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Realistic or Modern 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 — at the end of the world

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The Ambush
Outside Lincoln​



CHRIS

Gordon's blow had surprisingly done wonders for Chris's mindset. Or maybe it was his rousing speech. He'd followed them, started trying to focus more on what was going on around him. After the team effort to get the door open and the group nearly falling face first, Chris held his gun up, though nervous still, he was trying to be ready. Eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness outside. But the area was empty of people as far as he could see. That's good. He told himself, and walked down the steps. "Alright Dagger-9 Let's fan out and do this." It wasn't an order, no, they were beyond orders. It was Chris working with Gordon because they had people counting on them to see Delta's mission through. It was dark enough to warrant using the night vision goggles so he slid them down over his eyes. Glancing back at the civilian's behind them before pushing up. The courtyard was littered with vehicles but it was silent out here. Almost comforting.

Almost. Until the loud voice rained through the comm piece in his ear, calling out to Delta. There was panic to it and before the man's words got far Chris was already turning to look at Gordon, opening his mouth to say something, but before he could a blast rang out and he felt the force hit his body. Chris was knocked backwards, landing on his back on the ground. Some of the flaming debris landing in the area around them. Confusion set in for a moment, but as he opened his eyes he saw the people he was warned about through the night vision goggles. "Contacts!" Chris yelled, he didn't know if Gordon could hear him. Didn't know what hit them. All he knew was that guns were pointed in their direction and Chris pulled the rifle up to point. And shoot. A stream of bullets came from both sides. He watched some of the hostiles take cover or flail when it started. It gave him enough time to push his now sore body to scramble to the nearest vehicle for cover.

Chris put his back to the metal door, his heart rate was at an all time high as he tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. There wasn't any time to panic. Not with how many hostiles he'd seen, and how many he hadn't seen. So he pulled himself up and over the top of the car hood, putting his elbows on it for support as he took aim and returned fire. Watching through the NVG's he noticed a few hostiles falling to the side. A sign that whatever over watch they had was covering them. For that he was grateful. But it didn't last, and the hostiles were pushing up closer. They were outnumbered. When a hail of bullets rained over the car he was using, Chris had to fall back down to take cover behind it again. He looked up at the prison tower where the sniper should have been but he couldn't tell what was going on. He put up a bloodied hand to the mic piece on his ear, "Delta is pinned down! Charlie, we need-- dammit." The gunfire filled the background, and Chris was cut off when a bullet whizzed over his head. "We need help!" He yelled into the piece, ending the transmission. Then threw his upper body back on the car hood. Finger pulling the trigger just to shoot and keep them at bay if nothing else.

GORDON

There was no trip wire. There was no flash bomb. There were no unexpected fingers grasping at his ankles or angry growls from within the remains of the pile of scrap. He was treated with the refreshing scent of night air, crickets, and a starry sky as far as the eye could see. The only light was the last little bit from the prison, seeping around the cracks in the door and illuminating the little bit of the courtyard. This was the homestretch. “Dagger-Nine to Alpha. Main door secured. Over.” His voice sounded confident. No longer the stuttering, puking, seamen that was green in the cheeks, but instead a co-leader of the remnants of a platoon of two. He had come, and done what was told, and now he was going to leave and nothing had gone wrong… Chaos crackled in his ear, and utter chaos combusted the other. A piece of flaming metal that deposited itself between him and Chris had other ideas about how well this mission was going to go..

The blast sent him to the ground. He ate a mouthful of Ohio dirt, swan diving behind the tires of an older truck. He had landed just in time to see the fire dimly lighting up the area around them, and the figures in the distance, standing there, ready and waiting. He swallowed hard, just in time to duck behind the truck tire to a hailstorm of bullets.

“Son of a bitch!” He shouted. “Main door is not secured. I repeat. Main door not secure.” Chris was by his own car, leaving him to defend his own piece of Ford 150. One hand came to slam down his own night vision goggles. Rifle in hand, he precariously poked his head over the hood of the truck, looking to examine what the hell had even happened. Flaming debris was falling from the sky. It was as Hell was breaking loose. Maybe Rickett had been right about demons being loose in that place. Shit. Rickett. It didn’t matter. Chaos was helping…but it wasn’t going to be enough. He shifted his rifle under his arm, and fired in the general direction of the enemy, hoping that he was helping enough to distract them that maybe Chris would actually hit something…or Chaos would. He flopped back down, just as another bullet whizzed past his ear, threatening to clip his probably already bleeding ear drum from whatever the hell was happening. We needed help in fucking deed. They were two men. Two men out of four. “Charlie. We are half a squad down here. Dagger Six and Eight are indisposed. Some…” He ducked down again as a bullet got seriously close to cracking one of his fingers, and he sighed. “Not just need help. We need fucking help.” He mumbled, taking his finger off the mic and readjusting himself. He looked over to the fallen Theo, who had joined him on the side of the flaming chopper blade that was parking preciously close to two vehicles that he assumed probably were fueled up as part of someone’s escape plan. “You alright? Stay down.” His hand came to touch Theo’s shoulder, pushing it down to the ground. “Act like you’re fucking dead. That would be even better.”

THEO

Outside smelled like freedom. Theo wasn’t being forcibly dragged to his death this time. He wasn’t stealing ten minutes of peace in a fenced-in excuse for an exercise yard either. He was outside of the prison for the first time in… how long? Weeks? He’d lost count because days and dates meant nothing anymore, as far as he was concerned. This part of the yard, littered with vehicles parked haphazardly given how close they were to the garage, felt like it opened up to the horizon and beyond. Theo looked up, and saw nothing but stars. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time, the way they twinkled with promise. It struck him as amazing that these were the same stars he, his friends, and his family could look up and see years ago (light pollution aside). Before that, the same stars his grandparents saw, and great-grandparents, back and back as far as humanity could go. Unchanging. It was comforting. It kind of made him feel like humanity would keep on going, somehow. Years from now, there would be people seeing these same stars. He knew it. Gordie was the one closest to where he stood, speaking into his radio. More code names as he reported back. Mission successful. He started to turn towards Gordie to say something. Everything happened all at once.

Something huge and loud and deep erupted somewhere behind him. Behind, and above, which made no sense. The ground came up to meet Theo, and he realized it was because he wasn’t on his feet anymore, but falling forward. He hit the ground somewhat on his shoulder, rolling with the momentum as he skidded along the dirt and snow and stray patches of untamed grass. Instead of fighting it, he leaned into that momentum, sliding behind one of the vehicles. The noise was deafening. The soldiers were shouting, bullets were flying, and fiery debris was raining down all around them. Shouted commands and pleas bled together - we need help and son of a bitch were pretty good summaries of whatever this was. Contact. Yeah, that was putting it lightly. They were getting fucking lit up from both sides. Theo wound up ducking behind the wheel of a truck just in time for a spray of bullets to whiz past him close enough to clatter against the truck in a hail of metal versus metal. He swore some of them even went straight through, finding places where the truck was more plastic than metal. Something struck his shoulder as he scrambled to take full cover. He yelped, curling himself up tight against the Ford’s wheel. Thankful that whatever asshole owned this before was into stupidly oversized wheels to compensate for whatever was lacking, he had just enough room for now to use it as cover. Hissing from the pain, he clamped a hand over his shoulder, glancing over at it. Why did he feel so hot all of a sudden?

Oh, right. It was the giant, sharp piece of metal embedded in the fucking ground just past the truck. And it was on fire. What the fuck was that? “Shit,”Theo hissed, squeezing his shoulder as blood seeped around his fingers. He tried wiggling the fingers of his injured side - they still moved. Okay, that was good, but fuck if his whole shoulder didn’t hurt all at once, radiating down the length of his arm and even creeping up his neck. This was bad enough, he couldn’t imagine actually getting shot like that other guy inside had been. If that ever happened to him he’d probably just pass out from the pain, or die on the spot from that pain. Gordon’s question about whether he was alright struck him as absolutely stupid in the current circumstances, but considering how he’d already been struck by something a whole lot worse, all he could do was grunt in response at first. Before he could formulate any response using words other than ’fuck this’ and ’fuck that’, the soldier was suddenly pushing him over onto the ground. Wounded shoulder first. Theo yelped out in pain as his injured shoulder hit the ground, more blood oozing from between his fingers and watering the snow-dusted dirt. Act like he was fucking dead? He could have been, what with the way those bullets were flying precariously close to his head. Groaning, Theo rolled onto his back to get the pressure off his shoulder, trying not to hurl along the way.

“No,” he muttered out, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Shot. Shoulder.” And to top it all off, he was an unarmed sitting duck. He had no clue where that useless metal bar went after the explosion wiped him off his feet. Somehow, by some miracle, the stolen walkie-talkie landed nearby. It was hard to hear over all the noise of screaming and bullets, but he swore he heard some shouting coming from that, too. Theo reached one leg out to scoot it closer with his foot until it was close enough to grab even with his injured arm, with as little arm movement as necessary. He slid it up next to his ear and leaned in to listen. It was absolute chaos on the radio. Overlapping voices, and not all of them in English, were shouting reports. Something had exploded (duh, no shit). ’They’ were bombing them (who, the Roanoke Ground Forces? Okay, maybe, but why?). Various names were tossed around as missing and unaccounted for - whose names he was familiar with, including Weston’s - but also other names that he only faintly recalled and couldn’t put faces to names for. One proclamation, said with a level of terror and confusion that just couldn’t be faked, squealed out during the briefest of lulls in shooting. Static interference cut out part of it, but he got just enough of it to make it interesting.

King …. Looking for… up…. Rooftop?… Helicopter!’ Theo peered up at the sky. Stars and burning debris now battled for attention. Smaller bits and pieces of things on fire were still drifting down, and even lighter debris was being caught by the wind and whipped around. Whatever exploded, whatever was on fire, looked to be on the rooftop of the building. If the voices on the radio were right, King had been up there. Had, being the key word here. The burning debris was suddenly beautiful. Theo started to laugh, rolling over and curling up on his uninjured side so he could face Gordon, pulling the walkie-talkie with him and placing it between them. “I think we just fucking won.” Theo wheezed out, laughing and crying into the dirt and snow at the same time.

BRAD

The place was Nazi Germany and Stalin’s wet dream. Like an old school death camp met gulag, surrounded by watchtowers. Brad had been stuck in one for hours. Layers of wool, uniform, and a wind-proof coat along with the kit and weapons made him feel like a fucking eskimo. Helmet, armor, pouches, even his rifle—all bleached so he didn’t stand out against the white-out. His post overlooked the dead courtyard between harsh concrete walls. He was aiming at the snow-capped vehicles while others had fun inside the buildings. Everybody was stealth until they weren’t. Until the strike teams would arrive. Eventually. For now, zero movement. Pretty as a picture. But the cell blocks and razor wire was no Christmas card. Each a rectangular block of crude concrete and a main tower in the center, jutting up against the gunmetal sky. Early Spring his ass... The air was swamped thick with snow like in deep winter. Flakes swirled like dust in his optic, lit up green with the NV device clipped on the scope. He's been aiming at the static vehicles for nearly half an hour. Adamant. Fucking bored. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, glancing aside at the dead guard he took out earlier, hunched over beside the closed door. “Yeah, I know. Sucks dry tits.”

Movement caught his eye and he leaned back over his rifle, eye to glass. It was Delta. Huerta’s nursing school for green turds. Except Trips was not there. Brad traced their movements and opened his eye to get a full scale view. Then he saw them and his pulse kicked up. A band of merry cocksuckers converging behind a cluster of vehicles. They came from two directions from the East side. Clear as day for him but invisible to Delta.

