deep."
"Not really, it's just something I remember Dad saying when he wanted me to do my homework. Or maybe it was cleaning my room. Something to do with persevering when I didn't want to even start, anyway." Alan traced patterns along Finch's spine. "Maybe it's not total crap, because people used to wish for miracles when they were in danger and then we'd rock up and save them, so I guess in a way some miracles are manmade. The point is that I already got my wish for the day, but we made it come true ourselves, so if anyone wants a turn at their own miracle the sparks are all yours."
"Hell yeah, I wanna wish on a spark." Gordon pretended to think about it.
Virgil looked thoughtful. "What was your wish?"
"I can't tell you," Gordon exclaimed, as overdramatic as ever. "Then it won't come true."
"No, not you. I meant Alan's wish."
"Oh. Right. That does make more sense."
Alan had flopped onto his back, watching the sparks leave trails in the night air, tiny beads of smoke fading like ghosts. He crossed his arms beneath his head, murmuring something inaudible to Finch as she settled at his side, chin above his heart to listen to his steady pulse.
"Alan?" Virgil prompted, and Scott tried not to look so obviously like he was eavesdropping but c'mon, he was interested to hear the answer too.
"Huh?"
"What did you wish for?"
"Nothing important. Okay, well it is important, but it's not- It's dumb. Don't worry about it."
"Ooh, now I wanna know." Gordon rolled over to face him. "Tell us or I'll throw my socks in your face again."
"He will not be doing that," John interjected, "But really. I'm interested now."
"God, alright, stop bugging me already." Alan flung an arm across his face to hide his expression, the words muffled by his sleeve. "I wished for this, okay? This moment, with all of us and the campfire and- Jeez. Interrogate Gordon instead."
Gordon shrugged. "I'm chill with that."
"Well duh, you love being the centre of attention."
"Do you want me to deny it or…?"
"Well, that's a good thing," Scott interjected before the pair could spiral into further squabbling which only ever ended in fire and/or tears, "because tonight you sort of are the centre of attention."
"Wait, what?" Gordon sat up, instantly suspicious. "Why? What evil scheme has John got planned?"
"Why me?"
"You're the Slytherin of the family."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." John yanked the blanket over his head. "I can't deal with this much idiocy in one go."
"Play nice, it's his birthday party, remember?" Scott chided.
John poked his head above the blanket. "Party? How old is he, eight?"
"Wait, wait, wait, can we just…" Gordon made a vague gesture. "Rewind. Record scratch. What?"
"It's nearly March," Scott explained. "Which means at some point we missed your birthday. Unintentionally, I'd like to make that clear, it's just been impossible to keep track of dates. We didn't forget, we just genuinely don't know what day it is. So, we figured we'd have a belated celebration tonight. Is that cool?"
Gordon stared at him, seemingly lost for words - which never happened.
"Oh my god," Alan whispered delightedly. "I think you broke him."
Gordon physically shook himself out of the daze. "I- You- What?"
"I feel like we should be worried about how much of a surprise this is to you," John commented, aiming for a nonplussed breezy tone but landing a little too close to the concerned mark to be able to play it off. He had a good point, even if he had intended for it to be taken as a joke.
"No, no," Gordon tried to protest, sensing that concern beginning to work its way around the circle and realising he was not overly happy to be the centre of that particular thread of attention. "It's not- I'm just- I figured no one knew the date and we'd just let it slide, 'cos, like, it's the apocalypse, right? So, birthdays aren't exactly a priority anymore. But now you're telling me you did remember and it's- Yeah. Thanks."
"Congrats, Gords," Alan deadpanned. "You're one year closer to death."
"Thanks," Scott drawled, eternally reminded of their varying age gaps when it came to birthdays and Alan's annual sarcastic quips.
Alan beamed at him. "You're welcome, Scotty." He propped himself up on an elbow, squinting as he leant in close to examine Gordon's expression. "Holy shit, are you actually crying?"
"It's the smoke!"
"Aw." Virgil shuffled close enough to loop an arm around Gordon's shoulders. "That's sweet. Happy birthday."
"Late birthday," Gordon tried to correct him whilst attempting to stifle a sniff. "But yeah. This is great. Thanks."
John hid a smile in the shadows of the rockface. "Happy birthday. Not sure how you made it this far with your singular brain cell, but you know, congratulations anyway."
