I would like to present to you a series of events which should have prevented me from uploading: a broken train, a broken laptop charger, broken internet and finally a broken lamp. That last one wasn't actually a problem, it just fit with the theme and I hate changing light bulbs. Anyway. I'm too stubborn for my own good so here I am with a new chapter despite everything!


Usually, waking after a close call with death involved that groggy not-quite-present sensation indicative of heavy painkillers. Even if they were beginning to wear off, the resulting feeling was like some sort of morphine hangover – dazed, partly detached from reality, still trapped within that floating numbness but with all the pain beginning to make itself known, revealing scrapes and bruises from unidentifiable sources while a bone-deep ache spread out to infect every atom of being until that next wonderful dose of pain relief arrived.

This dazed awakening was often accompanied by the overly harsh whites of clinical bed linen and sanitised tiles, the steady thrum of monitoring equipment and a background din of other wards. Typically, he wouldn't be alone upon waking either. There was always someone there, face lined with that particular brand of emotional exhaustion, perhaps with another visitor half-asleep, partly slumped over the edge of the hospital bed, or maybe even the entire family crammed into a room which didn't really have the capacity to contain that many people but screw it, they found a way.

Today was the exception, apparently. Not just for one of those typical awakening conditions, but for all of them. Scott sought that floating feeling of high-grade pain relief and came up empty handed. Every scrape and scratch ached, too vivid to be brushed aside into his subconscious. The bites were a violent, white-hot flavour of pain which threatened to short-circuit his brain at the slightest movement. He hated hospitals but right now he actually missed the cursed places. The cleanliness of his current surroundings left much to be desired. A single glance at a mouldy ceiling practically invited infection.

He lofted himself onto an elbow, cradling his bad arm to his chest as lightning bolts seemed to radiate through his bicep. It was a good job that no one was around to hear him as he cussed up a storm. For a brief moment, his vision clouded with spots from a mixture of pain and malnourishment. Finding food was definitely in his top five priorities, but he wasn't achieving any of those objectives in the near future if he was finding it this hard to simply sit upright.

He had no recollection of how he'd ended up here. Here being a fairly nondescript room which he had yet to properly scrutinise for details. Memories were too foggy for him to distinguish clues. He hooked an arm over the metal railings at the head of the bed and hauled himself upright. Both his vision and his entire body protested this movement and it took several minutes of deep breathing to convince his stomach not to rebel. Not that he had much to bring up, having passed the point of painful hunger cramps a long time ago, replaced by that draining emptiness which made itself known in the form of light-headed dizzy spells every so often.

His current residence was a mostly empty bedroom. Plain décor and minimal furnishings suggested it had once been used as a guest room. In addition to the bed and a heavy bronze lamp in the corner, there was a dresser and a freestanding closet. A vase on the dresser held a cluster of decomposing white lilies. Wilted yellow leaves had leaked old sap over polished wood, leaving ugly smears to set in the feeble sunlight which fought through drawn curtains. The floorboards were mostly clean. There were deep sandbanks formed of dust along the walls where someone had swept a path from the bed to the door. A drained IV pouch swung listlessly from a hook by the bedside next to an empty chair. A partly drunk bottle of water sat under the chair – a mercy for his sore throat.

It took a struggle, but he was able to reach the bottle, draining it in one go. He stuffed a pillow behind his back as those metal railings threatened to dig into his spine, somehow finding every bruise across his ribs even through the padding. Dizziness came and left in sudden waves.

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, trying not to choke on dust. It was omnipresent, spiralling in the air, beautiful if you looked at in the right light, glistening gold and copper in faint sunrays. He trailed a hand through patterns, slicing dancers in half, watching the dust pool in his upturned palm. That was another noticeable feature of the room – the clean portholes in filthy windowpanes where someone had clearly taken a damp cloth, and the crisp bedsheets, freshly changed so that they still smelt of open air and the taint of chemical soap.

The house stood still. Not quite silent, but close enough. The entire structure creaked. A faint breeze wriggled under doors and into the gaps between floorboards to stir old air. It was difficult to see anything through the window from the bed, but Scott could glimpse orange sky, overloaded clouds and snatches of scorched skyscrapers through the gap in threadbare curtains. Tension crackled, raising the hair along his arms. Stray sparks in the cloudbank promised a new storm. He slumped against the pillow, fighting another wave of exhaustion. Pain dulled his senses, leaving an uncanny feeling of vulnerability. Solitude was unnerving. Where the hell was everybody?

The question invited a jolt of anxiety so fierce that it stole his breath. He discarded the empty water bottle and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Pain escaped past gritted teeth in a sharp hiss. He curled fists in the bedsheets, inhaling deeply until his lungs ached and he had to fight a cough. Then, slowly, cautiously, still wrestling light-headedness, he pushed himself into standing. He nearly hit the deck. It was only a mad flail for that nearby chair which kept him upright. He ducked his head, willing spots to flee his vision, focussing on each breath until he could put one foot forward and then the other. The movement jostled injuries and hello fire. He counted backwards from ten and with each digit it grew slightly easier to breathe.

Movement flickered in his peripheral vision. The door opening, a shadow in the frame, disbelief colouring the words of a raised voice.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Gordon loitered in the doorway for the couple of seconds it took to overcome shock.

