In the grand scheme of things, forty-eight hours was hardly any time at all. Yet it seemed to drag on forever. They locked themselves away in one of Hira's spare bedrooms – fairly large with an en-suite and walk-in wardrobe, a space which could have fit an entire family who had instead been left to rot on the surface.

Pre-Z-Day, they would have gone stir crazy. Scott would have been bouncing off the walls. John would probably have committed fratricide by Hour Twenty. But they had been living in each other's pockets for too many months now to be concerned by such a trivial matter as a lack of privacy.

Besides, they spent most of their quarantine asleep and so didn't bother one another. Who knew that a trip into the hivemind could be so exhausting? Sure, it was more likely to be a side-effect of the radiotherapy, but Scott was trying to ignore that point.

Shared hours between snatched sleep offered precious conversation. There were no holoprojectors in the room and Hira had assured them that her quarters weren't bugged, so without anyone to overhear, they were both more truthful than either of them had dared to be in years.

Of course, there was a very conspicuous elephant in the room which Scott was trying to avoid mentioning. It was only a matter of time before John questioned what had happened in the hivemind. Scott wondered whether he could get away with claiming amnesia. Probably not.

There was very little else to do except talk. The room was mostly empty. Scott found a pack of cards in a drawer, so they rotated through different games, steadily growing angrier at each other as the score remained even until eventually Scott flipped the deck onto the floor and John refused to acknowledge his existence for the next two hours. There may have been a comment about pettiness and sore losers at one point.

It was strange being entirely cut off. Virgil had offered to visit but he was busy finalising their escape plan, so Scott told him to stay away. It was only forty-eight hours after all. But the lack of holoprojector was unnerving. They had quite literally been disconnected from society – or, you know, from the rest of the bunker. Anything could have happened and they wouldn't have a clue. And then there was the question of whether the Hood was still puppeteering everyone – yet another thought which Scott was trying to repress because it scared the hell outta him.

The thing was – he was convinced that something had changed. He'd felt a shift before the hivemind connection had been severed. He didn't dare ask if John had experienced it too. Not to mention those dying nerves; tendrils crumbling to ash; viscous membranes melting into its original parasitic green like a thicker version of blood as he'd torn the hivemind heart apart and watched the light die.

Memories crept back to him in dreams. He could recall waves of desperate emotion from every human consciousness trapped within the hivemind. It was possible that he'd broken the connection for everyone, not just himself and John. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

The second night seemed longer than both days put together. Scott stared at the ceiling, picking out patterns in the paintwork and trying to spin stories out of them while sleep remained out of reach. It was probably his own fault for sleeping most of the day or maybe that insomnia gene had finally awakened in him. So, he laid there with only his own thoughts for company because there was no way in hell he was going to wake John just because he was bored – although the idea was growing more tempting by the minute.

He couldn't figure out how much of that other reality had been of his own creation versus memories the hivemind had stolen and woven into a world which he wouldn't want to wake up from. He wasn't sure which would be worse. It felt oddly violating to have memories of his parents used against him in such a way. He couldn't stop remembering. Little details like his mother's perfume and just how safe his father's hugs made him feel even as an adult, but big details too.

Thinking of that place evoked a strange sense of grief, but how could he mourn a place which was never real? He had memories of a life which had never existed.

But by far the worst thing was just how tempted he had been to stay and, now that he was in the real world again, there was a tiny part of him which regretted coming back. He nursed a healthy sense of guilt about that, but maybe that regret was justified because he couldn't shake the fear that he'd just turned down his only chance of happiness. What did it matter that it hadn't been real? He'd never have known the difference.

The ceiling blurred in front of him. He pressed his knuckles against his eyes and exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. Tightly knitted grief unravelled in his chest. All he had to do was blink to remember that place. He could still feel the summer sun on his shoulders, the smell of chlorine in Gordon's hair, hear Dad's chuckles and Mom's humming as she coerced Alan upstairs to change into a non-dusty t-shirt before lunch.

It was never real, he told himself fiercely, but it didn't ease the pain in his heart at all.

Either John had never been asleep to begin with or he was developing Virgil's sixth sense for knowing when people around him were upset. The blankets rustled as he rolled over, pillowing his head in the crook of his elbow. He didn't say anything for a long moment. The room appeared darker than usual although that was impossible. The distance between them – so small that all Scott needed to do was lift a finger to close the gap – seemed vaster than a canyon.

Scott took a forcibly steady breath. "If I ask you a question, can you guarantee that you won't overreact?"

John considered it. "That really depends on the question, doesn't it?" He didn't let Scott elaborate. "I can't guarantee how I'll react, but I'd prefer it if you ask me anyway."

Scott laced his fingers together across his stomach. The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he was reluctant to vocalise it. It carried too many implications. He didn't want John jumping to conclusions, but the only way to prevent that would be to discuss everything which had happened in the hivemind and he wasn't ready for that conversation.

John didn't prompt him. His breathing had evened out again and Scott briefly wondered whether he'd fallen back asleep until he asked, quietly, "Tell me?"

Scott tested his voice. "If you…" He swallowed. "If you were offered the chance at guaranteed happiness, but it came at the cost of giving up everything you'd ever known, would you take it?"

"Um," John said very eloquently, in a tone which practically radiated what the fuck vibes. "I don't know. I'm happy here. Sometimes, anyway. Not here, but… you know. With all of you. I'd need more context before I made any decision. What does everything I've ever known actually include? I'd need specifics. Would I forget basic human function?"

"Taking it a little too literal there, Jay."

"You're asking philosophical questions in the middle of the night, what did you expect?"

Scott couldn't help but smile. It was such a John response.

"Okay, let me rephrase. Consider it like this – you step into a different reality in which you're guaranteed to be happy. But in order to do so, you have to leave everyone in this reality behind and you can never return. What's your decision?"

There was a pause.

"Scott – and I'm saying this in fondest way possible – how the fuck does your mind work?"

"Oh, forget it."

"No, no, I'm thinking it over, just give me a minute."

John grew quiet for a moment.

