It was hardly the first someone had gone too far, crossed a line, pushed buttons they knew better than to touch. Living with family meant arguments were an occupational hazard. It always blew over and this time would be no different.

That being said, normally they were in healthier headspaces. Maybe that was the reason why Scott couldn't shake a sinking sense of utter dread whenever he looked at Gordon – because his little brother was displaying behaviour which was all too familiar from his own experiences with shitty mental health.

Their venture along the train had ended like this – Scott had gone after Gordon while John remained behind. Gunshots proved that John had chosen to put the chained infected out of their misery. Gordon hadn't said a word since then and there had been no apology from either party. Not that this was particularly surprising – John himself would admit that he was terrible at apologising. For someone with such an extensive vocabulary, the word sorry certainly didn't feature often.

The tension stuck with them even after they returned to the rear carriage. Gordon scrubbed the dirt off his face and hands with a damp cloth, then curled up on a blanket with his back to the wall. There was something in his pocket which he kept rolling between his hands but other than that he laid completely still. His shoulders were hunched in that particular manner which suggested he was trying to keep from crying.

Scott longed to go over and talk to him, but he knew his presence wasn't wanted. At least not yet. Not when the argument was still fresh. He'd never been great at playing family peacemaker. Normally when there were arguments he was on a distinct side. Soothing ruffled feathers and talking people into rational apologies was more Virgil's forte.

Marisa offered him a sympathetic smile. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Something like that." He took the damp cloth she held out to him.

"Family, right?" She propped herself against the crate next to him. "You love 'em, you loathe 'em."

Scott gave a tired laugh.

"Not sure loathe is the right word, but they can certainly be difficult." He scrubbed dust from his knuckles. "They'll get over it. It's just shitty timing. And it's yet more for them to deal with when they already both seem…"

"Vulnerable?" Marisa held up her hands at his sharp look. "Sorry. I didn't mean that as a criticism. Just an observation. You've all been through a lot – everybody has – but those two seem… I don't know exactly." She tilted her head with a wry smile. "Although, I've gotta be honest – I'm not surprised it was them who fought. It's always the ones who are similar."

"Don't point that out to them," Scott warned. "They're complete opposites, but they're also the exact damn same, and the day they figure that out will either be a gamechanger or the world will end again."

Marisa laughed.

"It'll be alright." She took the cloth back from him. "Anything we should know about out there?"

Scott decided to keep the infected a secret for now.

"Nothing major." He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the litany of fresh bruises flourishing across his upper back. "Any problems while I was gone?"

Marisa's smile turned soft. "You might want to speak to your brothers about that." She ghosted a hand over his shoulder in silent support. "Alan is a talented artist."

Well. It wasn't Alan whose name he was used to hearing in that context.

"Artist?"

"Theo brought some sketchpads with him. I think it's helped all of them, but Alan's…" Marisa shrugged. "I guess there's a reason why art is sometimes used in therapy."

"He's speaking again, isn't he?" Scott realised aloud. Suddenly the world didn't seem quite as bleak. Small victories were now gigantic milestones. Relief was a soothing balm, easing every ache and bruise of both body and soul. "Thank God."

Marisa gave him a light shove. "Go on. There's no point moping around here with me and John and Gordon need time to cool off. Besides, Alan's been worrying about you." She drummed a hand against the crate thoughtfully. "He's quite chatty once you get him talking, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he takes after Gordon."

"Gordon?" Marisa frowned. "He's the chatty one? Really? I haven't heard him speak much, that's all."

The suffocating grief was back.

"Yeah," Scott whispered. "He was. But… not so much now, I guess." He cleared his throat before emotions could steal his voice entirely. "I'm gonna sit with Alan for a bit. Shout if you need anything."


Virgil wasn't the only prolific artist in the family, but whereas his creativity revealed itself in familiar faces and landscapes displayed on canvases or strange wonderlands held within sketchbooks, Alan's talent usually made itself known in the form of rough drawings on the edges of homework sheets or scrawled in the margins of lesson notes. He'd never been one for studio space or high-quality materials.

Virgil got antsy if he went too long without a paintbrush; Alan could go weeks without so much as a doodle. Yet right now, there was a similar fervour in his pencil strokes as Virgil entertained when trying to transform feelings into music, or when Gordon swam as if he could outpace the aftermath of a bad rescue, or when Scott himself tried to outrun his own thoughts.

Graphite smeared precious pages like tearful mascara. It coated fingers and palms and streaked down wrists to colour cuffs grey. Tiny fragments of broken lead had collected in the sketchbook's spine from forceful lines. Alan might not have been saying an awful lot, but that didn't equate to a silent mind and now all those thoughts were translated onto paper.