Scott didn't really get why his brother was so surprised by this latest display of idiocy because come on, he pulled these kinds of stupid stunts all the time.

"Uh…" He glanced down at the variety of bandages to check he wasn't bleeding again or anything too concerning. "Standing?"

"Exactly!" Gordon flung his hands up. "Why?" He stalked across the bedroom, grumbling all the while. "I left for like two seconds, Scott, are you kidding me? Just two seconds to head to the bathroom. It's the first time any of us have left you alone in hours, but oh no, that's when you decide to not only wake up but to be a colossal idiot as well."

"You say that as if I don't make idiotic decisions on a daily basis anyway."

Gordon appeared to be considering the pros and cons of fratricide.

"Just sit your ass back down," he settled for saying instead.

Ordinarily Scott would have considered arguing against this, but the dizziness had returned with a vengeance, those bites felt as if they were on fire or perhaps someone had injected lava into his veins and he was too shaky to make continued standing a guarantee, so he sank onto the mattress without too much protest. Gordon stalked back and forth like a caged tiger, flitting between exasperation and open concern, but remaining unnervingly quiet.

"Quit that," Scott muttered.

Gordon glared at him. "No."

There was another one of those painful silences. Literally painful, from Scott's perspective, because it was as if the bites had supercharged his nervous system. It felt like each individual atom was singed and that maybe the original fire hadn't fully been extinguished so the feverish heat slithered through his veins like blood poisoning. Even his wrist ached, but the bite was on his shoulder. Where was the logic in that?

Fingers snapped less than an inch away from his nose. He jolted backwards and nearly smacked into the metal railings.

"You were zoning out," Gordon explained, sinking on the edge of the bed. He drew his feet up to balance precariously, heels wedged into the tiny space between the mattress and the frame. He was wearing battered sneakers rather than boots for once. They were ruined green, laces dark with dust, a fine speckling of blood on the heels to match the stains on the cuffs of the sweatshirt he'd stolen from somewhere and was now wearing over his suit like comfort-armour.

Small details were easier to focus on. They also appeared incredibly important. Scott couldn't recall the last time he'd come that close to dying. When he'd drifted out for the final time, he'd genuinely thought that was it. Lights out, close the curtains, shows over folks. But no, here he was, still breathing, heart pounding – alive, alive, alive – and able to see the people he loved again. So, for once, he let the silence remain, content to simple exist in Gordon's presence. Sure, he wanted answers, but those questions could wait for a minute.

Gordon held out a hand without a word.

Scott stared at the outstretched hand and slowly raised a brow. "Am I supposed to be a psychic now?"

Gordon let out a tiny growl. "Give me your hand."

"You seem very…" Scott sought the correct phrasing, allowing Gordon to snatch up his hand while he continued to consider various words. "Are you angry with me?"

Gordon froze. It was that unnatural sort of tension that didn't come from shock, but from disbelief, matching the incredulity on his face. He jolted himself out of it, clearing his throat but voice still sounding slightly strangled as he croaked out, "Sorry, am I what now?"

That distant wind was picking up. Gusts of dust brushed over worn glass. Curtains shuffled their heels. Downstairs, a door banged faintly. The sound of paws echoed on uneven stairs in time with soft fur rustling against floorboards. A crow called to the clouds. Another sheet of lightning unrolled over the horizon.

"Are you angry?" Scott repeated, quietly this time, more of a whisper. He glanced down to where Gordon was still gripping his hand. "You seem angry."

Gordon swallowed. "I'm not angry." He closed his eyes for a brief second. "I'm not…" He tugged at a cuff of the sweatshirt with his free hand so that fabric fell over his knuckles. "You told me once that fear and anger aren't inherently separate. One can manifest as the other. So… Think on that and ask me again if I'm angry."

Scott took another moment to observe. People were puzzles – any single piece was meaningless until you put several together – one detail about someone didn't necessarily tell the full story. Sharp, snapped words didn't equate anger in this scenario. He watched Gordon avoid his gaze, noted the defensive hunch of his brother's shoulders and bloodshot eyes from either sleep deprivation or tears or both. It struck him then that the hand holding had a purpose - Gordon's thumb was on his wrist, monitoring his pulse and reassuring his own mind that Scott was still here.

Oh, Scott thought, which was a very clever summary in his books.

"Not angry," he concluded aloud.

"Nope," Gordon confirmed, reluctantly releasing his grip. "Just scared. Not so much now, more worried now, but for a while… Yeah, I was scared." He wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at the floorboards without seeing anything. "Christ, Scott, I really thought… It was October all over again. Exactly like October, only worse, because we didn't have any medical equipment beyond the basic field kit Virg grabbed from Two so..." He dragged a hand through his hair and twisted to offer a tiny smile. "Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up."

Scott identified the part of the puzzle which didn't fit and lasered in on it.

"You said you're not scared any more, but you are, that's why you're… snappy. Why?"

Gordon hesitated.

"Tell me." Scott caught his eye. "Please."

Gordon yanked both cuffs over his hands. "John's not back yet."