"I think," he said eventually, "I'd say no. But I also think that saying yes would be very understandable. Especially now. If we're talking in terms of the apocalypse, that is." He turned his head to glimpse Scott's expression, eyes owlishly wide in the dark. "Should I be concerned?"

"No." Scott reached out to catch his brother's wrist. "No," he repeated softly. "It's nothing like that. It's just a question."

John studied him, expression oddly vulnerable when framed by shadows. "Genuinely?"

Scott weighed up the pros and cons.

"Something happened in the hivemind," he confessed at last.

He closed his eyes, unable to face the open care on John's face. It felt wrong to accept that love when he'd come so close to agreeing to turn his back on his brother – this real version of him, anyway.

"Before I found you, I was… It showed me Mom and Dad. All of us, but different. We were younger. IR didn't exist. It was how things could have been, I guess, if we'd never lost Mom. And for a while, I forgot about the real world, like how you don't realise when you're dreaming."

"The hivemind tried to trap you."

"Didn't feel like a trap, Johnny." Scott took a shallow breath. The tightness in his chest warned that this was a dangerous path. "I was happy there. I know I was. But how can I have been when none of it was real?"

John shifted a little closer until their shoulders brushed. "It was real to you. You're allowed to grieve. You never really had chance before, but now… You lost them again. I can't even begin to imagine what that must feel like. Even if it wasn't real, your heart doesn't know that."

Scott dragged his hands down his face in an attempt to banish the threat of tears.

"Don't make it sappy," he tried to tease, but his voice sounded too shaky to be convincing. There were many variations of okay and he didn't fit into any of them at current. He focussed on the pressure of John's shoulder against his own and tried to ignore the unbearable desolation of grief winding around his organs like a physical infection.

"You came back," John whispered as if he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. "You chose to come back."

"It wasn't really a choice," Scott muttered.

John tilted his head to glance at him. "Yes, Scott. It was. And no one could have blamed you for picking the other option. But I am so, so fucking glad that you didn't."

"So am I, I think." Scott gave a tiny shrug. "Mostly, anyway. I just- God, I wanted to say yes so badly, but… It's like you said – there are moments when we're happy here too. And Mom and Dad… seeing them again? It was- I can't describe it. But they're not- It wasn't really them. They're gone. And they're- N-neither of them are coming back, so we've gotta move forwards. I've got to move forwards. I'll never be good enough for myself, but I can be enough for all of you and maybe I can learn to be okay with that. Hopefully that comes with happiness attached. But if not, then… I'll figure it out."

"We'll figure it out." John sounded so confident about it. "Moving forwards sounds like a good plan."

Scott let out a damp laugh. "Well, thank God for that, because it's the only one I've got."

John knocked their shoulders together. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Choosing us. I don't know why I'm surprised. You've always chosen us over your own happiness. But I don't think I've ever had chance to actually thank you for it. So. Thank you."

Scott momentarily lost his ability to speak.

"Ready to get out of here tomorrow?" John asked, deftly changing the subject.

"Hey, Johnny? Promise me one thing?"

"Go on."

"No more bunkers?"

John gave a breathless laugh. "No more goddamn bunkers. That's a deal."


It was strange how being cut off could be so utterly disorientating. A mere forty-eight hours had left them at a loss, strangers in an unfamiliar setting; Scott sensed it as soon as he glimpsed Hira's face.

There had been a change and that distinctive shift ran rampart throughout the bunker like an electrical current. He didn't need to ask to confirm his suspicions – the emergency lockdown protocols that had sealed off the upper floors was enough evidence. Any optimism that he had curated since realising the hivemind link had been severed swiftly died in the face of dread.

John was summoning holograms before anyone had chance to speak. He stole Hira's projector and pushed it into the centre of the dining room table, squinting to bring them into focus, reluctant to pause long enough to retrieve his glasses.

"What did you do?" Ellis demanded, elbows propped hazardously on the edge of the table opposite. Her gaze shifted between John and Scott, eyes wild with a gleam that blended intrigue and apprehension.

Virgil pushed the door shut behind them and sealed the electronic lock. Scott likened it to a governmental emergency meeting and sort of wanted to laugh hysterically. He blamed those forty-eight hours cooped up with John – it would be enough to drive anyone to the brink of sanity.

"You did something," Ellis continued, voice sharp enough to draw Scott back into the present with an uncomfortable jolt.

Well, there went any chance of a nice, cheerful reunion. Scott spared a few seconds in which to reorientate himself – and to briefly wrap an arm around Virgil's shoulders in a partial hug – before snapping into crisis mode. Without that heavy hivemind presence at the back of his mind, every thought seemed clearer, each decision more precise, details revealing themselves without putting up a fight. He stole a series of John's holograms for his own inspection.

Rotters had breached the compound. The defences had been overwhelmed and the fences had fallen. Cameras were offline so the situation above ground was unknown as of thirty-seven hours ago. The bunker was in the process of sealing itself, but it was a slow, drawn-out process as people had become used to moving between floors freely and several residents had staged protests. The uppermost level – that long entrance hall – was crawling with infected after a supposed malfunction with the lock had opened the outer doors.

"Malfunction, huh?" Scott drummed a hand against the table. Adrenaline mixed with nervous energy and made him fidgety. He pushed back his chair to pace. "Or sabotage?"

Hira's queasy pallor somehow grew even waxier. "In all probability? The latter. But why? I don't understand it. Who would want to trap us below ground?"

"Someone who wanted to block access to the helipad," Virgil suggested with a loose shrug. The tension in his jaw betrayed darker thoughts.

John pushed his knuckles against his brow as he tried to fend off an oncoming headache. "Warren finally switched allegiances then."

It wasn't a question.

Hira crumpled into a chair. "You knew?"

"That he was planning to stab the Hood in the back? Obviously, although I wasn't anticipating him to take this long. The move that tipped me off was asking Scott to pilot that helicopter. Warren didn't need to scout the perimeter for a start, but then he didn't protest when you flew as far as Duluth which confirmed my theory. He planned to have you fly him and co out of here to a safe zone, presumably in exchange for the helicopter. Unfortunately, the Hood also figured that out. He doesn't want us leaving without him, so he'd rather trap us all down here than risk us getting away."

