Once upon a time, nightmares and the waking world were very separate. Nightmares were formed of everything cold and dark and scary. They involved monsters under beds and strange shapes looming out of the closet where Dad hadn't closed the door fully. They were made up of the flipside of a child's imagination and all the things which went bump in the night. Sometimes it was a recurring terror which could only be chased away by a mother's voice and gentle touches and a father's assurances that we're here, nothing can get to you while we're around, see, Scotty?
There was one consistent factor in those childhood nightmares. They might feature a different scenario, a new monster, a change in featured characters and roles, but every time without fail he woke up in a safe world. Well, in reality, the world was never safe. There were risks at every turn. But as a child he'd still believed in the lie that his parents could fix anything. Nightmares back then faded as quickly as the dark sky, replaced by the morning sun and pancakes and life in all its rich vibrancy.
Since those days, Scott had lived through several nightmares. Now, he existed in one. And when reality was a living hell, how could he tell when he'd woken up again? The mind was a strange, incomprehensible maze at times. Doors became locked to prevent him from accessing certain memories too traumatic to recall. The path to one thought led him to another. The past became the present and the future became a lie. Memories came alive to haunt him even when awake.
So, when he became conscious of freezing water and blood blossoming in the dark depths all around him, how could anyone expect him to know for sure whether it was just another nightmare or if he had truly never left that swimming pool? After all, time was how you perceived it and sometimes it could take an awfully long time to die.
He couldn't recall how he'd gotten here. Memories didn't add up, a blurry haphazard mess of flashing light which he couldn't piece together. He couldn't think. His mind roared with white static to match the ringing in his ears. It was so loud. He lashed out but the water was like treacle; he couldn't escape. Everything was impossible shades of red: vivid like ruby lipstick, fresh crimson, the deep maroon of spilled wine. The feeble light rays which pierced through reflected off slowly sinking metal – empty shells from a fired gun.
The pressure on his chest was enough to crush him. He could feel the ache. It didn't take much to imagine bones collapsing, splintering into tiny knives to tear vulnerable organs to pieces and leave his heart for the infected to consume. He kicked out for the surface, but it remained impossibly out of reach. The desperate need for air threatened to overthrow every instinct. It hurt. He didn't know how he was here or why, but the fear was like acid in his lungs, thick and hot and choking.
Heavy fabric encased his hands when he reached for the light. The pool cover? No. Pure darkness. Something else? He couldn't think. It closed around him like a shroud, dragging him deeper, further down the rabbit hole. Real? A nightmare? Was it possible to drown in his own mind? Suffocated by the weight of his own memories? History suggested a yes.
There was no end. The pool had no base. He thrashed in the thick water, but the shadows wrapped around him even closer. It constricted his movements until he couldn't even kick. He tried to lash out, but he was snared by the darkness. It tightened until he swore he could feel his ribs crack. A glance down revealed endless red water, growing frothy as some unknown monster clawed its way out of hell.
Terror sparked, then exploded like fireworks in his chest. He could feel the panic catching fire in his veins. He couldn't move, breathe, anything. All he could do was stare his fate in its featureless face as it lurched out of the depths to drag him all the way down to hell and maybe he deserved that or maybe he didn't but either way he didn't want to go, please, but he was alone, alone, alone- And-
He could taste blood from his own screams – screaming for who? He could briefly hear his frantic pleas for Dad as his inner child struggled to understand why no one was coming for him, had he done something wrong, he could be better, fix whatever was wrong with him, just please don't leave me here, Dad, don't let it take me, while his adult-self shouted for the voice who always answered and the arms which always caught him, but neither John nor Virgil were there. It was just him, drowning in an endless pool of all the blood he had spilled over the years, and then the infected finally snared his ankle and hauled him into the depths.
Soulless eyes met his own. Gaping jaws. Claw-like fingers, skeletal, bones as sharp as a fine-edged razor. He knew this one. The first infected he had ever killed had come to return the favour. He recognised that face from New York, the gleam of a wedding ring lost in the mess of body and bone blown to smithereens by his gun while he'd cowered under that display cabinet. It raked those bony fingers down his cheek, and he turned his head with a muted whine as his own blood filled the water and-
Scott stopped fighting. He tried to keep quiet, grinding his teeth over the sickly taste of copper and salt, but then, when the infected locked eyes with him and plunged its hands into his chest, all he could do was scream-
"Scott."
Voices clamoured for his attention. There were too many hands on him. He flinched away, curling inwards in a feeble attempt to protect himself from those skeletal claws which he could still see clenching around his own heart. He was shaking too violently to grip onto anything, hands slippery with sweat, clothes sticking to his skin as if he were drenched in blood. This was the real world and it was a shock of ice, but he still couldn't bring himself to open his eyes just in case he were still there, being torn apart in that pool.
Something soft brushed his knuckles. He forced himself to take a breath, but his chest was too tight. It seemed as if he were trying to suck air through a straw. Instead, he blinked blurriness out of his vision and focussed on the fur under his hands. Finch. He raised his chin to meet Virgil's worried eyes.
"Scott?" Virgil repeated, softened by the certainty that Scott was actually lucid again. He took a breath to steady his voice. "Hey. Are you back with us?" He shuffled closer, hands held up to prove he wasn't a threat. "It's okay. It was only a nightmare. It wasn't real. We're right here."