Fear muted by pain was a strange sensation. It was like falling, only slowly. Sinking, Scott decided, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion despite having only just awoken. He couldn't even fully recall the details of John's departure, although in his defence he had been busy bleeding out in the middle of a road, so he could probably be forgiven for that. He had no idea how long his brother had been gone. What day was it? Where were they? Was this a safe place to stay? Where was Virgil? He could hear Finch in the corridor outside which suggested that Alan was close by.

If he focussed – really focussed to the brink of a headache – then certain memories drew close to the surface. They were elusive and hazy, and he could only recall snatches. Voices, snapshots of a reddened street, tarmac wet with fresh blood, a leather jacket warm around his shoulders and hands on his face, urging him to listen and remember.

Live for me.

Oh God. Scott wrestled with the urge to be sick. He clenched a fist in the bedsheet only ow, instant regret. He forgot how to breathe in the face of fire. It was unlike any pain he'd experienced in the past. Thank God he'd been unconscious for so much of it, because if this was less intense than it been over the past few hours… It was the level of pain which could drive a man insane. He choked back a whimper behind gritted teeth and tried to breathe. When the ringing in his ears dulled sufficiently for him to hear Gordon's concerned questions, he tried to open his eyes again, which apparently triggered yet further worry as Little Brother announced in a distinctly panicked voice:

"Dude. You're crying."

Ha, ha, ha, nope. Absolutely not. That had to be a bold-faced lie. Except, when he wiped the back of his hand across his face, it came away damp. His vision was suspiciously blurry. He blinked against the sting, tasting copper where he'd bitten his lip.

Gordon was staring at him with wide, wide eyes. "Scott…"

"Please, god, tell me you have some pain meds lying around."

Gordon sent a helpless look around the empty room. "There might be some Dayquil in the bathroom cabinet? That's got some sorta pain relief in it, right?"

Scott let out a sharp laugh. "That's not gonna cut it."

"We used all the painkillers up already," Gordon confessed in a very small voice. "The stuff we grabbed from Two and from the pharmacies along the way… It's all gone."

"How?"

"We used it on you over the past forty-eight hours. Because you were- And- I tried scouting for more but it didn't seem like a good idea to leave Virgil and Alan without defence, so I had to stick close to the house."

"Because I was what?"

"Forget it."

"I want to know."

"You really don't."

"You used all of our pain meds on me, how bad was it?"

"You sounded like you were being fucking tortured, okay? And I know you're immune, but that's… That's what it's like when people turn. That's supposedly how it feels, at least according to people I talked with back at the bunker. It freaked us out and aside from that we didn't want you to be in pain, so… Yeah, we used it up, because the alternative was you screaming the house down and bringing every infected to our location."

There was a brief pause.

"Shit," Scott summarised, reaching for anything meaningful to say and finding himself at a loss. Emotions were tricky to vocalise on an ordinary day, let alone when he was having to fight to keep himself conscious. It wasn't just the pain, but all the additional factors on top of it – blood loss was exhausting without the threat of the parasite too. The thought that it could be festering under his skin was nauseating. He could be harbouring a killer within his own body. It was enough to leave his head spinning.

"You should get some more sleep," Gordon instructed quietly. He pushed himself off the mattress and moved over to the window. The curtains were flapping wildly as the wind picked up. Dust formed its own storm within the rafters. He didn't say anything for a long minute, silhouetted against the orange light, smearing a clean porthole in the pane with his sleeve. The tensing of his shoulders suggested there was an unwanted sight outside.

"Rotters?" Scott guessed. Gordon turned to stare at him with that unrelenting sense of disapproval until he obediently collapsed against the mattress rather than struggling to stay upright. "Are they close?"

"Not as far away as I'd like, but not close enough for concern."

A few beads of rain struck the window. Gordon yanked the curtains closed and gloom fell across the room. The stairs creaked underfoot. Finch's tail whacked the floorboards in greeting. Scott propped himself on the elbow of his good arm, electing to ignore Gordon's exasperated sigh.

Scott caught his eye. "Smother-hen."

"I am not," Gordon protested, overly dramatic with an outraged gasp to match. "Lies and slander." He crossed his arms indignantly. "I'm concerned for your well-being."

"Sitting up in bed isn't going to kill me."

"Well, with your track record, can you really blame me?"

"My track record? What about your track record?"

Gordon considered this.

"Yeah," he agreed, "Fair enough. You've got me there." He twisted to spy that shadow beneath the door, torn between staying at Scott's side and checking on whoever was lurking in the corridor. "Um, I've got to…"

"Alan?"

Gordon's wince was as good as a spoken confirmation.

"Yeah," Scott admitted, glaring at those mould spots across the ceiling. "I figured he wouldn't take it well."

"None of us took it well."

"It's different with Al."

"I know it is." Gordon kicked the empty bottle into the air and caught it in a single fluid motion that even Kayo would have been impressed by. "More water?"

"Do we have more?"

"Sure."

"Gordon."

"Hey, here's an idea?" Gordon let a hint of sarcasm enter his voice. "Let us take care of everything for once and just focus on healing."

Scott repressed a laugh. "Nah, sounds boring."

Gordon let out a long-suffering sigh. "Go to sleep, Scotty, before you actually cause me to lose my mind."