—
He moved his ass from the chair and shoved the door open, hit by the ice-cold draft. He stepped out into the narrow walkway, fat flakes sprinkling his arms, fresh powder and ice crunching under his boots. He pulled the NVGs down over his face and checked the open space, but still no visual. Wrong angle—couldn't see the fuckers anymore. He switched the goggles to infrared and was about to key his comm when the Asian-lover from the other tower beat him to it. “Chaos-8 to Delta, halt your advance! Multiple foot-mobiles approximately 100 meters ahead of your position. They’re dug-in and es–” His warning cut short as a bright ball of fire lit up the night sky, swallowing the tallest building’s roof. Fucking fireball in Brad’s eyes—the bright orange blowing up his thermals. “Motherfuck-” He jerked the goggles up from his watering eyes as molten metal rained down over him. Hitting his cloth-padded shoulders and bouncing off his helmet, it left him unscratched. His next breath tasted like smoke, the explosion tickling his numbed senses. Gunfire cracked through the freezing air below. When he could see again, Brad couldn’t spot the enemy but he recognized Delta was in deep shit to their armpits. They were pinned in the open courtyard behind a bunch of cars. Shots shredded the air, bullets whipping the snow—sniper rounds among them. Xander had a much better view of the situation from his nest. Brad stayed in his vantage and didn't disturb the sheep-bleating radio. Until he saw him in his peripheral. Something in the snow that wasn’t there earlier. He scoped it, only then noticing his optic was cracked on the side.

Fat luck. Must have gotten hit with a hurled piece of whatever the fuck blew up there. His bet was on the bird. He inspected the body in the snow and locked on the face. Cabrera— Eyes closed. Didn’t move. Didn’t look like he was breathing. Well fuck… Brad keyed his mic. “Chaos 6 to Hellhorse 6. Confirmation on explosion on the roof. No visual on the roof but I have visual on the man who fell down. Positive ID on Dream. Dream is down.” Next time he looked back to the shitshow downstairs, he saw Font exiting the tower on the ground level. What in the actual fuck? His sector was left uncovered and Delta was fucked six ways to Sunday. No choice. “Chaos 6 to Hellhorse. Chaos 8 abandoned position. I’m moving to his sector to assist Delta, over.” No more cat-paw quiet—his footsteps clanged on the iron grill floor as he sprinted along the narrow catwalk that skirted fortified walls. Sniper rifle in hand and the extra M16 banging against his hip. He punched through the door of Xander’s sniper tower and out on the other side. There, he was finally a stone throw away, a clear view of the firefight below.

The wind howled louder and the courtyard turned to a white haze. Snow heavy in the air, enforcers like ghosts in the mist. But he was seasoned at this game, got into position—angle perfect to take down Nazi bitches. “Chaos 6 in position, engaging.” His pulse steady as a metronome. Like a fucking machine, heart pumping slow and easy as he picked his target through the swirling white. A nameless face he didn’t know. Nothing in the world like killing a man who you could look in the eyes, but this was second best. The enforcer's skull shattered like a watermelon. Brad cycled a round, got back on target and took his next shot. Another head by the white-coated truck exploded—a cloud of red-tinted snow puffed up in the air.

CHRIS

Chris was breathing out hot clouds of vapor into the cold night air from behind the vehicle. He was doing an okay job of keeping it together, if nothing else he was distracted from what happened with Triples now. Though none of them expected a 2 on 12 shootout of all things. At least from what he saw Gordon and one of the civilian's had gotten into cover over by another vehicle. Chris had done a quick scan looking for the girl but without a sign...or body, he guessed she was hidden away somewhere. Going through the motions was surprisingly easy. Take cover, peek, return fire. Oh, and don't get shot. That's an important part of the whole thing. When the sniper cover came back it was a relief, and from what he overheard on the comms it was Brad. Chris was doing his best to see through the now thick weather coming down when some movement caught his eye over by the truck that the others were taking cover behind. Chris crouched back down and pressed the button, "Dagger 9 you've got two hostiles on your--" But his voice cut short. Because in the midst of radioing he'd heard a crunch behind him. There was panic as he wheeled around to face the danger, seeing a figure already on him. Except he slipped, his boot didn't get traction and fell to his side in the snow. This, as luck would have it, saved his life. Chris watched the bladed machete swing just over his head, where his face had just been. Metal grinding as it embedded part of the way into the car door.

It was in this moment he and his attacker were face to face. Chris could clearly make out the details of his face through the night vision goggles. Maybe that's why he didn't immediately turn his gun up and fire, that moments hesitation cost him precious seconds as the attacker swung again, this time vertically down. Chris had no choice but to bring his rifle flat up to shield against it.

Metal on metal with a clang, and Chris kicked out with one booted foot, causing the man to lose his footing. But falling on top of Chris. Chris grunted, both hands pushing as hard as he could against his rifle to keep the weight off of him. The two struggled like this for a moment with Chris getting overpowered and starting to panic, his gun the only thing keeping the machete from cutting him open. His NVG's had been jostled, making it so he couldn't see anything. It was just a few seconds, and then he shook his head so they fell off, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness again, just in time to watch the strangers head jerk to the side and hit the car door, the body going limp on top of him. As Chris's eyes adjusted it became clear, due to the blood spatter on the door, and the now dead man, and dead weight that was on top of him. That Brad had a good angle and had taken the guy out. "Christ." Chris exhaled, heaving the man's body off of him. His blood was pumping, hands were shaking but he grabbed his gun. Guess he owes that asshole a drink now.

GORDON

Gordon pulled his hand away from Theo, briefly looking down at the bright red crimson substance. Not his own blood. All of his fingers were still intact. No, it was Theo’s. He tried to swallow back the guilt. He had led him out here…No. It wasn’t his fault he had gotten shot. It was the bastards that still thought they had a shot at taking back their wanna be concentration camp playhouse. His quick medical knowledge told him there was nothing vital in the shoulder. A torn rotator cuff might be the worst he could suffer, but he wasn’t going to bleed out…at least not as bad as Trips was…

“Just stay low. Try not to move. Play dead.” With him and Chris separated, he couldn’t perform any first aid. Maybe that girl could…? He twisted his head to look for Haewon, just as another bullet whizzed through the plastic of the truck, another underneath the tire, nearly clipping him in the leg. The fabric singed, but didn’t tear, and it left Gordie to switch positions, rolling himself to the other overly sized tire. Midwest fucks loved their big trucks. He wondered if it had the two tennis balls tied in a bag on the hitch as well? He’d only moved another foot, but it left Theo a little more vulnerable. What else could he do? Theo would have to lay on the ground and play dead just a little longer. He didn’t have time to look for Haewon, or demand that she take care of him. Until they got reinforcements? Chris and him were all Theo had…and Chris wasn’t on this side of the flaming pile of helicopter blade.

The wind started to pick up, exponentially, sending the little bit of golden locks that were loose around his helmet and NVG spinning. Even if he was wearing an extra layer, the cold went straight to his bone. Visibility was getting worse. What should have been easy pickings, was now shooting blindly and hoping that someone decided to poke their head up at the wrong time. He was able to pick off one of the enemies who was still blindly shooting at the other truck tire, but that was his only forsure shot. Everything else, he was spraying and praying. He figured if they had their own NVG, it wasn’t as high tech as the militaries. Hunter-grade probably…There was the occasional ringing of a sniper rifle…until it stopped, and Gordie feared the worst. They’d spotted the snipers. He couldn’t pay enough attention to the Chaos drama…someone left their post, Brad was picking up the slack. Someone was getting slapped on the wrist later. Chaos was not his circus nor were they his monkeys. The radio that Theo had picked up was crackling. Everyone was just as frantic on the prison side of things…and then Theo started to laugh. Oh God. Was the blood loss going to his head? He was wheezing and laughing, all the while gunfire and black powder scented the early spring air. Snow started to blanket them both. Had he really lost it? Had he been crazy this entire time? Gordon lowered his rifle. “Won? What are you-?”

"Dagger 9 you've got two hostiles on your--" One man slunk behind Theo, his shadow emerging from the blizzard, overtaking the laughing psycho in the snow, holding a hunting knife in one hand. Shit. His fingers shook as Gordon quickly started to raise his rifle. *”You haven’t won shit, you little traitor bitch.” The bigger man, clad in camo and hunting gear raised the serrated knife up, grabbing Theo by the shoulder and ready to drag him back and scalp him. A bullet whizzed through the hunter’s skull, sending him falling back as his blood sprayed the snow, and unfortunately added a layer to Theo. Gordon relaxed, rolling his shoulders as his rifle dropped back down. Guilt was at the back of his mind, but it would have to be saved for the medical tent…when he’d have time to apologize to him for coating him in another man’s blood. The cock of a shotgun behind him made him curse. He raised his hands and placed them above him. Another man, this time pressing the pistol into the back of his head, laughed, and kicked him in the back of the knee, sending him forward all while pointing the gun at the back of Gordon’s head. An eerily familiar position to be in…Metal against helmet thundered in his head, as he kept his head low. The gun dragged along his helmet as the man switched positions, moving to stand in front of him, and then tugged the shotgun point blank up and under his helmet to press against his forehead.

“Damn shame. You could have been a pretty prison bitc-” Another spray of red splattered the snow. The man joined his friend on the ground, bodies almost touching, blood sprays making them look like beautiful red snow angels. Gordon coughed, wiping furiously at the blood that had splattered his face, flicking it off his glove that still was decorated with the bit of Theo’s. He hated Brad. Sick bastard probably would get a kick out of painting Gordie. He wanted to deck him so hard in the throat, he hoped he would have lost that stupidly thick Australian cocky bastard accent and become a mute…but…he’d have to save that for another day. He owed him. Motherfucker. Brad continued to light up the night. The rattle of the sniper rifle was back continued to sound, at least giving a brief break from the spray of bullets that had been pelting the trucks. It was enough for Gordon to breathe.

“Fuck me.” He slunk down into the snow beside Theo, falling to his knees beside him, glancing at his shoulder to see if it was damaged any more. He caught the brief view of burnt flesh, but he didn’t move to examine it. The NGV, which was already too big for his face, slunk down to his neck, leaving his tired baby blue eyes exposed as he looked down at Theo, the pained expression on his face from a shoulder…and yet somehow, he looked happy, even relieved. “Play dead better. Dead people don’t laugh.” Gordon huffed. He seemed angry, but there was a twinge of a smile in those grumpy grungy lips of his as he slipped the NVG back on his face and returned back to Theo’s side of the truck, lifting his rifle to fire back at the remains of the few bastards hiding behind their hunting rifles and get-away cars… “Dagger-Seven, you still have your position?” He called in his comms to Chris. “Hostiles neutralized. Thanks. Watch your back. Next we’ll be seeing molotovs…” God, he hoped not. He still didn’t know if there was any fuel left in these trucks…

THEO

Gunfire was everywhere. Things (and people) were being struck by deadly flying metal, bleeding or exploding into small bits and pieces upon impact. There were shouts, pained cries, yelps of surprise, groans and grunts, the rending of metal and the snapping of plastics and wood. Things whizzed through the air at such high speeds they were heard, not seen. It was chaos, it was war, and Theo had no idea how anyone ever joined the military and did this for long without going insane. Theo’s world shrunk until it was nothing but an oversized truck tire, a piece of flaming metal, the squawk-and-static of the radio, the snow, and Gordie. He still didn’t see the other soldier that was with them, the one that was just earlier shitting bricks before Gordie slapped him out of it. The other guy must be newer, since Gordie here seemed to be keeping it together pretty well. It was comforting, being trapped here with the one who wasn’t panicking and sort of seemed to know what was going on, at least. The snow around him wasn’t white anymore, now mottled with drops of red, streaks of grey, and dots of black and silver. A little like one of those paintings of absolutely nothing obvious that people still called art, purely so that people argued about whether it was art or not. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, Theo stared blankly at the tarnished snow. It sort of was art, if only you understood what it felt like to see it. Lifting his eyes up to Gordie as the wind picked up, he squinted through the blowing snow. He wanted to make a Captain America joke, watching his blonde hair blow loose around his night-vision goggles, but didn’t think the stranger would appreciate the nervous humor right here and now. He’d save it for later. Assuming there’d be a later.

