Darkness soon blanketed the landscape entirely. The bright glare of the railyard faded into obscurity, so that the only lights were those of the truck headlamps. The beams blended together to illuminate the track ahead, which soon merged onto a main road in surprisingly good condition. Weeds had forced their way through cracks and abandoned cars loomed out of the gloom, skeletal frames of peeling paint where they had been stripped for parts.

It was entirely pitch black on either side. Tree branches hung low in places, bleached white by headlamps so that they appeared to be strange bonelike creatures, lying in wait to pluck unsuspecting victims from the road.

Scott suspected that it would be very easy to let his imagination run wild out here. It was disconcerting being unable to see anything behind him or on his left or right. In the absence of sound where the radio had finally fallen silent, he kept hearing strange hisses, clicks and growls from the undergrowth.

The stretch of wooded road didn't last for long. Soon enough, it was back onto the seemingly endless plains of flat land. He rolled down his window a fraction to wake himself up with a blast of fresh air. A chorus of various noises filtered through the gap. All sorts of nightly critters lurked within the darkness. The breeze was picking up too, rustling tall grasses. Something large stirred within the mismatched bracken, out of range of the headlamps.

Scott wound the window back up with a shiver. Primal instincts whispered that something was watching him. He glanced down at the knives to reassure himself with the sight of weapons. Up ahead, red lights flared. He slammed on the brakes before he could crash into the back of the truck in front.

Gordon smacked his head against the car door, jolting upright with a startled curse at the rude awakening. It took less than a minute for him to come to his senses. He leaned over the dash to peer closely through the windscreen, trying to glimpse past the truck in front.

"Roadblock?" Scott guessed, despite the sinking dread in his stomach which promised it was something far more sinister. "The wind's picking up. Maybe there's a tree down?"

Gordon rubbed the tender spot where he'd smashed into the door.

"No. Something else. No one's getting out, see?" He winced as he probed the blossoming bruise. "How long have we been on the road?"

"Roughly ninety minutes?" Scott increased the volume on the radio. "This thing's been silent ever seen we left the railyard."

Gordon studied the darkness to their right. "This is weird. Does this feel weird to you?"

"This feels weird," Scott confirmed. His hand hovered above the keys. "Should I cut the engine?"

"Not if we have to make a quick getaway."

"I get that, but I also don't want to waste fuel. This thing is petrol driven, remember?"

Gordon twisted in his seat, glancing in the wing mirror only to be greeted by glaring headlamps of the truck behind.

"What?" Scott asked, a trace snappier than he'd intended.

Gordon frowned. "Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

They both fell silent. Scott lowered the radio. Gordon held himself perfectly still, but slowly reached for one of the knives. Up ahead, flashes of amber flickered into life as a driver switched on their hazard lights.

Scott glanced sideways instinctively, but he still couldn't see anything amid the darkness. The familiar buzz of an adrenaline rush ignited under his skin. He grabbed the spare knife without looking away from the window and kept it pinned against his seat. Slowly, he became aware of high-pitched birdsong. It was so faint that he nearly mistook it for a trick of the breeze.

Gordon pressed his ear to the wall behind them. "It's the canaries."

Realisation struck them at the same second.

"Rotters," Scott growled, like a curse, just as wheels screeched somewhere towards the rear of the convey. Brakes wailed. Distantly, a scream cut off with a horrific gurgle. A large shadow flitted across the stream of light so quickly that he couldn't quite make it out.

"Sonuvabitch," Gordon spat, scrambling for the knife. "Who taught these things how to ambush?"

Sharp shots rang out. The gunfire ceased almost as soon as it began. Deadly silence returned. Scott reached over and stilled Gordon's hand. The clock on the dash ticked down the seconds. A full minute passed without movement. Silence was suffocating. Impossibly, the darkness seemed to creep closer.

"What are they waiting for?" Scott muttered, tightening his grip on the wheel. He was tempted to steer away from the convey and try to make a break for it. Safety in numbers had become a lie. The infected would probably ignore a rogue.

Gordon pinned the knife against the dash. "I don't like this."

"You don't say."

Everything was too still. The world was holding its breath. A dull ache in his chest reminded Scott that he was doing the same. He glanced across at Gordon, who unclipped his seatbelt and leaned forwards, squinting at something through the mixed glare of reflected brake lights on the glass.