"Back up a minute." Scott gave up trying to decipher his thoughts and settled for a very eloquent, highly sophisticated, "What?"

"Your perimeter check? That was a test flight. Warren wanted to see if you were as good as you claim before risking his family."

"It's not his helicopter," Virgil pointed out.

Hira clasped her hands together with a faint shudder. "That wouldn't make a difference to him. Noah has been kind to me, but he certainly isn't a man known for his morals. He'd screw over Gerry in a heartbeat."

Scott didn't doubt that. "Back up. The Hood wants to come with us?"

"Uh huh," John agreed distractedly. "Is that going spare?" He motioned to a spare ration bar on the side, still encased in its packaging. "Yes? Fantastic." He tore open the wrapper with his teeth, swiping through holograms at the same time. "He thinks he can play us. He thinks he can play me. He has no idea."

Scott glanced sideways to meet Virgil's gaze.

"Say, Johnny," he began, "You're certainly, uh, feeling better?"

John didn't look up from the data packet.

"My head is so quiet. I can finally think. Do you have any idea just how long it has been since I was last able to think clearly? It's like I've been trying to navigate this mess whilst blindfolded." The empty wrapper crinkled in his hand and he cast a disappointed frown at it. "Hira, do you have more of these?"

"Hunger is a good sign, right?" Scott tried to whisper to Virgil, but John's irritated huff was proof that he overheard.

Virgil tilted his head slightly as he examined their brother. "Well, this is uncharted territory. The Hood is the only other known person to have severed the hivemind link. But… John could do with as many calories as he can get, so if he has a sudden craving for ration bars then I am not going to discourage him."

"Cool." Scott exhaled slowly. "Cool, cool, cool."

Virgil shot him a bemused look. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm great. I'm just, you know, uh-" Think of an excuse. Do not admit that you're secretly freaking out. "-channelling my inner Gordon." Perfect. Very convincing.

Virgil looked torn between concern and the urge to laugh. Scott glanced past him to spy Ellis' suspicious stare. She'd dragged her hair into a bun, eyes narrowed with concentration behind her glasses, hands stained with more ink than ever. Currently, her gaze was focussed on him with even more intensity than usual as if he were a puzzle she was trying to solve.

"Take a photo, Els," he joked. "It'll last longer."

Ellis rocked back in her chair, highly displeased. "This isn't the time for humour. The infected have been acting erratically and their shift in behaviour coincides exactly with the moment you severed the hivemind link. There is point five of a second between the times. That is too close to be a coincidence. So, I'll ask once more, Scott – what did you do?"

"Ellis," Virgil sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We've been over this. Neither of them remember."

He seemed soulfully weary for a moment, threatening to buckle under a new wave of exhaustion which left faint tremors in his hands and dulled his eyes.

"Can we just focus on getting out of here? Please."

Had it been anyone else asking, Ellis would have disregarded them. She was like a dog with a bone when it came to a question, sinking her teeth in and refusing to let go until she found a desirable answer. But she had a certain soft spot for Virgil – which, to be fair, was a sentiment shared by a lot of people because he was just too darn kind – and so she relented.

"Fine." Despite her attempts to mask it, a note of irritation still slipped into her voice. "But this conversation isn't over. Understanding the infected is not only crucial for fixing this mess, but also vital for our very survival."

She stole the remainder of John's ration bar, smacking his wrist when he made to take it back.

"I've been analysing their behavioural patterns. Before, they were predictable, but now… It's as if the hivemind has been completely erased. They can't communicate. They only have one instinct-"

"-To feed," Scott finished for her.

He inhaled deeply until the chemical snap of recycled O2 made him cough. Unease coiled like a leaden weight in his stomach. His memory of those final hivemind moments remained hazy, but that shift was as clear as day. He'd done something.

The worst part was the idea that those people who had found a feeble sense of comfort through the hivemind were now entirely alone. It was a fate worse than death. Maybe killing the infected was no longer a sin, not even an act of self-defence anymore, but rather a mercy.

John abandoned his holograms. "We need to leave."

"Agreed," Virgil said, sweeping the empty wrappers into a nearby trashcan. "But not yet. Gordon's had a rough twenty-four hours. He's not fit to travel right now. Give it until tomorrow morning."

"Bad day or…?" Scott asked, letting setback go unspoken.

Unease swam in Virgil's eyes.

"Just a bad day," he replied tightly.

Tension took root in John's shoulders. "That's not ideal. The Hood's… I don't like this. I really don't like this, Virg. I can't tell where my plans end and his manipulation begins. Not to mention how many of my ideas were influenced by the hivemind. We need to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Tomorrow morning," Virgil repeated, sounding marginally more confident.

Maybe it was a leftover from their hivemind connection or perhaps Scott just knew John that well, but he seemed to be only person who noticed the shadow of fear flash across his brother's face. It only served to reinforce his own unease.

Ellis, chewing on a pen cap, was practically bristling with stress. She reminded him of an agitated cat with her wild hair like fur standing on end. Hira had recoiled in her seat, suddenly faced with the reality of her choices and possibly even questioning whether staying was the best decision. Anxiety was catching like wildfire, tearing through the room to infiltrate the rest of the bunker.

"John?" Scott prompted quietly.

John flexed his hands. For a moment, he said nothing.

"I don't know what he's planning." The words hung heavily in the air. "I thought I- But- I'm not even convinced… He's gotten into our heads, and I can't-" He sucked in a sharp breath. "He's coming for us. Possibly for Warren too, but definitely…" He swallowed. "Definitely for us."

Once, when Scott had been recovering from some various IR-related injury or another, he'd grudgingly allowed Gordon to talk him into watching a nature documentary. It had been focussed on nocturnal rainforest creatures and had actually been pretty interesting, but the one part that had stuck with him had been a shot of a tiny rodent fleeing for its life, unable to see the danger but knowing with full certainty that a predator was close behind.