Scott buried his head in his hands to hide his burning eyes. Everything felt too vivid all at once. He was painfully conscious that he was vulnerable right now and the thought made him want to curl into a ball and be engulfed by a black hole, anything to get people to stop staring. Their gazes felt like razor blades scouring across his skin just as the hands of the infected had done – not just in his nightmare but in his real, hellish memories.
The damage still littered his skin beneath bandages, and it would never truly fade. For the rest of his life, he wouldn't be able to take off his shirt without being slapped by the memory of how it had felt to face death in the form of drowning or being eaten alive. It was a form of fear which he doubted he would ever fully shake. It would always be there, lurking in the back of his mind, just as the memories of back then also did. He could taste the terror on his lips – salt from tears and sweat – and when he tried to speak, his voice was raw, stripped by screams.
Jesus. No wonder Alan looked so haunted. And John. John looked as horrified as if he'd witnessed Scott's nightmare for himself, which…. Which he practically had done, Scott realised in a rush, because John could feel his emotions through the hivemind backdoor.
"Stop," John whispered before Scott could even begin thinking of an apology. "Don't feel guilty for something you can't control." He faltered. "Shit, Scott. That was-"
"I know," Scott murmured, sounding like a ghost even to his own ears. He curled a hand above his heart. His pulse pounded beneath unmarred skin, fierce against his knuckles. He traced the lines the infected had torn through his cheek in the nightmare and exhaled slowly. "I need some air."
"It's freezing up there," Virgil began, trailing off as Scott staggered upright and pushed past him. He rose to his feet, making to catch Scott's arm before thinking better of it. "Scott." He raised his voice to a shout. "Scott! I'm serious. You'll catch hypothermia up there."
John caught Virgil's wrist and yanked him close enough to whisper something, which Scott read off his lips as being, and he'll lose his mind down here.
Virgil set his jaw and glanced away, gaze dark with unease. "Fine." He snatched up one of the blankets. "Then I'm coming with you."
Scott couldn't bring himself to look back. No matter how badly he wanted to gauge Virgil's expression, he couldn't bear facing Marisa or the kids. The state of his voice gave him a rough idea as to just how desperate his screams had been and while nightmares were a common occurrence nowadays, he still didn't want to see the horror which he must have inflicted on Theo and Jasmin. God, he didn't even want to think about Alan's haunted eyes.
Maybe that made him a coward but right now his heart was still hammering quickly enough to make him queasy, and the carriage was only reinforcing that sense of claustrophobia. He swore he could feel the shadows constricting his ribs in a vice again. The only way to breathe was to see the sky, so he ignored Virgil's warnings and clambered up to the hatch on unsteady feet.
The night air stole the air from his lungs. It was like he'd been soccer-punched in the plexus. He crumpled to his knees in the frozen snow and wrapped his arms around himself. If a feeble, pained whimper escaped his gritted teeth then there was no one around to hear it other than the moon which hung heavily in the sky, big and bright and beautiful, a father's dream watching a son's downfall.
A blanket fell around his shoulders. He tugged it close until the fibres tickled his neck. He tipped his head back to glimpse Virgil standing over him.
"Thanks."
"Can I…?" Virgil held out a hand, just short of touching despite every instinct clearly screaming at him to offer a hug.
The snow had frozen over with a thick sheet of ice as smooth as a mirror and the reflecting moonlight was blinding. In the absence of clouds, the moon shone as brightly as the sun, ever watchful and silent, an unblinking silver eye. It was bitterly cold; the sort of chill which sapped strength and drilled deep into bones. Even the blanket's warmth faded quickly. The rush of air as the train swept onwards was akin to plunging through ice over and over. Virgil sidestepped to act as a windbreaker, protecting Scott from the worst of it.
The silence was ongoing, as treacherous as the ice, liable to shatter. Frozen snow cracked under hands and knees and then a set of heavy boots as Gordon hauled himself over the edge of the hatch and then clambered to his feet. The anticipated quip went unspoken. He didn't say anything, just quietly trekked over to the edge of the roof and peered down at the tracks. Friction melted the ice to leave wet rails in the aftermath, glistening in the moonlight so that the train cut a silver ribbon through the desolate landscape.
"Scott," Virgil prompted, not quite a whisper but something close. He tucked his hands under his arms away from the chill.
Gordon stepped back from the edge, grimacing in the icy wind. His hair was still mussed at odd angles from sleep as if he'd stuck his fingers in an electrical socket. He ground his heels into the snow to prevent slipping, then tipped his head back to stare at the stars. The lights were faint in comparison to the moon, but they were still there if you looked for them carefully. It was easy to feel small in comparison, something which was oddly comforting just as much as it was terrifying. Some of those lights had been burning far longer than human existence. Everything was fleeting – even fear.
Gordon sank onto the roof beside Scott. There was a fine line of space between them. All Scott had to do was lift a finger and he'd tap his brother's elbow. Snow crunched as Virgil moved behind them to help John crawl out of the hatch without obtaining yet more bruises.
"Yo, Scotty," Gordon whispered after a long moment. He didn't lift his gaze away from the stars, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he remarked, "It's fucking freezing up here, bro."
John didn't skip a beat as he shot back, "Congratulations. Your observational skills are truly unparalleled."
"Oh, Christ," Scott choked out, partway between a sob and a laugh. He slid down to lie on his back, ignoring the rush of cold as snow seeped through his clothes. "What the fuck are our lives?"
