The train was a relatively old-fashioned model. It was formed of approximately eighteen coaches – based off Scott's best estimate as no one had ventured all the way to the front to count them – which were a mismatch of designs whose purposes were yet to become clear. At one point the tracks twisted eastwards and Scott got a glimpse at the front half of the train as it curved around the bend.
There were at least two carriages which had once been cattle trucks. Perhaps they were transporting livestock, but suspicion redirected his thoughts onto a darker line. He knew he'd have to take a hike down the spine of the train eventually – figure out the immediate question of what they were dealing with in the hopes of learning the who – but that could wait for a little while longer, at least until they had put the city behind the horizon.
Scott couldn't bring himself to move. Not yet. It had been ten minutes since his feet had slipped out from under him, but he felt as if he were still falling. His wrists ached in time with his heartbeat, promising that underneath his clothes his skin was flushed with the promise of new bruises. Once upon a time it would have taken a lot more to hurt him, but nowadays everything was sharper, more violent where he was undeniably weaker so that even being rescued left its mark.
His mind was still trapped in that stairwell – memories overlapping so that New York, the GDF ship, the hospital and the factory all blurred into one hazy mess – and it had yet to catch up with him. The tether between his consciousness and his body grew more strained as the space between the train and the stairwell widened. He was floating above them both, neither here nor there, a ghost amid the tentative snowflakes starting to fall. The sky was a very long way away but if he just let go then maybe he could reach it and be welcomed with open wings.
"Hey." Virgil sounded sharper than usual. There was ice coating his voice. His hands were on Scott's biceps, tightening until his grip threatened to bruise. Apparently they were both sitting upright now; Scott couldn't recall when that had happened. "What's going on?"
There was snow falling.
Snow. Pure. Beautiful. Magical.
Snow. Suffocating. Bitter. Deadly.
"It's cold," he whispered, teetering on the edge between floating and slamming back into his body.
Everything was background static. He curled his hands around his knees, only he couldn't keep them steady despite his attempts to dig his nails into the fabric. There was ice in his veins. There had been for days, but now it was spreading, creeping up his spine and trickling into his organs to encase his entire being in that unforgiving chill left over from the swimming pool. Snow melted as it settled on his boots. The steady dripping reminded him vividly of the sound of his own blood draining into the gutter of that abandoned road.
Was it possible to drown in thin air? He sucked in a breath which resurrected every bruise around his ribs. The ice brought an all-too familiar numbness which he recognised with a jolt. Terror flooded onto the battlefield, because no, he couldn't go back there, couldn't fall into that headspace, not until his brothers were at least somewhat safe, but also because what if he didn't make it back this time?
Virgil was still holding him upright. He raised shaking hands to cover his brother's wrists, curling his fingers over the rough fabric of Virgil's radiation overalls.
The train rumbled beneath them. Cold metal was digging into his legs. It seemed unimportant. Snow was falling thickly now, engulfing the world around them and the train up ahead, throwing him into clouds to match the fog in his head.
Everything was a contradiction. He hurt, but also he didn't because the numbness was taking over. He was both falling apart and imploding. He didn't know what was going on and yet recognised it from too many previous occasions. He was freezing, but his palms were damp with sweat.
Virgil guided his hands back down. Scott was leaning heavily against him so that their knees were pressed together and there was snow gathering over the dark navy of their overalls as if they were both being undone. He couldn't get his vision to focus. Hands were suddenly cupping his face and he sank into the warmth.
Logic buzzed at the back of his skull. When did I take my visor off? Are we outta the heart of the radiation yet? It was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of his other thoughts, the ones which ran on a loop, an endless treadmill of panic in the face of the tempting offer to just give in, let go, aren't you tired of hurting, let yourself sink, give into the cold, it'll make everything stop and you don't have to feel any of the pain anymore-
"Virg," he choked, voice breaking as he felt a thumb gently stroke across his cheek. He couldn't meet Virgil's searching gaze. "I can't-"
-breathe, it's happening again, don't let me go, please, please, please, don't let go, I don't know how to stop this, don't let me fall over the edge, please don't let go, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry-
Instincts were powerful forces. They formed the very foundation of survival and had kept not only humanity alive but so many other species too for millennia, through mass extinction events and everyday threats. But sometimes these instincts were counterproductive; those which were initially developed to protect oneself could become a hindrance when that threat was no longer around. Learned behaviour became instinct and it was almost impossible to switch it off.