Weather in the apocalypse was insane. Gone were your regular little thunderstorms which would invariably be over within twenty or thirty minutes. Nowadays there were goliath cloud systems with gale force winds and severe lightning strikes with the intensity to rival an out-of-control laser – either you found shelter or death found you. Rain gushed from the sky, torrential and bitter with acid, burning holes in roofs and abandoned vehicles and seeping between paving slabs to poison the groundwater. Geiger counters tended to spike at these times as the storms generally formed over radioactive regions and swept northwards.

Inside the house with the windows sealed and the doors wedged shut, it was relatively safe. Gordon took old sheets and towels pilfered from closets and bed drawers and used them to block gaps where the wind drove in. Night set in alongside the storm. Scott awoke during the thick of it to a heavy darkness, broken by interspersed lightning strikes and the artificial glow of technology to his right.

The glare of an old IR wrist console seemed strange in this unfamiliar setting. He rolled onto his side, biting back a curse as the bites flared up again, and propped his chin in a palm, watching, waiting to be noticed but unwilling to break the relative tranquillity of background thunder. If he really stretched his imagination, he could pretend it was engines, take-off or landing, returning or leaving. The light of the console infiltrated shadowy rafters, probing cobwebs for creatures, reflecting off the sharpened blade of one of Gordon's knives.

Virgil switched the console into hibernation mode, sensing eyes on him. He stashed it beneath the chair and listened to the thunder rolling around the empty city. Lightning split the sky in two. A drooping power line was dark against the bright flash, weighed down by wet crows. In the street outside, a lone infected howled.

Gordon lifted his head from his folded arms. "Everything good?"

"Everything's good," Virgil confirmed slowly, gaze flitting between the window and Scott without further comment. He nudged the console deeper into the shadows with one heel. "Go back to sleep."

"M'kay," Gordon agreed without protest, voice thick with exhaustion, only half awake to begin with. He was using that stolen sweatshirt as a pillow, folded over his crossed arms beneath his head, flat on his back with a knife within reach. He was still wearing those sneakers, ready to run or fight if the circumstances called for it. Finch lounged at his side, her tail sweeping dust from the 'boards, chin resting above his heart to calm her frightened nerves. She didn't like storms Scott had discovered early on, after she'd crawled into his arms whimpering as lightning ripped the world apart.

If Finch was in the room, Alan had to be close by, confirmed by the fact that both Virgil and Gordon were also here and neither of them would be willing to leave their kid brother alone downstairs where a rotter could get the drop on him. Scott itched to sit up and check, but Virgil's knowing look kept him in place. Besides, moving ignited the bites and he was unwilling to test his endurance without pain relief.

He cleared his throat quietly but speaking still scratched. "How much charge does that thing have?"

Virgil knocked the console sideways, back into the dimming flash of a lightning bolt.

"It was sunny yesterday." He tilted his head at the tiny solar panel. "I left it outside. It's on fifty-three percent."

"Is there much downloaded?"

Virgil took a sharp breath.

"There's enough," he replied in a deliberately calm voice. "But forget about that for a while." He moved the chair a fraction closer, hesitated and then reconsidered, taking light steps across the flooring to avoid squeaky 'boards. "Move over."

"I'm injured," Scott protested, mainly because he was comfy and moving required effort.

Virgil sent him a distinctly unimpressed look. "Your legs are fine."

He sank into the newly freed space. Lightning reflected off the window. Rain left tear tracks across the pane. He reached out hesitantly to catch Scott's wrist, closing his eyes to count without distraction.

"That's better."

"Yeah?" Scott attempted to joke. "I'm still alive then?"

"Just about."

It was one of those fragile moments in which speaking, even breathing felt as if it could shatter everything. Scott didn't dare break it. He held himself perfectly still even as the rain on the roof turned to a tsunami. Virgil's grip on his wrist was gentle, just firm enough to keep counting his pulse, breathing time with his heartbeat.

"Still alive," Scott repeated, only this time it wasn't a question. He upturned his wrist to catch Virgil's hand, squeezing slightly. "Sorry for scaring you."

"This time it wasn't your fault," Virgil mused, with a wry smile as he added, "For once."

The rain sounded as if it were trying to drill a hole in the roof. Distantly, tiles clattered in the gutter, toppled over the rim and shattered on the wet soil below. Finch's ears pricked. Gordon patted her back heavily, clumsy with sleep, trapped between dozing and drifting off entirely. In the aftermath of another lightning strike, Scott glimpsed the top of Alan's head where the kid was sat with his back to the foot of the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, gaze fixed on the drowning window as the curtains stirred.

More thunder grumbled. Finch tucked her tail over her nose with a huff.

Virgil relinquished his hold in favour of shuffling further onto the bed to lean against the wall. His eyes were bright in the darkness as if he was fighting back tears. Scott could read the relief off his posture alone, tainted by fear too – there were four figures within the room where there should have been five. Neither of them mentioned it. It was a conversation best saved for the light when nothing seemed quite as terrifying and their inner children could find comfort in the sun.

"Nice safehouse," Scott commented after a beat. His smile grew breathless as pain snaked its way around his ribs, stemming from that bite on his stomach. "I really like what you've done with the place."

"I changed the sheets," Virgil pointed out, voice light with faint amusement. He dragged a hand down his face as a yawn threatened to make itself known. "I could have just left the old ones. They seemed clean enough."

In truth, the change of bedding was probably to safeguard against any further infection, but neither of them drew attention to that fact.