"I've been wondering that for ages." Gordon flopped backwards to sprawl beside him. "Like, literally for years." He tilted his head to grin at Scott. "And that was before zombies started eating everyone." He knitted his fingers together, folding his hands over his stomach. "You know…" He returned his gaze to the stars. "It might be freezing, but it's still a pretty good view."
That was definitely not what he'd been planning to say, but no one made any attempt to press the matter. Scott held his breath until his lungs were screaming at him, then let it all go in a rush.
Gordon cautiously shuffled close enough to press their shoulders together. The touch was featherlight, more the brushing of fabric than any real contact, but Scott could still feel the warmth and when he made no attempt to shove Gordon away, his brother curled against his side properly. GDF suits did not hold in heat well – if Scott was cold, Gordon had to be freezing – so Scott wrapped an arm around him and held him close.
Fabric rustled as Virgil sat down on Scott's other side. He didn't lie down – presumably because soaking already cold clothes in snow was not a smart move and Virgil was currently in possession of the shared family brain cell – but sat close enough to touch. John stepped past him to stand in the spotlight cast by the moon, silhouetted against familiar landmarks – Sea of Tranquillity, Plato crater, a faint splash of purple where the now abandoned lunar hotel had been under construction, and so on – casting a shadow over the blinding snow.
"Swimming pool?" John queried without turning around.
Scott fixed his sights on Tycho Crater and didn't look away until the rest of his vision was blotted by encroaching darkness.
"Yeah," he confirmed, voice catching on the words. "Swimming pool."
"Swimming pools suck," Alan agreed, seemingly materialising out of nowhere at Virgil's side. He gave a tiny shrug as Gordon made an offended noise. "What?"
"Not all swimming pools." Gordon drummed a hand against his middle. "But yeah, that one did." He gathered a fistful of snow and let it filter through his fingers. "So, uh… Is this…?"
"New?" Scott knocked his head against the ice with a dull chuckle. "Seems like it. I've been too damn tired to dream of anything until now. Guess it was inevitable, huh?"
No one answered. None of them were willing to admit the truth – that yes, it had been inevitable. Trauma was a bitch like that – haunting you until you finally found the courage to turn around and confront it, something which Scott was unwilling to even contemplate yet. The only sound was the lonely whistle of the wind and the occasional metallic hitch of wheels scraping against icy rails. He stared at the stars until the night air drew tears from his eyes. A slight rustle to his left warned him of Virgil's movement before his brother caught his hand and held on fiercely.
John turned away from the moon with a heavy sigh. "That was some dream."
"Not the best," Scott conceded with a faint smile.
John plunged his hands into his pockets, head bowed so that his expression grew fraught with shadows. He toed a clump of dislodged snow, considering, before admitting, "You're not the only one."
It took a few seconds for the implications of that statement to dawn on Scott. He blamed this on the fact he had yet to shake the phantom pain in his chest from the memory-turned-nightmare. When the realisation finally did strike him, it was like smashing into water at terminal velocity and it hurt. He could recall John's nightmares from the bunker, but he hadn't been aware of any disturbed sleep since then, so he'd assumed that, like himself, his brother had been too tired to dream at all, but apparently not.
"You've been having nightmares?" Gordon asked quietly, sitting upright.
The back of his suit was smothered in snow, but despite his shivers he made no move to wipe it off. He drew his knees close to his chest to wrap his arms around them, curling in on himself like a scared child, eyes wide and concerned as he craned his neck to look up at John. Alan reached over and brushed the snow off his back.
A shooting star blazed across the darkness, burnt out within seconds of shining so brightly. Make a wish, Scott thought to himself, watching Alan close his eyes as if doing just that.
John turned back to the moon to hide any and all emotions.
"I spent over forty-eight hours completely surrounded by the infected." His voice wavered. He ground his heels into the ice as if stamping out that tremor, as if his fear couldn't be read from his rigid shoulders and the way he couldn't look at anyone. "Some of the things I saw… They'd haunt anybody."
"God, John," Virgil breathed, squeezing Scott's hand slightly.
"And those are the moments I can remember. They're bad enough. But there are blanks. I'm missing time. So how much worse are memories I've blocked out?"
There was another painful silence. They hadn't had chance to talk about John's time with the infected, not in depth, but whenever it had been referenced John refused to discuss it, glossing over the details as if they were nothing meaningful. It was a similar manner to how he'd avoided talking about the October Incident. But if it was a repression method, then it clearly wasn't working, and Scott didn't know how to help. John had never been good at confiding in people. Some of those jokes about lone-wolf acts were too close to the truth, but some burdens were simply too heavy to be carried alone. Certain memories had to be shared or you'd drown in them without a light to guide you home again.
John cleared his throat. "So, yes. Nightmares. You're not the only one, so there's no need to feel embarrassed or ashamed or any of the ridiculous lies you like to tell yourself."
"Three." Gordon cringed under the sudden attention. "I just meant… uh…" He held up a hand like a grade-schooler, staring intently at his boots. "Me too. With the, um, nightmares. So that's three of us."
Virgil confessed in a rush, "I can't sleep."
Scott glanced over at him sharply. "What?" He distinctly remembered Virgil sleeping at the apartment. "Since when?"
"Since we left the bunker." Virgil was reluctant to meet any of their searching looks. "I've been getting a couple of hours at most. The rest of the time… nothing."
"Insomnia's a bitch," Gordon agreed.