Instinct urged Scott to throw on a mask, play the role, promise that he was fine until he even believed the lie himself. It was a slippery voice at the back of his mind, all silvery words which purported to have his best interests at heart despite saying that he should hide all signs of being anything less than on his A-Game. It promised that negative emotions should be concealed behind a carefully constructed farce of confidence, because if he wasn't the strong one then that responsibility would fall on either John or Virgil which would mean he had failed and-
Instinct told him that he couldn't afford any weakness. History had taught him to hold himself together until he could slip away to find some secluded spot where it was dark and quiet, where he could let the emotional wounds bleed freely while he curled in on himself like a wounded animal and prayed they would heal quickly enough for him to play the part tomorrow again.
Physical injuries raised concerns, but no one could see emotional scars and if no one could see them, did they truly exist in the first place or was it all simply in his head? He had to be stronger, be better, try to match up to his father's expectations even if reaching that point felt as if he were living in the shoes of Sisyphus.
Logic told him that this was a lie. He knew now – and God knew it had taken him a long time to accept it – that he was not only allowed to ask for help, but that he should admit when he needed it. His younger self hadn't had access to a support system, but that didn't mean he hadn't deserved one and so now that he could reach out, didn't he owe it to that grieving kid to try?
"Talk to me," Virgil urged, gaze warm with concern, impossibly familiar in an alien world – frozen metal and snow-stricken clouds obscuring every trace of the landscape, hair soaked in molten ice and cloying ash which was smeared over his skin like fairground face paint with all the colours washed away. His grasp on Scott's face was impossibly gentle, a welcome shock of warmth even through his gloves. "Tell me what you need."
You're fine, instincts snarled, tell him you're fine. You can handle this. You don't need to worry him.
Scott inhaled deeply until he could taste the ash in the air and feel ice in his lungs. He couldn't meet Virgil's gaze, instead studying the rivets which studded the panel to his left as he summoned the words, forcing them past the mental blockade of denial and the lump in his throat which left his voice rough and unsteady.
"I'm not okay."
He was left floundering in a wave of guilt at the admittance. He curled his hands into fists, but the fabric was too thick so instead he flattened them against the roof until he could feel the snow bleeding through to replace the sweat on his palms. The sense of failure was nauseating. It settled in the pit in his stomach alongside the guilt and repulsion at the memories of all he had done. He'd murdered a child and left their broken body to rot on the floor of that hospital and yet he dared to ask for comfort?
And yet, when Virgil grasped his chin to encourage him to look up, his brother's expression was helplessly proud. It was almost unbearable to see such fierce love directed towards him when he didn't feel as if he deserved it. But wasn't that the truth? No one had to deserve love, let alone earn it; it was a freely given gift and with it came the assurance that you mattered and were valued regardless of your own opinions of yourself.
"I know," Virgil whispered, one hand squeezing slightly on Scott's good shoulder. "And I'm proud of you for admitting it. Lean on me for a little while, okay? We've got nowhere to be and nowhere to go for the next several hours. It's just us. You can take time to breathe."
The wind held a lonely quality now. Gone were the ghoul-like howls which mimicked the infected, rattling every window and bone, replaced by a fainter, desolate whistle. Occasionally, sparks flew from the harsh scrape of wheels against rails, a shock of vibrant fire against a grayscale landscape. Snow smothered the tracks in their wake, leaving no sign that the train had ever passed through in the first place, as if they were ghosts with even less claim on the planet than the rotters.
"Scott," Virgil prompted.
Scott tipped his head back and closed his eyes against the weeping clouds. Snowflakes dusted his face. The sharp bite of cold stole his breath.
"Is this real?"
The words carried weight, like the snow amassing all around them.
Grief and surprise met to create an entirely new emotion. Scott glimpsed a flicker of it in Virgil's eyes before it was quickly covered up again.
"Yes, this is real."
"How do I know that?"
Virgil hesitated, considering the puzzle for a long moment. He brushed snow away from Scott's shoulders with a sad sigh.
"I guess you'll just have to trust me." He searched Scott's expression, voice almost quiet enough to be snatched by the snow as he asked, "Do you?"
"Trust you?"
Virgil gave a tiny shrug.
Scott couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice. "Of course I trust you."
He didn't know whether to be concerned or a little hurt that it even had to be asked. He settled for a mix of both before realising that the question was probably more of a reflection on Virgil's mental state than his own actions. Something in his chest twisted at the thought and he leant into Virgil's hands, sensing they were both seeking comfort in the contact. Virgil's hand shifted from his shoulder to cup the nape of his neck, drawing him closer.
"We made it."
He buried his face in Virgil's shoulder. The ever-present chill still nestled between his ribs, snaking between organs until it felt as if he would never be warm again. When the snow in his hair melted to run down his spine, he couldn't feel it. He curled his fingers in the loose fabric of Virgil's overalls, trying to pretend he wasn't light-headed with the ache from cold and bites and decades of emotional scars which had never fully healed.
Virgil radiated warmth. When he wrapped his arms around Scott, it was like being cradled by a blanket. Scott melted into the hug.