He was struck with a similar sense of utter dread now, made worse by the fact that any move he made to counteract that fear was probably foreseeable by the Hood. He had never been so sympathetic for flies caught in spiderwebs.

"The Hood's not omniscient," he pointed out, mostly to break the silence before his own heartbeat drowned out all other sensory input. His palms were damp, and he tried to surreptitiously wipe them against his jeans.

"No," John agreed, then admitted with a healthy dose of utter disgust, "But we're predictable."

Which was both offensive and perfectly true and Scott hated it.

"I think," Hira ventured after a moment, "that you need to forget his schemes. Stop trying to figure out his plans. You're confusing yourselves further. Just get your supplies and leave ASAP."

"Careful, Hira," Scott tried to joke. "People might think you don't like us."

She laid her hands flat on the table and held his gaze. "I can honestly say that helping your family is the one decision I haven't regretted over the past five years. It has been an honour and a privilege. I only wish I could do more for you. All I can say now is that I wish you the very best of luck."

"Thank you." Scott found himself at a loss for words. He couldn't even begin to unpick the complicated mess of emotions he was feeling. He hated goodbyes and they seemed to get harder every time. Perhaps it was because they were so final these days. Before, goodbye equated to see you later. Now, it truly was a final farewell.

Virgil reached over to catch Hira's hand. "Thank you for everything."

She offered a tearful smile. "Oh, God. I'm getting all emotional now. Go on, get out of here before the waterworks get the better of me." She hesitated, then, sort of rushed, added, "Look after Gordon, won't you?"

John sounded distant as he replied softly, "Of course we will."


Even if the impromptu meeting hadn't already ruined any positive feeling Scott had left, the reminder that he'd just undergone radiation treatment hit him with all the grace of a reversing dumpster truck. He'd mostly suffered from fatigue over the past couple of days which hadn't been too much of an issue given there'd been little else to do but sleep, but nausea had also reared its head and now it made itself known once again.

Normally he would have protested at the way everyone seemed treating him like he was delicate – although to be fair John was also being handled with kid-gloves – but he couldn't bring himself to care. Early evening saw him folded over a toilet, but he hadn't eaten anything and so spent several minutes painfully retching without any relief.

He dropped his forehead to his crossed arms and breathed heavily, making no move to get up – there was an unnerving weakness in his muscles which left him trembling. It was difficult to tell if it was a side-effect or due to the fact he hadn't eaten – everything made him sick, so he didn't see the point in wasting rations. Oddly enough, John didn't seem to be experiencing as many symptoms – none at all actually, except fatigue – but Scott really couldn't be bothered to contemplate the reasons why.

It so late by the time he peeled himself off the bathroom floor that the lights had dimmed from their programmed sunset hue to a low, warm night-time setting. He plastered on a brave face when he heard noises from the kitchen, but promptly dropped the mask when he realised it was only Virgil.

"Hey," he called, retrieving a glass from the cupboard which was helpfully situated at such an angle that it hid his face.

"Hey," Virgil echoed slowly. There was a healthy dose of suspicion in his voice. "You haven't eaten."

"Is that a question or an observation?"

"Scott," Virgil snapped, although his tone softened into concern as Scott was forced to drop the glass, bracing himself against the sink as his vision swam.

The wave of nausea was so strong that it consumed his senses. All he could do was keep breathing. He gripped the rim of sink so fiercely that his knuckles bleached white. Virgil sounded distant and he couldn't make out the words until hands grabbed his biceps and kept him from stepping back.

The world blurred back into clarity. It was only then that he registered the shattered glass across the floor. Tiny shards had needled their way into the crevices between flagstones where they now lurked, waiting for bare feet to land on them.

At least he hadn't gotten as far as filling the glass, he thought to himself absently and decided not to vocalise that particular quip. Somehow he suspected Virgil would not be amused.

"Don't move," Virgil instructed him. "I'll clear this up."

"I can do it."

"You're not wearing shoes, I am." Virgil found a dustpan and brush from somewhere. He didn't look up as he quietly said, "We're not leaving tomorrow."

"The hell we're not-"

"It was a ridiculous timeframe from the start. It didn't allow long enough for recovery-"

"John's fine, I'm fine." Scott backtracked at Virgil's glower. "Maybe not fine as such but give me a couple of pills and I'll be ready to go. It'll wear off after another day or two anyway."

"So we should wait until then. Two days is nothing."

"Two days is everything when the Hood's about to make a move."

"And that's exactly why you can't make this judgement call."

There was a brief pause in which Virgil tried not to cringe and Scott attempted to steady his voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Scott asked eventually despite the fact that it was a redundant question because he knew damn well what Virgil had meant by it.

"It's not a criticism. It's just fact. You can't make a clear judgement call when the Hood is involved and that's completely understandable and normal, but it does mean that your decisions aren't necessarily the best choice."

"Jesus Christ." Scott let out a dark chuckle. "You think I don't know that? I am very aware that my judgement's not the best when it comes to him. I can feel him breathing down my fucking neck all the time. I can't look in the mirror without remembering. So, yes, I know that I probably act irrationally when his name gets mentioned, but I'm not wrong about this. You're worried about me – I get that. But what's best for me is to get the hell outta this place and far away from him. I'd rather be at risk from rotters than let him get his hands on me again."

"That's not going to happen." There a distinctly dark note in Virgil's voice. "I would never let it."

"It already did." Scott took a shaky breath and reminded himself not to shout. "He's been manipulating us from the start. Just think about it – you promised once before that I'd never step foot in the same room as him again and yet that's exactly where I ended up. He dredged up memories that I didn't even realise I had. He made me subhuman. And I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, so don't look at me like that, but do you get my point? Our decisions aren't our own, so you can't promise anything so long as we're trapped here. We can't even trust ourselves right now."

Virgil wordlessly emptied the dustpan into the trash and returned it to its cupboard. He didn't acknowledge the little speech, but the hunch of his shoulders revealed that he was upset.