"What?"

Gordon frowned. "I think there's something…"

Heavy mass slammed into the truck immediately ahead of them. It jolted backwards, smashing into their own vehicle. Metal bumpers collided with an ugly screech. Gordon smacked his head against the window for the second time in less than ten minutes, violently enough that Scott would have been concerned had he not been so focussed on shifting gears and trying to back the hell up.

The entire truck shook as it crashed into the vehicle behind. The impact was dizzying. Voices clamoured from the closed compartment. Gordon was shouting something.

Scott's own thoughts were just variations of shit, shit, shit. His head was pounding. He lifted a hand to the trickle of warmth from his left temple. Even in the red light, his fingers were clearly wet with fresh blood. He blinked away spots, recognising another smear across the steering wheel. Hello and welcome to Concussion City.

More screams blended with the rapid thunder of gunfire. He wiped blood from his face and kicked the truck back into drive. The engine screamed in protest. Tyres couldn't gain traction. His own wingmirror was crumpled beyond recognition by the impact, so he shoved Gordon aside to glimpse the opposite mirror.

"Scott." Gordon's voice pitched in warning. He ducked under Scott's arm, snatching the knife from the dash. It was difficult to tell if it was blood on his face, or just a trick of the light. "If you have a plan, now would be a nice time to hear it."

The bumper of the truck behind had become twisted with the underside of their own. Something at the rear of the convey kept forcing everything forwards and the constant jolts were only pushing the two vehicles closer together.

"Oh, motherfuc-"

Gordon got halfway through the curse. Heavy flesh smashed into the side of the truck. Scott lost his balance as the impact threw him backwards. Gordon shot out a hand reflexively, saving his brother from certain concussion. Ugly smears of rotten bodily fluids smothered the windscreen. The rotter's jaws widened in a gaping smile. Gummy fingers swiped at the glass.

Scott slammed his foot on the accelerator. The collision with the truck in front crushed the creature's lower half into mulch. Loose teeth clattered over the windscreen as the rotter howled.

"Get it off," Gordon hollered, as nails screeched down cracked glass.

The rotter tried to haul itself up the bonnet, but its legs were caught in the snared metal. It pounded a fist, writhing in its desperation to reach them.

Scott spared a brief instant to wish they'd kept John up front with them before panic kickstarted his brain again. He lurched the wheel sideways. Metal screamed as the truck forced itself free. The rotter was dragged down the bonnet. Hands left bloodied trails across the glass. Somehow, it still clung on. More cracks spread.

"Why won't this fucker die already?"

Gordon let out a hysterical laugh. "That's not very International Rescue of you."

Something snagged and held fast. Wheels sped into a frenzy. The trucks were still stuck fast together. Scott hooked an arm around his headrest to keep from being thrown across the seats by any more impacts, leaning over to glimpse the problem in the right wingmirror.

"Shit, shit, shit, Scott, it's gonna-"

Gordon smacked the wipers on, turning them up to the fastest setting. The rotter's fingers were crushed within the blades just before its fists could plunge through the fragile windscreen. Its entire body lurched sideways, tossed off balance by the constant sweep of wipers.

Scott decided that brute force was the way to go, so maxed out the accelerator. The stink of hot rubber mixed with rotten flesh. Only adrenaline kept nausea at bay. The entire truck jumped forwards. Raised voices from behind warned that there had been a price to pay for their new freedom, but right now his sole focus was on taking advantage of it. He spun the wheel. The truck careered sideways, throwing the rotter clear entirely.

Gordon braced himself against the dash, breathing heavily.

"Holy shit." He shot a wide-eyed stare at Scott. "Did we lose it?"

"Uh…" Scott glimpsed a motionless form in the glare of brake lights. "Yeah, I'd say it won't be much of a problem anymore."

The respite only lasted twenty seconds. Trucks which had survived the initial onslaught were also wrenching themselves free of the tangle. Engines roared. Scott sent their own truck rocketing forwards, following three others which hurtled ahead. Blood made the tarmac slick. Wheels squealed.

"We've lost a door," Gordon reported.

"We what?"

"How much clearer do you want me to make it? That last impact tore off one of the rear doors." Gordon smacked a palm against the wall. An answering double thud confirmed that everyone was more-or-less okay. "Ah, Christ."