"We made it," Virgil repeated, as if somehow reading Scott's secret fear of what if we didn't? What if this is all happening inside my head because I can't bear the alternative? His grip tightened a fraction as steps crunched in the thin layer of snow settling on the roof. "Hey."
"Hey," John replied slowly as if uncertain whether his presence was welcome.
There was a slight pause in which he must have held a silent conversation through glances with Virgil and decided that the answer was satisfactory. He sank to his knees to place a hand on Scott's back and while his touch was cold there was still something comforting about it.
"How are you feeling?"
Scott closed his eyes and counted the varying spots.
"Scott," Virgil prompted, both faintly amused and deeply sad all at once. "He's asking you, not me."
Oh, right.
He didn't lift his head from Virgil's shoulder, trusting John to listen carefully enough to catch the words no matter how muffled they came out. "Weird."
John traced nonsensical patterns across Scott's upper back in a motion that was either subconscious or intended to be reassuring. "You feel… weird?"
Scott could practically hear the sarcastic finger-quotes.
"Exactly." He shivered as Virgil carded a hand through his hair. "Unreal. Not quite human. Fucking freezing, too. Also, I landed badly on my ankle, so… you know. Could be better, could be worse." He let out a brittle chuckle. "Story of my life, right?"
"Story of the world," John corrected, and Scott reluctantly lifted his head from Virgil's shoulder to spy that wry little smile. "Ready for some grounding?"
"Not really."
Virgil wrapped an arm around Scott's shoulders. "Kinda sounds like you need it, though."
"Probably," Scott conceded, leaning into Virgil. He caught John's gaze and held it. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, try to talk me back down to Earth."
It was a long, slow-going process; reconnecting with each sense which all seemed determined to remain out of his reach to keep him from feeling every raw wound torn open over the past few weeks.
He flexed his hands where the snow had melted and seeped through. The fabric was cloying, clinging to his skin as if drenched in blood. For a brief moment, he could see it dripping from his fingertips, splashed over his clothes while the phantom handle of a knife slipped from his grasp and the creature which had once been someone's child slumped facedown on the floor. Then he blinked and he was back on the train roof, bracketed between Virgil and John, who refused to let him go and tethered him to reality even when his mind did its best to drift off somewhere pain-free and safe.
When the train rounded a bend, flurries of sparks were flung into the gathering snowbanks on either side of the tracks. They reminded him distantly of childhood firework shows, of a Fourth of July parade with the taste of sugar and fingers sticky with funnel cake, but then they were gone just like that, snuffed out by the ice.
The snow wasn't falling quite as thickly anymore. Leftover flurries were beautiful and strangely hypnotising. The tiny flakes were a stark contrast against the navy blue of his radiation overalls. He thought he caught a glimpse of blue sky past the thinner clouds. Snow-heavy trees listed over the tracks, so low-hanging that he could have reached up and grabbed a branch. He took a deep breath of icy air and met John's gaze, the same blue as the sky which remained lost behind those clouds.
Virgil guided Scott's head to rest on his shoulder. "You're doing great."
"Obviously," John remarked, as if he had never entertained even the slightest of doubts that Scott wouldn't find his way back to them in the present. Despite this, there was a decidedly proud note in his tone. He caught Scott's hand and didn't let go. "Carry on. Four things you can feel."
Scott gripped John's hand tightly. Virgil was still holding him close, warm enough to fight away the chill which spread outwards from his heart. His fingers were frozen with melted snow. The unforgiving metal of the train roof was both cold and uncomfortable and there was a row of rivets digging into his hip where he was sitting awkwardly so that he could lean against Virgil.
John's voice was steady, never faltering as he guided Scott through the too-familiar process of returning home from some far-off place his mind deemed safer than reality. The wind whistled mournfully as the train rushed through open farmland. Fabric rustled close to his ear as he shifted his head on Virgil's shoulder.
Out here, the stench of decomposing cattle was stronger than the ever-present stink of smoke. It left his eyes watering. He ducked his head to catch a whiff of gasoline from their escapade with the motorcycles. Fumes still clung to the fibres of his overalls, a welcome relief from the smell of decay.
He closed his eyes as John's final words faded. One last thing. He focussed his senses to taste the faint remnants of mint toothpaste. It seemed so very long ago that he had stood in the en-suite that morning and examined his lost reflection in the mirror.
He exhaled in a rush and released John's hand. "Thanks."
John levelled him with an unimpressed stare. "You know better than to thank me for this."
"Still cold?" Virgil interrupted before that conversation could spiral any further.
Scott couldn't repress the shiver which ran down his spine.
"Possibly. Just a little bit." The chill seemed to be creeping underneath his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself. "Okay, yes."