Scott took a moment to reassess. "Okay, fine. I hear it. I sound paranoid."

"No." Virgil finally met his gaze. "You're not paranoid. That's the worst part. I don't want to keep us here. I'd love to leave right this second if I could. But as a medic, I'm telling you that you're not fit to travel yet. Neither is Gordon for that matter. Give it twenty-four hours. That's all I'm asking. And during those twenty-four hours we won't leave these rooms. We'll lock down, put ourselves in quarantine, I don't know. John can figure out an excuse."

Gordon's name was a sharp stab of fear.

"Is he…?"

"Migraine." Virgil listed details robotically as if he couldn't bear to consider them in depth. "Came on about a day and a half ago. It's beginning to lift but his hearing is typically worse for the first few hours afterwards, so."

"So, we wait."

"Exactly. And with any luck your nausea will have subsided by then too."

"Okay." Scott swallowed past the lump of panic in his throat. John's words were echoing in his head, he's coming for us. If he closed his eyes, he swore he could hear the Hood's dull laugh and feel a prosthetic hand leaving bruises on his arm. "Okay. That's- Yeah. Twenty-four hours."

"Scott-"

"Good talk. Thanks, Virg. See you in the morning."


Scott awoke with the strange, disorientated feeling of being in an unfamiliar room. It took several moments to place the walls – plastered in drawings in an attempt to make it seem less like a showhouse – and the mound of discarded clothes on the floor – because even the apocalypse couldn't cure Gordon of that particular habit.

He rolled over to spy the uneven mop of blond hair at his right shoulder. Gordon was still curled around his pillow, but his grip had loosened from the painful desperation of the previous evening when Scott had snuck in with the intention of checking on him and then been unable to walk away.

Attempting to disentangle himself from the blankets was unsuccessful. Scott slammed a hand against the dresser to keep from faceplanting and tried once more to extract his leg from the mess of sheets. His coordination was still not its finest, but it was significantly improved without the constant hivemind pressure. Finally freed from the blankets, he mentally congratulated himself on having not accidentally woken Gordon during the ordeal, only for a hand to snag his wrist.

"Scotty?"

Aw, crap.

Also, ouch. Gordon sounded painfully young in that moment and Scott was momentarily jolted into the hivemind memory. Not real, he told himself sharply, trying to forget Alan's little face and how genuine Gordon's laughter had been without any trauma to dampen it. Despite knowing it had all been fake, something twisted in his chest.

He found his voice. "Yeah, it's me. Feeling any better?"

Gordon lifted his face from the pillow to blink blearily at him. "Huh?"

Oh, right.

Gordon was pretty good at signing, but even plain old English was a struggle in the aftermath of a migraine – seriously, Scott would know: he could still recall only responding to Jeff in monosyllabic grunts after an episode during his high school years. He offered a thumbs-up instead, complete with what he hoped was a cheery smile but probably looked more like a grimace.

Gordon stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his head back to the pillow. "Dork."

His voice was muffled by fabric, but Scott still caught the teasing remark. On the Gordon scale, it was lame, but his best material remained inaccessible while he rode out the tail-end of that migraine.

Mostly it was just annoying to be unable to retaliate – anything Scott said would go unheard and he couldn't even sign because Gordon was once again attempting to fuse with the pillow. He suspected that had been his younger brother's plan. On the upside, it was a good sign that the squid was feeling better.

He hung around for a few more minutes until Gordon's breathing evened back into sleep, at which point he headed back to his own room for a change of clothes. The nausea and dizzy spells seemed to have dissipated overnight which was a small mercy, even if he did still feel as if he could sleep for a year. All in all, the morning seemed to be going well which should have been a warning in itself, but he didn't register the signs until it was too late.

Alan nearly crashed into him in the hallway.

"Woah, hold up." Scott caught him by the shoulders. "What's the rush?"

Alan was in the dark clothes he'd picked out for their escape along with combat boots and some selectively chosen weapons which he'd tried to conceal on his person. For a moment Scott wondered whether no one had told the kid that their departure had been postponed.

"Ben left a message for me." Alan paused. "Oh, right. Ben is-"

"I know who he is. Still don't get why you're in such a hurry. Run any faster and you'll break the sound barrier."

Alan shot a frantic look over his shoulder at the door. "He said there's trouble? I don't know, he didn't give details, but he said they need my help and that it's urgent, so I've really gotta go."

"Alan-"

Scott didn't get chance to interrogate him further. The door swung wildly in his wake until the hinges caught and it slowed to a gentle close.

Scott was left staring after him, worry forming a pit in his stomach. But he'd met Ben and the kid had seemed nice, not to mention that Alan had more than proven he was capable of handling himself. Still, something seemed off. It itched at the back of Scott's mind throughout the morning until a request to meet came through from Noah Warren and successfully distracted him.

"I don't like it," Virgil declared.

"You don't like him," Scott corrected. "There's a difference."

"What happened to no one leaves these rooms?" Virgil protested, knitting his fingers together as he openly fretted. "This time tomorrow we'll be gone. What does Warren matter? Ignore him."

"This entire thing seems sketchy," Marisa agreed.

Scott turned to John, who was steadily working his way through another plate of toast. "Didn't you say that Warren's on our side now?"

John delicately sliced the crusts off his toast. "I never said we could trust him."

"That's not the- And what the hell are you doing, anyway? Eat the crusts like a normal person. Those are our rations you're wasting."

John prodded a crust with his knife. "No. The texture's wrong. Have I mentioned how much I miss bagels?"

"Oh, whatever. You're such a child." Scott turned his back on John's indignant splutters. "Virg, if I'm not back by three…"

"Come looking and say I told you so after I drag your ass out of trouble?"

"The first part yes, the second part no."

"It's a joint package, Scooter." Virgil dropped his joking grin. "Seriously though. Why does he want to meet on the storage level? That's only two floors below the compromised zone."

"Sketchy," Marisa repeated.

Scott levelled them both with an unimpressed stare. "Do you think the infected have gained the ability to walk through concrete? How would they get down two floors? It's not as if they can use the elevator."

