The shower was a large, walk-in wet room with dark, glossy tiles and an ivy ceiling. Combined with high-pressure jets at various angles, it was akin to standing in the centre of a monsoon. Steam soon enveloped the space to coincide with dimming lights to lull human senses. Rushing water drowned racing thoughts. Warmth eased tension from taut muscles. Light fragrances replaced the memory of rot as diffusers filled the air with the scent of eucalyptus oil.
A collection of tropical plants flourished in the environment. Tender leaves unfurled around light fittings and strands of flowers glistened with water. A budding plant sprung from a shelf of every product imaginable – high-market soaps, nourishing shampoos and conditioners, body lotion, even a miniature cologne.
It was the sort of collection which belonged in a luxury hotel. Opening a bottle seemed like thievery. Then again, it wasn't as if anyone else was going to use it. There were no official numbers for the infected-to-healthy ratio, but every day seemed bleaker than the previous. It was a statistic which didn't bear consideration. Thankfully, the constant tide of white noise dragged those thoughts down the drain before they could be dwelled upon.
Exhaustion made everything unreal. Scott leant heavily against the tiled wall until he could feel the individual lines of grout pressing patterns into his skin. Surrounded by steam, it was like being wrapped up in a cloud – the closest he'd gotten to the sky in weeks.
Time was swept away by the water. He pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes until spots welled up. When he blinked, the room was swamped in darkness, LEDs reduced to a dim glow. He tipped his head back and let the water soak grime from his scalp. It was almost too hot, but it melted the ice in his bones, reducing the pain to a dull ache. The temptation to drift away was right there… until he inhaled a cloud of eucalyptus-scented mist and nearly choked.
It was a rude reminder that he couldn't lose himself in his own head. There were too many responsibilities on the other side of the bathroom door. But for now he could catch his breath amid the anonymity of solitude. Or, well, sort of catch his breath. In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't losing his damn mind. And wouldn't that be a kicker? Months of the apocalypse and all it took was signing his soul over to the devil incarnate to truly condemn himself.
He had a track record of pushing himself past his limits too soon after near fatal injuries. History had taught him why this was a terrible idea, but the lesson never stuck with him – not that he'd had much of a choice this time around, but his body didn't care how well-intentioned his reasons were. All it knew was that, despite still recovering from significant blood loss and an infection which had threatened to incinerate him from the inside-out, he had continued to haul his ass through hell, fighting zombies and his own guilt without any real break. Now, paranoia lulled into a false sense of security by white noise and warmth, it gave up on him.
He slid down the wall very gracefully and definitely didn't jar his tailbone so painfully that it brought tears to his eyes. Face upturned to the spray, the force of the water stung. He cupped his hands and watched tiny ribbons of crimson from reopened cuts writhe in the pooling water. It overflowed to trickle down his wrists and he was viciously reminded of watching his own blood drip onto tarmac as the world clouded over. Suddenly, the water seemed too cold. He fumbled for the temperature control until it was hot enough to roast his skin into angry shades.
His mind was a whirlwind. He couldn't grip onto any thoughts for fear of being strung along, tangled in the strings like a child with an oversized kite, hauled off his feet and out of his depth.
There was a distinct difference between impulsiveness and being reckless as much as there was a large overlap and while he'd always lived for an adrenaline rush that only applied to putting his own life in danger. The problem was that he'd started making decisions without considering the implications and now they were beginning to catch up with him, pestering him in the aftermath of nightmares and the spaces between breathing.
His choices as of late didn't make a whole lot of sense – not even to him – and it scared him, because what did that say about his state of mind? There were a lot of people relying on him – not just his family but potentially the entire cursed world too; billions of souls locked within rotting flesh cages – which wasn't too much of a shift from pre-Z-Day yet seemed to carry greater weight now.
He'd known Gordon wasn't ready to be back in the action but hadn't protested when his brother had volunteered to be his right-hand man.
He'd witnessed the strange, human quality behind the eyes of those infected on the train but had brutally torn them apart on the road without remorse.
He'd been warned that John's judgement couldn't be fully trusted but had sat back and let his brother negotiate on his behalf.
He had agreed to a deal with the one man who had sworn to destroy his family and had already attempted to do so on many occasions.
He'd brought his kid within the reach of those hands who had tried to choke the life from Alan once before – and God knew Alan still occasionally woke with those nightmares, fingers tracing long-faded bruises, gulping down air as if he'd been drowning.
In the darkness, caught in the throes of emotional delirium and physical exhaustion, he didn't recognise the panic until he was already snared by it. It crept in slowly, disguised as the final remnants of a dead adrenaline rush, concealed within the hot water. It slithered between his ribs and coiled around his organs, tendrils tightening around his wrists and ankles to drag him beneath the surface.
All of a sudden, he swore he could feel them – physical ties, as if he were right back in that swimming pool, sinking deeper into the depths where the light couldn't reach him and all he could feel was ice in his heart and fire in his veins and no one is coming to save you-
Who are you?
Scott bolted upright. He couldn't see anything amid the darkness, but he swore that he could sense something moving just out of reach. He scrabbled for the light controls, but his fingers slipped over smooth stone. The tiles had seemingly melted together. His hands sank into the surface as if it were treacle.