"Not just insomnia. It's… Every time I close my eyes, I see them."
"Rotters?" Scott guessed.
Virgil's tiny shrug translated as yes. Alan didn't volunteer any information, but no one needed to ask to figure out that he hadn't escaped the nightmares either. He was growing concerningly good at hiding them though. Scott had been woken only a few times since the bunker by cries hastily stifled in sleeves and fists and on all of those occasions Alan had pretended to still be asleep.
"Oh, yay," Gordon muttered. "So, we're all fucked up. Good to know." Virgil reached across to cuff him around the head. "Hey! I'm not wrong."
John was still observing familiar lunar coordinates. Alan stood up to join him, snagging John's wrist to draw his brother's arm around his shoulders. After a moment, John tugged him closer. The moon looked impossibly large in the sky as if it were only a short jump away. Scott looked for the distinct outline of the crater which had once housed their dad's old base. He couldn't help but wonder how Jeff would have coped. Doubtless, he would have had the right words. All Scott had was silence. Sometimes there were no simple answers.
"We could do with a campfire," Virgil mused.
Gordon blew hot air into his cupped hands with a grimace. "Tell me about it. This is worse than that time in Svalbard."
Virgil glanced over at him. "Well, yes, but that's not what I meant." He returned his sights to the stars. Another collection of debris was working its way through the upper atmosphere, streaks of gold smearing that inky darkness with light. "Last time we watched a meteor shower was on the beach back home. We always had a campfire, remember?"
"I remember the s'mores," Gordon replied, trying to force cheer into his voice without much success. He hunched over his knees. "Yeah." His whisper cracked. "Those were good times."
In the heart of the action there was no time to think. Adrenaline left no room for recollection or mourning. It was the aftermath which held the true danger because it allowed time to think. Life was so sad that it was unbearable. Grief was an old enemy which weighed down on everyone like pressure found at the depths of the Mariana Trench.
Thinking for too long about all that had been lost threatened to crush souls into something broken and ruined until all that was left were the tattered remains of all which had once been bright and beautiful. Scott was vividly reminded of that mangled canary feather and sat upright to take a deep gulp of clean air, suddenly nauseous.
Alan curled his hands into fists at his sides. Faint tremors running across his shoulders betrayed silent tears. John's hold tightened slightly. He rested his head on top of Alan's, murmuring something inaudible to everyone else as another flurry of burning debris scattered the sky with similar glowing sparks as white phosphorus.
"You wanted to see the stars," Scott recalled aloud. The words were intended for John, but they applied to Alan too. Something in his chest clenched at the memories and the implications they had held at the time: see the stars, the five of us, for a final time. "As a family, I mean."
John remained quiet until eventually he whispered, "Not like this."
Dawn came in snatches. After spending nearly two hours on the roof, Scott didn't think he'd ever feel warm again. Ice settled in his bones and stole the feeling from his hands and feet. He was too cold to sleep and besides, he was reluctant to risk nightmares again. It was bad enough waking himself up, but the idea of jolting everyone else out of sleep with his screams was too much, so he stared at the stacks of crates and watched light creep through crevices in the walls as the sun rose. He was aware of Virgil checking on him at one point, but he feigned sleep and his brother had either believed the ruse or knew better than to pry.
It was toasty under the blankets, but Scott still couldn't shake the chill. Gordon was practically sprawled on top of him, radiating heat like a furnace, and Alan was curled against his side again, not to mention Finch who had taken up residence on his legs, yet he was still cold. He couldn't figure it out. He was beginning to wonder if it was all in his head.
At some point he drifted off again. Sleep came in fits and starts. He jolted awake to a hammering heart and the creeping fear usually experienced by prey animals. Instinct whispered that he was being hunted. He pushed a hand through sweaty hair, struggling to sit upright without waking Gordon. Alan wasn't too much of a worry – the kid was a deep sleeper – but Gordon was liable to wake if even a pin dropped. The last few days seemed to have caught up with him though, as he didn't stir, and Scott was able to extract himself from the puppy pile without too much trouble.
Virgil was sitting on one of the crates. He moved over to make room for Scott to sit down. Golden light bathed the carriage as the sun rose higher. Everything seemed better in the daytime. It was easier to breathe. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Virgil reached for a can and pressed it into Scott's hands.
Scott picked at the peeling label. It was faded orange and the words had been bleached by sun and age, making the contents unknown. He lifted it in question.
Virgil pushed it closer to him. "It's fruit."
"What kind?"
"Tropical mix." Virgil scrubbed his hands over his face with a tired sigh. "Just eat it. Please."
There were times when it was best not to argue. This was one such occasion. Scott hadn't registered how hungry he was until the food was in front of him. The fruit was saturated in sugary syrup to increase longevity, as sweet as nectar.
Virgil passed him another one. "You missed rations last night, remember?"
Too much sugar threatened to make him sick but gnawing hunger pangs were worse. He worked his way through the contents slowly, then headed up to the roof to take stock of the changes.
The angle of sunlight had shifted, suggesting that their path had shifted from a pure northerly direction towards the eastern seaboard. Temperatures had risen slightly, although the wind was still bitter, and a lonely fog was slinking towards the western horizon. The sun was still low in the sky, red and swollen like a bloodshot eye, occasionally vanishing behind the ever-present dust haze.
"Looks more like Mars," Gordon remarked when he joined Scott on the roof. He'd found a thick winter coat from somewhere with a faux-fur rimmed hood and deep, fleece-lined pockets. The tarnished light turned ivy green into murky brown. "Is that another dust storm?"