Falling snow clinging to his hair and clothes, Theo shivered against the cold as he nodded at Gordie’s instruction to play dead. It was hard to not try and do something, but he did have a point here. Curling up best he could in order to preserve his body heat, since this thin zip-up sweatshirt over his t-shirt wasn’t doing much when he was laying in the snow, Theo otherwise tried to slump there against the tire like he was just another corpse. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last time, and he did a pretty good job of staying still enough to look like a dead body from a distance. “We w-” Theo stopped mid-sentence and tensed, breaking the attempt at the illusion, when suddenly he was covered by a new shadow and Gordie had his rifle raised. The back of his neck prickled and the little hairs on his neck and arms stood on end when he could just feel someone was behind him without even seeing them. The raised rifle was a good giveaway too, though. Theo yelped in pain as his shoulder was grabbed, but he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. One hand flung out into the snow, seeking purchase on literally anything that could be useful, until he wrapped his hand around a length of twisted hardened rubber. It was a piece of the truck’s back bumper, probably broken off when the piece of flaming metal shot itself into the ground nearby. One end of it was bent and folded into something that could be gripped without cutting open his hand, while the other end snapped off in such a way that it had been sharpened to a wicked point.

With his other hand, Theo reached up while his assailant was busy calling him a little traitor bitch and grabbed the man by the back of one knee, holding on as he swung that sharp piece of truck bumper up at the man’s thigh. He buried it in deep, using his good shoulder, but Theo’s attacker didn’t even have the opportunity to scream in pain before bright red bloomed on the hunter’s head. The hunter collapsed like a sack of shit right where he stood, tipping backwards and falling. The grip on Theo’s shoulder immediately slackened, and Theo ripped the bumper-sword out of the man’s thigh once the body hit the snowy dirt. There wasn’t even time to scramble behind the truck wheel again or process what happened before he heard another weapon being readied. This time, he wasn’t the target - Gordie was. Theo’s eyes went wide as Gordie raised his hands, attention going up to the man behind him. Vaguely familiar face but no name to attach, he clocked the guy as one of the enforcers. One of Dick’s? He had that ‘hillbilly-hunter’ look to him, after all. The only kind of dumbass stupid enough to take orders from a guy who insisted people call him Dick as a name, not an insult. Ignoring the blood sprayed over him (nothing new, frankly), Theo was watching the pair closely while his heart raced. He had to do something, anything, as soon as there was an opportunity - but if he struck now, he risked the man squeezing that trigger and blowing Gordie’s head off. His blood boiled hearing the man’s words about Gordie making a pretty prison bitch. There was no time to even get off a fuck-you let alone do something before yet another red bloom on a skull made this man drop like a rock too, his corpse thudding uselessly onto the ground. That wasn’t just lucky shots from the other soldier somewhere - that was a sniper. It had to be.

They had goddamn snipers in position, holy fuck. Theo let out a heavy sigh of relief, still hanging on to that bumper-sword that was now his. It was slick with blood and he barely gave it a second thought as he wiped it off against the pants leg of one of the dead. “That’s what you get for calling me a little traitorous bitch.” He muttered, not that the dead were going to listen. Slumping back against the truck’s wheel, Theo looked over at Gordie, making sure he was in one piece. He wasn’t holding his shoulder anymore now that he had a weapon to hang on to, but it still throbbed. The gunshot had torn through his clothes, leaving the wound and parts of his skin now open to the weather, but somehow that cold air made it sting just a little bit less. He caught Gordie looking, and shook his head as he furrowed his brows together and grimaced. “I won’t die from that. Hurts like hell, but not fatal. S’fine.” Theo’s eyes lingered on Gordie’s face for a moment before he looked back down at himself, then at his newfound impromptu weapon. Better than a length of metal, not as good as a gun, but beggars can’t be choosers. A little grin tugged his lips up again. He couldn’t exactly explain what he was smiling at, but he was.

“Yeah, that’s precisely why I was laughing, man. Dead people don’t laugh. I didn’t expect to make it this far. Didn’t expect it to work.” He vaguely motioned at the prison with his weapon, then let his arm drop into his lap as he shivered from the cold. He had stopped laughing, but that smile was still on his face - wider this time. He had no idea how to explain it all to Gordie, no idea where to start, no idea how to convey the full weight of what they were seeing happen right in front of them. The radio was still laying in the snow, still sending streams of disjointed and confused Samaritan chatter. Theo couldn’t follow that conversation anymore - all he was getting was static and snippets of sentences, rather than anything actionable. Theo leaned his head back against the truck, doing his best to let his arms and legs go slack so he could play dead like Gordie ordered. Easier said than done when laying in the snow, cold and injured. He moved his head enough to toss Goride a glance.

“Those were enforcers. If they’re out here… either the idea to barricade themselves up inside isn’t going well, or some of them didn’t like the plan. They don’t disobey leadership, not the ones that are drinking the Kool-Aid… which means either they’re losing and desperate, or the leaders aren’t all on the same page and someone’s gone off the playbook.” Theo’s eyes roamed back up to the sky, seeking out the stars again in between glancing at Gordie to make sure he was okay. It was hard not to look at all the pretty things the night sky had to offer.



 
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Letting Your Guard Down - Part I
Lincoln's Garage​

King was a most foul failure. It was beyond embarrassing to have their leader - or what apparently passed for leadership here - dead. Unceremoniously murdered on a rooftop and shoved off like the sack of waste that he was. Craig saw the body drop from where he took refuge. A far enough drop to kill the grandstanding excuse of a man, but was it enough to prevent him from reanimating? Time would tell. It would quite amusing to see King risen once more, devouring his followers.

The King is dead. Long live the King.

Marcus was a prime example of why little boys with big dreams shouldn’t be leaders. Weston was a prime example of why you don’t let degenerates lead either. Derek? Oh, he had higher hopes for Derek at one point, but his recent life choices had made him firmly reconsider. Now that the established pecking order had been grinded down beneath the boot of the self-proclaimed United States Military (suspect in and of itself), it was clear to Craig that it was time to make a new vision rise from this misadventure. This time, with an actual adult at the helm.

The first order of business was to extract himself from the grounds of Lincoln. He’d already spent far too long at this particular penitentiary, before and after the dead, and it was time for a fresh setting in a new direction. That necessitated slipping out… which proved to be more difficult than anticipated. The walls were high and thick. The little green army men had filed in from multiple directions, infiltrating the compound. Running, climbing, and vaulting his way to freedom seemed sadly out of reach.

Craig had to admit, much to his consternation, he was no spring chicken. If only the world had ended thirty years sooner.

This left Craig with two options: Take a gamble and play wolf in sheep’s clothing. Woe is he, the old man in the tattered rags, hiding in the laundry room amongst the soap and laundry carts. Mercy, he could plead, for I am merely a worker, too old to fight. It sounded doable on the surface, but the downside there is that he was not the one and only surviving Samaritan. His chattel still lived, and certainly as soon as the military freed them from their well-earned shackles they would turn and point the finger at him. No mercy for their better.

This left the only viable option, one he’d used before with success. Bloody bargains.

He had watched them from a distance, through a narrow window in a closed door, barely peeking through it. The young boys in uniform had two of his acquisitions tagging along after them. Amusingly, the boys in uniform looked young enough to be any number of his unacknowledged progeny. This was the best of what the military had to offer? Perhaps he should have just shot them. But no, that risked The Plan. It was there, as he observed the younger generation dismantle the sad little barricade, treating it like it might be trapped with explosives (it would have been quite the show if it was!), did the rest of The Plan form in his mind.

Some chattel was more valuable than others - and he spotted just the one he needed to take.

It didn’t matter who the grunts in the ambush were. Possibly a contingent of Derek’s that refused to listen to their boss’s orders to drop their weapons, bend over, and take what they were served, but given the way they executed the ambush it was more likely they were Dick’s. That was hunter behavior.

Craig wondered, as he strolled out the side garage door that the boys in green neglected to secure, if anyone was watching and saw just how easy it was to execute this plan. The firefight raged on, neither side initially making much progress. It reminded him of Stormtroopers, from the movies. A lot of shooting, not a lot of hitting targets. Perhaps they were not Dick’s men.

His own pistol out and ready, safety off, Craig ducked low as he darted from vehicle to vehicle, taking cover and pausing only behind the wheels of vehicles for maximum visual coverage. His target was close. So close. This would secure his unharmed release in ways that simply running for the woods could not. Part of not being a spring chicken anymore included admitting to yourself that fleeing into the wilderness without supplies was a death sentence.

Haewon never saw it coming.

Craig was behind Haewon in an instant, raising his pistol to slam it into the side of her head - good and hard, plenty enough to knock her out. She barely let out a grunt as her head slumped down to the ground, the noise well-covered by the unending gunshots. A prone target was an easy target.

Holstering his weapon, Craig grabbed Haewon by the ankles and dragged her unconscious body away from where she’d attempted to hide, backwards through the path he had just traveled, and then dragged her around the corner of the building.

Out of sight, out of mind - for now.

Xander’s feet hit the cement at the bottom of the tower with a thud as he slid down the final few rungs of the ladder. He turned on his heel so fast that he teetered and nearly fell, lumbering out of the door and out into the courtyard. Xander set off into a run toward the corner of the building where he had seen the stranger dragging Haewon’s limp form. Gunfire continued to rage in the distance, but it was no concern of his. Not anymore – not even as the occasional stray bullet or fragment snapped dangerously close to his direction.

The breath burned in his lungs as he reached the wall of the building, slamming into its brick face gracelessly before lifting his rifle with a deep breath and approaching the corner… before leaning around it, weapon at the ready. No one was in sight, but he did see two entrances on this side of the structure. One was a large, sliding door that clearly marked this as a garage or motor pool of some kind. Next to it was a smaller door, clearly meant for personnel… and it was ajar. Font moved toward the latter, reaching out to force it open with his left hand before surging inside, scanning for threats.

The black SUV with tinted windows needed a good wash, but that detail didn’t matter these days. All that mattered was that it had a full tank of gas, a good battery, and still ran well. Craig had both driven and ridden in this vehicle several times already and knew it would work perfectly for this.

The duffle bag of supplies was perched upon the front passenger seat along with both a rifle and several boxes of ammo. More importantly, his setup of restraints was still rigged up in place.

The second row of passenger seats were the type that could fold forward and down for extra room. Back in the day, it may have been used to haul things like luggage, groceries, sports equipment, lumber, and small furniture. Mundane, normal things. These days, it was used to haul people. Rows of sturdy metal chains lined the sides of the back of the vehicle, and every foot or so metal manacles with locks were attached to the chains. Netting secured to the top of the vehicle provided easy accessible storage for even more supplies for transporting captives: handcuffs, coils of thick ropes, lengths of plastic wrist ties and multiple rolls of duct tape. There were even a few rolls of plastic painter’s sheets and trash bags in case cleanup and disposal was needed.