Scott didn't say anything at first, just took a seat beside him. The train had entered a stretch of relatively straight tracks and as such the rocking motion had lessened. Sunlight dappled by reflective tarp and nails made the space warm and golden. He leaned against the wall and tipped his head back. It would have been very easy to fall asleep. Alan didn't acknowledge his presence but shifted ever so slightly so that their knees brushed. He didn't look up from the sketchbook.

Scott closed his eyes. There was something reassuring about the steady skitter-scratch of graphite over paper, a background murmur of voices, the gentle rumble of the train all around them. He could spy the patterns thrown by sunlight even behind closed eyes. The gentle pressure of Alan's knee against his own kept him grounded while he turned over the complicated implications cast by their new knowledge of the rotters.

There was no doubt that those in the latter stages of decomposition were beyond help and couldn't possibly have entertained any human thoughts, but exactly when did the creatures go from conscious beings to mindless animals? Either way, they were never fully in control of their actions and that in itself was enough to make him nauseous. He couldn't imagine the horror of it. What must it be like to be trapped within a body? To taste raw flesh? Feel the resistive forces as molars tore strips of sinew away from bone? To have the warmth of fresh blood gush over your skin?

Alan's knee knocked against his own with clear intent.

Scott blinked. The images fled back into his subconscious. He forced himself to uncurl his fists, flexing his hands against his knees. He'd been clenching his jaw so tightly that it physically ached. The dull pain of a future headache pounded at the base of his skull. He exhaled slowly.

Alan still didn't glance up, but his shoulders loosened a little. His pencil had paused momentarily but now that Scott was focussed again the movements returned. He had the sketchbook balanced in his lap, head bowed so that his shadow was thrown over the pages.

The glare of the sun through the open hatch made it difficult to see the drawings, but they were a mixture of jagged, harsh lines which left welts in the paper, and softer, smeared shading. A pencil was tucked behind Alan's ear in addition to the one in use. Smudged grey from his hands had been transferred to his face.

Scott couldn't help himself. It was bugging him. He licked his thumb and wiped away the smeared fingerprints on Alan's cheek.

Alan made an offended noise. "Scott."

Scott had been faced with that baleful blue glare many times over the years. He still didn't find it anything less than plain funny and maybe even a little endearing too. Alan couldn't really pull off a threatening glower yet. He just looked like an angry puppy.

"Sorry," Scott said, fully aware that he didn't sound apologetic in the slightest. This wasn't helped by his smile.

Alan scrubbed his sleeve across his cheek with a grimace. "Gross. You're as bad as Virgil."

Scott was too relieved to hear Alan's voice again to care about teenage grumblings. He'd take a lifetime of insults if it meant Alan was speaking. Maybe there was something to the theory of processing trauma through art.

He took a moment to study the kid. Some of the tension was gone from Alan's posture and he seemed more open. His grip on the pencil had loosened throughout the drawing. Even in the short time Scott had been present, those lines had gone from violent to gentle.

Alan twirled the pencil between his fingers. Scott was vividly reminded of John's old coin trick.

"Theo brought some of his art stuff with him. He said drawing helped him take all of the mess outta his head and untangle it on the paper until it was easier to work through." Alan's gaze flickered over the images under his hands. "I figured it was worth a shot, right?"

"Can I see?"

Alan hesitated. "Yeah, okay." He kept a hand on the edge of the sketchbook even as he passed it over. "Just… don't judge."

"I'll try not to be offended by that."

"No, no, I know you wouldn't, but… I just…" Alan drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them with a heavy sigh. "I dunno. Just don't be weird about it, that's all."

Right. Because don't be weird was such a clear instruction.

Sometimes, artwork flew straight over his head. Pieces often required another look to determine the deeper intentions. Others were so simplistic that their true beauty depended on an observer's interpretation.

Alan's drawings were neither complex nor simplistic, yet their meaning was apparent upon first glance. Emotion bled from the pages. Some lines carved welts into the paper, as violent and painful as torn skin. There was no distinction between human or monster; the two overlapped like an optical illusion, filled with fear from one angle yet twisted into something beastly from another.

If eyes truly were a window to the soul, then the sketches captured it perfectly. There was a sense of desolate desperation screaming out of the page. Pencil markings around pupils were so deep-set that jagged lines severed the eyes where the lead had snapped and slipped.

Finer pencil marks around the faces were so soft in some places that they looked nothing more than another thumb-marked shadow. Graphite smears had blended into storm clouds. Darkness swept inwards from page corners. Light lines twirled a complicated dance which drew the depicted infected into the heart, encasing them with spiderweb patterns, weaving between and around faces like hopelessly tangled marionette strings.

Alan studied Scott's expression intently. "Um…."

Scott attempted to tear his gaze away. The drawings were strangely captivating. He couldn't look away from those tortured faces.