Scott followed his gaze. The sky was swirling with shades of ochre, amber and chalky sienna. It looked as if it were teeming with thousands of alien creatures, leaving trails in their wake and churning clouds into a froth. The sky was swiftly becoming yet another hostile environment. Perhaps the planet was trying to purge itself of all life entirely – a fresh start void of any pesky humans, be them infected or healthy.
"Yeah," Scott said, sensing Gordon's curious glance. "But it's a long way off. South too, so we're still gaining ground. It shouldn't be an issue. Besides, we can't have far to go. This train can't run forever."
"About that…" Gordon motioned to the rest of the carriages. "We should check those. If we can identify the cargo, we might be able to figure out where we're going. It won't tell us much, but at least we won't be walking in entirely blind."
"Just mostly."
"Just mostly," Gordon agreed with a wry smile. "C'mon." He clapped a hand to Scott's bicep. "John wants to come with us. Oh, and I need to grab a canary."
"You need to… what?"
"A canary." Gordon interlocked his fingers to make a flapping gesture. "You know? Songbird. Small, yellow, warns us of any nearby rotters…"
"Yeah, I know." Scott shoved him towards the hatch. "Why are you bringing one?"
Gordon frowned at the glinting carriages up ahead. "They were chirping last night. I want to know why." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Either they were reacting to John, which doesn't make sense because they never did before and he said the hivemind has been quiet, although that's also weird come to think of it…"
"Gordon."
"Right, right, sorry. Anyway. So, they were either freaking out over John or there are actual rotters somewhere on this train. And if there are, then-"
"Then we're heading somewhere where they're trading the infected," Scott concluded. He repressed a sigh. "Shit."
"Could be another corrupt GDF bunker. Could be private. There are still only two real options – test subjects or entertainment. Neither of those sit well with me, although I'd take the former over the latter." Gordon physically shook himself out of the spiral. "So. Let's check it out. What d'you say?"
Scott stared at the grey line of horizon which was hastily approaching.
"Call John." He recalled that high-pitched chirp of alarm from last night. "And you'd better fetch a canary while you're down there."
Gordon gave him a mock salute. "FAB, Scotty."
Weapons gathered and a canary in a carrying case small enough for Gordon to hook it to his GDF suit, it was time to investigate. The wind was picking up again but most of the ice had melted. The train glistened like some strange land-faring eel as it carved a path through the great expanse of endless flat plains.
Scott crouched at the edge of the roof for a minute. Scruffy tree canopies signalled the edges of a forest beyond the horizon. He couldn't tell if the unnatural tarnished hue was due to dust or radiation poisoning.
A hand landed on his good shoulder and squeezed lightly.
"Ready to go?" Gordon asked.
Metal flashed as John slid his katana into its sheath and hooked it over his shoulder. He glanced up, sensing eyes on him, and frowned. "What?"
Gordon stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment. "How come you get the coolest weapon?"
"Because I picked it up first." John shouldered him aside to take the lead, but not before Scott had chance to spy that secretive smile. "Let's go. We've got a lot of carriages to get through and time isn't on our side."
"Time," Gordon interrupted with a grand sweep of his arms, "is not real."
He bounded ahead to walk backwards so that he could beam at John. The canary fluffed itself up as if to encourage him.
"You're an idiot," John informed him.
Gordon dropped into a low bow that had the canary protesting. "Danke."
"Not a compliment."
Sometimes Scott wondered whether Gordon's jokester façade had always been so obviously fake or whether it was a new development. Had some part of them always known that it was simply a mask but had gone along with it because that was easier than peeling back the layers to discover the wounds beneath? Yes, there was the entire fake it 'til you make it strategy, but Scott couldn't help but feel that their deliberate refusal to see the truth had done more harm than good over the years. He was just as guilty himself – even now he smiled in all the right places and didn't call Gordon out on the forced joviality.
Any semblance of banter was swiftly replaced by the familiar unit of teamwork. They fell into a routine. Anything useful found within the carriages was stowed in Scott's rucksack, although they tried not to take too much. Stealing supplies from people who could potentially be on their side was not a smart way to go about forming alliances. That being said, the odd swiped item or two wouldn't be missed.
Every carriage looked more-or-less identical: stacked crates with nailed tarpaulins. There was the occasional sealed container of unknown contents which couldn't be identified. They left those untampered, unwilling to make their presence obvious when the crates came to be inspected at the journey's end. Still, with lack of variety and overtired from the previous night, Scott wasn't quite as vigilant as he should have been. Reflexes honed by years of younger brothers was his only saviour from taking a cardboard box to the face.
He caught it in one hand before he'd even registered the movement. "Really?"
Recognition dawned as he examined the object. It was small and he glimpsed foil wrappers glinting in the gap where water damage had warped blue cardboard. He flipped it over. Obnoxiously sugary images of icing sugar and sprinkles greeted him.
He glanced over at John, raising the box in question. "Pop tarts?"
"Confetti cake pop tarts to be precise," John corrected, eternally a stickler for the fine details. He was leaning against a crate of sugary goods which had to be worth more than a human soul on the black market between private bunkers. There were three other boxes of pop tarts – two strawberry and one cinnamon – but he made no move to take any of those.