From where Xander stood, and at an angle to the SUV, he wouldn’t be able to see inside past those tinted windows - but the back hatch of the SUV was open and up. Inside, the slide and clank of metal was quietly audible - along with a huff and grunt from Craig from lifting something unwieldy and slightly heavy into the vehicle.

Unconscious bodies were always a hassle to transport.

Xander sucked in another deep breath through his teeth, cold sweat pouring down his brow as he stalked into the sallyport – his eyes roaming over the SUV like a lion sizing up a gazelle before the kill. But he had no care for the car, only whoever was on the other side. He wasn’t sure whether the tinted windows were a blessing or a curse. Were they shielding his approach, allowing him to maintain the element of surprise?

Or did the kidnapper already know he was there and was setting up an ambush on the other side, one that Font would have no idea existed until he waltzed into it? Or worse, maybe he had a knife to Haewon’s throat right now…

Xander pushed the thoughts from his head, clenching his jaw and biting down on his tongue to steady the spiraling of his subconscious, even as he slowly and steadily made his way deeper in, creeping around the robust vehicle until there was no more room with which to maneuver. It was time to commit… for better or worse. Font leaned around the vehicle rapidly, weapon raised as he took in the scene at the rear of the SUV. A man – a stranger – was haphazardly hefting Haewon’s unconscious form into the back of the vehicle like a shopper stuffing groceries into the back of their minivan.

Xander’s blood boiled. His rifle was trained on the stranger immediately. “Get away from her. Now,” he growled in a tone that even he didn’t recognize. Not a yell, not a plea, but low and almost silky-smooth… as smooth as a knife’s edge.

On a better day, Craig would have his lackeys be doing the heavy lifting while he supervised. Unfortunately, today was not a good day, and that meant Craig was in a foul mood and he was doing the manual labor. There was one silver lining to his evening, however.

He’d manage to get the girl into the SUV before some camo-clad grunt pulled a rifle on him. He left the girl laying in the back of the SUV, face-down, wrists tied behind her back and ankles bound together, when he heard the very quiet approaching footsteps. He hadn’t yet had time to secure her properly for transport or for the inevitability of her waking up, but that could wait until after he took care of his current wrinkle in the plan.

The scene that Xander was (un)lucky enough to stumble into was not merely that of an old man lugging cargo into his vehicle (though truly Haewon was rather light, but the human body is awkward to carry), but that of a heartless bastard who fully expected this standoff.

Xander was not only met with this sight of an unconscious and bound daughter, but the sight of the business end of a shotgun aimed right at Xander’s face. Craig knelt nearer to the front of the SUV on one knee, a small briefcase next to him, and Haewon at his side. She was still breathing, clothes intact though rumpled from the move into the vehicle, and no visible wounds or blood. From where Craig knelt, he could just as easily shoot Xander as he could shoot Haewon.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.” Craig replied, voice light and unafraid. He sounded like he might as well be telling Xander the restaurant is out of fish but would he like to try the chicken instead. Craig’s eyes studied Xander’s face for a moment before recognition dawned on him, realizing who Xander was.

“Ah. You look so different without your bucket and mop. Put that down and scurry back into the building, boy. You’ll have so many hallways to clean, once this is over with.” Craig’s tone of voice was steady and gentle despite the acid in his words, and not a single shake to his hands. Both of them gripped the shotgun comfortably.

“I’m sure you want to save this girl. For some reason, you’ve taken quite the shining to her. Unfortunately, she is part of a plan larger than you, so you’ll just have to find another one. Don’t worry, your woman, last I saw her, looked nearly ready to pop. That is, of course, if she’s still your woman. Rumor has it she’s been passed around a few times.” Whether it was true or a lie didn’t matter to Craig.

A slow smile spread across his face as he took one hand off his shotgun, the one that was supporting it, and showed Xander what he was holding in his hand: A small black box with various buttons and switches on it, along with an LED screen. While the screen was dark for now, it looked capable of displaying numbers. A wire snaked from the box up to Craig’s middle finger, looping around the base of his finger. He was keeping that wire taught.

“Make a hostile move, I press the button. Shoot me, I go slack, and so does the wire. Both have the same effect.” Craig gave Xander a wide, unnerving smile, full of teeth, as he reached down and grabbed onto Haewon’s shoulder. He rolled her onto her opposite side just enough for Xander to see what was beneath her.

Strapped to Haewon’s chest was a nest of wires, electronics, and a metal canister of some kind. A small improvised explosive device. Not very large at all, possibly not even large enough to take out the vehicle, but it was positioned right over her heart - strapped around her body underneath her jacket.

Craig let go of Haewon, letting her flop back against the floor of the vehicle - though afterwards he slid his fingers across Haewon’s smooth cheek, as if admiring her.

”Boom.” Craig said, barely above a whisper, still smiling at Xander. “What now, boy?”

Xander’s eyes widened, following the wire from Craig’s hand to where it spawned outward into more like itself… all terminating in a small albeit sinister nest of metal and electronics. He had seen IEDs before. Been on the wrong end of them, too… they’d even claimed some friends of his, once upon a time in another life. Those had often been massive things: surplus artillery shells rigged with pressure-switches. A canister crammed with enough Semtex to flip an armored vehicle on its top. This bomb attached to Haewon? By comparison, it was almost comically small.

…and yet a million times more terrifying. Because it was strapped to Haewon. His daughter. His family. She had no helmet, no flak jacket. No EOD tech around the corner to come save her. Just cold metal, cold wire, and a cruel device wielded by a crueler man. Xander had come back to Lincoln knowing he would die, accepting it even – the mission the RGF had set before him was too dangerous with too many unknowns for anyone here to believe they’d all get out scot free. But he knew that no matter what happened, it would all be worth it if he could put what remained of his family back together… and maybe lay eyes on them one last time.

Fate had a fickle way of granting your wishes.

Xander’s gaze flicked back up to Craig, his eyes narrowing. His taunts from moments ago were already forgotten, but they had done their job of reminding Xander just who stood in front of him. He hadn’t recognized Craig at first – too focused on Haewon and the idea of getting her away from her faceless captor. But now he remembered the Lincoln resident all too clearly. Some of the Lincoln residents had been content to treat Xander with little more than a mild neglect during his time as a laborer at the prison. Others had done everything in their power to try and break his spirit… others like Craig. His mind couldn’t – or didn’t want to – imagine what he had planned for Haewon by comparison.

Xander swallowed hard, safing the rifle and letting it fall on its sling before raising his hands in a placating gesture. A bead of cold sweat ran down his brow as he bladed his stance, orienting himself toward Craig. He had no plan, not really… just the crudest remnants of instinct guiding him. “Let’s talk. How important is she to you? Because you drive out in this rig, you get lit up. They’ve got overwatch out there, around the perimeter of the prison… any vehicles that aren’t theirs get shredded.” He was bluffing, hard, but maybe Craig wouldn’t know that. “Take me with you. I can get you past them.”

It brought satisfaction to Craig to watch the man in front of him, wide-eyed, inspect the device in terror. He could all but taste the panic, fear, and anguish in the air. If he had a snake tongue, he’d be flicking it outwards now to sample that deliciousness right from the air around them. Craig watched Xander closely - the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, the way his eyes narrowed, the sweat on his skin - and was that a slight shake to his hands? He thought so.

Oh, he did love it when they shook and quivered in fear. Delicious.

“Don’t treat me like I’m a blind, stupid old man, Mister Font.” Craig said Xander’s name with a particular sharpness to it that made it clear he had nothing but disdain for the soldier. “You are overwatch. Or, you were, before you abandoned your post. You weren’t the only one, either. Fools, letting your hearts guide you off the path. Outside the plan.” He tsk’d, one thumb gently sliding over the buttons on his detonator. He showed no concern about accidentally setting it off, so careful he was with his movements.

“Oh, this one?” He subtly nodded his head at Haewon at Xander’s question. “She doesn’t mean anything to me - just a warm body that is my ticket out. If it wasn’t her, it would be someone else. Maybe it’d be you.” Craig looked Xander up and down, sizing him up, then glanced at Haewon.

“Hm…. yes, it’d fit. It might be a little snug on you, but…. It’d fit….” Craig licked his lips as he stole one last glance at Haewon before returning his gaze to Xander.

“Trade places with her.” Craig slowly wrapped his fingers around the shotgun, still palming the detonator. “If you can manage to take the device off her and put it on yourself, without triggering it, you’ll get in the front seat and drive us out of here. We’ll leave the girl behind for your friends to fetch. Once we’re far enough out, we part ways, and forget each other ever existed. I’ll be on my merry way, you’ll come back to…. this.” Craig’s voice was calm and smooth the whole time. If he had any nervousness about this situation, he wasn’t showing it.

“Deal?”

Xander’s jaw clenched as Craig called his bluff. Feeling the man’s eyes slide over his body made a shiver run down his spine. It felt like a violation, like a predator assessing their next prey item, deciding whether or not it was worth the chase. But the offer that followed… Xander struggled to keep his breath steady, lowering his gaze and looking down toward Haewon and the device. He nodded.

“Deal.”

He kept his hands raised in the best attempt he could at placating Craig before slowly moving forward to kneel beside them both, all too aware of the detonator and shotgun the man brandished. Font began slowly examining the device more closely, following wires to leads and trying to suss out any chink in the bomb’s proverbial armor. Could he play for time, maybe? Keep fiddling with the device in an attempt to seem like he was complying with Craig’s deal until the rest of the RGF arrived? Surely one of them knew more about demolitions than he did.

One glance toward Craig’s features told him that was a non-starter. The man wasn’t going to wait, nor give him the benefit of the doubt. And something told Xander he’d rather them all burn together than be captured by the RGF if it came down to that. Font turned back to the device, his hands hovering impotently over the mess of wires running up and down Haewon’s form. He didn’t even know where to start. One wrong move and he’d kill her.
He couldn’t do it.

A shot pinged off the outside of the motor pool, causing the interior of the building to ring out with the impact. Xander thought he saw Craig’s eyes flick toward the sound in surprise… and moved on instinct. The distance he had to cover was closer now and he made full use of that fact: lunging at the kidnapper with a savage yell. His arms flashed outward, doing his best to grab the hand holding the detonator and swat the control from it while driving his forehead forward into the man’s nose, attempting to drive him toward the bumper of the SUV rather than straight back to the floor.

“A good choice. Carefully, now. Setting it off now would be tragic, don’t you think? For you. Not me.” Craig kept his shotgun leveled at Xander’s head.

The device itself was cleverly made, even if put together with crude materials found around the prison. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, could improvise for lack of materials on the fly, and was creative. Cruel, but creative. The wires leading this way and that were messy and a whole rainbow of colors, following no standardized pattern of what color wire went to what or where. The pair of canisters mounted in the center, no doubt holding whatever made this particular device most deadly, old aerosol spray canisters with their tops sawed off and sealed shut. The brand packaging was still on the canisters too - one was shaving cream, and one was deodorant. Both could have easily come from anyone or anywhere within the prison. It was the same story with the electronics - cobbled together from various sources of small electronic items gathered up, deemed otherwise useless, and disassembled for parts. All of this was mounted on a piece of scrap wood that could have come from anywhere and held to Haewon’s body. Though, if Xander were to test those straps, he'd quickly see they were rather loosely attached to the board itself.

“Don’t even think about stalling too long, or -” The sudden shot that struck the side of the vehicle likely came from an odd angle, ricocheting off in some random direction without going through their vehicle, but it was still enough to create a distracting racket. Startled, Craig flinched and although he kept his gun trained at Xander, his eyes did flick over in the direction the hit had to come from. That couldn’t have been the invader’s snipers, they didn’t have a line of sight inside the garage from the towers. Was there a ground team? Did his people risk going outside to make a move?