"Especially not since the hivemind collapsed," Ellis interjected, sounding almost mournful about this fact. "Any intelligent strategy has been abandoned. Now they truly are mere monsters."

Marisa prodded Ellis' knee under the table with one socked foot. "Cheer up, hon. Once we hit Duluth there'll be plenty of rotters for you to study. You never know - maybe one of them will be a real genius... cracked the mystery of dark matter, something like that."

John's face lit up at the mention of dark matter and Scott bade a hasty retreat before he could get sucked into one of his brother's legendary space rambles. At least there was no slideshow to accompany it this time.


It took a lot of careful planning to evade Virgil who was insistent on coming with him – in other words, Scott waited until his brother was distracted and made a run for it. With any luck, Virgil wouldn't follow him, although he wouldn't hold his breath.

Noah's message had seemed perfectly innocuous, yet a primal instinct reared its head and installed doubt in his mind. Scott couldn't shake the suspicion, so borrowed Gordon's machete from their packed bags and stashed it under his jacket just in case. It was probably nothing, but if he did run into trouble at least he'd have options.

The top three buttons of the elevator panel were blacked out. Someone had taped a sign across them reading infected zone as if anyone had somehow forgotten the presence of rotters within the bunker.

Unease coiled into the cold weight of dread as the elevator began rising. He also couldn't shake the sense of being watched. He twisted to inspect the blinking light of the security camera tucked in the corner as if he could somehow see the viewer through the lens. Sketchy, Marisa had said, and now he shared the sentiment.

Lighting was sporadic in the corridor. Scott hung back for a moment to assess for threats. The doors were closed and locked, access panels lit up red so that it looked as if there were a row of crimson eyes peering out of the gloom. The entire place was deathly silent. His own heartbeat was the loudest thing around. He reached back to pass a hand across the comforting hilt of the machete.

There was no sign of Noah. There was no sign of anything, actually. It was difficult to imagine that only two floors above him was an infestation of infected. He withdrew his machete and cautiously wandered deeper into the corridor. A strange, distant scratching echoed, magnified by the empty space so that he couldn't pinpoint its origins. He sort of wished he'd let Virgil come with him but was also incredibly thankful that he hadn't because this was looking more and more like a trap.

Another faint scratch skittered through the walls. He twisted on the spot, heart hammering. God, he was on edge. It was probably just rats. Most people refused to venture this high in the bunker since the breach and vermin had taken their place. The lights flickered back on, momentarily blinding him as the reflection flashed off his blade.

He lowered it back to his side, holding himself perfectly still as he tried to pick out the individual sounds: the thrum of recycled oxygen, sharp snaps of electricity as light fixtures blinked, a continuous scraping from the end of the corridor and, very quietly, a constant drip of something thick and gelatinous. The lights wavered again. In the red glow of access panels, Scott swore he glimpsed a dark fluid oozing beneath a door at the far end.

The elevator doors parted with a cheery chime. He spun around, swinging the machete up defensively. Even the rustle of his own jacket was unnerving.

Noah observed him with a wry smile. "Is that how you greet all your associates? It's hardly welcoming. Unless you invited me here to kill me, but that doesn't seem your style."

"What? No." Scott tucked the machete back under his jacket. "You're late."

"You're early."

"Well, that makes a change." He finally processed the tail-end of Noah's little speech. "Back up a second. What do you mean I invited you? You invited me."

Noah's eyebrows ticked higher. Stress lines had woven themselves around his mouth. He tried to keep his back to a wall at all times as if fearing a sneak attack from the shadows. If he had crossed the Hood, then perhaps he was regretting it.

"No, Scott." There was a distinct edge to his voice. "You sent me a message requesting to meet which I have been considerate enough to honour despite your irregular choice of floor. Why pick a level so close to the contamination zone? Seems like tempting fate to me."

It was an unfortunate fact of life that you often didn't realise you were in trouble until it was too late to backtrack.

Realisation descended like a bucket of icy water.

"If you didn't arrange this meeting," Noah continued, "And I didn't either, then who did? Why would they bring us here?"

Scott fumbled for his comm. All he could raise was static. Noah's radio produced a single high-pitched shriek and promptly died. He made a great show of huffing and puffing and declaring it an outrage while Scott tried to ignore him.

Danger, his instincts whispered urgently, prickling down his spine. He fought a shiver. Something was very, very wrong. A dull thud drew his attention back to the far end of the corridor.

Noah crept close enough for their shoulders to brush. He kept his weight unevenly distributed, leaning on one heel so that he could use Scott as a human shield.

"What is that?" he hissed, voice fraught with nerves.

Scott seized the man's lapels and hauled him in front. "What deal did you make with the Hood?"

"What deal?" Noah yelped, writhing as he attempted to free himself. "I don't know what you're talking about. Take your hands off me."

Scott slammed him against the wall. "I know you've been working with him. I also know you've planned to double-cross him. So, what did you do? Because he wants me dead and now you've also made his shit list so it kinda seems like this is one of his schemes."

Noah's eyes widened to saucers. "He wants you dead? I thought he just wanted you out of the way."

"Out of the way means dead in his books, you idiot. Start talking."

Noah swallowed. "Well, um- This place is dead in the water. Gaat planned to have you fly him – and my family if I agreed to work with him – to another safe zone but then it became increasingly clear that you would never agree to it. He claims you've been a thorn in his side for years. He wants you out of his way so he can continue with his plan to get back on top. I was to be his right-hand man."

"You don't work with him. No one works with him. You work for him and if you haven't figured that out yet then you're in worse trouble than you realise."

Scott relinquished his grip on Noah's lapels and stepped back. This only ends with one of us dead, he recalled thinking at that last meeting with the Hood, and now it tasted bitter because the Hood clearly knew it too and had decided to make a move to resolve the issue. His heartbeat fogged his ears. He tightened his grip on the machete.

Noah smoothed his suit down. "Gaat couldn't possibly be after me. He doesn't know my intentions."