"They look trapped," he remarked quietly.

Alan's tapping stilled. "Yeah."

Scott glanced over at him. "Is that how you feel?"

"Kinda. Not always. Sometimes." Alan gave a loose shrug. "But I think that's also how they feel. The infected, I mean." His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "They feel trapped too."


Marisa was the one to locate the operating handle for the side door. Virgil helped to slide it open a few metres. The influx of fresh air into the carriage was a welcome relief which was well-worth the new chill.

Scott drifted in and out of hazy dreams which accelerated his heartrate and left him with dying screams in his throat until he eventually gave up on rest. He took a seat by the open door, legs hooked over the edge, leaning forward so that the wind drowned out any thought which dared raise its head.

The sunlight had grown weak with oncoming night. April heat was definitely beginning to work its way across the states, but it was distinctly cooler than usual. Sometimes Scott could fool himself into thinking that this was yet another nightmare. Other times it was so painfully obvious that he was living in the apocalypse that it almost scared him to breathe. Everything was a threat these days, even compassion.

Fabric rustled as a blanket trailed over the floor. Movement flitted in his peripheral vision. Gordon sank to the floor beside him.

Scott said nothing. Gordon stared at the passing landscape, then, without a word, lifted the blanket so that it was wrapped around them both. The silence remained. The wind said enough – that lonely, high-pitched cry which sounded like someone weeping.

Gordon broke the silence.

"You can't trust John's judgement."

Scott didn't say anything for a long moment.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked at last.

Gordon twisted his hands together in his lap. "Exactly that – you can't trust his judgement. Not when it comes to the infected. He's too close to the hivemind, Scott. We have no way of telling when it's John we're talking to or when he's being influenced by the parasite."

"That's not…"

Scott caught himself. He knew better than to brush off Gordon's concerns as if his brother were nothing more than a frightened child. Gordon was clever, especially when it came to people, and he sure as hell wouldn't make trouble when the stakes were this high.

"He said the hivemind was quieter at the apartment, as if something was messing with the signal." Gordon stared at the horizon, gaze stony. "Here, it's louder again. Now, I've got several working theories and I don't like any of them. It could be proximity to the infected – they'd fled the city by the time we left whereas here they're only a few carriages away. Or the radiation could have been screwing with the hivemind and now we're away from the main storm it's no longer a problem."

Both theories were terrifyingly plausible.

"Either way, he's unlocked a door in his head and doors work both ways, Scott."

There was an odd tone of desperation in Gordon's voice.

Scott shook his head. "You've lost me. What exactly are you getting at?"

"The parasite is clever. Say those infected are intended for research – it doesn't want that happening. Knowledge is how any side gains an advantage in a war – you should know that better than anyone here – so the parasite has to prevent humans from learning any more than we already do. Now, it can't free them from the cages, so it has to take them out of the picture. You can't learn much from a dead rotter… Hey, remind me who killed them, exactly as the parasite would have wanted?"

Scott stared at the paling sky until white spots stained his vision. There was a sinking weight in his stomach because the truth – which he really didn't want to admit – was that he suspected Gordon was right.

"He put all of us at risk, Scott." Gordon picked at the edge of the bandage on his hand. "And it's not just- I meant what I said earlier, about it being dangerous in terms of making some powerful people angry, but also… I'm not immune. John had no idea if bringing you closer could trigger the hivemind connection in you too or if touching that infected would invite the parasite to take control of him again."

Scott partly wished Gordon would stop talking.

"Or maybe it wasn't him making those decisions at all- I don't know, but if things had gone south, you two could have overpowered me in a heartbeat. And then what? I turn before I can neutralise that threat? Then I'm the rotter who makes a beeline for this carriage and-"

He sounded dangerously close to tears.

"I get it, okay? I lashed out and some of the shit I said to John was unfair, but you have no idea what it felt like back there. I was on my own. You guys were a united front and you sure as hell weren't on my side. I wanted to trust you, but I couldn't, because who the fuck knows where the line is between John's control and parasite's?"

Scott tugged at a loose thread of the blanket to occupy his hands. "What are asking me to do? Are you asking me to choose? Between you and John?"

"No," Gordon snapped, "Because you've made it abundantly clear over the past few days that you're incapable of making that call."

Scott reeled back before he could school his expression. The words stung as if he'd been slapped.

Gordon cringed. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did."

"I just meant that we're living through a war and if you want any of us to survive, then you can't afford to be a neutral party. Okay? You call the shots based off your own damn logic, not whatever John's saying, because until we have a way of knowing who's in control, it could just as easily be the parasite manipulating you."

Gordon took a deep breath.