Scott lowered the box, suspicion melting into fondness because he knew that light in John's eyes, recognised that secretive smile from his brother's past plots to demonstrate that he cared about people without ever having to say the words. No wonder he got along so well with Kayo.
John gave a nonchalant shrug.
"Happy birthday," he said casually, as if he hadn't just momentarily flipped Scott's worldview on its head, because:
"It's not my birthday?"
A shadow flitted across John's face, swiftly banished. He pushed himself away from the crates and moved closer to keep their conversation out of Gordon's earshot.
"It's April. Closer towards May now."
Scott tightened his grip subconsciously on the pop tart box until it creased under his fingers. John cautiously placed a hand on his wrist but made no further move to speak.
"Don't say anything," Scott whispered after the silence began to take on too much weight. He stared at the box in his hands until he could convince himself that his vision was blurring due to lack of blinking when the truth was far more painful.
It wasn't even as if missed birthdays were a new development – he'd spent many a year stuck out on rescue, and it was difficult to keep track of dates when he was flying between time zones quicker than a clock could keep up – but this time it stung. He couldn't quite put his finger on why. Perhaps it was the very implication of a birthday – calling upon life in a world of death – a sense of tempting fate like daring to hang out washing in the hopes of sun when the sky was already overcast.
Celebrating another year of survival seemed akin to inviting a grim reaper to the party and Scott did not want it setting its sights on the other attendees. It felt safer to ignore the date altogether. He'd been intent on doing just that until now, holding a makeshift birthday cake in his hands with John's featherlight touch to tether him in the moment, the rumble of the train all around them as they tried to run faster than death could catch them. The overwhelming sense of grief seemed to rise up out of nowhere. He couldn't identify the source. It radiated from somewhere deep in his chest to sink its claws into his spine and clog his throat.
"Virgil and I figured you wouldn't want to celebrate," John said quietly, lifting his hand from Scott's wrist. "Neither of us will say anything. But…." He tapped the box with a sad smile. "Happy birthday, Scott. Now I won't mention it again."
He hesitated as if there was something else which he couldn't quite bring himself to say. Scott didn't speak until it was clear that John wouldn't share any secrets. He stashed the pop tart box in his rucksack underneath various tinned goods and long-life supplies where it couldn't be found by any curious teenagers – sugar was such a rarity that it had to be saved for a moment of true low morale, a point which he wasn't naïve enough to believe they wouldn't reach again in the near future.
John's expression shifted from that soft, contemplative look to something sharper. Scott followed his gaze to where Gordon had returned from the shadowy depths between other crates. There was something dark clutched in his fists, half-cradled to his chest as if it were precious. Sleek black fabric glinted where metal seams and integrated weaponry caught the light.
GDF suit, Scott recognised in an instant, glancing sideways to catch his own sinking feeling mirrored in John's eyes.
The fabric was frayed by lacerations from blades and bullets. Loose threads mixed with thin blue wires flapped in the gaps. The immediate comparison which sprung to mind was torn veins, especially given the ugly smears of rust, although perhaps Scott had just spent too much time around the infected lately. A second later the implications of those bloodstains dawned on him. The suit was extensively damaged; its original owner clearly hadn't given it up freely. Based off Gordon's haunted expression, he had come to the same conclusion.
"Gordon," John began, cautiously, as if approaching a spooked horse. "Maybe you shouldn't-"
"I might have known them."
Gordon didn't sound entirely emotionless but there was a certain robotic undertone to his voice which was chilling. He traced the edges of a gaping tear across the suit's heart. Tiny flakes of dried blood came loose under his thumb, floating away to join the dust in the air.
"I could have- They might have been one of the scouts I shared a room with, or maybe we ran a mission together or-" His voice cracked, but when he looked up his eyes weren't tearful. More desolate. Accepting. In a way, that was far more painful. "There are more suits. All GDF scouts. No tags, no way to identify who they were, just that they were slaughtered."
He dropped the suit onto an unopened crate and planted a hand on the top.
"They survived this long. Eight months into this shit storm and what kills them? Not radiation, not rotters, not even their own fucking stupidity, but other survivors. What does that say about humanity?" He twisted the suit into a knot of tension, voice low as he muttered, "Maybe we deserve this."
"Oh, cut the crap, Gordon," John snapped, earning a wide-eyed, hurt expression. "That's bullshit. It might be easy enough to think that when you're looking in the mirror, but I can guarantee you won't be as quick to believe it if you're looking at Alan or Virgil or Scott."
The resulting silence was so tense it could have been cut by even a blunt knife. Scott lofted his rucksack onto one shoulder and took a step towards Gordon, only to have his hand smacked away.
"And you." Gordon's gaze was unreadable. "Don't leave your own name off that list, John."
And there. John flinched. It was tiny. Barely perceptible. Easy to miss unless you'd been the guy's brother for nearly thirty years and therefore knew him better than you knew yourself. Scott reached for words he didn't have. A glance sideways revealed Gordon was equally as lost.
John pushed the hatch open. "We've still got four more carriages. Let's go."
The canary remained quiet until the penultimate carriage. At first, the only change was rustling wings. The canary had been still and silent ever since leaving its partner in the rear carriage, but now it was alert. Beady eyes scanned the landscape for threat. Those tiny feet curled tightly around its perch. It cocked its head. Chirped once. Twice.
Gordon froze. John stilled, balanced precariously close to the swaying space between carriages. Then, as Scott planted one foot on the next roof, the canary began to sing.