"Are you a complete fucking idiot? Obviously he knows you're planning to screw him over, Warren. He knows everything in this place. He's manipulating all of us. It might not even be your original idea to double-cross him. Maybe he planted it in your head because you've fulfilled your usefulness and now he wants you out of the way too."

Noah braced himself against the wall with shaky arms. "Look, Tracy. I'll be honest. I don't care about this feud between you and Gaat. All I care about is keeping myself and my family alive. If that means switching which player I back, then so be it. That's something he can understand. He won't blame me for it."

"Are you actually insane?" Scott gestured wildly to the corridor around them. "The Hood is not the forgiving type. If you get on his wrong side, he won't stop until you're dead and buried. This entire set-up is one of his tricks. We need to get out of here before he reveals the finale."

The lights plunged into darkness. Moments later, the deep crimson glow of emergency lighting activated. The wail of sirens on lower floors was audible even through metres of thick concrete. A robotic voice warned of a contamination breach.

Noah slammed his hand onto the call button, but there was no sign of the elevator. The panel remained blank and lifeless as if all power to it had been cut. He jabbed his thumb into the button repeatedly as panic took hold of him. Even in the dark lights, he looked clammy and pale. He was muttering under his breaths, words tripping over one another, breaths coming in shallow pants.

Scott grabbed the guy's shoulder. "Shut up."

Noah fell quiet, unmoving, unspeaking, eyes flitting from Scott to the corridor. Those distant thuds were growing louder, riled by the sirens and emergency alerts until they grew desperate, pounding on that door. Then, at the thin gap underneath, ghostly fingers appeared, scrabbling at the concrete to leave smears of rotten flesh.

"Oh, my Lord," Noah croaked.

So that was the Hood's plan – to trap them on this floor and let the infected take care of them.

Scott snapped out of the trance, pinching his wrist to jolt himself into action. The familiar rush of adrenaline ignited under his skin. He withdrew his machete with a sharp hiss of metal.

"Warren. Is there another way down? Emergency stairwell, something like that?"

Noah shook his head frantically. "We're dead. We're gonna die here. I don't want to die like this. I don't want to die, Tracy, get me out of here. You're International Rescue, aren't you? Get me the fuck outta here."

"Hey, hey. Warren, take a breath. Dammit Noah, breathe."

Scott wedged his machete under his arm and gave into the impulse that had tempted him since he'd first set eyes on the man. He slapped Noah so hard that the lawyer stumbled back, clasping a hand to his reddening face. Clarity returned to his eyes. His throat bobbed as he gulped.

"Are you with me?" Scott demanded, flipping the blade back into his hand.

Noah sucked in a breath. "Yessir."

"Good."

Scott wrestled with his instincts and edged deeper into the corridor. The far door bulged against its hinges, buckling under the weight of so many infected. A pool of rotten fluids spread from the base. Those fingers had been worn down to skeletal fragments. He turned back to Noah.

"We'll have to use the elevator."

Noah stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "It's out of action."

"We can still use the shaft."

"What?"

"C'mon, help me get these doors open." Scott wedged his blade between the doors. "Warren, do you want to get out of here or not? Get off your ass and help."

"You want to climb down the elevator shaft?" Noah yelped. "This isn't a Hollywood action movie, Tracy. You're insane!"

"I've done it before." Admittedly that had been with a grapple, but Scott wasn't about to mention that part. "It's our only option."

It had been a long time since Scott had heard the infected howl. He'd nearly forgotten just how horrific the sound was, misremembered the chilling quality or the way it seemed to slice directly to the human soul. He momentarily forgot how to breathe until the ache in his chest reminded to inhale. His heartrate was tripping over itself again. He hated the idea of turning his back to the monsters, but he had no other choice.

"Put your back into it, man," Noah barked, voice pitched with terror. He yanked on the handle of the machete in an attempt to widen the gap between the doors.

Scott bit back a venomous retort and focussed on the task at hand. He tried to pretend that Noah was just another fractious rescuee. Just be professional.

Noah's elbow clobbered him in the ribs. "Are you even trying?"

"Oh, fuck you."

On the upside, rage granted him additional strength. The tiniest gap appeared between the doors, and he wedged his fingers into the space, prising them further apart until he could get his foot in there and push them open with his full body strength.

On the downside, his outburst seemed to rile the infected. New howls erupted from the door along with a renewed effort to break through. One of the hinges sheared clean off. The door hung mournfully from one corner. Disembodied limbs reached through the gap. Several rotters lunged forwards. A legless torso pushed through the crush and landed with a splat on the floor where it proceeded to haul itself forwards with a pair of mangled arms.

Noah's scream increased their excitement. Scott stashed his machete and tore off his jacket, wrapping it around his hands as he peered into the elevator shaft. It was a square of pure darkness, but red emergency lighting reflected off the cables.

He risked a glance at the corridor and nearly jolted back instinctively as he saw the rotters' proximity. Noah was gagging at the stench of rot, grasping at the wall as he vomited over his own pristine shoes. For someone who had been such a big fan of the fight ring, he certainly had a weak stomach.

It was impossible to tell how far down the elevator was. Scott prayed it was less than four floors. Either way, he'd rather break his neck than get eaten alive. A wet crunch echoed from the corridor and he turned to glimpse one of the infected hurtling towards him. Noah flattened himself against the wall with another scream. Scott dropped his jacket onto the floor to retrieve his machete and swiftly decapitated the rotter just before it could sink its molars into Noah's jugular.

A thin spray of rotten blood coated both their faces. Noah retched again. Scott wiped it from his eyes and tried not to shudder. Horror left him cold. He despatched the nearest infected, then backed up again, cleaning his blade against his jeans. The rotters advanced in a rush, a wave of mottled flesh, eyes rolling in their sockets, congealed drool dripping from hungry jaws.

He shoved the machete through his belt, then looped the jacket back around his hands as he leant over the abyss to snatch one of the cables. Noah seized the back of his shirt with a panicked yell and Scott teetered on the verge of falling. He was shaky with excess adrenaline as he recovered his balance.