"You're uncharacteristically honest today," John observed.
Scott shrugged. "Yeah, well. I figured I'd give it a shot, see how it goes. Turns out actually asking for support when you need it is a healthy thing which people do? Who knew, right?"
"Seems fake," John shot back without missing a beat, eyes gleaming with a dry sense of humour that had been missing for so long, now making a reappearance in the face of pure relief.
He sat back, stretching his legs across the roof, smile open and warm with fondness despite the inhuman ice in his veins which was formed from entirely different origins to that which ran in Scott's.
As the train broke free of overhanging trees into a great swathe of open fields, he cleared his throat and confessed in a small voice, "I'm really proud of you."
Scott knocked their boots together with a teasing grin. "Don't make it sappy, Johnny."
John faltered, tearing his gaze away. He examined the faint tremors running through his fingers as he flattened his hands against the roof. "You asked me to leave you both behind."
Virgil tensed.
"Yes," Scott confessed. "We did."
John was quiet for a moment.
"Don't ever put me in that position again." He hesitated, then in a whisper laced with dreaded grief, added, "Please."
Gone was the deliberate calm of The Voice of International Rescue. Here was just John, sounding very human despite the inhuman threads holding his mind hostage, with all the pain and loss and desperation that it took to stay alive. And underneath all that, it was just the two of them throughout the years - from rooftops to cars to bloodied roadsides in the middle of the apocalypse to right now, surrounded by snow so that nothing else mattered, nothing else existed beyond their own little snippet of life - asking for another promise.
"All these years," John continued in that same desperately small voice, the sort used in childhood when running for comfort after a nightmare and then tucked away at the back of a mind to be reserved for moments in adulthood when the world threatened to blot out the sun and leave you floundering in the darkness trying to find something/someone to hold onto. "All these years, you've always asked me to come home, to stay. But this time you asked to me leave."
There were certain questions which carried far greater weight than others. This was one. It wasn't even phrased as a question, but still expected an answer. Ordinarily, John would never have asked it at this time. It was the sort of thing saved for the anonymity of the hours between too-late and too-early during which any confessions could be written off as overtired musings and consequences seemed less heavy. He certainly wouldn't have raised the issue when Scott was still mentally running a chart of five senses and Virgil looked that exhausted. Which, really, only served to show just how important the question was.
"You know why we asked you to go," Scott replied cautiously.
"I'm not asking why," John shot back evenly, as if remarking on the weather or something equally as inane. He studied flurries of snow dusting the open expanse of chewed-up crops. "I'm asking how you expected me to continue afterwards."
"We don't ask what-ifs," Virgil pointed out before Scott had even finished comprehending the implications of that question. "Besides…"
His gaze settled on something farther up the train. Scott turned to spy Finch, a shock of dark fur against the snow; Gordon gripping Alan's bicep to keep the kid from accidentally slipping on an icy access panel as the pair made their way along the carriages; Alan's baseball bat sticking out of his backpack at an angle; Gordon's hand wrapped in a scrap of ruby-stained fabric where he'd sliced his palm on sharp ice upon landing.
John watched them for a long moment. "Survival is one thing, but saving the world? That's not achievable without you. Both of you."
The resulting silence was grating. John stared obstinately at the horizon. Virgil pretended not to notice Scott's pleading look and instead busied himself with trying to diagnose exactly how much damage Scott had done to his ankle. Scott tried to read Virgil's body language, but once again came up empty-handed, a returning theme which he didn't care for in the slightest. The problem with closed books was that you had no way of telling how many chapters were left and that made him deeply, deeply uncomfortable.
It was impossible to tell how many miles they had travelled but the train rocketed along at a dizzying speed which left towns a blur and blended fields into one mess of overgrown crops, quagmire mud and rotten livestock. The snow cleared away completely after roughly an hour. Although something eased in his chest at the sight of clear skies, Scott couldn't help but feel like it was a trick.
The ash was far behind them now, as was the radiation storm, but even here that precious blue was hazy with dust. He was almost relieved to see the promise of night on the horizon, although the light of the sinking sun was all too familiar to the distant glow of a mushroom cloud.
Anxiety kept Scott on tenterhooks but at least he was present in the moment again. Gordon, on the other hand, seemed ghostlike. He'd left their main cluster – no one had been willing to stray far from another and the idea of investigating the train seemed too exhausting in the aftermath of their adrenaline crashes – but remained within sight. Scott pushed himself upright, ignoring Virgil's protest as he used his brother as a hand rest, and made his way over.
Balancing on any moving object was precarious, particularly on a high-speed train, but IR had given Scott years of practise that not even a painful ankle could overthrow. The ice didn't help but muscle memory kicked into play and his boots had good grips.