The water had stopped running. He couldn't pinpoint when that had happened. Gravity tipped him backwards, propped on his elbows, water from drenched hair trickling down his face to drip off his chin, only it was sticky. A glance down revealed it to be a very familiar parasitic green. His heart lurched. Something twisted in his chest, sucking the oxygen from his lungs. He threw himself onto his hands and knees and staggered to his feet.
The bathroom was gone. He was standing in a dark void without an up nor a down. It wasn't dark, it was an absence of light - he sensed there was a difference. Indistinct voices murmured as if he were trapped on the wrong side of a mirror listening to people from the other side. They were calling out to him. He was drawn to them like magnetism. If he could just get a little closer… understand what they were trying to tell him…
Scott!
The fear slammed into him with all the force of crashing into a brick wall at top speed. It ricocheted between his ribs and the sharp snap reminded him of the crushing desire to breathe.
He turned on his heels and made to bolt somewhere, nowhere, anywhere which wasn't here, only green tendrils had curled around his ankles, cuffing him in place. The voices rose in a crescendo of thunder. Panic was a visceral thing, writhing under his skin and pounding at the base of his skull because this couldn't be real, but he couldn't remember falling asleep-
Scott!
His own name echoed in the empty space. It was the only voice he could distinguish, sounding of home, trusted, more familiar than the backs of his own hands, The Voice Who Always Answered-
John?
Pain exploded across the back of his skull.
Scott doubled over his knees in time to spit bile down the drain, gagging and gasping for clean oxygen, albeit thick with steam where the shower was still running. He dragged a hand over the sensors, activating the lights until they were almost blinding. The water cut out, leaving him shivering. He dug his nails into his calves, curling in on himself like wounded animal. He could taste salt on his lips.
"Scott, if you don't answer in the next five seconds I'm gonna kick this damn door down." Virgil's voice was twisted with so much concern that this clearly was not an empty threat. The words were immediately followed by a pounding on the door. "Scott, I swear-"
"He's okay, just give him a minute." John sounded calmer, but still carried a definite edge reminiscent of close calls on rescues.
"John, you're the one who barged in here telling me there's something wrong with him."
Scott cautiously pushed himself upright, still too shaky to be confident in his ability to stand. His legs didn't immediately give way, so he staggered out of the shower and wrapped himself in one of the ridiculously fluffy bathrobes on offer. It had been preheated on a towel rail and he buried his nose in warm cotton, inhaling the scent of soap power in attempt to jolt his senses out of the buzzing fear.
There was still residual terror in his veins. Not even the bathrobe could conceal just how badly he was shaking. He unlocked the door anyway, propping himself against the doorframe in a feeble attempt to act nonchalant, forcing a smile which died as soon as he met John's searching look.
Virgil guided him into the heart of the bedroom. He followed numbly, still caught up in the haunted knowledge in John's eyes. He sank onto the end of the bed and stared at his hands, shaking in his lap.
Warmth settled over his shoulders as Virgil wrapped an arm around him and held him close. His brother had seemed sad and small as of late, more like Scott's little brother than his closest friend, but now he appeared a big presence again, familiar and safe, fingers gently running through Scott's hair as he searched for the reason why Scott kept flinching against the bright lights.
Scott cleared his throat. "What the fuck was that?"
Virgil's hand stilled. "I don't know." His voice was soft but searching. "John?"
John pushed the bathroom door closed and leant against it, arms crossed over his chest to wrap his hands around his biceps. "You know I can sense when you're scared."
Scott blinked. His eyes were stinging. "That wasn't-" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "That was not just a panic attack or a- I know flashbacks. That wasn't one."
"Scott," Virgil murmured, sort of pained, but Scott was too tired to offer any words of comfort. He tipped sideways to rest his head on Virgil's shoulder, staring at the pale grey of his brother's sweatpants until they blurred in front of him.
"You're gonna have to let me on the secret here, Johnny," he whispered, the words brittle and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Because otherwise I feel like I'm losing my damn mind and I can't- I can't have that. At least tell me it was real. Tell me I'm not going crazy."
"It's real." John inhaled deeply, pretending his voice wasn't wavering. "It's- You weren't supposed to see it. I don't know how- The hivemind is a lot louder here but that still doesn't explain…"
Virgil tensed. "You heard the hivemind?"
"No," John replied before Scott could try to find the right phrasing, "He experienced the hivemind."
There was a long silence.
Scott clenched his hands into fists. His vision flickered with tired spots. He listed further against Virgil's side involuntarily. John remained quiet, watchful and worried.
"Alright," Virgil said gently, easing Scott into sitting upright again. "So, we might have a few more questions to figure out than we first thought - that's okay. We've got time. Right now, we all need to sleep."
John buried his face in his hands and gave a mute nod.
Everything was a blur again. Scott worked on autopilot. The brief tang of mint toothpaste threatened to pull him into the present but then everything faded into background noise. He was vaguely aware of clambering into sweats and a loose tee, running his hands over the goosebumps on his arms in a feeble attempt to warm up again. Then he was falling into bed, dimming the lights but refusing to switch them off completely.
The mattress dipped as Virgil sat on the edge, eternally knowing what Scott needed without having to be asked.
"Do you want me to stay for a while?"
"S'that cool?"