There wasn’t enough time to formulate a theory or find an answer, because suddenly that bastard military grunt was on him. It was all a flash of movement and guttural yelling. Animalistic, even. This bastard was better suited to the pit than walking free, and he hoped one day this place would get sorted out enough that he could put Xander right back into that pit for good.

Craig pulled the trigger, but he wasn’t fast enough - Xander was already past the business end of the weapon. The blast shot out the open back of the vehicle, striking the windshield of a car parked some distance behind their vehicle. It punched a fairly large, neat hole through the safety glass, spidering the passenger side rather fully, but not shattering it.

Pain similarly spidered through his face and head as Xander’s forehead made contact with his nose. It was shockingly bright and sharp, and instinctively he reached out to cup his broken nose as blood started to dribble down his face and chin - the same hand holding the detonator. As Xander grabbed for that hand, Craig shouted a string of curses at him in anger and swung at Xander’s head with the shotgun.

Craig found it difficult to tell when or how exactly he wound up on his back near the edge of the SUV. He hit the very end of the SUV’s with his shoulder, rolling and skidding. Unable to stop himself or grab on to anything - and unwilling to drop either the gun or the detonator yet - Craig wound up falling out of the back of the SUV onto the concrete floor of the garage. The fall, although short, was jarring as his head bounced against the hard floor. Not hard enough to cause serious damage, but enough to make him see stars and slow down.

This truly was the job of a younger man, but now and then every supervisor must step down to his underling’s level and get his hands dirty.

Xander’s ears rang in protest at the shotgun blast in the confined space. A thousand whistling bells inside his head – steady and unrelenting. He wondered – idly and subconsciously in that moment – if he had just lost part of his hearing… before quickly deciding that he didn’t care. It was a small price to pay and soon enough, one way or another, it wouldn’t matter.

For the time being, he had bigger problems to worry about. Like Craig, coming back to his senses just a few feet away outside the SUV… but outside of arm’s reach, the gun and detonator still clutched in his hands. Xander’s eyes widened, taking in the scarlet-red faucet that passed for a nose leaking down Craig’s face. Any second now, he was going to shoot them. Or press that detonator.

Now was Xander’s only opportunity. A time frame measured in a couple of seconds, tops… and here he was, hemmed in by an SUV. Xander whirled back to look at Haewon.

Please…

The thought flashed through his head like a lightning bolt. Let this work. If we go… we go together.

Xander saw Craig’s grip on the detonator tighten, but he was already moving. He reached down toward Haewon. Moments ago, Craig had called his bluff. Time to return the favor. He grasped the device attached to Haewon’s chest and with a silent prayer, he yanked it upwards. It came free along with a dangling nest of wires, but Xander didn’t waste another second. Font turned at his trunk… and lobbed the bomb directly at its maker. Font didn’t wait to see the results, instead turning and clumsily diving atop his daughter, attempting to shield her from whatever might follow.

A string of expletives about the bastard that had thrown him out of his own SUV danced through his mind, all of them quite inappropriate for civilized company. Rat bastard pissant was the gentlest one of them all, and that was approximately what Craig growled out as he unsteadily pushed himself to his feet. The world rocked this way and that, attached to a teeter-totter instead of to the Earth’s core now, much to his annoyance. Just how bad had a fall and a blow had he taken? His ears were ringing and if Xander had all responded to being called anything, he wouldn’t have heard him.

No matter. He gave zero shits. This ends now.

Craig pressed the button.



 

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Letting Your Guard Down - Part II
Lincoln's Garage​


TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD & GORE​

Craig knew his hearing was off, hearing nothing but ringing, but he should have still heard the explosion. Hell, he ought to have felt it too - he was dangerously close, risking his own bodily injury just to take out Xander.

But there was nothing.

Craig turned and looked up from his hand that held the detonator, already glaring in the direction of Xander and the SUV. It was just in time to see the explosive vest, now ripped from Haewon, whipping through the air at him.

There was only time for Craig to open his mouth to give Xander exactly a piece of his mind and start taking a step to the side. His left foot raised, but never made it back down to the cement floor of the garage.

The device detonated.

Delayed for some reason or another, but it detonated… just as it struck Craig in the torso. The boom was deafening as it filled the garage, echoing off the walls. It had been a smaller device, but no less deadly between the force of the explosion and all the shrapnel loaded into the secondary canister. Nails, screws, bits of metal - all of it shot outwards at all angles, bits and pieces burying themselves into the surrounding vehicles, floor, walls, ceiling, spare tires, gas canisters, toolboxes, anything and everything that didn’t have proper cover inside.

Including Craig.

By the time the smoke cleared and the dust settled from the rattled ceiling, Craig - or what was left of that monster - was smeared across the floor, a wall, and the hood of another vehicle behind him. Blood, bits of flesh, entrails, fragments of bone, all of it was strewn across the back half of the garage in the most macabre of redecorating experiments. His upper body, from approximately halfway up his chest and higher, had landed atop a sedan near the back of the garage. His head (or what was left of it) had been driven into the windshield, shattering skull and shredding skin. One arm was barely attached by a single length of muscle (what a trooper!). The other arm was on a workbench on the opposite wall, draped casually over a silent radio.

His lower torso was harder to spot, in its position underneath a truck somewhere off to the right and in front of the SUV. One leg was attached, the other was… not immediately locatable. One would need to gather up the large pieces of flesh laying around and reassemble it like a jigsaw puzzle to confirm that yes that was, indeed, a left leg.

In the center of it all was a circle of black char burned into the cement, a smattering of small drops of blood, and a pair of real leather designer loafers. Jimmy Choo, something in the eight-hundred-dollar range, pre-fall-of-civilization.

They were a little scuffed, a little bloody, but that’d buff right out.

Unlike Craig.



 

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Darwinism Part 1
Lincoln Correctional Facility​

Richard

The thing about Richard McCay was that he was always a filthy liar. Since the day he was born, lying had been his gift from God. His first lie had been in the beginning, sucking on his mama’s teet, crying even when he wasn’t damn well hungry, bleeding her dry before he could even utter his first words. Small white lies shaped his childhood. Perhaps his daddy didn’t beat it out of him enough, and maybe those little deep seated Kentucky alligator tears worked on his mama a little too well. He never did think it had been manipulation? Blair had used that word well enough when she had drunk herself sillier than her other friends at the bar, mumbling about how he used her, lied to her, told her exactly what she wanted to hear to get her to sleep with him. She had branded the word into his heart when she told him he couldn’t manipulate his way out of being a father…but Blair was a bitch…and she probably got what she deserved in the end…what they all deserved in the end.

See, ‘manipulation’ in the Animal Kingdom was just a form of evolution…and that was natural. There was eat or be eaten. There were predators, and there were prey. There were the top dogs, the people who deserved and had been gifted the ability to be on top, to know how to work the system in their favor, and then there were the worms, the gardeners who did all the work for the top dogs, the ones who didn’t have that little trait in their head that told them that lying and twisting words was the only way to get in life. Everyone had a fucking place, and there was no changing that. Predators caught the prey. Prey could beg. Prey could plead. Prey could think that they were home fuckin’ free if they got away. The smart ones did. The smart ones could figure out their own way to the top, but it wasn’t ‘manipulation’. No. It was natural. Evolution.

Charles Darwin had been a fucking genius.

Something about that man fascinated a young Dick. A man who taught and preached that species survived because they evolved, because they adapted, because they could overcome as the prey.That class that had gotten nearly banned in school over and over and over again? Why was that? So people didn’t think too hard into learning why and how to get ahead of those already in power? Humans were top dogs for a reason. They had developed that part of their brain to lie, twist words, and work their way to the top. How could anybody not take that God given gift, that beautiful evolutionary piece of work, and use it to their advantage? They could all do it for a reason…and that reason was survival.

It was a damn shame Oakley hadn’t inherited it. She’d never survive outside of this place, nor would she make it in that damn law filled world she wanted. Laws kept people in line. Kept people safe. Made the prey feel safe enough to keep doing what it was that they kept on doing…but laws were meant to be broken, and twisted, and pushed to be in favor of those who knew how to evolve. What was that dumb girl going to do when she came across the morally gray? The people who knew how to scam the system for their own good, but still did it to benefit everyone? Like these bastards who decided that what King had done…what he had done to protect and lift everyone…wasn’t good for them…and wasn’t good for everyone…

Natural. Fucking. Selection. How could they not see that they were part of the problem, infusing their good natured wonderful ‘I am holier than thou’ ideals on everyone, and not allowing them to evolve past…evolve further enough to conquer what was…and what will be.

He kind of liked that Craig bastard…as much as he didn’t like Oakley to be near him…but he could never admit that…

Another strike team slunk past the shadows of where he hid, back against the wall, holding his breath, and wiping the little bit of sweat beneath his nose. The culling had begun. Picking of the weakest links, setting them out to fry and shatter beneath the new almighty Gods who thought everybody could get along. His tongue came up to caress one of his incisors digging between the crevices for the last bit of nicotine as he listened for the fading sounds of boots and radios twist around the corner. He had no gun. He had given it to that rat bastard who had taken Temma at gunpoint to prove a point. He kind of liked him too…but he had folded all too easily…and he probably thought war had no place in this world anymore, but war was how they could fix this…honestly? War probably brought out the team with the best ideas for a species…and if that meant the golden age military got their perfect little heaven, then…that’s what God decided…but he wouldn’t survive to see it.

He stepped out of the shadows, and moved…in the opposite direction of where the soldiers had run. There would be a back entrance somewhere…not the one underground, but closest to the forest. No doubt the men he had trained to be hunters, to be the ones to survive were not using their brains…and unfortunately that was probably for the best…but he couldn’t control them any longer. No. This was not his fight any longer. He had to get out of here.

His tree stand was calling him. The one where he had been stockpiling anything that he could sneak away from the prison on those long hunts he would drag anyone willing to learn how to skin a deer to. There might be a spare rifle, a few extra bullets, a warm coat, and some other supplies. He could wait it out. Once the army abandoned this place, he’d come back…and then…find his next evolutionary step.

He had nothing, as he hid around corners, and slid back, holding his breath as more footsteps, more gunfire, more snarling commands echoed around the hollowed out concrete, as the prison grew emptier and emptier…and the kingdom crumbled around him. He would continue to have nothing…and he would build himself back up from that nothing…because he had that evolutionary gene. He had what none of them did. Not Boone. Not Jones. Not even King…because they were all going to die…and he would reign supreme….

Denise

Going down with the ship was not something Denise was willing to do. She’d packed up and gotten the hell outta Dodge more than once in her life, and she was plenty capable of doing it again. She’d keep doing it until she ran out of Dodges to ditch and ran out of alternatives, even if that meant living the rest of her short life alone.

Denise saw the writing on the wall. Just like her little ranch way-back-when, which was pretty much just a comedy of errors. Someone bigger moved in and staked their claim. She’d made the right choice back then, signing on to King’s plan. There was not going to be room for her in whatever the military wanted to do with them. Chances were, she’d be shot on sight, or executed later, or left to rot in some cell somewhere, or worked to death with manual labor.

Nah, to hell with that. She was above that. She always pulled her weight, but she was no Goddamn slave.

She ran through her options and pretty quickly discarded most of them. Surrender and negotiate? No, straight ticket to death. Fight it out? No, she’d run out of ammo first. Hide in the whorehouse as a wolf among sheep and play pretend? No, the others would rat her out. She wasn’t the one putting bruises on any of them like the enforcers were, but the weaklings here knew damn well where she stood. Her threats were quiet and with her words, not loud and with iron.