"What now?" Scott risked a glance sideways.

Gordon's gaze was fixed on movement within the shadows. "We've got incoming."

The infected surged across the grass in a tidal wave. They resembled rats fleeing a sinking ship. There were so many that it was impossible to distinguish individual bodies. It was a flood of monsters let loose from the nightmare dimension to plague the waking world. They hurtled out of the darkness, colliding so heavily with the truck behind that they ran it entirely off the road.

It's like Jerusalem, Scott recalled. Images of those overrun city walls had stained his memory. For a moment it was as if he were back there, running for his life alongside Parker with the sharp barks of gunfire ringing in his ears.

He jolted back into the present in time to swerve a cluster of rotters. Apparently those gunshots weren't a figment of his imagination after all. Several bullets ran astray. Rear tyres of a truck ahead exploded so violently that several clusters of tarmac were blown sky-high. Rubble clattered on the roof.

Smoke in the air, a voice at the back of his mind whispered, and while there might not have been any missiles on his tail, the warning was still applicable. Flaming debris threatened to puncture the tyres of their own truck and that windscreen was one strike away from shattering entirely.

An infected ploughed into Gordon's side of the truck. The entire vehicle lurched sideways. Scott wrestled to regain control as they veered off the road and onto uneven grass. The distinctive crunch of bone squelched under wheels.

Gordon was still grappling with the knife.

"Where's the gun?" Scott shouted, unable to keep from flinching as crimson splattered the windscreen. Dull thuds reported the collision of several infected with the front bumper.

The rotter smashed its head against the glass over-and-over until its face was little more than red pulp. Large cracks spread across the window until it resembled honeycomb, finally shattering into hundreds of sharp shards.

Gordon plunged the knife into the creature's skull, jolting backwards as those raw fingers clawed great tears in the seat where he'd just been. The blade stuck fast in a socket. Black liquid seeped from the eyeball like treacle. The rotter lunged forwards, dragging its upper half through the window. Ugly snarls revealed rotten teeth. It tried to yank its hand free of the seat, but its nails had become snagged in the stuffing.

"Oh my god," Gordon yelped, scrambling backwards out of range and ending up practically in Scott's lap. "Why didn't that kill it?"

"You've gotta hit the brain!"

"I did- Fuck, the knife's not deep enough."

"Use the goddamn gun!"

"No, no, no, I-"

Scott wrenched the wheel sideways. The rotter lost its grip on the broken rim of the window, pinwheeling in place. Only those splintered nails kept it from being flung clear. It tightened its grip to fists, hauling itself through the space. The knife wavered in that weeping eye socket.

Gordon wrapped an arm around Scott's headrest to keep from being dragged from the vehicle, smashing his boots into the creature's ruined face. "This is creepier than when that girl from The Ring crawled outta the TV!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I ramble when I panic, you know that!"

Gordon's boot connected with the hilt of the knife. It plunged deeper with a sickening squelch. The rotten eyeball rolled in its socket. The rotter's grip went limp. Those gaping jaws slackened. It fell backwards slowly, as if in slow motion. One last kick sent it crashing onto the tarmac where it vanished beneath the tyres of the truck behind.

Another heavy weight slammed into the right side.

Gordon ducked instinctively. "Holy fucking shit, this is like San Diego all over again!"

Scott accelerated until the indicator maxed out, but the weight was dragging them off-balance. The left set of wheels struggled to grip the road.

"When the hell were you in San Diego?"

"Shortly before I joined the GDF, now swerve right."

An abandoned transit van loomed out of the darkness. Crushed between the side of the truck and the carcass of the van, the infected was torn free.

Gordon let out a hysterical yell. "Try walking that one off!"

A series of thuds reverberated across the roof. Scott glanced up to glimpse it caving inwards. Whatever was up there was heavy and the pattern of screeching metal promised that there was more than one.

Gordon met his gaze, eyes wide, face painted in streaks of blood. "Is that… Are they on the roof?"

Scott gritted his teeth. "Yep."

He slammed on the brakes, throwing out an arm to keep Gordon from being tossed against the windscreen. The sharp jolt launched the pair of infected from the roof. Their faces loomed in the headlamps, ghastly caricatures reaching out with shattered arms, too slow to catch up as Scott sent the truck hurtling forwards.

Gordon glanced in the wingmirror. "Go, go, go!"