"Cake time," Alan declared before the conversation could decline into such realms of saccharine that only Virgil would be able to cope. He made a mad flail for his backpack. Scott pushed it within reach with one foot before Alan could somehow set his sleeve on fire, leaning too close to those flames for anyone's sanity.
Gordon let out a damp laugh. "Okay, that's such BS. There is no way you guys managed to find cake."
"Maybe we made it," John suggested casually, with just enough of an evil genius grin for Gordon to double-take and genuinely consider the possibility.
Alan retrieved the cookies he'd stashed in his bag. "Yeah, you're right. We didn't find cake. But cookies are close enough, right? And hey, check it out – I even found a candle."
It was a proper birthday cake candle, one of those yellow stripey things, not the survival mantelpiece type that Scott had been expecting. He was convinced that Alan would absolutely rule at scavenger hunts, because come on, how the hell did you find birthday cake candles in the middle of the apocalypse when some days they struggled to even find food?
Alan stuck the candle in the top of the largest cookie – chocolate chip, slightly soft but still edible and doubtlessly saturated with sugar. Virgil stole it from him to light it and then passed it over to Gordon.
Gordon cradled it as if it were precious and vulnerable. "I'm still not telling you my wish, Virg."
Virgil patted him on the back. "I can live with that."
Cookies were shared out as evenly as possible, with two going spare, one of which Gordon claimed as he was, in his own words, 'the birthday king' and the second was split between Virgil and Alan. The fire burnt low, but no one moved to top it up, content to revel in the safe glow of the embers while sparks glided between dark trees like fireflies. Not a perfect moment, but the closest they could get to happiness. It was enough and wasn't that a manmade miracle in itself?
"Next thing you're gonna tell me you have presents," Gordon joked, flat on his back, half draped across Alan's sleeping bag as well as his own with Finch resting over his legs. He was still trying to lick the final cookie crumbs from his hands like a five-year-old and somehow Scott managed to find it impossibly endearing.
"Actually," Virgil began quietly, "about that…"
"No way." Gordon planted a hand on Alan's shoulder and used him as an armrest to sit up, ignoring all protests – which weren't very convincing given Alan had yet to make any attempt to shove him away. "There is no way. You're kidding me."
"It's not so much a gift," Virgil elaborated, sort of hesitant and uncertain, as if he were nervous about Gordon's reaction. He retrieved his rucksack filled with pilfered items from Two and rummaged through the contents, breath catching in his throat as he found whatever he was looking for. It was impossible to tell whether his eyes were red rimmed from woodsmoke or tears. "It's more… sort of like returning something."
Gordon frowned. "Returning what?"
"Lily gave it to me, but I think it belongs with you more."
And Scott just knew, but somehow he still couldn't bring himself to believe it until Virgil lifted that toy rabbit from the rucksack. The fur was slightly scorched, grubby with ash, but it still looked soft and more than that, it looked loved. It carried a far greater weight than a mere birthday gift. He held it out, firelight turning plush fur a gentle orange, unspeaking, unbreathing, until Gordon accepted it, tracing burn marks and old fingerprints with an honoured reverence.
"Lily gave it to you," he said at last, unable to deny how choked his voice was. "Are you sure you don't want to keep it?"
Virgil caught his gaze and held it. "You were her hero, Gordon. Not me, not Scott, but you. Yes, I am one hundred percent that you should have it."
Gordon studied the rabbit for a moment longer. "Thanks, Virg," he whispered, tearful but still smiling. "I frickin' love you, man, you know that?"
Sleep came easily for once. Alan was out like a light and Virgil followed not soon after. Scott kept expecting John to move away but his brother stayed by his side and eventually drifted off too. It was the closest they'd been in weeks – not just literally but emotionally too – exemplified by the sort of undeniable trust that came with sleeping in someone else's presence and trusting them to watch over you.
Gordon came and sat on Scott's other side when the moon had reached its highest peak and the fire was a ghost of its once proud flames.
"Thank you."
Scott raised a brow. "You know better than to thank me for this."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not just talking about tonight."
There was a lot unspoken between them all, but words weren't always a necessity.
"Happy birthday," Scott murmured. "Even if it is late. I'm proud of you."
Gordon tipped to lean against Scott's side. "Thanks, Scotty."