Scott tipped his head back against the railings, trying to quieten his own laughter. "Oh my god, you actually washed the sheets." He sniggered as Virgil swatted him. "That's sweet, Virg. I feel very loved."

"I made Gordon do the washing," Virgil confessed, grinning at the memory. "Set him to work with a bar of soap and a scrubbing brush and everything. He's concerningly good at getting blood stains out of clothes, did you know that? Apparently it's because he loses so many bar fights."

"Since when has he been getting into bar fights?"

"He starts them, you or I finish them."

Scott tried not to laugh. "Yeah, that sounds about right." He examined his brother's latest outfit – worn jeans, plain black tee, long-sleeved ivy shirt over the top. "Is that the reason for the change of clothes? Everything else is in the wash?"

"Everything else has already been washed," Virgil corrected. "It's all drying in the kitchen. Warmest room in the house. Quite a bit left in the cupboards too… I guess someone up there is finally looking out for us."

"It's about time…" Scott's gaze snagged on a slight movement. Huh. Well, that proved his theory that Alan was awake and eavesdropping. He wished the kid would turn slightly so he could glimpse his expression, but no, Alan remained obstinately facing that window as if he could see the future within lightning shards.

"Scott," Virgil said quietly, just audible above the rain. He stretched his legs across the bed, jeans rising above his ankles to reveal fluffy socks peeking out from his boots. He turned over possible words, considering each one like a chess piece. How are you feeling was a pointless question.

Scott drummed one hand against the bedsheet and then the other, observing how one was as steady as ever while the other trembled. Just how deep had that bite gone? He crumpled the offending hand into a fist and held it until fire licked his skin and he had to let go before it consumed him entirely.

Virgil watched him in contemplative silence.

"Talk to me," he said at last, simple, soft and searching. Just those three words: talk to me.

Scott angled his chin towards Alan. He's listening.

I know, Virgil's returning look told him, but that's okay.

Scott personally thought otherwise, but then again Virgil must have been the one to deal with the aftermath over the past couple of days and so was more likely to know Alan's current headspace. So.

"It's all bits and pieces," Scott confessed as quietly as he could manage. He now knew that his sore throat was a result of screaming and this revelation was hardly reassuring. "I don't remember anything clearly. I can't even recall the exact details about John leaving." He picked at the edge of a bandage until Virgil reached over to still his hand. "He should be back by now, shouldn't he?"

Virgil dropped his gaze to the bedsheets. "I have two flares. I've used one of them." He forced optimism into his voice as if they didn't both know the truth. "John's smart – he'll have found some place to hide – so he probably just didn't see it. I'll send the next one up tomorrow."

And if there's still no sign of him? Scott thought privately but didn't dare say it aloud. He didn't need to, not when Virgil could read the question from his body language alone. They both watched the fading flash of a lightning strike, blinking away stains while the crows outside flapped dark wings to send the power line swaying. Rain lashed against the glass. Alan shivered. On the far side of the room, Gordon closed a hand around the hilt of his knife despite still being trapped within dreams.

"We can't stay here forever," Scott whispered. He studied what little he could glimpse of Virgil's expression in the darkness. "How long before the infected track us down?"

Virgil lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Gordon's been running perimeter. He thinks we've got another two days before they find us. Whatever John did… it worked."

"Worked too well if he hasn't come back yet."

Virgil didn't dignify that with an answer. There was a spider slowly crawling along one of the rafters and lightning magnified its shadow to demonic proportions. He flattened himself to the wall with a scarcely repressed shudder. Alan's fidgeting ceased instantly as he listened, trying to tell if there was anything wrong without having to turn and face them.

"You can't travel yet," Virgil spoke up, forcing his words to remain level. He averted his gaze from the spider's shadow. "I'm not convinced you can even make it downstairs in your current state."

"I'll have to manage."

Virgil studied the outline of the console within the shadows. "I took a scan of the map before John left. There's a hospital nearby – about six blocks away. We need better equipment and meds. If we can make it there, it'll give us a starting point. We can plot our next move once we've got you sorted and maybe I can figure out Alan's cough."

Six blocks wasn't even a mile, yet Scott was struck with a similar sensation to facing a mountain having just completed a marathon. He swallowed nausea. The pain was giving him a headache. He could feel his own pulse pounding in his skull. He gingerly laid down and revelled in the cool pillow against his cheek.

"Scott?" Virgil's whisper seemed like a shout. "Is that…?"

"Sounds good," Scott ground out, practically spitting each word. He resisted the urge to curl up like a wounded animal.

Virgil closed his eyes. "You need pain meds. Hospitals have opioids."

"Yeah."

Gordon's estimate of forty-eight hours meant they'd have to leave on the second day, meaning Scott had to at least make it downstairs tomorrow. Currently, he wasn't even convinced he could make it out of bed. He folded his good arm beneath his head and bit his knuckles to stifle a sob, because oh fuck, it hurt. He sought the room for distraction, briefly glimpsing the glint of Gordon's dog tags before his gaze settled on that empty IV bag. He tipped his head towards it in question and immediately regretted this as the movement jarred his worsening headache.

Virgil hesitated.

Oh, come on, Scott thought bitterly, you know what I'm asking.