"I'm going."

"Go faster!"

"I'm trying!"

The distinctive crack of a gun fired at close range split the air. Scott could feel shockwaves skitter through the truck. The steering wheel trembled under his hands. Several sets of panicked voices were shouting all at once from behind.

It's inside the truck.

"Just drive," Gordon was yelling, twisting his upper body out of the window. The spare knife was now clenched between his teeth as he grabbed hold of something on the roof and flung it off-balance. A rotten leg rolled down the windscreen and left a trail of old blood in its wake.

More yells came from behind. Virgil's and Alan's voices were more distinctive due to their familiarity, shouting for John, just as Gordon screamed something which was lost in the constant din of howls and snarls.

The truck up ahead was more heavily armoured. It ploughed through the sea of infected, leaving a clear path in its wake.

Scott seized a fistful of Gordon's suit, dragging his brother back into the truck. "Strap in. See the truck ahead? That's our exit. We're leaving, now."

Gordon, for once, didn't protest. He clipped his seatbelt into place, gripping the sides of his seat with white knuckles as the force of acceleration pushed him back. The infected passed in a blur. They were travelling too fast for the creatures to even attempt an attack.

Neither of them said anything until the rotters had faded from the horizon.

It was an immeasurable length of time later when Gordon finally broke the silence.

"So," Gordon murmured breathlessly, "That happened."

Scott leant back heavily in his seat. He forced himself to relax his death grip on the steering wheel, flexing each hand and wincing when his knuckles cracked.

"Yeah," he breathed. "That happened."

Gordon rapped his fist on the wall.

The answering thud came a second later.

"Everyone okay?" Scott called.

The pause was not reassuring.

"We're okay," Virgil replied eventually. There was an odd note in his voice. "But it was a close one. Let's not do that again."

Gordon slumped against the dash with an exhausted laugh. "Yo, Alan? I'm thinking zero stars on Yelp. Not a recommended experience."

There was another lengthy silence.

"Minus one," Alan spoke up eventually, voice rough. "Such a shitty experience that it broke the ranking system."

"Dang, bro," Gordon joked, turning his head to glimpse Scott's relieved smile. "Minus one? You might actually have to file a complaint this time."

"I'll take it up with whoever runs the place we're going," Alan agreed, knocking on the wall just to assure them all that he really was okay.

Scott slowed the truck in accordance with brake lights ahead. "Speaking of which…"

Gordon sat up. "Woah. That's…"

He stared at the electric fence which towered above them. It was a colossal structure which stood at least eighteen metres tall. Red lights blinked along the top like sightless eyes. There was something undeniably sinister about the sight.

"Different?" Scott suggested.

Gordon was quiet for a moment. "All too familiar, actually."


The once lengthy convey had been reduced to a mere handful. From the grim faces of those who came to greet them, this was not unexpected. Raised voices called for decontamination and a series of hoses were produced from seemingly nowhere. Foam smothered the windscreen, blocking their new surroundings from view.

Scott cut the engine. They hadn't planned this far ahead and the lack of clarity as to their next move put him on edge. These survivors clearly weren't GDF, but they weren't ordinary folk huddling together making doing with what they had either. They had a polished operation which had to have been established pre-Z-Day. Whoever they were, they'd known the apocalypse was coming and that warning had evidently convinced enough people with deep pockets to invest in this place.

"Private bunker," he remarked under his breath, forcing himself to relax before any of the guards could suspect that he wasn't who he claimed to be. No, sir, he was just an ordinary driver who had definitely been here before and totally wasn't smuggling his family and newfound friends into a high-security compound.

Gordon slid the knives into hidden holsters and tilted the gun in question. "Take or leave?"

"Can you hide it?"

Gordon shrugged. "Theoretically. Might be easier if Virg takes it though. He's got more pockets and bulkier clothes. This GDF suit's great and all, but it's too streamlined to conceal a gun."

The foam was beginning to evaporate. Scott tried to glimpse the compound through the cracked windscreen. Searchlights were too bright to make much out, but he could spy several warehouses, two helipads and a concrete structure which presumably led down to an underground bunker. Like the railyard, everyone was following clear-cut orders.

"Any ideas?" Gordon asked, brow furrowed as he scanned the compound for any weakness.