It came out as more of a tired mumble than anything else. Virgil understood anyway. He shuffled up the bed to sit against the headrest, tucking his legs beneath the blankets and reaching for a book that he'd found somewhere. Scott blinked at the cover. His vision was too blurred by exhaustion to make out the title, but the colours were pretty – peach and pink like a South Pacific sunset.
"You not gonna-" The words were broken by a yawn. "-sleep?"
Virgil gave a loose shrug. There was something very lost in his eyes as he ran his thumb down the spine of the book.
"No point. Insomnia."
"Aw, shit, Vee."
Virgil's tiny smile was undeniably fond. He propped the book against his knees and turned to the first page with one hand, leaving his other on Scott's shoulder. After a while, Scott reached up and wrapped his fingers around Virgil's wrist until he could feel his brother's pulse, steady like a promise. He closed his eyes and breathed. The air had that crisp quality of recycled oxygen, stinging with a faint mix of chemicals. Paper whispered as Virgil turned a page.
"Night, Virg."
The blanket rustled as Virgil pulled it higher. Scott was halfway asleep already, but he was vaguely aware of it being tucked closer around his shoulders.
"Night," Virgil whispered and there was some unreadable quality in his voice, a closely held secret known only by the universe. "Sleep well, Scotty."
You could run from your past, but it would always find a way to haunt you. There was no escape – daylight brought memories, but sleep welcomed nightmares. Eventually they faded, but only because they had been pushed aside by new terrors taking centre-stage. Scott no longer dreamt of fire, but he sure as hell didn't get any respite from other nightmares.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that swimming pool. It wasn't a clean-cut memory – patched together with other moments as if he were living through a hastily made scrapbook of his worst experiences.
Now it was impossible to tell the difference between waking and dreaming. The hivemind blurred the lines between realities and, no matter what John said to the contrary, Scott was partly convinced that he was losing his sanity. The bitter, sardonic part of his mind muttered that it was about damn time. The fearful, deeply human side of him grasped at straws, trying to find ways to assure himself that he was awake.
Once upon a time, he had lived, dreamt and breathed the sky. Now, asleep or awake, he only ever saw death. It lurked in the background, a silent menace, never far away, daring him to come closer, a faceless figure which only ever turned its head to greet him in moments of breathless fear: skeletal hands dragging him down into a swimming pool, the encroaching ice of blood loss, cold metal pressed to his forehead, the world tipping out from under him as he took a leap of faith and prayed he would land on that train in time.
The memories mixed together until fear jolted him awake, heart pounding so fast that he nearly threw up over the bedsheets, shivering in the flow of recycled oxygen, the sweat on his skin mistakeable for blood in the semi-darkness.
He hunched over his knees, bracing his head in his hands to tangle his fingers in his hair, tugging until the sting assured him that he was truly awake this time. The foggy confusion of a nightmare was already beginning to dissipate, leaving him cold and faintly dizzy in the aftermath. He clenched his hands into fists and started counting his breathing which had the bonus effect of distracting his mind from memories long enough for him to stop spiralling.
The room brightened slightly as someone switched on the bedside lamp. In the rush of light, Scott could pick out different shades of blue on the striped duvet cover. Strange shadows revealed themselves to be perfectly innocent – ornaments, his own reflection shifting across a mirror, a stack of new clothes on a wicker chair.
He stared at them until his eyes stung and he was forced to blink. It had been a very long time since he'd last felt safe and he wondered whether he even had the capacity for it anymore. Even in the absence of imminent threat, anxiety churned in his stomach, adrenaline fizzing in his fingertips as his body anticipated danger which didn't exist down here.
"Are you back with me?" Virgil asked, hushed and gentle. His hand rested lightly on Scott's upper back, radiating warmth and Scott leaned into the touch subconsciously. "Scott?"
"Yeah." His voice came out as more of a croak. He pushed the blurriness from his vision with his knuckles and twisted to face Virgil. "Shit. How long was I out?"
"'Bout three hours or so."
Scott glanced at the clock. It was roughly two-AM, although that didn't mean much given he had no idea when he'd fallen asleep to begin with. He was vaguely aware that this wasn't the first time he'd been pulled from sleep by nightmares tonight, but it was the first time he'd properly waken.
He stifled a yawn. "Did I wake you?"
"No." Virgil tipped his head back against the pillows with a rueful smile. "I was never asleep to begin with, so… you know." His gaze turned searching. "Are you-?"
Scott didn't give him chance to finish the question. Any enquiry as to his mental state would end in either a lie or a truth which no one was prepared for. He tugged at the hem of his t-shirt and grimaced as the sweaty fabric peeled away from his skin. It was definitely time for a change of clothes and then perhaps a walk to clear his head. At the very least, checking on the others would ease his anxiety.
Virgil put out an arm to block him from swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Careful, you'll step on Alan."
"I'll- What?"
Scott peered over the edge of the mattress. Sure enough, Alan was sprawled on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms, fingers curled in the plush carpet. Finch was curled up at his side with her chin propped on his lower back and, sensing eyes on her, her ears pricked, tail thudding once in greeting.
"Alan's on the floor," Scott observed slowly.
Virgil shrugged. "Said it helps shut his brain off. More grounding, something like that? I don't know, I think maybe he just wanted to be close to us… close to you, specifically. It's not as if sleeping on the floor is a new thing for him."