So, Dodge it was.

There was a side exit that not many knew about. She’d used it before after scavenging runs - burying goods in the woods when nobody was watching, circling back to rejoin her vehicle and drive up to the tarnished pearly gates with the rest of her haul like she hadn’t just squirreled something away for emergencies, and then gone back out the side exit now and then to move her stash or make adjustments. The handful of others - mostly enforcers - that knew of it all had to be dead by now. She hadn’t heard hide nor hair of any of them. No skin off her ass.

It took a fair amount of sneaking and hiding to get to where she needed to go. Armed and with her backpack and travel gear on, she was ready to hightail it out of here as soon as she cleared that fence. Knives, handgun, and rifle. Everything she needed.

Soon the hallway was empty and silent, with nobody left to stop her. Denise approached the door, sliding the key out from under her shirt by the chain it hung on. Some dipshit had padlocked the door shut some weeks back - the wind kept blowing it open when a storm rolled through, and people couldn’t stand the constant banging noise anymore. Being the snake she was and knowing who she knew, she traded a few favors and smuggled goods to the right people and finally wound up with the key. It made her grin to think that unlike the whores she considered hiding with, she didn’t need to give a single ounce of flesh to get what she wanted. That’s because she was smarter.

A quick slip-and-click, and the padlock was open. She slid it off the latch and palmed it, intending to find someplace to stash it… or hell, just take it with her. It might come in handy. Glancing over her shoulder, Denise saw nobody around when she slowly nudged the door open.

Richard

Everything was being looted, stripped apart, and taken for the good of their new merciful Gods. Cells ransacked, rooms overturned, knives tearing into mattresses, tearing apart the fabric that had been beaten and stained with bodily fluids, searching beneath for their gold, their sweet sweet gold. Dick slipped past the thriving military animals, on their quests to assert their dominance, and twisted past barren hallways. He twisted his baseball cap backwards, sweat dripping into the brunette aging curls. How much grey hairs had this place given him? Enough to start calling him an old man, or perhaps that was the nicotine and chew sucking the keratin and collagen out of him? His shaky fingers came up as he paused, a couple feets away from the side entrance, and pressed into his tired eyes.

A breeze blew through the corridor. Goosebumps formed on his upper arm, popping up underneath the worn t-shirt that advertised a hunting store that he once had a brand deal with, and making their way up to his collarbone. Old Man Winter was starting to blow hard. One Last Hoorah for the Boys back home, huh? He looked down at himself. Torn jeans, bloodied and dirtied from the fine mess that everyone had made, the old t-shirt that was threadbare from too many washes even before the end of the world, and his stupid trucker hat that wasn’t doing anything to cover his ear drums, only twisted enough to make him look younger. He’d be shit out of luck trudging through those woods to the tree stand three or four miles away. He might make it, or he might just freeze to death with a singing mouth bass frozen to his nipples. The thought of perhaps he should go back, and restart his career as a looter early was interrupted by shouts, orders, and threatened bullets through skulls. No chance in hell. He’d have to risk it.

He bolted around the corner, just in time to see her…Denise? He stopped, long enough for her to finger the padlock into a pocket. Maybe God was on his side? Her jacket looked snug. The pack on her back? Snugger. The knife at her side? The gun on her back? Soccer Mom Bitch looked like she was right out of a Cabela’s ad…and she was thinking of doing the same thing he was, wasn’t she? Getting the hell out of here to not pay the piper…and she was better equipped then him to do so? He didn’t think so. He bolted towards her, grabbing the pack from her shoulders, and tugging her back. One arm came up under her chin, tugging her into a headlock, and forcing her to look up at him, smiling as he did so.

“Darlin’...where ya think you're going with all that?.” He padded her side, finding the resting knife free and in her pocket, and pulled it out, waving it in the air above her. “Don’t you think you should maybe pay a little respect to the man who kept you safe, and stick around a little longer? Give him a fond farewell, like we all are doing?”

Thick Kentucky accent spit in the air, as his lips split into a wide smile, looking at her.

“Well?”

Denise

This whole prison was filled with the same kind of man: Vile, grabby assholes who thought they knew better. Whatever bastard grabbed her from behind was no different.

The hairs on the back of her neck pricked up a second before he grabbed her from behind, instincts kicking in before she saw him. A smidge too late, of course, she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. Denise wasn’t the type to scream in terror, though. Nah, fuck that damsel in distress shit.

Taking one step back as she was yanked backwards by the backpack, she hissed in irritation as she felt a sweaty, rough hand under her chin as she was forced to look up. Right into some bozo’s nostrils, at his grimy face and ratty hair, baseball cap backwards. The dumbass looked like a budget ‘How Do You Do, Fellow Kids?’ scene with his hat backwards like that. Her knife was gone too soon, nor could she risk grabbing at it without seeing it. She’d be just as likely to slice her own palm open in the attempt.

Ugh, it was him. Richard McFuck or whatever his name was. The mobile pile of sludge people called Dick. Did it even register to him how stupid that name even was? She recalled a long time ago seeing approximately five minutes of his television show. Both her and her husband scoffed, agreed he was trailer trash, and changed the channel. They might not have agreed on much, but they both had a disdain for low-brow entertainment.

“What’s the matter, little Dicky? Looking for some pretty thing to kiss you goodbye before the good ol’ boys haul you away? I’m sure there’s still a few people hiding in the whorehouse for you.” Denise growled up at him, distracting him while she slipped a hand into her pocket. Maybe that padlock would come in handy after all.

Gripping the heavy metal padlock, she swung it upwards at Dick’s face, aiming for his nose. At the same time, she turned on one foot, spun Dick towards the wall, and bent her knees to lower her center of gravity as she pushed against her other foot and slammed him into the wall.

Richard

The metal clocked against his nose, the cartilage shattering and cracking. Capillaries broke and sputtered, sending the river of red down to curl above his lip and run its course around his mouth. It wasn’t the first time he had broken his nose but the pain was all too familiar. White and hot across his face, it quickly faded as the adrenaline took over and Denise thrusted herself against him.

“Fucking bitch!” He spat, saliva mixed with blood, his jaw connecting with the wall in the process. His palms opened. He caught himself against the wall, the knife slipping ever so slightly as he tried to keep himself upright. He twisted back around, and recentered his grip on the handle, wiping his broken nose on his wrist and hand, leaving a bloody trail. He sniffed, hard, and immediately groaned, blinking rapidly to divert the pain.

“Fuck no, you don’t.” He swung wildly, swiping the knife at thin air, the other hand reaching out to grab at her pack, hoping that it would grab the fabric and he could tug her backwards against him.

“You should have been in that damn whorehouse yourself, but nobody wanted you, you saggy old bitch! Not even fucking King wanted you.” The blood dripped down his shirt, staining everything in the process.

His hand finally caught fabric, the strap of her pack, and he pushed her right back against the wall. He pressed hard, grabbing the back of her hair and tugging her head back, looking at the throb of her jugular vein.

“Give me the gun.” He hissed, readjusting the grip of the knife and bringing it up to her cheek. He tipped it downward, just under her eye, and tapped at the skin. “Gun, backpack, coat. Give me it all. Don’t make me start calling you Dense.”

He thought himself clever for that one. Denise…without an I. He smirked. Kentucky learning at it's finest was using all his brain power up. Nevermind the enclosing footsteps and the open door, letting all the cold air in...

Denise

Denise leaned out of the way just in time to miss the wild swipe of the knife through the air, but it didn’t grant her enough space to stay out of his grip. With a rough yank, she skidded and stumbled back into Dick.

Dick’s taunts about not being wanted at the whorehouse went in one ear and out the other. It was literally the last place she ever wanted to be. Old? He looked her age or older, so… pot, kettle, on that one. Saggy? Hardly, because apparently Dick was blind to the looks and catcalls she’d gotten the whole time she’d been at this prison. Not every man here liked them young enough to be their own daughter… which made her question a few things about Dick’s relationship with his own girl.

“Better to be unwanted than to be his bitch like you are.” She spat the words out, low and firm, looking Dick straight in the eye even as he yanked her hair back and held the knife to her throat. She couldn’t fight back in this position - she was no fool - but if she was going to die she was going to at least go down making sure he was as pissed off as she could make him. If he was angry, he’d fuck up whatever he was doing next. Maybe he’d still wind up as target practice or food for the dead.

She considered the demand for a moment. Gun, backpack, coat. Everything she had that would make getting out of here possible. Without it? She’d be doomed to stay here. But staying here wasn’t an automatic death sentence like fighting with Dick right now.

“Fine.” She hissed, lifting her hands up at her sides, palms out. “Gotta take your hands off me first before I can take off the backpack and jacket, though.”

Richard

Richard chuckled, snarling as he leaned down into Denise’s ear, twisting the blade of the knife so that the blunt side skated against her throat just ever so briefly.

“Oh no. I wasn’t his bitch. Although, I think that fits more with you than it does me. No. King was never my bitch. I like a man who knows what he’s doing. Feels good, but no, he didn’t control me…and I didn’t control him. King was the host. I was the parasite...”

Another fascination with the circle of life. Deer were riddled with worms. Little things that thrived on the inside, scuttling their way free into the dirt when their own warm body they survived inside of died. The prison was now dying. Time to find somewhere else to infect...but that was something that was evolved, built into society, built into it's standards...and he was just playing by the rules.

He yanked the knife back, looking at the slick blade, his reflection looking back at him. When has his face felt so sinister? Could they all see the worm behind the man? The infection? He looked back at her. "Gun first." His hand slipped off of her as well and held his own palm out. He side stepped to the door, his foot coming to slide into the crack, letting the cold breeze whistle inside, and breeze past her. His nose still dripped fresh blood, coating the knife . His head was starting to pound. He rested his head against the cold metal, glaring at her.

"And here I was gonna fuckin' offer you...a chance. A ride. Truck isn't that far from here. Nestled in the...brush. Deer skull on the hood. Just...freshly fueled....could have dropped you off anywhere you would have wanted..." He tapped the knife, slick with his own blood on the tip of his chin. "Maybe...maybe I should give you a chance...to run for it." He smirked. He was losing it. Very clearly losing it.

"Gun first, or I shut this fucking door forever..."

Denise

Every time this Dickweed breathed on her ear, it made her skin crawl. He stank like sweat and chew and blood. His mere presence this close, in this overtly threatening stance, made her swear off men right then and there. All men. Every single one of them. Somehow, he just became the embodiment of everything wrong with all of them. She’d rather have her ex-husband standing here instead of him. Living the life of a hermit sounded great right now.

A fucking parasite indeed. She couldn’t wait to kill him. She was afraid, of course, but fear was healthy. It kept you in check. The day the fear dies is the day you die too, and probably to something recklessly stupid. Or by your own hand.

Giving up the gun meant giving up the best thing she had in her possession to fight back. The great equalizer. A round of hot lead put her one-hundred-thirty-something-pound existence on far more equal footing with a two-hundred-pound slab of muscle… as well as with this scummy fuck that was made of more cancerous cells and skidmarks than muscle or brains.

She committed to memory the description of his truck - how painfully fucking stereotypical for this hillbilly. She’d relish getting out there, ripping that deer skull off the hood, and smashing it against a rock or a tree.

“I’m not prey you hunt in the woods. I’m not running.” Fucking nutcase. No wonder this place fell. Stupid, just like the old ranch.