The rain was beginning to draw in, which worked in their favour as it lowered visibility… and morale – people were more interested in getting below ground and into dry clothes than keeping an eye out for the unlikely event of uninvited visitors sneaking past the gates. The main issue would be with the biometric lock on the doors to the bunker. Scott observed a woman press her palm to the scanner, tapping her heels as she waited for the green light.

"Crap," he muttered, for lack of anything else to say. Stealth wasn't an option. They were going to have to come clean. He hated the idea of throwing themselves at the mercy of the world's elite – specifically those lacking a conscience – but he couldn't see any alternatives.

Gordon read the realisation off his face.

"Oh, yay." The sarcasm was biting. "This is gonna be great fun."

"Just… smile in all the right places." Scott reached for the door handle. "You never know – maybe you can charm them into treating us nicely."

Gordon's stare was sour. "Dude. I'm not Lady P."

He scrambled across the seats after Scott, his own door crushed beyond recognition by the rotter ambush. His boots met the tarmac with a thick splash. Decontamination foam splattered his GDF suit and Scott's own clothes.

"Thanks," Scott muttered.

Gordon wiped foam from his suit with a disgruntled frown. "I already hate this place."

Scott made a vague noise of agreement, mostly distracted by those two helipads. One was empty but the other housed a sleek model which practically sang of wealth. It gleamed under the searchlights.

Gordon followed his gaze. "Reckon you can fly it?"

"I can fly anything," he shot back instinctively. Reality set in a second later. "But… fixed wing is more my style. I haven't flown rotary in years."

Gordon shrugged. "Can't be that different to VTOLs, can it?"

"Remind me to never get in a helicopter with you at the controls."

"Wasn't that already a given?"

"Fair point." Scott turned away from the helipad. "By all means, add it onto our list of possible getaways."

Gordon jogged to catch up with him as he rounded the truck. "I thought you said you couldn't fly it?"

"I implied that I couldn't fly it particularly well, not that I couldn't fly it at all." Scott allowed himself a final glance across at the helicopter. "Besides, I like having multiple options."

All traces of optimism – no matter how forced it might have been – vanished as soon as they got a glimpse at the rear of the truck. Scott had surmised that the rotter ambush had nearly been catastrophic, but he hadn't realised just how close the call had truly been. Faced with the lone remaining door, the facts were glaringly undeniable.

It looked for all the world as if some mechanical monster had taken a chunk out of the vehicle. This was partly due to the damage sustained in the crash with other trucks, but the infected had also left several calling cards.

Warped metal had clawed chunks of flesh from concaved ribs which now hung limply, fluttering in the wind like those ribbons decorating the volume control up front. A disembodied jawbone was snagged in the twisted hinges where a door had been torn free. The interior was a bloodbath. Tarpaulin dripped red rain. Several crates bore the scars of wild slashes with various weapons.

Gordon's boots inched into Scott's vision, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. "Do you think zombie damage is covered by the insurance?"

Alan let out an undignified snort. He'd clearly reached the point of exhaustion where everything was incomprehensibly hilarious. He clapped a hand to his mouth, eyes still gleaming with tired mirth. At his side, Theo struggled to hold back laughter. It was possible that they were all delirious. Adrenaline crashes could do strange things to the psyche.

Gordon grinned. "Good to know my jokes are still a hit."

"Never were, never will be," Alan quipped, accepting Gordon's offered hand. He nearly smacked his head on the roof, slipping-n-sliding to crash into his brother's chest.

"Smooth," Gordon deadpanned.

Alan elbowed him. "Fuck off."

"Language," Virgil sighed, supporting himself on Scott's shoulder as he clambered out of the truck. He blinked in the sudden shock of light. The white glares of searchlights were dazzling. It was the type only found at city centres or military airfields, ones which stained spots into vision that refused to fade for several minutes.

Alan finally found his sense of balance, although notably didn't shrug off Gordon's hand on his shoulder. It was debatable whether this was due to the sense of security found in proximity or because he was sporting a concussion from earlier's collisions. A fine spray of blood had dried on his face like red freckles, streaked through his hair in a cruel imitation of the dyed strands which his younger self had once tried to achieve with squashed strawberries in an attempt to match Thunderbird 3.

Scott stared at his youngest brother for a long minute. He was unable to drag his gaze away yet was unable to pin down the exact reason why. Some vague comparison regarding a loss of innocence was bouncing around his skull, which did nothing to improve his ever-worsening headache.