"Don't leave me," Noah sobbed, throwing any sense of dignity out of the window. He tightened his hands to fists, crowding closer until he nearly forced Scott over the edge. "You've got to rescue me. I've got kids, Scott."

Technically, his children were Gordon's age and so could hardly be classified as kids anymore, but that was beside the point. The idea of leaving him behind hadn't crossed Scott's mind for even a second. He yanked his shirt out of Noah's grasp and twisted to grip the man's shoulders.

"Look at me." Noah's desperate eyes met his. "We are both getting out of here. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Noah took a shaky breath and rasped out, "Yes."

"Good." Scott reached backwards to snag a cable, then wrapped an arm around Noah to pull him close. "Then hold on tight."

Anyone who had ever become familiar with flying was also inevitably accustomed to falling. There was a fine line between the two; the marked difference was the level of control and right now Scott very much had no control holy shit-

Noah's grip was painful and squeezed all the air from his lungs. It was the most ungraceful descent Scott had ever made. Falling was utterly disorientating on a good day, let alone when engulfed in darkness. Screams of the infected bounced off the walls around them so that it seemed as if they were plummeting into hell.

But then, finally, they began to slow – not enough to come to a complete halt but sufficiently to break their fall before they could smash their legs against the elevator. They still hit the roof violently, but beyond leaving him breathless and igniting every bruise and scrape in his body, Scott didn't have a scratch on him.

He sat up gingerly. Friction from the cables had burnt a hole in his jacket. He didn't want to even contemplate the state his hands would have been in without it. He tilted his head back to glimpse a faint red square far above where the doors were still parted. By his estimations, they'd travelled roughly three floors.

Noah slumped on his knees. He wasn't crying so much as weeping silently, letting the tears trickle down his face without making any attempts to wipe them away. He was probably going into shock. There was still rotten blood drying on his chin. The seam of his suit jacket had popped at the back. He was wheezing for air as panicked relief took over, but they weren't out of the woods just yet as Scott spied figures gathering in the red square to block out the light.

"Fuck," he muttered, reaching for his machete.

Noah took another strangled gasp. "They wouldn't jump after us, right?"

Scott didn't answer. He ran his hands over the roof. It was impossible to see the access hatch without flashlights. He tried to identify the distinctive raised edges but found nothing. He was vaguely conscious of his own hitched breathing. Panic flared under his skin. His hair clung to his neck with cold sweat. He doubled down on his efforts to find the hatch to no avail.

"Noah, I could really do with a hand, buddy."

"I c-can't-"

Instinct warned him of the danger before he consciously recognised it. He snatched up the machete and lashed out in the dark as something hurtled towards them. There was a sickening squelch as metal found flesh. The entire elevator shuddered with another impact. Cold fingers coiled around his wrist.

He spun around with a panicked shout and swung the blade through bone. Icy liquid drenched his jeans. He couldn't see anything, but he could feel the movement of air, the presence of threat within the dark, the pressure of bodies against his own as the creatures backed him into the wall. He couldn't hear anything above the snarls.

A shard of light sliced through the horde. Noah had found the access hatch. He hovered by the edge, tossing a frantic look Scott's way. He smashed his heel into the closest rotter's kneecap as it reached for him.

"Go," Scott yelled, smashing the hilt into a rotter's head until the skull concaved. "For fuck's sake, Warren, get outta here."

Noah lowered one foot over the hatch, then cursed and turned back.

Just how long he had been hiding a literal gun up his sleeve was questionable. Perhaps panic had blotted his memory until that moment. The sound of the shot reverberated off the walls and left their ears ringing. Scott stumbled through the horde of reeling infected and let Noah grab his wrists, which was when it all went fatally wrong.

Another rotter plummeted from above. It yanked Noah from Scott's grasp and pulled him into the horde. Scott made to grab him, but his shoes slipped on the blood-soaked roof and he crashed through the access hatch to slam heavily into the elevator below.

The air was knocked from his lungs. He spent several seconds gasping for air like a fish out of water, desperate to get up, to do something, to rescue. Noah's agonised screams cut through him like a knife. He scrambled to pull himself up and back onto the roof but met Noah's stricken eyes.

"Please." Noah's voice was imploring. His gaze fell upon the gun which lay just out of his reach. His limp fingers twitched. Wet slurps echoed as the infected feasted on his lower back. He gasped around a bitten-off scream. "Please, Tracy. Mercy me."

"I'm sorry." Scott drew a sharp breath. "I'm so sorry."

He snatched up the gun before he could talk himself out of it and pulled the trigger.


He was running on pure adrenaline. He wedged the machete through the latch of the hatch to keep it shut then tripped backwards out of the elevator. The clean corridor around him was a sharp contrast and he felt oddly as if he were desecrating the space. He was trailing blood across the floorboards. He couldn't quite get a full breath. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't grip onto anything. He didn't even know which floor he was on until he rounded a corner and crashed headfirst into Virgil.

He was aware of Virgil's horrified exclamation but couldn't understand the words. Everything was underwater. His ears were still ringing from gunshots in such close quarters.

"Warren's dead," he choked out, clinging onto Virgil's shoulders to anchor himself. "The Hood set us up. We've got to get out of here. Now. Can Gordon travel?"

"I- Yes. I think so."

"Great. Let's leave before the Hood tries to kill me again. Third time's the charm, right?"

Virgil flinched. "Scott, you're-"

"Less talking, more getting the fuck outta here."

Scott was fully conscious of the horrified stares he was receiving – not just from Virgil but from everyone once he stepped foot in their quarters. Theo looked at him as if he'd just risen from the grave. Gordon kept asking questions, trying to put together the puzzle pieces despite only hearing half the answers. All of these concerns were swept aside as the front door crashed open to leave a crater in the wall.

"That's it," Alan snapped, face freckled by blood. His eyes were fiery with fury but mostly with a large dose of fear. "I'm like ninety-percent certain that someone just tried to kill me. Also, someone is totally screwing with our comms because it was not Ben who sent that message." He was still shaking as he wiped a smear of crimson from his nose. "We are so leaving."