"There was only one. That's it."

So that was their lone IV gone as well as the painkillers. Great.

"What's left?"

Virgil went suspiciously silent, which told Scott enough.

"You used all of our medical supplies on me?"

"I didn't have a choice!"

"What happens if one of you get sick, or hurt, or-"

"You were dying."

The words hung in the air for a minute as if daring Scott to try arguing. He let them fade without comment. Virgil took a couple of calming breaths. Alan remained silent. Scott melted into the mattress again. His senses seemed to ignore the world around him, instead focussing entirely on the bite marks. The room was foggy, but pain remained in crystal clarity. It seemed to writhe, as if it were a physical parasite infecting every nerve. Which, he realised in a rush, it could very well be. Panic hit him with a jolt, snaring his lungs so that his breath caught.

Bedsheets rustled as Virgil leaned across. Scott closed his eyes, relaxing into the cool touch on his forehead.

"You're burning up again," Virgil noted quietly.

"Yay," Scott mumbled, seeking that merciful cold again as Virgil retracted his hand. "Stay."

"Me?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Virgil returned his hand at the plaintive protest. Scott witnessed him wince through the blur and an instinctive little voice at the back of his mind whispered that it was cause for concern, but then a gentle touch smoothed sweaty hair back from skin and everything hurt too much for sustained thinking to be achievable.

Someone moved to the side of the bed on light feet, steps inaudible on creaky floorboards. They crouched as close as possible, silent, waiting. Scott fumbled for conscious thought and came up empty handed. His mind was a mess of fever dreams and fiery dilemmas which left him shivering. Instinct urged for him to draw the newcomer close, to protect, to reassure. He reached out blindly. A hand slipped into his own, gripping tightly enough to anchor him, safe in a harbour while wild seas spoke of subconscious demons and unknown threats.


Morning dawned with the threat of future thunder. Dark clouds drifted listlessly across the sky to form a bank along the horizon. The window was speckled with new rain. Scott picked out separate shades of soot through the glass where the fallout from lightning strikes had carried on the early wind. His mind was clear again. The pain had diminished somewhat, leaving him weak and shaky like a new foal in the aftermath.

Alan had clambered onto the bed with him during the night and remained asleep. His head was resting on Scott's chest to listen to his heart and Scott could feel the kid's hair brushing his chin. Alan's arm was flung over his waist as if trapping him against the mattress. It was uncannily similar to the last time he'd woken after a near-miss, following Jerusalem. Not that he was complaining. He closed his eyes against the grey light and inhaled deeply, reassured by Alan's steady breathing.

He drifted in and out of sleep again for the next hour. Or perhaps two hours. Maybe even three. Long enough for the sun to bleed through the thinner clouds and for Alan to finally stir. Scott didn't bother moving. He needed the bathroom and a drink but those were low priorities, because-

"Shit," Alan muttered, dragging a hand down his face groggily as he yawned. "The parent curse strikes again."

"That's not funny."

"Oh, I know." Alan rolled over to bracket himself against Scott's side. "I told you." His voice fractured. "I told you. I jinxed you. I called you Dad and immediately the universe was like, oh, there's our next target."

"Still not funny."

"What's wrong with me?" Alan covered his face with his hands, wiping away tears with sweater-paws. "I'm cursed. I'm actually cursed and everyone I love is going to end up dead because of me."

Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether Alan genuinely believed his own words or whether he was just being overdramatic, but Scott had a sinking feeling that this time it was the former.

"You're not cursed. You know that. It was an accident. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That infected could just as easily have grabbed John rather than me. It was just shitty luck, Al. It has nothing to do with you."

"Oh my god," Alan whispered, showing no signs of having heard Scott's words let alone having actually absorbed them. He screwed his hands into fists and pushed his knuckles against his eyes. Scott could feel his brother's breathing pick up, uneven and harsh, damp with tears which remained hidden behind those too-long sleeves. "We're all going to d-die."

"Woah, okay, slow down a second."

"No, no, no, because- and- what if I'm just- I'm like a walking bad luck charm and every time I think maybe it's going to be okay something bad happens, so what if- And I can't do this, not if- I'm losing each of you one by one and it's inevitable, because it always happens and then- And- I can't be alone, I mean I can't, I can't lose any of you-"

"Hey."

Alan sucked in a ragged breath. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry-"

Please stop apologising. Scott caught Alan's wrists and guided them down from his face.

"Hey," he repeated softly. "Alan. Allie. You're okay, kiddo. I'm okay and you're okay. Sometimes bad things happen and I'm not going to lie to you, there isn't always a happy ending, but this time there was."

Alan took another breath. It was more of a strangled gasp. "Sorry."

"Why are you apologising?"

"I don't…"

"You haven't done anything wrong."

"I know, but I'm- I'm freaking out and you're… you're the one who's hurt but now you have to deal with my shit again and I'm sorry for that."

Oh.

"You know," Scott said gently, tapping Alan's forehead, "I get the impression that your brain's telling you all kinds of crap right now. It's not true. None of it is. Your mind is lying to you. Let's take a breath, yeah?"

"Sometimes it's really hard to know which is a lie and which is a truth."

"Well, maybe I can help with that." Scott wrapped an arm around Alan's shoulders. "We can start with the easy ones. Let's see… I love you."