"Should we be concerned?"
"I think we have bigger problems than Alan's possible sensory issues." Virgil steadied Scott as he clambered out of bed and nearly faceplanted on shaky legs. "He's alright, Scott. The real question is, are you?"
"Am I what?"
Scott feigned ignorance despite knowing damn well what the question was. He yanked open a drawer to discover a set of laundered shirts. It was almost as if their arrival in the bunker had been expected and planned for.
"Am I alright? Depends on your definition, I guess. I'm alive. That's good enough."
Virgil was quiet for a moment. "You deserve better than good enough."
Scott strangled the shirt in his hands, trying not to laugh.
"Yeah, sure." He yanked the sweaty t-shirt over his head and tossed it onto the dresser in a crumpled ball. "I'm gonna check on everyone else. You need anything?"
Virgil let the matter drop, albeit with some obvious reluctance. "I'm okay. Maybe grab a glass of water on your way back."
"For me or for you?"
"For Alan."
Scott braced himself against the dresser for a moment until the flash of panic passed. He pulled a hoodie on over the clean shirt, then ducked down to crouch at Alan's side. Finch raised her chin, eyes full of liquid concern. She pushed her nose into Scott's hand until he gave in and patted her head.
As far as he could tell, Alan's breathing was a lot clearer than it had been a week previously but worry still clogged his chest. He tucked the blanket closer around Alan's shoulders, briefly carding a hand through the kid's hair before pushing himself back to his feet with a sigh. Sometimes it physically hurt just how much he loved his family, but that was one of the rare prices of life which he was more than happy to pay.
The kitchen, just like every other room in their quarters, was fully stocked. Scott stared at the cupboards for a long minute. The colourful labels and cheery advertisements on cartons seemed too bright for his eyes. He closed the door on them, retrieving a glass and propping himself against the sink as he waited for the water to run cold.
Gordon wasn't the sort of person to enter a room quietly, yet he went unnoticed until he was hopping up to perch on the counter at Scott's side. It was debatable whether this was testament to just how much he'd changed lately or if Scott's situational awareness was still warped by nightmares. Either way, Scott nearly jumped into the air like a startled cat.
Gordon had a visible struggle not to laugh, although even his smile seemed brittle, liable to shatter like the glass which was now overflowing in the sink. The drain gurgled, uncannily similar to the sucking sound made when tearing a knife out of rotten flesh. Scott switched the tap off, grounding himself by counting all the little details: the blue hue of undercabinet lights, Gordon's mismatched socks, the multicoloured dot design on the glass, damp cuffs of his hoodie from spilt water.
Gordon knocked his heels against the cupboards. "Can't sleep?"
"Can't stay asleep," Scott corrected. He ran his thumb around the rim of the glass to create that high-pitched squeal. "You?"
Gordon shrugged. He drew his feet up to perch on the very edge of the counter, leaning over his knees to peer at the patterns on his socks. In his oversized hoodie he seemed small. All sharp edges were safely packed away for the night. Here he was, defences lowered, back to being Scott's little brother again, the same kid who had insisted on bringing home every goldfish from the fairground so that they could be treated kindly.
"Gords?" Scott prompted, just shy of a whisper. He poured a little of the water back into the sink so that the glass wasn't at risk of overflowing, then pushed it within Gordon's reach.
Gordon wrapped his hands around the glass and stared into the depths as if it could tell him his fortune.
"Couldn't stay asleep either, I guess." He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "I dunno. Not sure if I ever got there to begin with. Too many thoughts." He offered a rueful smile. "Not a problem people would expect from me, right?"
"Don't do that." Scott caught Gordon's tired gaze and held it. "Don't put yourself down like that. Especially when it's not true."
"Yeah, well."
The words held a distinctively self-deprecating quality.
Scott frowned. "Gordon, you've studied to a higher level than I have, so we both know this isn't actually about IQ points. What's really going on?"
Gordon let the question go unanswered. He tapped the side of the glass, watched the ripples play across the surface, then took a sip to buy some more time. Scott waited, summoning every ounce of patience he'd ever had. Besides, the final dregs of his nightmare were fast dissipating in favour of concern. Gordon never normally let silence lie like this and all of Scott's smother-hen tendencies were on high alert.
Gordon went to speak, reconsidered, and returned to taking tiny sips of water. He absently knocked his heels against the cupboard again. Those mismatched socks were a blare of colour against the cream cabinets. They didn't seem like the sort of thing which would be stocked in the bunker, but there was nowhere else he could have found them. One was vivid blue with yellow ducks while the other sported a grinning t-rex. Scott stared at them for a long moment, struck by a warm wave of utter fondness, before opening a cupboard.
Gordon set the glass down and tipped forwards on the heels of his hands, trying to peer over Scott's shoulder. "What are you looking for?"
"Snacks."
"Anything in particular?"
"Maybe." Scott located the packet of crackers which he'd seen earlier. "Ah ha. Here they are."
He dropped the box onto the counter between them.
Gordon lifted it into the light. "Goldfish?"
Scott shrugged. "Seems appropriate." He swatted Gordon's shoulder. "Shove over, squid. There's enough room on that counter for two."