Denise slid her handgun out of the holster and glanced down at it. She’d had it for a good long time, this one. Freddie had given it to her when the old one she came to the prison with got all jammed up. She thought it’d be a temporary trade while he got someone to safely unjam hers, but when she offered it back after a scavenging run, he said no. Keep it. Every gal’s gotta have a good weapon. He’d said, honest simple fact by the tone of his voice. There wasn’t anything special about it, there were a hundred others floating around the prison at any given time, but it had forever been Freddie’s gun.

Okay, she wouldn’t swear off all men, just Dickweed here and anyone remotely like him. Freddie was decent.

Denise moved to slide the safety on, the good and proper thing to check before handing anyone a weapon, just in case. Accidents with firearms are a real risk these days. No sense in setting it off accidentally somehow.

But she had every intention of pulling that fucking trigger of Freddie’s gun and burying a bullet deep into Dickweed’s fucking face.

Denise aimed and pulled the trigger as quickly as she could, hardly having a chance to line up a good shot to any part of Dick’s person. The second she felt the kick, she turned and bolted the opposite direction.

Richard

White hot pain flashed across his cheek. Singed and burnt, his skin cauterized against the passing bit of hot metal. It trailed along his jaw bone, leaving another bloodied trail to match the one still free flowing from his nose. Singed bits of beard and mustache burned at his nose, just enough for him to realize what had hit him before he felt the pain. It was on par with a toothache. His hand came to slap at his head, making sure it hadn’t fallen together all in one piece. He was blinded, listening to the ringing of his ear. He closed his left eye, wincing in pain as he grabbed his head, and the other ear caught the sound of the closing door.

Denise fucking got out.

His body collapsed on it just as that sneaky bitch slipped through, probably just like how she slipped through King’s fingers. He slid to the floor, head against the door. His way out of this hell hole…it was gone. He’d let her go. He should have ripped that rifle from her hands when he got the chance. His body collapsed against the metal steel. It was his body now instead of that fucking padlock that kept the cold breeze from blowing in. His fingers kept prodding at his cheek. The wound was superficial but he kept prodding, afraid that the skin would slough down, and he was already turning. God, the cameras would ate this up…but wasn’t that what he was also good at? Acting?

And nothing ate up the world more than a wounded animal….

He grinned. Dick’s legs came to rest to the side as he pulled the hunting knife free, and examined it in the dim light. The little bit of reflection showed the cosmetic damage…a broken face.

He hoped Denise would have fun…wandering towards his truck. It was honestly one of his favorite games to play with the people in the prison. Take them on a hunting trip, bask them out into the woods, and point them towards some semblance of freedom. All the while, he would load up his rifle, and point it at the back of their head…

Denise was no different. A player in his most Dangerous Game.

He was a little sad he wouldn’t be able to witness what was there in store for her. He had rigged it for one of the rebels specifically but then they had discovered the gas chamber worked all too fucking well…

He pressed the skin up again, pushing the bullet track together, and grimaced. He was still trapped here. Trapped with the sounds of more strike teams barreling through the halls, their radios blaring locations and words of ‘Another bastard here.’ That one fucker…the one who had Temma…he knew him. He said his name. He didn’t know Oakley…but he knew him…and that probably didn’t mean good things for him, if he was found, alive and well…

He wondered if most of the military in this prison knew about the term ‘playing possum’, as he raised the knife again, sedated edges pointing away from his hand, gripping the knife as he looked down at his leg.

Unfortunately, this would not be one of his award winning performances. Hunter of the Year would have to wait…or Best Public Access Reality Star…Father of the Year went out the window…but maybe he could win…

Best Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing…

It was like skinning a deer. He knew the arteries in a human leg well enough too, after studying one of Oakley’s anatomy books. He knew enough not to kill himself as he raised the knife…

And stabbed himself in the leg.

“Motherfuc-“ he bit at his lip, adding more to the bloodstains as he fell to the side, clawing and biting. He slid to the side, letting the door crack again as he waited, howling and screaming in pain.

“Bitch stabbed me! The fucking bitch stabbed me!”


 

CUwih1W.png
Darwinism Part 2
Outside Lincoln Correctional Facility

TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD AND GORE

​

Denise

Stupid Dick. His nickname was fitting. All meat, no brains. She didn’t turn back to see where she had shot him, only content that whatever she hit was good enough to slow him down, so fuck him and the hillbilly cart he rode in on.

Shoving her way through the open door shoulder-first, gun in one hand and bloodied padlock forgotten somewhere, Denise sprinted outside. It was dark, but there was a threat of the sunrise just over the horizon. It wouldn’t be all that long before she had daylight enough to travel even further. She’d have to put some solid distance between herself and this place before she could risk finding a spot to stop, rest, and regroup.

Cold air stinging her face, thankful she still had her coat and pack as her boots crunched against frosted grass, Denise knew roughly more-or-less where she needed to go next. Dick’s hillbilly truck. Either he was lying or it was not in a workable condition (in which case no skin off her ass, she’d just keep walking) or it really was there and she’d get a ride out until the truck died like everything else gas-powered seemed to do. It made her sick to think what she might be forced to do in the event he had taken her with him. That was an absolute non-starter deal.

There was a stack of old crates out back here by the fence - something she’d told the other scavs to break down for firewood or at least move someplace out of the way. Of course, nobody did it, because a good chunk of people in this prison were useless. She had intended to come back out here and do it herself tomorrow - except that tomorrow turned into yesterday which had turned into a shitshow. So here she was, for once in her life thankful that someone was inept. Testing her weight cautiously but quickly, one crate at a time, she used them to climb all the way up to the rooftop of the low shed abutting the back fence. A jump was always a risk at any height, but it was a risk she had no choice but to take.

Taking a breath, Denise crouched low, then sprung off the low sloped roof and over the wall. It was a one-story drop, the blow of landing cushioned as she rolled with it. She grunted as she hit the ground, but the impact was buffeted by a snowbank that formed over a pile of leaves. Lucky - she may not get that lucky again - so she’d take any break she could. She climbed to her feet quickly, made sure nothing was sprained or broken, and took off again.

Already far enough away that she couldn’t hear Dick’s wolf-possum-cryptid screaming over self-inflicted drama, she knew she wasn’t home free yet - but there was a glimmer of hope. A small one, but it was there.

That glimmer got brighter when she saw it.

The stupid hillbilly truck, as she now knighted it, was parked out in the woods just like Dick said it would be. It also had that stupid skull mounted on it, which was just figuratively screaming ’I’m a trashy bastard’ as loud as possible. She vowed to rip it off and smash it as soon as she had the spare time and energy to do it. Maybe a baseball bat or a tire iron would feel good.

The truck was a bit muddy and covered in a smattering of fallen brown leaves with a dusting of snow on top, but it otherwise looked serviceable. The tires looked inflated, it wasn’t full of bullet holes, and there wasn’t any visible serious rust damage.

Home free? Was it too soon to celebrate? She allowed herself a little more of that glimmer of hope as she slowed down a little, took a breath, and kept running. The truck nestled in the woods turned out to be far enough from the prison that she felt decently confident nobody else was going to follow her out here.

Maybe that dumb fucker really did think she’d take him up on that offer to go w-

Denise’s train of thought came to a violent, crashing halt as intense pain shot up her right leg, accompanied by the loud SNAP of metal. It felt like her leg was being torn in two, a kind of pain she’d never experienced before. It damn near rivaled childbirth before the drugs kicked in, due to how thoroughly blindsided by it she was.

She tumbled over with a pained scream, crashing to the ground hard and landing again on her shoulder. The truck was about an arm’s length away - if she stretched, maybe dragged herself forward an inch or two, she might be able to reach the handle of the door.

There was only a heartbeat’s worth of silence before the car alarm started going off.

It made Denise jump, which only hurt her leg more - as if that was even humanly possible. It was hard at first to tell in the darkness what had happened, but as she looked down in horror, it dawned on her:

A fucking bear trap.

Its long, sharp metal spikes were impaled through her leg at about mid-calf height, the whole circular contraption closed up tightly around her. Jeans shredded, she was already bleeding, to make matters worse. As if the blinding pain wasn’t bad enough. She couldn’t even move her leg, couldn’t risk turning at all, because a hair’s width of jostling sent pain shooting up her limb once more.

The car alarm blaring behind her felt like it was the loudest thing she’d ever heard. It made her teeth rattle and her ears ache, but it also felt like it was causing her broken, shattered leg to vibrate as well. Apparently murder wasn’t good enough for Dick - he needed torture too.

“Fuck,” Denise hissed out, which wound up sounding more like a sob. She leaned forward, grabbing the underside of the rim of the bear trap and tugged. Pulling out those spikes was a risk, but one she had to take. She couldn’t get mobile with this thing on her yet.

She tugged…. Pulled…. Pried…. Pushed…. Screamed her way through it as loud as the car alarm, screamed like she was giving birth to a fourth cursed child-monster, screamed through her frustration, and cussed through her fear. The bear trap didn’t budge more than an inch.

A wave of nausea and dizziness came over Denise. Okay, plan be. Enjoy the new metal walking boot, get into the truck, turn the alarm off, and put some distance between herself and this place. Or… use the truck to approach the front side of the prison, limp out, and beg for assistance? They might help her live. They might shoot her on sight. They might toss her back into a cell. They might do worse. Who knew.

All she knew right now was that the next step was to get into the vehicle and get moving. Luckily her left leg was uninjured, so she could still drive.

Denise looked up - just in time to see the trio of dead staggering towards her.

They were still several yards away, coming out of the nearby woods. She had a few moments - but not many - and who knew how many more the sound of the car alarm would pull. Would the attacking army hear this and investigate? Probably not until it was too late. They had bigger fish to fry, more likely.

“Fucking bastard.” She growled out, dragging her body forward closer to the truck. She needed a few more inches so she could grab the door handle. She could imagine it now, hefting herself into the truck. It would be excruciating, but she could do it.

Facing the approaching dead, car alarm making it impossible to hear anything else but its shrieking repetitive blast, Denise dragged herself closer - a few inches at a time. She kept her attention torn between the dead, the ground, and the car - leery of there being more traps around the vehicle.

She saw the second bear trap, but it was already too late.

Round two of deadly metal spikes snapped around her - this time, on her left shoulder, the one against the ground. The trap had been half-buried, and springing it launched frozen dirt into her face. Several of the spikes buried themselves into her shoulder, one grazed her cheek, and the rest clamped shut around itself without anything else to grab on to but air.

A second bear trap was no easier than the first. Somehow this was worse. The pain was the same, but now this was just a fucking slap in the face. An insult. A mockery.

Fucking Dick.

Denise found herself on her back, immobilized and gasping for air. Trying to push herself with her good leg or pull with her good arm just dragged the bear traps deeper into her skin, shredding muscle and flesh along the way. No doubt she had broken bones. The dark oppressive sky and ominous branches above her almost looked like they were reaching down to strangle her. She might have welcomed it at this point.

Options were limited and grim. She couldn’t feel her left arm and couldn’t move it, no doubt it severed something important. She couldn’t move her body without pain so intense it would make her black out if she did it much more. There was nobody around to help, and no walkie-talkie to call for aid. The only person who knew she was here was ol’ Dickweed. Her gun was within reach of her right hand. The dead were approaching.

She hated to admit it, but she felt the tears slide down her cheeks and temples. She’d been one-upped, and by something she should have thought to be cautious of. Of course some self-styled hunter bastard had found a way to obtain bear traps. Of course he sent her out there on purpose. Of course he trapped the vehicle.