"We can't have a repeat of earlier. We got lucky today and we can't count on that happening again because odds are that it won't. Now, I can make tough calls - I've been doing so ever since all of this started – and if you want me to carry on then I will, but you cannot undermine me again. So, yeah, I guess I kind of am asking you to choose, because if John's argument opposes mine then I need you to pick me. I'm sure as hell not unbiased, but at least I don't have a damn parasite in my head."

"Language," Scott joked faintly.

"Oh, please. You heard Alan lately? Kid's got a mouth on him as bad as a sailor – seriously, I would know."

A smear on the horizon marked the remains of a ruined city. The world now belonged to the dead and it was decaying alongside them. Only a few carriages away were new hybrids – a human mind trapped within a monster's body – and there was something terribly disconcerting about that. Scott couldn't help but glance over his shoulder at John, who was currently discussing something with Virgil and didn't appear to represent any threat at all yet.

Gordon followed his gaze with haunted eyes. "I might be wrong. I really hope I'm wrong. I mean, he definitely wasn't under its control back at the apartment, but that just links back to my theory about the radiation blocking the hivemind again, so…"

"How certain are you?"

"I'm never certain about anything anymore, but life's a game of odds, right? You've gotta roll the dice once in a while, but it's got to be a calculated risk. Right now, I'm eighty-five percent sure that he's being influenced by that thing. He probably doesn't even realise it himself."

There was another lengthy silence.

"We'll just have to keep an eye on him," Scott murmured.

Gordon tipped forwards on the heels of his hands, leaning precariously over the edge of the carriage. Scott had to fight the instinct to haul him backwards. He peered around the doorframe, eyes stinging as the wind smacked into his face. The sky was bleak with cloud and there was a distinct smell of rain in the air. The blanket was prickly with static, tiny shocks catching his fingertips, promising a lightning show in the not-so-distant future.

Gordon shuffled back from the edge, then pushed himself upright.

"We're slowing down. It's probably only another ten minutes 'til the final stop." He offered Scott a hand. "C'mon. We should get the others ready."


The ugly shriek of metal over metal reverberated throughout the train. Brakes struggled to slow the vehicle to a complete halt even after ten minutes of deliberate deceleration. The stench of oil and smoke was so strong that breathing stung and the air held a strange tangy taste.

With all doors and hatches firmly shut to avoid arousing immediate suspicion, everything was swamped in darkness. A few stray beams of light filtered through mismatched panels, but it was still disconcerting. Scott felt as if he'd lost one of his senses. His eyes kept playing strange tricks on him – locating inhuman shapes amid the shadows where there was nothing but crates.

In the absence of screaming brakes came an eerie silence. They hadn't been on the train for even a full twenty-four hours, yet there had been something comforting about the return of constant electrical thrum – the manmade orchestra which had been missing ever since societal collapse – and now that it was gone again he found the quiet unsettling.

It was soon filled with human voices – some barking orders, others relaxed and upbeat with the prospect of fresh supplies, a mix of accents and languages blending together until it was impossible to pick set phrases apart.

Boots crunched over gravel. Rubber squeaked as soles slipped on metal tracks. Questioning shouts passed between the crowd as the bodies of the rotters that John had shot were discovered.

"They don't sound happy," Marisa remarked under her breath.

Thuds echoed as crates were hauled onto the ground. Several sets of footsteps plodded around their carriage then travelled forwards. Scott remained frozen for a moment, listening so intently that his ears were ringing, until he was convinced that there was no one guarding the rear doors. He motioned for the others to stay back, while Virgil joined him by the door.

"You sure about this?" Virgil asked quietly. In the dull stream of light through the gap where the door didn't fit the frame, Scott glimpsed doubt in his brother's face. "Once we open this door, there's no going back."

Overthinking wasn't going to help anyone, so Scott reached for the handle. "We can't hang around here forever."

Virgil didn't look particularly reassured but helped him to ease the door open – a little at first, just sufficient to survey their surroundings – but then wide enough to fit through. Scott crouched to the side to keep out of sight of anyone outside, then made a brief mental tally of all the observations which immediately leapt out at him.

They were in some sort of railyard. Several other sets of tracks also came to their end here. The sidings led to a series of buildings which housed decommissioned trains undergoing repairs. Even at this distance, Scott could spy extensive damage in the form of scorch marks and metal melted into strange, alien sculptures.

The yard was filled with people. With a few exceptions, no one was wearing uniform – be that GDF or any other military force – but the weaponry on display was impressive. At first glance, the entire place appeared to be a teeming mass of chaos. Closer inspection revealed precise orders which applied to everyone and everything.

There were even lights to signal which carriages were ready to be unloaded – cheerful green versus warning red. Fine drizzle had set in and the lights washed into one another, glistening over damp tarmac. It was a polished operation which was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it was harder to sneak in unnoticed, but on the upside it made these survivors predictable.