Gordon obligingly shuffled aside. The lack of protest was mildly disconcerting. He lifted the box of Goldfish until Scott was balanced on the counter, then placed it between them. Scott wasn't actually hungry, but he'd been subject to enough of John's psychology ramblings over the years to know that subconscious imitation was a very real thing and so if he ate something then Gordon was likely to copy. Besides, he was well aware that he could do with the calories even if his appetite was lacking.
Gordon observed him tip a handful of fish-shaped crackers into his hands. "Don't eat too many or you'll puke."
"Thanks for the words of wisdom."
"I'm serious. Your body will reject anything in large quantities."
Scott tipped half the handful back into the packet. "One minute you're telling me to eat more, the next you're telling me to eat less. Make up your mind."
"It's a fine balance."
"A tightrope act more like."
Gordon shook his head, shoving one hand into the Goldfish packet. "You should be good at it then. Wasn't that your entire life before all of this? A tightrope act, trying to fulfil every role people expected you to be?"
"Sort of." Scott crunched on a cracker. "I guess so. It seems so far removed now that I can barely remember what it was like." He observed Gordon arrange Goldfish across his knees. "I think the point is to actually eat them, not recreate one of your aquariums."
"Shut up," Gordon sulked, without any true heat to his voice. He decapitated a cracker, munching thoughtfully. "I dunno."
"About what?"
"Everything."
"Seems like a pretty big subject, bud. You wanna narrow it down a bit?"
Gordon crushed a Goldfish into dust beneath one thumb.
"It's difficult. Finding words to fit all the feelings, you know? And I don't want to cause trouble. Which, like, I get is hilarious because it's me. Gordon Tracy and the word trouble used to be interchangeable. But it's a different sort of trouble. Remember when I told you that I can't afford to fall apart? Well, I'm more than halfway there already, but I just know it could still get worse and I don't know what to do if that happens."
There were some patterns in life which were unchanging. They could be found across every sphere of existence. Metal fatigue, erosion, walking over ice, words thrown in anger – it all ended with a snap. Everything could only be put under so much pressure until cracks formed. The unfortunate thing was that once those cracks had formed, the crash was inevitable.
Repairs could be hastily made but they only concealed the damage. Full strength could never be fully restored. And so, it snowballed. It could take years, it could take seconds, but it always ended the same way – at rock bottom – and the only thing worse than reaching that point was seeing it coming. A nosedive was always scarier than the crash itself – really, Scott would know.
Gordon wordlessly offered him the Goldfish packet. Scott took a couple numbly, working mostly on autopilot, mind thrown into turmoil by the implications Gordon had just revealed to him. He didn't dare mention the part where he was possibly losing his own mind too. What a pair they made.
"Okay, um, I've got a question." Gordon tore a strip of cardboard off the top of the Goldfish box and ripped it into tiny pieces. He didn't look up. "Do you, uh, do you think… Does morality depend on your actions or your intentions? Like, if you do bad things but for the right reasons, does that still make you a bad person?"
Scott reached over and stilled Gordon's hand from tapping.
"Didn't you have a conversation with John about this?"
"No, John told me that being a good person is a conscious choice. But I think you and I both know it's more complicated than that. Which- well, that just brings me back to my question, doesn't it? Bad action, good intention – where does that leave me?"
"We've been over this. You still care, you still- The fact you're concerned about this to begin with is evidence enough that you've got a good heart."
"So everyone keeps telling me. But the funny thing is, it doesn't actually matter how many times people tell you that you're a good person if you don't believe it yourself. And you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"
"That's not-"
"People can keep telling you something, but that doesn't necessarily make it true. I mean, what if everyone started telling me that-" Gordon jabbed a finger at one of the colourful dots on the water glass. "-this is green when it's very clearly red? Who am I supposed to believe then? My own eyes or everybody else?"
"Well, in that specific scenario, I'd probably suggest getting tested for colour blindness."
"Scott. You're not funny. You're really not fucking funny." Gordon slumped against the upper cupboards. He buried his head in his hands with a damp chuckle. "Okay, that actually kind of was funny, but you're still missing my point."
Scott moved the glass back to a safe distance from the edge of the counter. "Believe me, I get the point. I don't know what you want me to say, because you're right when you claim it won't matter. I could sit here and tell you that you're a good person until I lose my voice, but it won't mean a damn thing when you've already convinced yourself otherwise."
Gordon tugged the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his knuckles.
"I don't know how to forgive myself," he whispered in a tiny voice. "And I just keep getting more blood on my hands. Bad actions for the right intentions, like a pointing a fucking gun at the people I love. I'd have done more good staying as the GDF's guinea pig."
"That vaccine could have killed you."
"And so many more people could have been saved as a result." Gordon turned an exhausted stare on Scott, searching for something. "You can't tell me that's not worth it. One life for… potentially the entire world? It's my DNA, Scott. Losing me set them back."
"It's not worth it."
Gordon tossed up his hands incredulously. "How can you say that? That's just bullshit. One versus billions. That's not even a question."
"Because you don't get to ask me to bury you. You don't get to ask that of me. It's not just one life versus everyone else, it's yours."
"So, what? My life matters more?"
"Yes! It does to me. I have spent my entire life trying to live up to everybody's expectations, giving them everything I am, but my family is where I draw the line. I refuse to give you up. And I get just how selfish that is but fuck it. I love you more than I care about saving the world."