Alan hid a tiny smile. "Truth." He was quiet for a moment. "Okay. Uh… You're still here."

"Truth."

"You're okay."

"Truth."

"This… this isn't my fault."

"Truth."

"Even though it feels like maybe it sort of is?"

"That one's a lie."

They continued for a while until Alan flung an arm over his face with a groan. "I hate this. The whole…" He flapped a hand vaguely. "…spiralling thing. Anxiety is dumb. My brain sucks."

"Your brain comes up with some pretty cool stuff too."

"Sometimes," Alan conceded reluctantly. His breathing still wasn't regular, but it was a lot better than the near hyperventilation he'd been approaching earlier. "Some moments are okay and I think maybe life isn't completely terrible but then everything immediately goes horribly wrong and I'm just tired. I freak out all the time. And now John's missing and what if…" He shook his head, catching the edge of his sleeve between his teeth. "It feels like the second I step outta this bed everything is going to implode."

"Okay," Scott said slowly. "But is that actually going to happen or is your brain just taking lots of small, worried thoughts and magnifying them?"

Alan chewed on the cuff. "Maybe the world won't literally implode. Okay, okay, I know it won't, but what if- Once I get out of bed the day starts and then all the bad things might start happening."

"Time keeps ticking," Scott pointed out. "We could stay here for the rest of the week, but each day would still happen. Life still happens to everyone else even if we're safe in here. All that staying in bed achieves is keeping you from knowing about it."

"Schrodinger's cat," Alan mused solemnly. "Until I'm told one way or the other, all the bad things simultaneously have and haven't happened."

Scott repressed an undignified snort. "Alan, I love you, but I have to tell you that you're a strange little nerd. What is with you and Schrodinger's cat?"

"It's cool," Alan protested. "I like paradoxes. They're interesting." He shuffled upright to hunch over his knees, switching from his hoodie cuffs to the drawstrings. "I was really scared, you know?" He coiled the string around his thumb, voice small and shaky. "There was so much blood, Scotty. I haven't seen you that badly hurt in… in a really long time."

Scott faltered. He didn't have many words which were reassuring, because the truth was just as brutal as the rest of the apocalypse – that in full honesty, he hadn't expected to wake up, that he still had traces of his own blood beneath his nails, that he wasn't completely convinced he was out of the woods yet. Instead, he caught Alan's wrist and gently guided the kid's hand to his chest, above his heart, and held it there until he felt Alan relax slightly.

"Check in, rocket kid," he murmured. "How are you doing?"

"Anxiety is a bitch," Alan confirmed, "but not as bad as I was. Not like the world is falling apart around me. I can actually breathe."

"That's always helpful."

Alan ducked his head to hide a fond smile. "How are you doing?"

Scott considered lying but figured Alan would see right through him.

"The bites are painful," he confessed, "but not as bad as yesterday. I just feel shaky. If you're up to it, I could do with a hand downstairs."

Alan nodded distractedly. "Hey, uh, um…"

"Uh, um happens to be one of the languages I don't speak," Scott teased.

Alan swatted him lightly. "Shut up. What I was going to say is, uh… I…" He closed his eyes and spoke in a rush. "Thanks, Dad."

Scott reminded himself to breathe. "Anytime, Al."

"Breakfast?"

"Hell yeah."


It was raining again. Apparently Scott had missed the brief snatches of sunshine which had broken through the cloud shortly after lunch. He'd spent much of the day asleep, having managed a few bites of breakfast and even a feeble attempt at a makeshift shower before lounging on the sofa. Between naps, he played cards with Gordon and Alan and actually cooperated when Virgil carried out medical checks, earning a suspicious look.

"You're a terrible patient," Virgil informed him. "Why the change of heart?"

"Because I scared Alan," Scott said simply.

Virgil exhaled in a rush. "You scared all of us."

Lunch was somehow even smaller than breakfast had been. That creeping fire returned to light him up from the inside out, leaving him with the shakes and nausea so bad that he could barely manage a single mouthful despite Virgil's whispered pleas for him to eat. He retreated back to the sofa and slept through until early evening when a hushed argument drew him back to the waking world.

Alan was sat out on the backstep. It was raining again, but Finch didn't seem to mind. She chased a tennis ball back and forth across a postage stamp lawn, trailing muddy pawprints over the decking. Alan flung the ball into the flowerbeds to occupy her for longer while he twisted to glance up at Scott, lifting a hand in greeting.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." Scott leant against the doorframe. "You're going to have to wash her, you know that, right? Wet dogs stink."

Finch shook an array of droplets from her fur, tongue lolling in delight. She deposited the tennis ball at Alan's feet and trotted backwards in anticipation.

Alan didn't comment. He lifted the ball into his lap and turned it over between his hands, picking flecks of dead leaf away from the fabric.

"Virgil and Gordon are arguing," he remarked quietly. He seemed very small all of a sudden, hair damp with rain so that dripped down his face like tears. "Gordon let off the last flare before it started raining again. Virgil thinks we should have waited longer. Gordon's point is that we couldn't afford to wait because we don't know when we'll next have dry weather."

Scott pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the open door. "How long ago was this?"

"Dunno." Alan threw the ball in a low arc. "Like an hour ago."