For such a beautiful sound, it was certainly chilling. The resulting adrenaline spike left Scott slightly dizzy. He pushed into the jump before he could second-guess himself and end up missing a step. His instincts kicked into overdrive as soon as he landed on the roof. The snow had melted, leaving slippery metal. He flattened his hands against the panels as he fought to regain his balance. Tiny tremors ran through his fingers. It was more than the normal vibrations of a moving vehicle. There was something unnatural within the carriage and it seemed to be alive.
The canary's singing grew louder as Gordon made the jump. There was a note of panic in the creature's voice. Its tiny chest quivered with a frantic heartbeat. It spread its wings, longing to fly away from the danger but unable to flee. Gordon crooked a finger through the bars, brushing the downy feathers beneath one outstretched wing. The canary shivered. The song tipped upwards in pitch.
"Something's here," Gordon observed. The words were clipped. He reached to place one hand over his gun to reassure himself of its presence. "Rotters, right?" He crouched by the hatch, listening intently, but the howling wind was too loud. He glanced up to meet Scott's gaze. "It's gotta be."
John took an unsteady step closer. He had that uncanny sense of otherness about him again, head tilted as if he could hear whatever lay beneath their feet as clearly as if he were back on Five with all those powerful scanners.
The canary gave another high-pitched chirp of alarm.
John snapped out of the trance as if he'd been shocked. "They're here."
Gordon backed up a pace. "Well, that's not creepy at all."
Scott reached for a blade. If the infected were on board, he had to know in what capacity. There was a distinct difference between test subjects and those destined for entertainment in the form of fight rings. He eased the hatch open.
The stench which wafted out was enough to make him gag. It was a tangible mix of rotten flesh, excrement and old blood. Gordon choked out a curse, pressing a fist to his mouth. John was the only one who appeared unaffected. Yet despite his neutral expression as he peered into the depths of the carriage, there was a tense line of fear which had taken root in his spine. It held his shoulders rigid and crept out from under his skin in the form of a tiny tremor in his hands.
"John," Scott murmured, brushing his knuckles against John's shoulder when his brother didn't appear to hear him. "Should you stay up here? Is it, uh, loud again?"
"They're…" John curled his fingers around the rim of the hatch. "Lonely," he finished in a tiny whisper.
The only comparable feeling to the depth of emotion in his eyes was grief in its purest form, the kind which drew fists to mirrors and left calling cards in the early hours when the sense of loss was so raw it felt as if it were a bleeding wound. He shook his head to jolt himself out of the daze, then, before Scott could stop him, lowered himself over the edge and dropped into the dark expanse below.
"What the fuck?" Gordon hissed, lurching forwards a second too late. "John!"
Scott bit back a curse of his own.
"Stay here," he ordered, clamping the knife between his teeth as he twisted to clamber through the hatch.
He was under no false pretences as to whether Gordon would actually listen. Sure enough, less than a second later there came a flash of canary yellow amid the gloom. He fixed Gordon with a disapproving frown.
Gordon grinned at him. "What? You didn't really expect me to miss all the action, did you?"
That smile dropped as soon as their eyes adjusted to the dull light. This carriage was reinforced so that nothing could break in – or more to the point, break out – and as such no light could find a way past barricaded walls. Even the floor had been strengthened with metal plates.
Scott caught Gordon's wrist before he could step forward. His vision was still slightly blurry in the contrast between the icy light outside and the sudden darkness, but he could pick out shapes well enough to know they were a threat.
There were ten infected in the carriage. They were in locked cages with heavy cuffs around their hands and ankles, chaining them to the floor. None of them were particularly far gone. Their gazes were watchful, almost intelligent, similar to that infected Scott had stumbled across back in the abandoned base in Cheyenne. Their jaws gaped to reveal yellowed teeth. Reels of drool dripped down their chins to mix with the congealed blood smothering their chests.
Yet they didn't call out. There were a few hungered grunts and growls, but no howls. The loudest screams in the room were entirely silent and could only be seen when looking into those desperate, sunken eyes. Limbs jerked, unable to move more than an inch due to the chains. Cuffs dug welts down to the bone in some places. Strips of exposed muscle flapped like loose tongues as the train's movements jostled the creatures.
Gordon hung back, hovering at Scott's shoulder. The canary had fallen silent – too scared to risk sounding the alarm again. The fear in those bright eyes was mirrored by the panic which Scott swore he could see in the faces of the infected. Not human, he reminded himself, releasing Gordon's wrist to pinch the back of his own hand as if the sharp jolt of pain could knock him out of the strange spiral of grief.
John drew closer to the cages as if summoned by magnetism. He didn't appear scared. He didn't entertain any sense of emotion other than a strange, unnerving calm. The infected quietened, jaws closing with audible snaps and creaks, heads lurching upright as if they were soldiers standing to attention. Their cold eyes followed him as he stepped into the space between cages.
Instinctively, Scott wanted to stop him. Something else whispered to wait, just watch for a moment. Rules of the world had been thrown out the window a long time ago. Logic didn't always have the correct answers anymore. He had to trust that John knew what he was doing. He put a hand back, lightly tapping Gordon's shoulder.
Gordon froze, words dying in his throat as he stopped himself from calling out. He rocked forward on his heels to whisper in Scott's ear, "Are you sure about this?"
No.