The kitchen seemed oddly silent in the aftermath of his outburst. Gordon stared at him with wide eyes, then, very slowly, pushed the Goldfish packet towards him in a peace offering. Scott took a handful but just looked at them.
"I'm sorry," Gordon whispered. "I didn't think about how it would impact you. I just kinda- I've been turning this whole mess over in my head and that was one of the only ways I could think of to fix things, to make all of this stop. But I wasn't thinking about the- I'm sorry." He inhaled sharply, head bowed to hide his face. "I'm sorry, Scott."
"It's okay." Scott gripped Gordon's shoulder. "Hey. Look at me. It's okay. But that's- Thoughts can be dangerous. You've got to talk to me, Gordon. Please."
"I know." Gordon swiped his sleeve across his eyes. "I will." His voice was small. "I promise. Life's just a lot, you know?"
"I know." Scott slid down from the counter. "I think you need some sleep."
Gordon shrugged. "I can't. My brain won't shut the fuck up." He rattled the Goldfish box under Scott's nose. "Had enough?"
"Yeah, I'm good." Scott stole the glass of water and took a sip. "They actually made me feel a bit sick."
Gordon levelled him with a deadpan stare. "I hate to say I told you so, but…"
"Don't say it."
"I did tell you so."
"You're such a little shit."
Scott grabbed Gordon's wrist and hauled him from the counter. He landed with an outraged squawk but made no move to actually fight Scott off, grudgingly allowing his hair to be tousled with little more than an indignant grumble. He trailed after Scott like a lost puppy, hanging back in the doorway while Scott handed the replenished water glass to Virgil for safekeeping.
Alan was still out for the count on the floor, but Virgil was leafing through that book again. His gaze flickered from Gordon loitering in the doorway to Scott in a silent question.
"He can't sleep either," Scott explained.
Virgil didn't look particularly convinced. "Is that all it is?"
"Not exactly. It's fine, I can handle it. I think I'm gonna stay up with him for a while."
"M'kay." Virgil still sounded doubtful. In his defence, this concern was valid given it had not yet been a full half-hour since he'd witnessed Scott jolt awake from a nightmare so bad that he was still slightly shaking. "If you need anything, come and get me."
"Uh huh."
"Scott."
There was a faintly pleading note in Virgil's voice which struck a chord.
"Okay," Scott relented, already backing out of the room. "I'll call you if anything gets too much, I promise."
He practically tripped over his own heels in his attempt to leave the room. He used to find Virgil's uncanny ability to read him like an open book reassuring. Now, he found it unsettling, mostly because it was only one-sided. He was painfully aware that Virgil wasn't confiding in anyone – he was not about to add to his brother's worries.
Their quarters were large enough that they could wander between rooms without running into anyone else. Despite the quantity of bedrooms, everyone had chosen to share, unwilling to be alone with their thoughts. Jasmin and Theo had claimed their own room while bright flashes of light and low mumbles beneath the door proved that Marisa was watching a movie on the ridiculously oversized flat-screen TV in her room.
Scott ended up in front of the olive tree again. There was some sort of impulse drawing him to it as if it had a magnetic pull. He trailed a hand over the bark, feeling the individual grooves which told of the tree's life. Here it stood, a living thing which had been saved from death, not for potential food or to preserve it as a species, but because it looked good. It told him everything he needed to know about the type of people who had built the bunker. Why was it that all the aspects he'd hated about the world were the ones which had survived?
Gordon pinched a leaf as if to test whether the tree were truly real or just a figment of his imagination.
"So," he said conversationally, "You still haven't explained what you're doing awake."
"Oh, we're doing this now, are we?"
"Neither of us can sleep. We've gotta find some way to kill time."
Scott didn't directly refuse to discuss the topic, but he didn't volunteer any information either. Gordon was watching him, trying to be subtle about it, having wandered around to the far side of the olive tree to observe him through the branches whilst pretending to simply be admiring the various shades of green leaves. The silence was interrupted only by the hum of the oxygen unit.
The canaries' enclosure had been placed at the base of the tree. Gordon propped himself against the side, hooking his fingers through the bars. The little birds had taken a shine to him, sensing a kindred spirit who also longed for the sun. Their cages were very different, but Gordon was no less trapped.
The anxious energy was back again. Scott walked around the tree twice, only that made him dizzy and God knew he was off-balance enough without adding to the problem, so he switched to pacing back-and-forth across the width of the room.
Gordon watched him wordlessly for a few minutes. "It's clearly bothering you."
"That's not what's bothering me."
"Really?"
"I'm used to nightmares."
Gordon winced. "Y'know, that's really not as reassuring as you think it is." He stroked the wing of a canary, leaning to sit with his back against the tree trunk. "Okay, fine. Forget the nightmares for a second. Let's talk about earlier."
Scott slowed for a moment. "What about earlier?"
Gordon let out a dark chuckle. "Man, I dunno. How about the part where one minute you claim there's humanity in those things, then the next second you're happy to tear 'em apart? Why don't we talk about that, Scott, because it sure as hell doesn't make sense to me."