Gordon was sat on the far end of the second carriage, legs hooked over the edge to knock his heels against the side as the train nosed through a section of bumpy tracks warped to just within usability. He had a hand wrapped around one of the rails next to an access panel, but his grip was loose and his proximity to the edge gave Scott the urge to physically haul him back to a safe distance.
He kicked some snow aside and took a seat next to his younger brother. To begin with, the silence was expected, but then it continued on and became something unsettling. Alarm bells were mentally ringing. There were a few rules which had been preserved from the old world and Gordon + Silence = Nothing Good was one of them.
Scott cast a surreptitious glance sideways and was met with an uncanny sense of poised alertness, as if Gordon had set his sights on a target despite remaining seemingly unaware of everything around him. The train was currently passing through an empty town, yet he was staring at it as if he could see ghosts wandering between a looted Walmart and the parking lot.
In another universe, maybe Scott would have waved a hand in front of Gordon's face to see if he jumped or perhaps cracked some joke to break the tension, but in this one his little brother seemed too brittle. They were both walking on thin ice – literally as well as figuratively – and the slightest misstep could plunge them into inescapable darkness.
A faint ache in his chest served as a realisation that he was holding his breath. He drew his focus back to the present – five senses, go – then checked to see if Gordon had noticed his presence at all. The general consensus was yes. Okay, so Scott was going to have to start this conversation then. Yay. God, he really should have sent Virgil instead. Or John.
Abandoned towns were always disconcerting. This one was littered with old evacuation signs. Roadblocks had been constructed at some point. The old stars-and-stripes was fluttering in tatters from a blood-smeared flagpole. A headless infected was crushed beneath a battered SUV. Strings of entrails glittered in the sun like streamers at the party from hell.
Scott had long since grown immune to the majority of the sights and smells, but sometimes he would be struck by vivid reminders that all these monsters had once been human and the resulting wave of grief was always so strong that it damn near suffocating.
"Do you know what they'd have called this?" Gordon didn't look away from the town as he spoke, darkly contemplative. He cleared his throat and twisted to catch Scott's eye. "This train, I mean."
"Well, I wasn't expecting a pop quiz, so I didn't brush up on my train history."
Scott considered the strangeness of this role reversal – Gordon being serious while he was the one trying to crack jokes. He reached down to rub his ankle where the bruising was already flaring up.
"I don't know. What did they call 'em?"
Gordon reached over to snag his wrist. "See?"
He directed Scott's hand to point at an ambulance left at the crossing, doors flung open. Bloodstains suggested that the patient had not been quite as dead as first appearances might have suggested. The vehicle had been stripped for supplies and was now a mere husk.
"Right…"
"Soul trains," Gordon elaborated. There was an odd pitch in his voice, sort of nostalgic and fearful all at once. "The ones that block ambulances."
Scott watched the ambulance disappear into the distance. "I don't think that one was going anywhere any time soon, even without our train getting in the way."
"No," Gordon conceded, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I guess not. But it still seems fitting, doesn't it?" He lifted his feet onto the roof and wedged his heels into the ice to keep from slipping, speaking again before Scott could try to unpack any of those words. "You went back for a dog."
"I did."
"You're a fucking idiot, you know that, right?"
"Thanks," Scott deadpanned. "Anyway, you were only about five seconds away from running after her yourself."
Gordon picked at the edge of the bandage. He was cradling his hand in his lap, but it had left a trail of crimson over the snow. "That's different."
"How?"
"It just is."
The defeated note mirrored the desperation that had drenched his voice last night.
Scott glanced up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Gordon shrugged. "Nothing. Everything. I dunno."
He buried his face in his hands. A thin ribbon of blood escaped the ragged edges of the makeshift blanket and trickled down his wrist to splash against the snow. He shifted sideways to place himself out of reach.
"I'm just tired."
"It's been a long day," Scott agreed softly, although the words tasted as bitter as a lie. They both knew that physical exhaustion hadn't been Gordon's meaning. "Come join us. It's too cold to be out here by yourself and I'd like Virgil to take a look at your hand."
"I'm okay."
"Save me a few dollars on hair dye, would you? Just let Virgil give it a glance over."
Instinct had him anticipating a taunt about grey hairs. He had openly invited the joke. Yet Gordon simply let his hands fall to his sides and remained silent, making no move to wipe the smear of blood from his palm away from his chin.
"Gordon," Scott repeated, so quietly that his voice broke. He tore his gaze away from the stained snow. "Let's go. Please."
Gordon exhaled past gritted teeth. "Yeah." He pushed himself upright, discarding something small and precious that he'd been guarding in his fist the entire time. "Alright."
Scott hung back a second longer to examine the dropped item. It was a canary feather, once vivid yellow, now dulled by the life it had led. Boots had crushed it into the bloodied snow as if none of that beauty had ever meant anything.