Crates were being unloaded and stacked onto various trucks with fabric coverings to protect them from the approaching storm. Trucks were lined up on a road which led to a series of metal gates which connected to a barbed wire fence interspersed with watchtowers. The gleam of metal barrels betrayed the presence of armed guards, weapons fixed on the crowd below in case of trouble. Every so often, searchlights swept across the railyard, accompanied by a series of blinking security cameras.

Gordon dropped into a low crouch behind Scott's shoulder. "So? What's the plan?"

"Uh…" Scott tore his gaze away from the armed guards. "Not sure yet." He could sense Gordon's unimpressed stare without even turning around. "I'm working on it."

"You want to maybe, oh, I dunno, work on it a bit faster?"

"Stealth ops really aren't my deal, Gords, give me a break, would you? I'm trying, but I'm not Kayo. Or Penelope, for that matter."

"So? Play to your strengths then. Forget stealth."

There was a distinctive scheming edge to Gordon's voice. Scott met Virgil's gaze and was greeted with the same suspicion that he was also currently feeling. They twisted away from the door to face their younger brother.

Gordon's gaze was fixed on the trucks, one hand braced against the floor so that he could lean forward for a better view. Even in the shadows, it was easy to pick out the grim glimmers of determination in his eyes.

"I take it you have an idea then?" Virgil prompted.

Gordon retrieved a knife in a flash of metal akin to a lightning bolt.

"Sure. Something like that, anyway." His smile was electric, mirroring the danger usually worn by Kayo. "Hey, Scott? Have your acting skills improved lately?"


The wide beams of searchlights swept across the yard, dulled by low cloud but still bright enough to blind anyone who looked directly into the source. Scott flattened himself against the side of the train just in time to avoid being caught, breath catching as the beam skimmed the edge of his boots. He had a new sense of empathy for animals who became caught in headlamps; the paralysing quality installed by the searchlights overrode all instincts to flee.

It wasn't only a game of hide-and-seek, but a test of agility and spatial awareness too – with so many searchlights, the beams often became tangled, forming a maze of light with precious few shadows to follow. Then there were the signal lights – glaring red and green like an unholy Christmas tree – which added to the confusion. Truck headlamps melted into one sea which forced its way through the gates and faded several metres beyond. Scott glimpsed a wasteland of tall grasses, scorched earth and potholed tarmac, but night had already concealed the horizon from view and the driving rain decreased visibility even more.

All attention was fixed on removing crates from the front carriages, leaving the rear unattended save for the watchtowers and a lone guard who was more invested in wiping the rain from his glasses than actually focussing on his surroundings. Kayo would have taken him down in a heartbeat without drawing a single glance. Scott's tactics relied more upon brute force and knowledge of which pressure point was best to knock someone into unconsciousness based on advice drawn from Virgil's medical knowledge and the various self-defence skills which John had learnt from Penelope.

Guard dispatched and safely stowed within the dark depths between the crates – where he would hopefully go undiscovered for at least another hour – it was onto the next target. The searchlights passed by at regular intervals which Alan timed to be two minutes and thirty seconds. Attracting attention from the ground wasn't so much of an issue – the lack of uniforms meant they could be mistaken for just another set of workers – but the searchlight would mark them out as interlopers as soon as they split away from the main crowd.

Low cloud was slowly engulfing the watchtowers. Scott couldn't decide whether that was a blessing or a curse. He liked being less visible to the guards, but he was all-too conscious that while they couldn't see his movements, it also meant that he couldn't see theirs either. If someone was pointing a gun at his head, he'd rather be able to see it.

The searchlight swung low across the railyard. Even soaked through with rainwater, people were in obvious high spirits. New supplies may have been expected but their actual arrival was still an event deserving of celebration. A couple of workers were even whistling.

Scott dragged his attention back to Alan, who waited until the searchlight beam shifted out of range before pushing himself to his feet and gesturing go.

The trick to blending in was to act as if you already belonged. Scott had learnt that early on in life. The others? Not so much. Virgil looked so obviously on edge that Scott almost couldn't watch, although he had to remind himself that strangers wouldn't be able to pick on his brother's tells quite as easily as he could and so would probably mistake nervousness for excitement over the new supplies.

Gordon, John and Marisa had two crates between them to cement the cover story of being workers should anyone try to stop them. Hopefully there wouldn't be any checkpoints at the trucks – at least Scott couldn't see any – but if there then it was good to have evidence to back up their claims.