One of the infected looked almost human. Strange tracks carved clean paths through the dust on its face as if it had been crying. There was a certain heaviness to its gaze as it kept its eyes on John, unmoving, not even lifting a finger as he stepped up to the bars of its cage.
"John," Scott called, softly, unsure as to whether his brother could hear him. Gordon shuffled from foot to foot, evidently uneasy, but didn't step out from behind Scott. "Don't get too close."
"They won't hurt me."
Scott took a deep breath. He could hear his own heartrate like thunder in his ears as creeping paranoia sank in. He knew better than to think in what ifs yet he couldn't stop himself. It was only Gordon's hand on his shoulder which kept him from bolting across the carriage and physically hauling John back to a safe distance.
John cast him a faintly amused glance. It was the same look he'd treated Scott to over the years when he was perfectly confident in his own abilities and believed Scott was just being overprotective. Personally, Scott thought there was such thing as being overconfident and right now that was a title he'd attribute to John. But trust was fragile, so easily shattered. He took another deep breath and forced himself to stay still, even when John curled his hands around the cage bars.
"Okay, Johnny." Gordon gave an uneasy chuckle. "Now you're even making me nervous. That's uh… a little bit too close, don't you think?"
"I've been closer," John replied absently, focus entirely fixed on the infected less than two inches away from his fingertips.
Scott ghosted a hand over his knife, deliberating whether or not drawing it would unsettle the infected. It was a risk he was unwilling to take when John was still that close to them.
"Fair enough," Gordon conceded, "But have you ever heard of, oh, I dunno, not testing your damn luck?"
An infected let out a low snarl. Scott closed a hand around the knife.
"It's clearer here," John explained after a terse minute. He didn't lift his gaze from the infected. "I need to know what they're saying. I can…" He gestured vaguely. "…feel them. They're so close."
"Too close," Scott muttered.
"No, no, there's something- Something else."
John reached through the bars and Scott swore he was about to have an actual heart attack. Gordon disabled the safety and had the loaded gun directed at the rotter's head in record time, but he didn't take the shot.
"It's okay," John whispered as he brushed a hand over the metal cuffs, painfully gentle, tracing the outline of a bony arm. The infected froze as he rested a thumb on the delicate veins where there should have been a pulse. His neutral expression melted into a smile as he closed his hand around the creature's wrist. "It's okay."
Gordon lowered his gun, eyes as wide as saucers.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
"Scott?" John beckoned with his other hand. "Come here."
Scott passed Gordon the knife and forced himself to step up to the cage. Memory made him want to recoil and it took deliberate concentration to overcome the instinct. He let John guide his hand to the creature's arm. It was icy to touch, but there was also something irrevocably alive about it. Not human, but not a brainless monster either. He was reminded of the time he'd swum with sharks – that sense of wonder at knowing something could kill him but was choosing not to.
"Newly infected," he noted aloud. "They're still…"
"Human," John finished for him. "The parasite reaches the brain last. So… they're not in control, but they still have a conscious mind. That's what I can hear. The hivemind was only ever intended for the parasite so that it could spread further, but… Humans are social animals. We seek companionship. Even trapped deep inside their consciousness, they found each other through the hivemind. The voices, those feelings? It's not the parasite. It's humanity."
"And we've been killing them."
"No." John reluctantly lifted his hand from the creature's wrist so that he could turn to face Scott. "We've been freeing them."
So many implications. Scott didn't want to think about any of them. He retracted his hand and backed up a pace until he fell into step at Gordon's side. John followed him, gaze weighing heavily on the gun in Gordon's hands.
Gordon shook his head. "No. We can't. Someone is gonna be angry if we kill these things. I know you say they're human, but that's… That's just for now, right? Like, the parasite does take over eventually and at that point they wouldn't even know anything about it."
John stared at him as if he'd suggested murdering a puppy. "They're suffering."
"I know. I get that. But we'll only be putting ourselves at risk. Either way, these rotters are going to end up dead. It's just a question of how long it takes."
"Are you even hearing yourself right now?"
"I don't like it any better than you do, but I'm trying to keep our family alive."
John held out a hand. "Give me the gun. I'll do it myself."
"No." Gordon backed out of reach. "You can't- I can't let you do that."
"Okay, okay, let's just take a minute." Scott held up his hands, trying to defuse the situation which was hastily spiralling out of control. "Gordon, I understand where you're coming from, but-"
"But you're on John's side?" Gordon finished for him bitterly. "What a shocker."
"There aren't any sides," Scott tried to protest, only to be interrupted by John.
"You don't have to live with them in your damn head, Gordon, you have no idea what it's like. I can feel their suffering. They're in so much pain and we have the power to finally give them peace."
"At the cost of our family! I'm not willing to pay that price. And you know what?" Gordon planted a hand on John's chest and shoved him backwards. "We have earnt our time to be selfish. I have earnt my chance to choose the people I love over strangers."
"It's not about being selfish." John lowered his voice to an icy whisper. "This is you being a coward."
Gordon wasn't quite quick enough patching up his mask and in the split second before he plastered on a cold smile, Scott glimpsed the utter devastation between the cracks. Gordon pressed the gun into John's hands and shouldered past him viciously enough to make John stumble.
"You know what, John?" he called over his shoulder as he headed for the hatch. "Fuck you. I gave everything for- Just fuck you. Do what you want. I'll be the one to fix your mess in the aftermath, but who gives a shit, right? Go ahead, try to keep your conscience clean, because God knows your hands aren't."