Unease made him shiver. Above, the sky bled a very human red as the sun sank into its final stage.
If it had been cold throughout the day, then night forged an entirely new notch on the thermostat for itself. The world plunged into lows expected from polar regions, not the US in spring. It was too cold even for snow. In place of delicate flakes were thick fogs of their own breath. Even the haze of dust seemed to freeze mid-air. It stained fallen snow to a very pale orange, which was both unnatural and unsettling.
The moon had barely begun to rise by the time a decision was made. No one needed to discuss it. Without shelter, hypothermia would set in within minutes. Even now, thoughts and actions were oddly sluggish and chilled fingertips felt falsely warm.
The rear carriage had two roof hatches – one on either end. They were both frozen shut by a thick layer of ice. It was too solid to pry open, as if it were molten metal which had cooled to form a misshapen seal, so Scott chipped away at it with a knife, helped by Marisa and Gordon.
Radiation overalls might have been great at preventing him from being poisoned, but they did nothing to prevent the cold from leaking in. Flat on his stomach in order to get the right angle to wedge the knife into the ice beneath the hatch fastenings, the chill seeped through fabric as if it were nothing more than thin cotton. It was too cold for words, but he was conscious of Gordon's concerned glance, which he ignored. He jammed the knife deeper into ice and tried to focus on the task at hand; anything other than the painful chill.
Ice splintered into tiny shards, needle-sharp with the ability to slice through thick fabric and even plunge deeply into the reinforced soles of boots. Marisa swept them over the edge of the roof with a spare blanket she'd brought from the apartment, then shook out the fabric to ensure none of the fragments were still caught up in it. Gordon wedged the hilt of a blade underneath the latch and used it to ease the hatch open.
It was a square of perfect darkness. Scott gripped the rim tightly enough to leave his knuckles aching and peered over the edge. Nothing stirred. It seemed uncannily empty. He reached behind him in silent request and Virgil pressed a flashlight into his hand. The beam illuminated several series of stacked crates. He shuffled forwards to get a better view.
"Careful," Gordon muttered, grabbing a fistful of Scott's overalls. "Ice, remember? Don't go falling in."
There were still no signs of life.
Scott knocked Gordon's arm away to sit upright. "I'm going down there."
"Really?" Gordon looked doubtful. He tipped forwards a little to spy the dark expanse below the open hatch. "Shouldn't I go? Or John? Just in case there's something hidden down there."
"More likely to be bandits than anything else," Scott pointed out.
Gordon flipped the knife between his hands distractedly. "All the more reason for me to go first."
It was a pointless argument given they both knew there was no universe in which Scott would ever let Gordon – or anyone, really – take a risk on his behalf. All they were achieving was wasting time during which the night frost stole yet more precious warmth from their bones. Scott caught Gordon's eye and just looked at him for a long minute.
Gordon bit back a sigh. "Just shout if something looks sus, okay? I can be down there in less than a second."
"Yeah, yeah," Scott replied, having absolutely zero intentions of doing that.
If there were bandits or infected or danger of any kind in that carriage, there was no way in hell he was going to drag his brother into that mess too. Based off Gordon's exasperated stare, his brother also knew that, but made no further comment. The clock was ticking and temperatures were falling.
Scott cautiously lowered himself into the void. Fragments of broken ice still lined the rim like glass shards in a shattered window, threatening to slice through his gloves into the vulnerable skin of his palms. The sodden bandage wrapped around Gordon's hand was already proof of just how vicious the ice could be, and Scott took care to avoid the sharpest edges.
There was a stack of crates below the hatch which he had spied with the flashlight. His best estimates put them at roughly a metre's drop below him. It was disconcerting having to guess in the dark. It was impossible to feel or see anything.
He clung onto the hatch for a moment more, willing his vision to adjust to the sudden gloom, but his injured shoulder protested the action with a jolt of pain that loosened his grasp. There was a brief instance in which he was utterly disorientated by the lack of sensory input – just falling in the void – but then his boots connected with a hard surface.
Adrenaline was itchy beneath his skin. He dropped onto his knees and felt wooden panels beneath his hands and the metallic heads of nails where the crates were barricaded shut. He pushed himself upright. Fabric rustled beneath his heels. Tarpaulin hooked over the toe of his left boot.
"Scott?" Gordon nearly blinded him with the flashlight. "Shit, sorry." The beam shut off. "Here, catch."
Scott fumbled to catch the flying metal object amid the dark. His reflexes were shot to hell from a mixture of rotter bites and the ever-present cold, but he somehow managed to grab it. Bathed in light, the carriage didn't seem quite as oppressive. He slid down from the top crate and steadied himself against the wall.