Ignoring the second glances tossed their way, Scott squared his shoulders and strode across the yard as if he'd been a part of this survival community ever since Z-Day, summoning the same mask of confidence that he'd clung to when first taking control of Tracy Industries. Unlike that day, he didn't feel as if he were swimming amongst sharks, but the situation didn't seem quite so different – more like he was surrounded by rats, just as vicious and suspicious as the real deal.

He kept noticing weapons. New ones seemed to leap out at him every second as if they were being highlighted. Guns there, a knife here, several tasers strapped to wrists and waists. There was even a set of heavy artillery situated below an overhang where the rain couldn't find it.

His own gun was digging into his hip as if to remind him of its presence. Not that he was liable to forget given it was a critical part of the plan. Still, his new awareness of the multitude of weaponry surrounding them put him even more on edge. Death had left so many calling cards that it was near impossible to avoid them. He resisted the urge to reach out and pull Alan closer to his side.

Up ahead, red light flickered into green. It reflected off the growing puddles. Liquid emerald pooled in potholed tarmac. Theo nearly slipped on the uneven concrete. Alan lunged sideways to catch him before he drew attention. Bundled beneath the tarpaulin covering the crates, Finch's low whine was mercifully lost amid the hubbub of noise.

Scott caught Gordon's eye, trying to inject as much warning into his gaze as possible. Gordon rolled his shoulders as if this were nothing more than a leisurely stroll, but then ducked his head to whisper something, and Finch once again fell silent.

Why were the trucks so damn far away? Scott shifted his focus away from his brothers a fraction too late as a muscular shoulder barged into his own. He bit back a strangled curse at the lightning which flared from the healing bites at the impact. It radiated outwards until he could even feel sparks in his fingertips. As he ground his heels into the gravel to reorientate himself, he finally got a look at who he'd crashed into.

Holy shit. Okay, if Scott was tall then this guy was on another level. What was he, some kind of ex-NBA player? Not to mention the muscle - it was like walking into a human tank. He made Virgil look small.

"Watch where you're going."

The accent was unidentifiable. There were no clear signs of military rank either, suggesting the man was a civilian, so there was no need to lean into a respectful acknowledgement of the chain of command.

Scott cleared his throat, unused to looking up when speaking to someone. In different circumstances, it would have been laughable. He could just imagine the jokes that Gordon and Alan would have come up with.

He fixed a confident smirk on his face. "Sure, man. My bad. Hey, you should watch your step too. There's a shit ton of water lying around. Couldn't have picked a worse day for a supply run, am I right?"

An affronted frown crinkled into a genuine smile. "Tell me about it."

"Sorry for walking into you."

"No harm done, pal. See ya around."

Virgil exhaled in a rush as the guy disappeared out of earshot. "That was too close."

"Relax. We're good." Scott gave him a light shove. "Come on, keep moving."

The trucks were lined up ready to go as soon as they got the signal. Drivers were already at the wheel. Their faces looked ghostlike in the glow of the radios which they were all listening to. The engines hadn't yet been turned on, although Jasmin stole a sneak peek through the windscreen and reported that keys were in the ignition.

Scott ducked down alongside, safely out of view of the drivers and blocked from the prying eye of the searchlight. It took a couple of seconds for everyone to catch up. John and Marisa had lagged behind a little to avoid arousing suspicion and it took a moment for them to be sure that no one was watching them.

Finch wriggled free of the tarpaulin and shook raindrops from her fur. Alan looped a hand through her bandana and gently tapped her muzzle in a command for silence. Scott caught Marisa's eye. Her mouth was a thin line of determination as she nodded to confirm that yes, she remembered their backup plan in case things turned sour hella fast.

Gordon clapped a hand to Scott's bicep, then vanished around back of the fourth truck on light feet. He didn't appear to make a sound. Scott mentally counted to ten, confirmed by John's thumbs-up, then slipped around to the front, keeping low to the ground despite his protesting ankle.

The driver was tipped back in his seat. One elbow rested on the open window. He was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. A collection of ribbons fluttered from the volume control on the dash. Green lights of the radio reflected in his pupils. He seemed to be lost in his own little world, but very quickly jolted out of it again when Gordon yanked open the passenger door and slid into the seat beside him.

"Howdy." Gordon gave a mock salute. "How's it going, buddy?"

"What the f-?"

"Shhh. Don't do that."

Gordon clamped a hand over the driver's mouth, pressing his forearm against the guy's windpipe with just enough pressure to faintly constrict his breathing.

"There's no need for all that shouting, is there? We're all friends here. Now, when I lift my hand away, you're going to stay real quiet, aren't you? Because if you don't, my brother here is going to, oh, what's the saying? Blow your frickin' brains out."

Scott leant through the open window to press the gun against the driver's temple. He switched off the safety slowly so that the guy heard the promising click of possible death. He pushed the barrel a little closer. Thin beads of sweat glittered in the dull radio lights. The driver's throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

Gordon's grin was catlike, pure danger and adrenaline.