Virgil sent him a sympathetic look. "So. Plan?"

Instinctively, everyone looked between Scott and John.

John, using the rain to wash blood from his hands, glanced up, sensing eyes on him. "Oh, don't even start. Give me a link to EOS and then we'd be talking, but right now my head is killing me and I'm only one irritating comment away from murdering someone."

"Anyone in particular?" Gordon joked.

John offered an icy smile. "Fratricide always sounds appealing when it comes to you."

The sense of humour came hand-in-hand with the relief of discovering that they had all made it through the rotter ambush intact, but both quickly faded. It was only so long until their inevitable unveiling as intruders. Based off the steady procession of drivers being scanned into the bunker, that time would arrive sooner rather than later.

Marisa pulled Jasmin and Theo close. "So… our plan is to throw ourselves at the feet of these rich bastards and hope they show us mercy?"

"I mean…" Alan fished for something optimistic to say. "Not everyone who's rich is a complete jerk. Maybe they'll be nice?"

Jasmin arched her brows. "Okay, your family are outliers and cannot be counted. But these people? They knew this shitstorm was coming and did nothing to warn anybody. They're holed up in a private bunker. They are definitely not nice. Not unless they have something to gain, anyway."

John attempted to dry his hands against his trousers, grimacing as he discovered that the fabric was too wet to be of any use. The drizzle was fast turning into a full-on downpour, flattening hair to scalps so that they all resembled drowned rats. Alan sidestepped in a feeble attempt to use Scott's height to block some of the driving rain. It had little effect – the water still ran in pink rivulets down his face.

Virgil gestured to the driver, wide-eyed and pale in the truck. "What are we doing about him?"

"Leave him," John suggested. He wiped rain away from his nose, fighting back a sneeze. "They'll find him eventually when they unload the crates. By that time, we'll be inside the bunker, so it won't matter if he talks."

"Hopefully we'll be inside the bunker," Virgil corrected.

John looked vaguely amused at that. "Isn't pessimism supposed to be my forte?"

Gordon rocked forwards on his heels, arms wrapped around himself as he tried not to shiver without much success. The rain had found its way beneath the seal of his suit and was steadily dropping his body temperature. He tucked himself beneath Virgil's arm as thunder grumbled in the distance.

A brief flash of lightning revealed a scruffy outcrop of trees beyond the electric fence which encircled the compound. They appeared to be in full leaf, proof that spring had reached this far north even if the radiation hadn't.

Scott inhaled deeply. His shoulder was aching again. He couldn't tell if it was due to the chill imposed by the damp conditions, residual tension from driving or the bites flaring up again. It was probably a combination of all three. The pain worked its way up his neck and into his jaw where it melted into a constant ache constricting his temples. He needed a hot shower and bed. Preferably a bite to eat too, although the blood smeared over his face and across his family's clothes had significantly curbed his appetite.

"Okay," he announced at last, injecting enough of his Commander of International Rescue tone into his voice to have his brothers standing up straight and taking notice. "Let's do this. We'll try to be as honest as we can, although we'll hold back a few details. If they want us to leave, then we'll do so. Let's not push our luck. There are a lot of weapons here and just as many people with twitchy fingers; I don't want any of us ending up on the wrong end of a gun tonight."

"Exactly how do you plan on getting out of here if this goes south?" John queried.

Gordon's face lit up. He looped an arm around Scott's shoulders and pointed grandly to the helicopter. "Ah, Scotty here has his eye on that beauty."

John pinched the brim of his nose with a long-suffering expression. "I regret asking."

"Wait, you know how to fly rotary?" Alan tilted his head questioningly.

"Yes," Scott muttered, "But that's our last resort, okay?"

Alan scuffed his boots across wet tarmac in a manner which implied that he would rather it was their first resort. Which, in his defence, was fair enough, because it was a very cool helicopter and it had been too long since they'd been airborne. Flying brought a sense of comfort unlike any other form of travel and Two's loss was still as raw as the day they'd left the GDF's clutches.

They approached the concrete structure as a group. Two guards were situated in front of a set of double doors. Rain trickled down their visors. They looked thoroughly miserable and a tad bored. They recognised each of the drivers who passed through, exchanging weary greetings and worn-out jokes with lacklustre punchlines which had Gordon cringing. It took less than five seconds for them to realise their night was about to shift away from regular routine.