The space was filled with stacked crates from floor to ceiling. They rose out of the gloom like wooden skyscrapers, making a miniature city of the carriage. The flashlight beam reflected off the creased tarpaulin which protected the topmost crates from icicles which protruded from ceiling vents. A fine layer of ice crunched underfoot. Despite this, it was noticeably warmer. His breath still fogged in the air, but it no longer ached to breathe.
He directed the flashlight back up at the hatch to draw Gordon's attention. The beam seemed to travel on forever, an infinite blade of light which could cut through anything until it reached listening ears and watchful eyes. For a moment, he remained frozen to the spot, seeking a familiar travelling light amid the expanse of lazy stars, but it was a challenge to pick out even the brightest points in the night sky and so Thunderbird Five and EOS remained lost.
Gordon stuck his head over the hatch again. "All good?"
"Still cold, but better than up there." Scott tilted the flashlight to avoid dazzling his brother. "Get the others and come on down. Be careful on the ice though. It's sharp."
"Really?" Gordon deadpanned, lifting his bandaged hand into the beam. "Man, you don't say."
Scott bit back a sarcastic retort. "Just get your ass down here."
"Aye, aye, captain."
The return of the quips was both a relief and a concern. On the one hand, Scott did not miss Gordon's uncharacteristic pensive silence, but then again this was so clearly an act that it was almost painful to witness. Either way, he didn't get long to consider it, as Alan took the plunge through the hatch and nearly faceplanted onto the floor, boots skidding on icy tarpaulin, catching his balance through wind-milling arms and an almost inhuman ability to disobey gravity – a skill which John sorely lacked. Next over the edge were Theo and Jasmin, followed by Marisa.
Scott climbed back up to take Finch from Virgil. The dog was unnervingly cold. She'd been cradled in Alan's lap for the past hour and yet her paws were still icy to touch. The teens made short work of wrapping her up in blankets, but the lack of wagging tail was worrying. He spared a second to silently beg the universe don't let the dog die, that's a step too far, before catching John who predictably fell off the crates upon landing.
Gordon's attention had apparently been caught by something on the roof as there was a good two minutes of silence in which Scott considered climbing up to check on him before he reappeared.
"You good?" Scott queried as they made short work of securing the hatch. The sudden lack of noise was jarring. His ears were faintly ringing. He shook his head to try to cure the sensation, which achieved nothing other than dizziness.
Gordon offered him the least convincing thumbs-up ever. "Just peachy."
Marisa was partway through breaking into the crates. Wooden splinters littered the floor as she wedged a knife deeper underneath the lid and prised it open. A series of canned goods and long-life items were ripe for the taking. Labels gleamed in flashlight beams.
Theo forced a tired cheer. "We're eating like kings tonight!"
"And queens," Jasmin corrected with an elbow to his ribs, although the action was notably lighter than usual. They were pressed close together in an attempt to conserve body heat. Jasmin was gripping his hand tightly enough to flush her knuckles. Theo was leaning his head on her shoulder. They were both shivering violently, although that was a good sign. Not shivering at all would have been a greater problem.
"And queens," Theo agreed, teeth chattering. "Did anyone remember to bring forks?"
Gordon shouldered Scott aside.
"Go sit down. I'll sort rations." He cut off Scott's immediate protests with an unimpressed stare. "Dude. You're literally limping. Take your weight off that ankle before you do any more damage. Do you want me to get Virg involved? Because I will. You know I will."
There came a faint chirp. It was almost missed amid the constant background orchestra of the moving train – purr of engines, slight hitch of wheels on brittle rails, gentle rocking, the clamour of tarpaulin rustling in time with steady movements – but the apocalypse had nurtured unhealthy levels of paranoia in everyone so that even the slightest change in sound seemed obvious.
Movement shifted in the corner of Scott's vision. He glanced sideways to glimpse Gordon's hand hovering over his gun, not fully reaching for the weapon but prepared to launch into attack at the slightest trigger if necessary.
"It's just the birds," Marisa realised aloud. She tangled a hand in her hair with a dull laugh. "Jesus. I nearly had a heart attack."
The canaries – housed in a transport cage sourced from a looted pet store – were balanced on the lid of an unopened crate. They were huddled together on their perch, so close that they appeared to be one entity – a blend of darker honey to buttercup yellow where their feathers brushed. They looked undeniably scared.
Scott crouched to peer into their cage. The little birds were fluffed up like dandelion heads. He crooked a finger through the bars, but neither reacted. Their chests trembled with the force of rapid heartbeats. Beady eyes focussed on the far wall as if they could sense something in the next carriage.
John backed up a pace until he smacked into the wall.
Virgil shot him a knowing look. "They're not reacting to anything in here."