"What d'you think, Scott?" He tightened his grip a fraction, fingers curling around the driver's jaw to dig his nails into the guy's pulse. "Is he going to play nice? Or are we gonna have to demonstrate just how serious we are?"

Scott made a noncommittal sound, propping his elbows against the lowered window as he leant in closer. The driver's eyes were wide, pulse fluttering beneath his skin, breath sucked between gritted teeth in frightened wheezes.

"I don't know, Gords. Maybe he could do with some more incentive."

"I think you're right."

Gordon retrieved his knife seemingly out of thin air.

"Here's the deal, buddy. You do exactly as we say, without screaming, or I'll just have to take away your ability to make even the smallest of sounds. Do you know where human vocal chords are?"

He traced the knife lower, just shy of breaking the skin.

"Right here. Now, I'm assuming you want to keep yours, right? Ah, ah, no talking, not yet. Just nod."

The driver jerked his head.

"There you go. You're doing brilliantly. Now, I'm going to lift my hand away, but just remember that gun. Can you feel it?"

Scott pushed the gun closer. The driver let out a muffled whimper.

Gordon retracted his hand but kept the knife close. "Good job. You're one step closer to keeping your life. Now, my brother is going to give you some instructions, and you're going to follow them exactly, is that clear?"

The driver's eyes welled with angry tears. "Who the hell are you guys? Bandits?"

Gordon tensed. He couldn't look at Scott.

This is International Rescue. It's okay, you're safe now.

Memories ran on repeat like a broken record player.

Gordon inhaled sharply. "You can call us whatever you want. Bandits, your own damn reckoning, I don't give a fuck. The important thing is that you do exactly what we say."


Needless to say, the driver was very cooperative. Saving his own skin was priority no.1, so he didn't hesitate to hand over his pass for inspection at the gate, nor did he protest when Gordon secured his hands behind his back and gagged him with a spare t-shirt just in case he got any ideas about calling for help at the last second. They loaded him into the back of the truck, sat on a crate in the far corner where he remained stonily still, glaring at them with teary, baleful eyes.

Gordon took a step back to stand at Scott's side. For a moment, they simply watched the driver in silence. The faint bruise where Scott had whacked him on the temple with the gun when he'd attempted to flee was his only injury. All things considered, he'd gotten off lightly. Not that Scott could have brought himself to actually shoot the guy, but the driver wasn't to know that he'd only been bluffing.

Gordon tilted his head, eyes narrowed as he studied their captive. "I should feel terrible right now, but I don't."

"Really?"

"Oh, I was kidding. I feel like scum of the Earth. This poor guy is just trying to stay alive, and we scared the shit outta him."

"I mean… we're also just trying to stay alive."

"Scott, you basically invented self-loathing, so you can shut up." Gordon pushed sodden hair out of his face, but the shadows remained. "Don't try to make me feel better because a) it won't work, and b) I really don't deserve it. This was my idea, remember?"

Scott really didn't have anything to say to that. Nothing constructive or helpful, anyway. He wiped raindrops away from his face, craning his neck to glimpse the clouds which cloaked the watchtowers.

"Hey," Gordon added, forcibly cheerful as he slapped Scott's bicep, "Nice acting though. I'd have been scared too in that guy's shoes."

"You weren't too shabby yourself."

Gordon levelled him with an unreadable look. "What makes you so sure that I was acting?"

He let the awkward silence drag on for a moment before sniggering.

"Oh, jeez, Scooter. You're so easy to mess with. Nah, Kayo's just a really good teacher."

Distant shouts signalled that the final truck in the queue had nearly been filled. Time was ticking down to the final minutes before those gates would open. Scott gave the driver a final glance over to ease his own paranoia, satisfied that the ropes would hold. He stayed in the back of the truck to help the others clamber inside. He had to practically lift Alan over the edge as the kid slipped. Sporadic coughing fits throughout the day combined with sleep deprivation had made him strangely weak and off-kilter.

Virgil's worried gaze rested on Alan even after he was sat in a warm huddle with Jasmin, Theo and Finch, tucked out of immediate sight behind one of the stacked crates.

"Virg?" Scott queried softly, unwilling to leave before he knew for sure if there was cause for concern. There nearly always was these days.

Virgil shook his head. "It's nothing." He offered a small smile. "Really. It'll take a while for the medication to have an effect. I'm just being paranoid."

"Join the club."

Scott crouched, more sliding over the edge of the truck than anything else. Jumping wasn't a smart move, not when his ankle was still throbbing. He braced his hands against the truck, hesitating as he went to close the doors. He met Virgil's searching look.

"Hey, you… You'll be alright, won't you?"