Scott lifted his hands in surrender, subconsciously stepping in front of Alan and Gordon as he found himself facing down the barrel of a gun. A hysterical voice at the back of his mind whispered that he really needed to stop making that into a habit.

A series of quick-paced accusations were hurled at him. He gestured for John to stay back, sensing more than actually seeing his brother move to join him.

"I don't know how you got in here," one guard was saying, whilst the other reached for the comm at the base of the biometric scanner. "Who the hell are you?"

Scott fixed a neutral expression. "We're not here to cause any trouble. We're looking for shelter, that's all."

The comm blinked into life. It was set to audio only, using a voice encryption which instantly set Scott's mental alarm bells ringing.

"Identity. Now."

"Scott Tracy." The guards exchanged glances. "Yeah, that Scott Tracy. This is my family."

"Well, Tracy," the voice over the comm mused, "No matter what your intentions, no one gets inside unless they pay an entry fee."

Scott stared at the hologram, silently questioning whether he'd misheard. "Feel free to point me in the direction of the nearest working ATM and I'll be happy to make a withdrawal."

"Oh, we've got a funny one here," a guard drawled, pure sarcasm matched by the raised brows of their unimpressed companion. "You think being a smartass makes you cute or something?"

Scott summoned the smile that he'd once used to charm reporters, dimples and all. "I think I'm adorable."

The encrypted voice was silent for a few moments. When it returned, the tone had shifted to a deeper, gravelled inclination, as if the speaker was different now.

"Information is considered a valuable currency these days."

Back when the world had still been divided into the various levels of an ordered society, Scott had developed a specific instinct for telling which people held true power and which were bluffers trying to claw their way up the financial ladder without a safety net. It was the difference between a good deal and a bad deal. It saved him from the sharks which had circled after Jeff's disappearance, just waiting for him to make one bad move, trust a single wrong hand offering false promises, but he'd grown too damn used to liars and social climbers by that point and so his reputation and therefore his company had remained intact.

The instinct had developed over time. For a while, he'd used it when navigating International Rescue's working relationship with the Global Defence Force. Throughout the apocalypse, it had come in handy when deciding which survivors could be trusted versus those who were likely to turn around and use him as zombie bait. The last time he'd ignored this instinct had been on the satellite, when Maya had promised him information, and look how that had turned out.

So, now, when the instinct whispered that the encrypted voice held the real power here but that it would come at a significant cost, Scott listened.

Somewhere behind his shoulder, he was conscious of John tensing. Not notably. Just ever-so-slightly, like a prey animal that had caught the scent of a distant predator on the wind and was put on edge as a result. John held himself perfectly still and Scott knew that if he turned around, his brother's gaze would be cold and calculating, an intimidating shade of blue without any contacts to soften the ice.

Scott let the silence settle for a moment. Reply too hastily and the anonymous voice would know that they held all the power. Leave them hanging for too long and he would come across as nervous. Neither was a desirable conclusion.

He selected his words carefully, aiming for neutrality. "Different information holds individual value. How much is the cost of entry?"

Another lengthy pause.

"One of our benefactors wishes to know the fate of a Miss Tanusha Kyrano. We believe you may have some relevant information."

Only years of schooling his expression in Tracy Industries meetings kept Scott from visibly reacting. He had no doubt that John had maintained a poker face too. Whether the rest of his brothers had done as well was up for debate. It didn't matter either way. The important discovery had already been made – at some point before radiation had engulfed the southern states, the Hood had escaped from his original hideout to this private bunker.

On the one hand, Scott entertained a strange sense of relief. They needed answers and time continued to prove that the Hood held crucial information. On the other, he wanted to turn on his heels and march his family all the way over to that helipad. There were enough monsters lurking all around without walking into the lair of the one man who had always sought to destroy the Tracys. A full road trip later, and Scott still grappled with a nauseating mix of anger and fear at any mention of the Hood.

But the truth was that they needed a way into this bunker.

It would hardly be his first reluctant team-up with the Hood.

"We know that Kayo is in possession of a Thunderbird. Our most recent information stated that she isn't alone. We don't know if that is still accurate. If you're looking for a location, we're none the wiser either."