That moment on the train seemed a very long time ago. Sort of faded, like an old photograph that had been left out in the sun. Scott couldn't recall the details, only the certainty that there had been something more behind those yellowed eyes. As he tried to grasp at the memory, it slipped out of reach like water through fingers. The more he tried to remember, the less he could.
Gordon must have read something in his expression because his tone grew sharper, accusatory with worry.
"What?" He pushed himself upright, stepping closer. "Scott? What is it?"
Dread was dizzying. Scott steadied himself against the wall. Gordon's voice was a background noise, out of focus, words indistinguishable. He pressed his back to the concrete and slid down slowly until he could fold over his knees. It was like breathing through a straw. He screwed his eyes shut, but seeing darkness made his chest tighter, so he fixed his sights on the cheerful yellow of canary feathers.
Gordon cautiously sat down a few paces away from him, hands aloft to demonstrate that he wasn't a threat, which was practically laughable because it wasn't humans which Scott was afraid of. It wasn't even the infected, but whatever he was sharing his mind with, because he was almost convinced that he wasn't alone in his own head. The pain of old bites throbbed as if to confirm this theory. He sucked in a breath and shook as his head as if that would banish the spots from his vision. It did nothing other than make him nauseous.
"Doors work both ways," he gasped out.
Gordon's face crumpled with confusion. "Huh?"
"That's what you said. Doors work both ways."
Confusion cleared, replaced by understanding.
"You're not a carrier," Gordon assured him. "Scott, you haven't shown any symptoms. John started getting sick almost immediately, he just hid it at first, so it took us a while to realise. You're not- You haven't run a fever since that night we spent in the generator room. There's definitely some connection, I'll agree with you on that one, but it's different."
"Whatever happened on that train – that wasn't me. I wasn't in my right mind then. I don't have an explanation for that. What does that sound like to you?"
Gordon faltered. "It, uh… Okay, but you weren't necessarily in your right mind back at the hospital either. John somehow reached out to you then. Maybe he did the same thing on the train."
"Yeah, through the hivemind."
"It's not the same." Gordon cut off any protests. "No, just listen for a second. I'm serious. It's clearly not the same. You're not a carrier, but you're linked to the hivemind, right? To be a carrier, it's like I said – that has to be a door which opens both ways. The hivemind has a link into John's head, but it kinda seems… I don't know how to explain it, but sort of like you've got a one-way window into the hivemind rather than a door? You can see and hear it, but it can't see or hear you."
"John can."
"Well, I guess that's the part where we enter the twilight zone, isn't it? Unless it's just you."
"Explain."
"Let's run with the window comparison for a second. You're looking into the hivemind. You find the part of it which is John. You form a connection with him alone. You've always had a weird sixth sense for knowing when one of us are hurt. Isn't it a similar idea?"
They sat in silence for a long minute.
"Holy shit," Gordon breathed. "That's the one thing it didn't account for – that basic human instinct to look out for one another. And it's us. We're not exactly a regular family. You'd do anything for us. The parasite is ruled by the instinct to feed. That's pretty much it. But we're- On the train, John said that the voices he hears through the hivemind are humans reaching out to each other. And that's just strangers. That's how we got John back in the first place – he could still hear you. So yeah, the train thing was weird, but I don't think it was the hivemind in control - not of you anyway. I think it was some connection between you and Johnny."
Scott closed his eyes, repressing a shudder at the darkness. "Not a carrier."
"Not a carrier," Gordon agreed, a wondering note in his voice. "But something else. Something new. You know, I bet if we asked John right now whether he could remember that moment on the train he'd say no, just like he can't really remember that moment in the pharmacy. I mean, neither can I, but that's for totally different reasons."
Gordon scrambled to his feet, socks nearly slipping on the floorboards in his haste. The canaries fluttered uneasily at the sudden movement. He grabbed Scott's hands and pulled him upright.
"Come on, let's go ask. I want to know if my theory's correct."
"No, Gordon, wait, he's probably asleep- Gordon!"
Needless to say, Gordon scampered on ahead without listening. Scott didn't know why he'd expected any differently. He followed his brother with a resigned sigh. Hopefully John had managed to sleep already because he was unlikely to get any more rest while Gordon was in this mood.
Whether John had managed to sleep remained debatable, but he was already awake when Gordon hunted him down in the lounge. This was – predictably – an oversized room with a massive L-shaped leather sofa and a television which took up practically an entire wall. The lights were dimmed to an acceptable level for tired eyes which was a mercy because Scott was beginning to feel the effects of broken sleep and was only awake through sheer stubbornness. Gordon was experiencing the opposite end of the scale, bouncing around as if he'd just downed several shots of espresso.
John sat in the middle of the sofa, swamped in three thick blankets, staring at the blank TV screen without truly seeing it. Scott hoped he was only lost in thought and not caught up in something more ominous. He took a seat beside his brother and sank heavily into the cushions.
Gordon was rambling about something which didn't seem to have any obvious connection to the previous topic. It was as if he'd been storing up words throughout his days of relative silence and now he had to get them all out before they suffocated him. He paced across the space between the sofa and the TV, gesturing wildly with his hands, rocking on his heels slightly as if he'd been supercharged.
John ignored him which seemed a sensible course of action. He turned to Scott, lifting one of the blankets in offer. It was only then that Scott registered just how cold he was. He'd pushed his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows whilst panicking and now his forearms were covered in goosebumps.