Virgil raised his brows. "Provided you don't crash?" His smile turned wry. "Yeah, we'll be alright."

Scott pushed one of the doors shut. "See you on the other side."

"Don't let Gordon drive."

He stifled a chuckle. "No promises."

Doors closed and bolted, he joined Gordon up front. Surprisingly, his brother had left the wheel for him to take and had instead claimed shotgun. He wasn't lounging in it either. He was sat upright, poised like a predator about to pounce, listening intently to the radio which was still spewing orders.

"Anything important?" Scott asked, gesturing to the radio as he slid into the driver's seat. He yanked the door shut and flicked on the locks for good measure. The sight of the gun in Gordon's lap and the collection of knives in the drinks holders between them shouldn't have filled him with as much relief as it did. He adjusted the volume back down to sensible levels.

Gordon stashed the gun in the glovebox. "Nothing major. As long as you follow the trucks in front, we should be in the clear."

"It would help if we had a plan for when we get to the end destination."

Gordon leant back in his seat, crossing his arms beneath his head as he lifted his feet onto the dash.

"Relax, Scotty." He waved a hand leisurely. "One problem at a time. We'll cross that bridge if we get to it. Let's actually get there first."

Scott glanced over at him. "You're upbeat."

"Adrenaline rush," Gordon explained. He removed his feet from the dash and sat up, suddenly alert and shifting back into crisis mode as a result. "You got the pass? I think we're about to hit the road."

Scott handed it over to him, switching on the ignition. It seemed strange to be at the wheel again. He tapped twice on the wall which separated the cab from the rear of the truck. Virgil's answering knock came almost immediately.

Gordon gave a low whistle. "Look sharp, buckeroo, it's time for the first test."

The three trucks up ahead passed the checkpoint in a matter of seconds. Scott eased forwards, then rolled the window down, fixing the paparazzi smile on his face to greet the inspector. The man had a well-tanned face with a heavy moustache which drooped in the rain. His gruff voice reminded Scott of Lee Taylor's gravelly tones. He handed over the pass which confirmed that their truck was part of the supply run.

The inspector examined the dark skies. "Nasty night for a drive, ay?"

"Tell me about it." Scott forced a laugh. "I definitely drew the short straw today. Let this guy drive all the way here, now I've got to drive back in the rain."

Gordon propped his elbows on the dash, leaning forward to catch the inspector's eye. "Hey, if my buddy here doesn't listen to weather reports, then that's on him. He thought he was getting a good deal when I said I'd drive earlier. More fool him, am I right?"

The inspector laughed.

"You boys have a safe drive back, you hear me?" He handed the pass back to Scott who dropped it into Gordon's waiting hands. "No hitting any rotters on the road. Those bastards do some damage, I tell ya. We've had to repair enough of these trucks in the past month."

Scott saluted him jokingly. "We'll try our best, sir. You have a nice night, now."

Neither of them relaxed until they had rolled through the gates and out onto the track. Gordon twisted awkwardly in his seat to peer up at the passing watchtowers. A distinct shudder ran across his shoulders.

Scott took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. His heart was pounding as if he'd run a marathon. Espionage was definitely not a career that he'd excel in.

"Well," he ventured, "I guess we're over the first hurdle."

Gordon leant over the dash, propping his chin on his crossed arms. The faint glow cast him in an otherworldly green. He sought the dark track ahead, pupils so wide that the amber was barely visible.

"Yeah." He shook his head with a low chuckle. "Shit. We just did that."

"We did," Scott confirmed. "Your plan worked."

Gordon frowned. "Don't thank me yet. Ever heard of out of the frying pan, into the fire?"

Scott slowed to a halt as red brake lights flooded the track. The leading trucks were waiting for the rear of the convey to pass the checkpoint so that they could all travel together. Who knew what monsters lay on the dark road ahead? It was a smart plan. He hooked a finger through the ribbons on the volume control absently.

"One problem at a time," he reminded. "Wasn't that what you said?"

Gordon pushed his hands into his damp hair with a sigh. "I guess."

Scott reached over to squeeze his brother's shoulder. "Take a breath, squid. You did well today. Maybe even get some sleep. I don't know how long this drive will be, but it seems like they're expecting it to take a while."

Gordon glanced at him through splayed fingers. "You sure? I could stay awake, keep you company?"

"Hey, Gords?" Scott turned up the heat before he could watch his brother shiver again. "Do me a favour? Stop worrying about everyone else for once." He tousled Gordon's hair with a teasing smile. "Did you forget? That's my job."

Gordon batted his hand away lazily. "Promise you'll wake me if you need me?"

"I promise." Scott softened his voice as Gordon curled up against the door. "Relax. You got us this far, now I've got the wheel. We're okay."