"And there's not been any signs of-"

"No," Alan cut him off before he could finish.

Finch retrieved the ball, dropped it, chased after it again. Scott inhaled the damp air and tasted smoke. He curled his fingers around the doorframe. Raindrops splashed over his knuckles. One of the bites was beginning to throb again. Worry was a war-drum in place of his heartbeat.

"What happens if he didn't see it?" Alan whispered into the rain. "It's a big city. He'd never find us."

He could follow the trail of blood, Scott thought darkly, only to realise that the rain would have washed it all away. It was a blessing in so far as throwing the infected off their scent, but it did little to raise his already gloomy hopes. Once upon a time he'd have thrown himself into the rain and tracked down his missing brother. Nowadays, that wasn't a viable option. Not just because he could barely keep himself upright and walking around, but also because he had Alan to look out for.

"You said it yourself," he replied eventually. "It's a big city. It'll take him a while to reach us. It's only been an hour. Don't lose hope quite yet."

Alan simply tossed the ball without another word.


It was starting to grow dark. Night fell quickly these days. There was probably some scientific reason why, but Scott couldn't be bothered to contemplate it. Even if he hadn't had the pain to contend with, anxiety tied his stomach in knots, leaving him too nauseous to attempt eating his dinner rations. He took up residence on the sofa again and flipped through a copy of Shakespeare's Macbeth without reading any of it. Whoever had owned this house had been a big fan of tragic plays – there was an entire shelf of morbidity dedicated to them. He leafed through the pages while Alan worked his way around the different faces of a fidget cube and both of them pretended not to hear Gordon in tears in the kitchen while Virgil tried to calm him down.

There was a stopped clock on the mantelpiece.

Scott wanted to hit something.

Alan tossed the fidget cube aside and stared at the ceiling for several long minutes.

"…not your fault," Virgil was saying in the kitchen. "No, Gordon, come on, can you just listen to me for a second?"

Alan bolted upright.

Scott nearly dropped the copy of Macbeth onto his face, flinging it aside as he scrambled to sit up without blacking out. "What? Did you hear something?"

Alan pointed silently at Finch. The dog was staring at the window, but she wasn't growling and her hackles weren't raised. As they watched, her tail began to wag.

Please, Scott thought but didn't say it.

Alan sprinted into the corridor. Confused shouts echoed from the kitchen. Scott hauled himself to his feet and staggered after him. Alan had already flung open the front door and now it banged in his wake to leave a crater in the plasterwork. The wind was howling again. Scott braced himself against the wall and didn't fight when Gordon caught him and helped to keep him upright. He didn't mention his brother's red-rimmed eyes and in return Gordon didn't mention the way Scott was shaking.

Virgil hurtled past them both. "Alan! Get back inside!"

Gordon bit his lip. He was a livewire with tension. He inhaled sharply as movement flickered just out of reach of the light in the hallway where it spilled out onto the street. And Scott just knew. Call it instinct or, hell, even some kinda supernatural sense, but he knew before he even glimpsed three figures stumbling back towards that open door.

"Oh my god," Gordon breathed. The final word splintered like a sob. His grip tightened as Scott made to lurch forwards. "Nuh-uh, hold on a second, Scooter."

Alan slammed the door shut behind them with one heel. He didn't make any further move to step closer and that rang alarm bells. Scott glimpsed his pale, shell-shocked expression and tracked the horror back to John.

"Fuck, Johnny," Gordon whispered, overshadowing Finch's whimper.

Virgil looked terrified in the face of another medical emergency, only this time without any supplies and Scott spared a second to entertain a wave of pure self-loathing because all those meds had been used on him. Alan took a step away from the door, arms wrapped around himself so that he could grip his own biceps tightly enough to leave bruises. Gordon made a faint sound of protest. Scott tried to breathe and choked on his own inhale.

John slapped Virgil's hands away, trying to sidestep to glimpse the rest of the corridor where Virgil was blocking Scott and Gordon from view. Alan staggered back until he hit the wall, eyes welling with tears as anxiety took him in a chokehold.

It wasn't so much the fact that John's clothes were drenched in blood. It wasn't even the fact he looked like he'd escaped from an active warzone. It was partly that he somehow looked sicker than he'd been upon that first night in the bunker. But mostly it was because for the first time since he'd picked up the infection, he looked like one of them. A very newly infected, yes, but still like one of those creatures.

Scott snapped out of the shock the second he heard his brother's voice, because he could count the number of times he'd heard John sound that terrified on one hand.

"I'm here, I'm okay." He caught John's gaze. "I'm right here, Johnny."

John let out a choked, hysterical sound that was painfully similar to a sob. "H-hey, Virg, I'm g-gonna…"

Virgil caught him without hesitation. He was out cold, literally, icy to touch as well as unconscious.

"Is he…?" Gordon began and trailed off. "What the fuck?"

Virgil looked sick. "His pulse is all over the place."

"Right, but he's uh… he's still… you know…" Gordon grimaced. "Human?"

"Are you insane?" Virgil snapped.

"We were all thinking it!"

Scott dropped to his knees at Virgil's side and had to pause for a moment as his vision swum. He fought to keep his balance. "Talk to me, Virg."

Virgil sent him the single most panicked look Scott had ever seen from him. "We need a hospital."