"They'd be singing us a warning otherwise," Marisa confirmed. "But the chirps? There's definitely something on this train that they don't like."
It was a problem for tomorrow. For now, concentration returned to food and blankets and trying to find comfortable places to sleep. Scott reluctantly gave in and left Gordon to help Marisa unload one of the crates, but that didn't stop him from lending a hand. He swept two dry tarpaulins from the rear of the carriage and spread them over the floor. It wasn't much but it would help to keep the worst of the cold floor away.
He'd only just sat down when Virgil started fussing over his ankle again. "Really?"
"I'm just checking."
Alan planted a hand on Scott's good shoulder and shoved until he laid down. The meaning was clear, let us take care of you. Well. Scott wasn't about to argue with that. Or, more to the point, he wasn't about to argue when faced with Alan's puppy-dog look, all wide-eyed and mournful and hopelessly manipulative. Still, the kid was warm, radiating heat like a furnace where he tucked himself against Scott's side.
Finch flopped against Scott's hip on his other side, tucking her muzzle under his hand until he obligingly petted her. Her tail thumped against the floor, still weak but an improvement. He propped himself on an elbow to reach the blanket and tuck it around the dog's flank so that she was wrapped up in the warmth too.
John didn't even try to hide the fondness on his face. "Wow."
"What?" Scott shot back defensively, threading his fingers through the longer fur around Finch's ears. She already felt warmer. Her paws were tucked under his hip, which was somewhat uncomfortable, but still worth it. "She's cold. I'm not going to let her suffer, I'm not a monster."
He instantly regretted his choice of words. John arched a brow but didn't appear too affected. He looked more amused than anything else. He was sat with his back to the wall, legs outstretched. He'd discarded his boots after ice had leaked through a hole in the sole and now he buried his socked feet under Scott's knees. Hypothermia didn't seem to affect him anymore, but he still found the cold unpleasant.
It was almost too cold to think. Temperatures had been lower on the roof – especially considering the wind chill that they had all been exposed to – but down here, beginning to warm up, it somehow felt worse. Scott wrapped an arm around Alan and held him even closer.
Alan fumbled for the blanket and hauled it over their heads. Scott was immediately slapped in the face by a memory – back at the bunker, under that raggedy blanket on a clinical couch, hiding from the world rather than the cold – but then Alan accidentally knocked his head against Scott's chin and the past fled in the face of that sharp jolt of pain.
"Ow," Scott teased, tousling Alan's hair while the kid was caught under the blanket and therefore couldn't flee. He was treated to an eyeroll followed by an undeniably fond smile. "You doing alright, Al?"
Alan shrugged, which wasn't exactly the most reassuring answer but was certainly more truthful than Gordon's feeble thumps-up. He flung an arm over Scott's waist. They were both still shivering but shared body heat and the blanket cave worked quickly. It helped that Alan was practically a space heater right now. When he rested his head above Scott's heart, he was almost warm enough to banish the eternal chill that logic claimed was due to blood loss, but fear whispered was a side-effect of the swimming pool which would never fully leave.
Alan either picked up on his change in mood or heard his heartrate pick up. He prodded Scott's bicep in question, trusting Scott to know him well enough to understand the question without a need for signing.
"I'm okay," Scott replied quietly, telling himself that his voice was raw due to the chill or the dust or really anything other than complicated feelings. He ran a hand through Finch's fur, willing his heartrate to settle down again. "Just… thinking."
Alan didn't appear convinced but didn't press the matter. He curled into Scott's side, grinning when Scott yelped because holy shit, the kid had cold hands. Finch gave a content tail wag. Scott let himself drift, leaning into the comfortable blur between waking and sleep where everything was painless and the dark seemed like something which could still be trusted. Alan's breathing evened out, suggesting that he was already asleep, one hand coiled in Scott's overalls and the other tangled in Finch's fur. He didn't even stir when someone hit the ground with a thud at their side.
"Graceful," Virgil commented with no small hint of sarcasm, followed by the dull squeak of a can being opened. "Huh. Good choice."
"I aim to please," Gordon quipped, but it sounded all sorts of wrong, tired and beaten down and not truly humorous at all. He drummed a hand against his own tin, the beat slowed by the tackiness of syrup over his fingers from the contents, presumably some type of fruit. "What about Scott and Alan?"
"Let them sleep," Virgil replied before John could interject. There was a brief pause in which the three of them presumably spoke through silent glances. "They can have double rations in the morning. Sleep is more important right now." He sighed. "God knows none of us have been getting enough of it."
There was another long silence. An empty tin rattled over the floor.
"I can't believe he went back for a dog," John muttered, picking listlessly at his rations.
Virgil huffed a dull laugh. "Of course you can believe it – it's Scott."