The encrypted voice – The Hood – didn't sound particularly impressed. A dry note akin to amusement of all things crept into the audio link. "That's hardly new information."

Scott ground his heels into the gravel, imagining his anger seeping into the cracks.

"If I knew where Kayo was, do you really think anything would stop me from going straight to her? There is a helicopter primed and ready to fly within my sights. I've spent the past two hours at the controls of a truck. If I had a location to aim for, I could have taken either and gone there."

He took a deep breath.

"You've personally remarked on the importance I place on family. You've seen the lengths I will go to protect them. If I had any leads on Kayo, I wouldn't be wasting my time here."

The Hood contemplated this.

"Well, it appears we have come to a slight problem, Tracy. You want entry, but you have no way to pay the entry fee. Out of date information is of no use to anyone here. Luckily for you, I have already agreed to vouch for your entry. This is, of course, entirely dependent on whatever you have to offer me in return."

His laughter was colder than the driving rain. It spat static from the comm. Even the guards looked spooked by its unhinged quality.

"I suggest digging deep in your pockets, boys. Surely one of you has something of value. I must say, it's wonderful to see all of five of you in one place. John, I don't believe we've ever met in person before."

Scott couldn't help but steal a glance over his shoulder. John seemed tenser than a taut string, jaw clenched, gaze cold enough to drop the temperature by several degrees. But there was something else in his expression too – a sense of reluctant acceptance which only became apparent when his shoulders dropped.

"Trust me," he whispered as he stepped forwards, brushing Scott's shoulder to reaffirm the words.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers curling around a small metallic case. Virgil's sharp inhale proved that he hadn't known John had reclaimed custody of the contacts. Apparently Parker had taught their brother some of those tricks from his misspent youth, because John had never been that good at pickpocketing when they were kids.

"You're angling for these, right?" John tilted the contact case into the dull glow of the holo-projector. "Integrated contacts. They can link you into almost any system. I'm fully aware that you've been after them for years. Your attempts at remote access have been unsuccessful. Rather amateurish if I'm honest. But now… Here they are. I'm willing to hand them over. No tricks, no games. Provided, of course, you make good on that offer to grant us entry."

A devilish smile grew audible over the comm.

"I'd heard that you're the clever one. Now I see why. It's a pleasure doing business with you, John Tracy."

John repressed a flinch.

"You'll be granted entry in thirty seconds. Once inside, you'll be brought to my residences." The Hood let out another dark chuckle. "I'm sure this is only the beginning of what will be a bountiful relationship. You and I have much to learn from one another."

The comm died with a choked splutter of white noise. In its absence, the rain seemed to roar. The guards moved in unison – hands lifting to hidden radios within earpieces, guns lowering, hostility replaced by exhaustion in the aftermath of adrenaline rushes.

John stepped back, shoulders hunched, hair plastered to his face in the force of the water. He reluctantly turned around to face them. The silence continued. No one was sure what to say.

Marisa gestured for Theo to remain quiet, sensing that there was some greater plan at play which she didn't fully understand. Jasmin stood silhouetted by searchlights, eyes ablaze as she gripped the strap of her arrow quiver, still staring down the guards as if she dared them to make a single move. It was a contrast to Alan's horrified, lost expression at her side.

"I can't believe you just did that," Virgil whispered, small and sad and betrayed.

John didn't sound defensive, just deeply tired. "What other choice did I have?"

Virgil shook his head. "Every decision we have made over the past twenty-four hours has been… What good is surviving if we can't live with ourselves afterwards?"

Gordon wrapped his arms around himself, biting down on his lower lip viciously.

"Virg," Scott murmured.

"No. Don't start. John, you just handed over- And to the Hood of all people?"

The lock on the door blinked green for entry. The price had already been paid – they might as well take advantage of it. There was no point in loss without gain.

John remained alongside Scott while the others filed inside. The drains were beginning to overflow and rainwater frothed around their feet like bubble bath. It looked as if there were tiny worlds trapped within the foam, but none were stranger than the one they were already living in.

"Hey." Scott tried to catch John's eye. "You did what you had to. We'll figure it out."

John's expression remained unreadable. "Have you ever heard of the parable of the Scorpion and the Frog?"

"Uh…"

"Never mind." John gave him a light shove towards the door. "Come on. We're letting the rain inside."