The realisation made him shiver. He shuffled sideways to share the blankets, pleasantly surprised when John leaned against him. The contact was reassuring – grounding, even. He tipped his head back against the cushions and tried not to fall asleep while Gordon was still talking.
"Are you up late or awake early?" John queried under his breath.
Scott made a vague, noncommittal sound.
John knew him too well and read between the lines. "That makes two of us."
Scott stole a glance sideways. John appeared relaxed, but his eyes were still haunted with the shadows of nightmares. No wonder he was buried beneath so many blankets.
Gordon finally came to a stop in front of them, framed against the TV screen. He was still flexing his hands at his sides. Scott was beginning to question whether or not his brother had inhaled something sugary at some point because seriously.
John raised a brow. "Can I help you?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I'm having a crisis of morals, Johnny, it's a big deal."
John sent Scott a look, as if to ask, what the fuck is he on? Which, to be fair, was a question which Scott was also pondering.
"Didn't we already discuss this at the apartment?" John sighed, dragging his hands down his face to banish exhaustion. "There is no single state of being a good person. Being good one day doesn't necessarily mean you won't make a bad choice the next day and vice versa. It's all about your actions."
"Well, duh." Gordon flung his arms out dramatically. "That's the point. I asked Scott but now I realise that was a shit idea because Scott's pretty terrible at attributing blame correctly. He just takes it all upon himself. Anyway, what happens if you do terrible things for the right reason? What then?"
John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"What?" he asked flatly.
"C'mon, John, you must have an answer. Or is it an answer that you don't want to admit? Maybe you do think I'm to blame. I mean, you did call me a coward, so…"
John's shoulders went rigid. Scott felt him tense up through the blankets. Gordon waited expectantly for a reply, gaze relentless.
"What are you talking about?" John leaned forwards, hands braced against his knees as he stared up at Gordon where his brother stood over him, expression unreadable like a challenge. "Gordon, what the fuck? When did I call you- When have I ever called you a coward?"
Even Scott could recall that moment, hazy though his memories were. He struggled to keep the shock off his face.
Gordon curled his hands around his biceps to keep from tapping. "Shit, John. You really don't remember, do you?"
"I think I'd remember calling you a coward, Gordon. For a start, there are many other insults which are actually accurate. That isn't one of them." John rolled his shoulders, clearly unsettled by the silence which followed. "Quit screwing around. What is this?"
Gordon looked to Scott. "I told you."
"You told him what exactly?" A note of fear was creeping into John's voice. "What the hell is going on here?" He cast a desperate glance at Scott. "Scott? If this is some kind of joke, it really isn't funny and I'm going to need you to cut it out now."
Gordon fixed his gaze on the carpet. "Do you remember when we searched the train? And the final carriage held cages of infected?"
"Yes," John agreed slowly, "But I don't see what that has to do with-"
Gordon finally looked up. "What happened in that carriage, Johnny?"
John went to reply, frowned, then fell silent. Scott recognised the exact instant that it dawned on his brother – that flash of fear hastily masked behind a neutral expression.
"What happened in the final carriage, John?" Gordon repeated tiredly. "Tell me that you remember and I'll drop the subject. I don't need details, I just need to know that I'm wrong."
Except he wasn't wrong. They all knew it. It hung in the air between them, a dirty secret which no one was willing to vocalise.
John massaged his temples. "Please tell me this is a joke."
"No one's laughing, John," Scott said quietly, barely trusting his own voice to remain steady.
"Shit." Gordon dropped down to sit on the carpet. "That's… Shit. I was really hoping I was wrong about this. Not the thing with you, Scott, I feel like that's kind of an ace card to be honest, but this… This is…"
John glanced up sharply. "What thing with Scott?"
"Okay, so I have this theory," Gordon explained. "Your connection to the hivemind is like a door. You have access to it, but equally it has access to you. Scott's connection seems more like a one-way window. He can hear the hivemind, but it isn't aware of him. On the train, when you touched the infected, you claimed that those who are still sort of conscious are connecting with each other through the hivemind. That link is a helluva lot stronger between you and Scott for obvious reasons, so you guys are able to… Well, I don't actually know what it is you do through the hivemind. Some kind of weird communication?"
"Something like that," John whispered. He pulled the blankets closer with a shudder. "So… I'm losing time. Because the hivemind is regaining control, right?"
Gordon quietened. "Seems like it."
"Technically this is all just supposition," Scott tried to protest, trailing off at the look on John's face. "Don't. Don't start."
"I told you before we left the apartment. We need to ask for help."
"And if it wasn't the Hood then I might agree with you."
"Scott, I hate to break it to you, but right now I'm a bigger threat to this family than he is." John took a deep breath. "If Gordon's theory is right, then I'm probably what's dragging you into the hivemind. You take me out of the equation and-"
"Woah, okay, hang on a minute." Gordon flung up his hands. "Let's reword that, because it did not sound good, John. Like, at all. Seriously, how the fuck are we supposed to interpret that?"
"You're not the problem." Scott caught John's gaze and held it until he was certain that his brother was actually hearing him. "The hivemind is. We need a way to break that connection. The Hood… He might have some ideas, but we are not telling him the full story, okay?"
John was quiet for a moment. "Okay."
It sounded like a lie.