Denise reached to her right and wrapped her fingers around Freddie’s gun, holding it up in front of her face to admire it for a moment. It was a good gun. Freddie was a good guy. A decent one. If she had any regrets, it was not telling him he should join her for a drink some evening when tasks were done, or letting him know her door was open if he ever wanted to visit some night. They would have enjoyed the distraction. Hopefully he lived through this.

Taking a breath, realizing that the dead were sounding much closer now - close enough she could periodically hear their groaning rasps between the blaring repeated alarm noises - Denise aimed the gun at her temple.

She squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happened. Empty. Out of ammo.

Denise blinked, moving her hand to stare at the gun again, and then sighed. Let down in the end anyway.

“Thanks anyway, Freddie.” She muttered, tilting her head to the side and up. There was another bear trap by the truck’s wheel - within dragging distance. She could see the glimmer of the metal poking up from beneath the snow and leaves.

Glimmers of hope come in all shapes and sizes.

It was excruciating to drag herself closer to the third bear trap, but options were limited and time was running out. The dead were on her faster than she expected. Even though she kicked at them with her good leg, using her good arm to drag herself closer, none of it was fast enough. Another scream ripped from her as the first undead bit into her leg at the shin, chewing its way through denim until it finally reached flesh with its chipped, jagged teeth. While she had seen three at first, others had joined them due to the noise, and she was surrounded rather quickly.

Teeth on legs, thighs, her side, her bad arm - at least that last one she couldn’t feel. Freddie’s gun was at some point knocked from her hand, trampled into the dirt by undead feet in rotting shoes. She was so close to the third bear trap… so close… so very close…

A weight fell on top of her as one of the dead stumbled, snapping its teeth and getting precariously close to her neck. Another one next to it was shoving its face against her jacket-covered stomach. It disgustingly felt like a pig snorting around with its snout as the dead tried to work out how to remove layers and get to flesh. A zipper was too complex for it, and the jacket reached down to her hips.

Finally she reached it. The third bear trap.

She rolled on to her back fully, letting the weight of the dead press against her chest. It was foul-smelling and terrifying, but the inability to breathe or move would shortly not matter anymore. The dead atop her spotted her unguarded neck and dove in for its kill, clamping its jaw onto her neck and crushing with a deadly bite, blood immediately flowing.

Denise lifted her head and upper body just enough, then let herself fall back into the bear trap pillow.

At least she couldn’t see the stupid skull from where she lay, before the world went black.



 

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Darwinism Part 3
Lincoln Correctional Facility​

Sammy

It all happened so, so fast. Much faster than the gears in Sammy’s noggin could ever dream of turnin’, his mouth agape at the strike team coming in and shuttin’ down the show. They certainly weren’t any of his well-listened Mustangteers, and no amount of screaming or shouting on his end was gettin’ them to settle down. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t fish a single answer outta Raooul either. Fi-Fi had gone limp, the strike team was busy cleanin’ up the mess, the scientist and his assistant were busy with somethin’ or other over there, and absolutely nobody was givin’ the frazzled Sarge any time of day.

It only stung a lil bit. Truth be told, he’d been used to it by now. None of them dingbats back home had ever been brave enough to say it to his face (and big arms), but he knew what they were all whisperin’ about behind his back. The nasty rumors ‘bout how he could never get anythin’ done, and how he’d only gotten where he did by slurpin’ on them important officer parts. Complete and utter bullshit that was. Sammy was no slurper.

Having absolutely none of it, he did exactly what it was that Sergeant Armstrong did best—improvise. Before any guilt, shame, and regret of what’d just happened could fully sink in, he was already on the move, dashin’ out the room like a meaty catfish tryna escape the cooler. He darn near tripped over the guy watchin’ the door while doing so, but he didn’t linger long enough to exchange no awkward glances. Naw, there was no time for dilly-dallyin’. Not when he had a new mission, one that only he could do something about now. If nobody was tellin’ him where baby boy Wyatt was, fine. He’d just go find that happy lil fella and lasso him home himself. Maybe find that gift shop for Cappy along the way too. And so, he set out on his grand undertaking to search the rest of this Abraham Lincoln Prison Center on his own, completely forgetting about the one unconscious enfucker he left outside earlier.

—

Sammy kicked open the last door on this floor, probing around the dark nooks and crannies of the room with his shiny tact light. “Anyone here? Wyatt? I’m a friend of yer Mama’s. Yer safe with me, promise.” Nothing. No Wyatt on this floor either, unless he was real good at hiding… or worse. It’d been one empty room after another, and Sammy was startin’ to get impatient. His stomach was churnin’ like a big barrel o’ butter thinking about the poor, lost kid stashed away among the chaos and bloodshed.

He thought about how Fi’d definitely start drownin’ herself in booze again after this, if he couldn’t do her this one damn solid. He also thought about how he’d ruined it earlier by calling it in before Raooul could say anything. Why didn’t anybody say anything—tell him anything? Godfuckin’dammit. Finally, he thought about all those promises he made to Fi. About runnin’ around with Wy-Wy and bringing him out horse-ridin’. What stupid fuckin’ promises those were. Momma Armstrong always said there was nuthin’ worse than making a promise ya couldn’t keep. He was starting to get red in the face now, just like how he’d been red in the neck.

Leaving the room with a sigh, Sammy closed the door behind him and let his rifle droop down to the side. He glanced down the rest of the hallway again, where a handful of enfucker bodies were scattered about the floor. “Big Mustang to Mustangteers. Got some more for y’all to pick up.” He didn’t bother with any directions anymore—the rest of the Mustangteers had long since found the trail of captives and corpses he was leaving behind.

He pushed through the set of doors at the end of the floor, going down another flight of stairs that looked exactly like the one he tumbled down and hit his head on earlier. Everywhere was startin’ to look the same now, but he gave himself a hefty slap on the cheek to shake it off. Life wasn’t supposed to be easy, Momma Armstrong had told him. And however bad it was for him right now, Sammy knew Wyatt musta been havin’ it a million trillion times worser.

Right as he hopped down the final few stairs, Sammy’s ears perked up at the sound of someone wailing in the distance. A weak and pathetic yelp that must have come from a lost, helpless child. Brain runnin’ on nothing but adrenaline and instinct, he bust through the stairwell with his big gun in hand and scrambled over to the source of the whimpering.

“I’m here, I’m here! Yer safe, Sammy’s gotcha!” He announced his presence proudly as he rounded the final corner, his big guns and his big run raised an’ ready to shoot down any enfuckers that dared touch little Wy-Wy. But there were no enfuckers. No Wy-Wy either. Only a real stupid-lookin’ man with some bloody scratches and a baby’s butter knife stuck in his leg. Nothing worth cryin’ over, from what he could tell. Still, a man in distress was a man in need. Especially if he was at trivia night.

“Now what happened here?” Sammy asked, mind racing again to connect the dots. “Ya don’t look like yer dyin’, at least not that fast. Trust me, I’ve seen plenty worse.” The man seemed to be unarmed and clearly wasn’t any threat, so Sammy lifted a hand as a peace offering. He stepped closer to give the guy a look-see before the lil pencil in his head finally did connect the dots.

“Say, anyone ever tell ya that ya look an awful lot like that Big Dick fella? The one that Never Misses His Shot!” Sammy gave an extra razzle-dazzle of the empty hand upon mention of the half-baked catchphrase. “Y’know who I’m talkin’ about? He ain’t that famous I don’t think, but the show ain’t half-bad fer some late night background noise!” Sammy only knew of the not-so-famous Big Dicky from the tapes that Mayonard lent him, and Big Dicky certainly couldn’t hold a cow’s udder to Big Deets. He reckoned that he could shoot down twice as many plump ol’ turkeys than Dicky, but none of that mattered. This pitiful, meek, farce of a man before him clearly couldn’t have been Dicky. Still, Sammy beamed at the shriveled-up fella, trying to lighten the mood and get the guy’s mind off his injuries.

Richard

To be fair, the knife wasn’t in that deep. It had barely dug itself deep into the surface, but enough that it stung. His theatrics had never won him any public service television emmys, but he was nominated the one year…if he could call it a nomination. Anyone who heard him might just assume he was dying if he just laid there, acting as it was nothing but a flesh wound, and then he was what…left there to rot? Fat chance that was happening anytime soon.

“Fucking bitch. Ow! Owwwww. God, I think she nicked something. Shit. Ow. Owwwww.” He repeatedly moaned and rolled, flopping on his back. He wished he still had that broken padlock. Actually breaking his nose might give him the pain threshold he was seeking instead of forcing the constant cries and whines of what was sounding more and more like some kind of animal in heat rather than a man in pain. He reached up to his nose. The crusted blood was hardened around his upper lip, and he gently touched the cartilage, grimacing a little. Probably deviated his septum a little more than it already had been…might have even saved himself a potential surgery. Well, Bless your sweet heart, Denise. Rest in hell, fucking bitch. He wondered if he would be able to hear that sweet car alarm from here…but he highly doubt it would reach that far.

Richard didn’t need anyone knowing some of his more sinister habits that had slunk under the radar around King. His truck had been his sanctuary, one to sit and plot and plan, surrounded by the sweet relief of well placed bear traps, and a little car radio that had a tape of Sweet Home Alabama still stuck in the deck. It only played the opening melody before the battery would die, and he’d charge it back up again, making sure the car alarm was still in place in case anybody tried to take off with his pride and joy. The title of white trash be damned, he was at least popular White Trash.

Finally, after what felt like hours of screaming and cry but in actuality was more like five minutes, hearing the pounding of boots fading away, and a heavy sigh once or twice with a comment that someone wasn’t ‘paid enough to deal with this bullshit’, he was ready to actually twist the knife deeper. His hand gripped the handle, just as his ‘savior’ flew around the corner, declaring that he was here.

The man had a thick Southern accent, a desire to help, and big round golden retriever eyes that were telling him he was desperate to reconcile some kind of accident…something that was most likely his fault.

Jackpot.

“Oh, thank son of a bitch. I thought you guys had already high tailed it outta here. I saw a woman, she did some foul shit in here, and I was trying to help you guys out, tell her she needed to give up, but she gave me a souvenir in return.” He motioned down at the knife and groaned, looking up at Sammy as he mentioned he looked familiar.

Truthfully, most people didn’t know how him from the rebranding of his television series multiple times, ‘Kentucky Runnin’, being his most famous. His true claim to fame had come in a viral clip from one of his more popular videos, one in which he had fell into a pile of deer….well…and screwed up his catch phase to say ‘Never Misses His Shot’ to ‘Never Misses His Shi…’. The memes boosted the popularity of the show, and he still made a few royalties from it…back when the world hadn’t been shit. Was he face to face with a true blooded fan?

Could he hit the jackpot twice? Anybody got a damn cheap scratch off?

Shaky fingers lifted his hand up to the twisted baseball cap. Perhaps he had accidently made himself look far too young. He twisted it to wear it the normal way, not the ‘cool kid trying to do a skateboard trick’ way.

“Ow. Oh. Ow. That. Ow. That help a little?” He feigned an injury, closing one eye in pain. “Ya want an autographed rifle, kid? Could do a little…signing on that…if ya get me out of here.” He smirked at him. “Something for somebody special?”

That one guy…the one that had told Temma off…had known him…but would this guy….

“Shit. I can feel it slipping. Hey….what’s your name? You know I’m not a bad guy here, right? Just a simple man, got caught up at a bad time, bad place, right? Just tried to save your guys life. This bitch, she ran out the door, and I’m worried about her. I tried to help her. I slammed my head into the door. Probably busted my nose pretty good too. Shit. Why don’t people know when to give up, huh?”

Sammy

This guy was one silly goose, he was. Sammy watched on curiously, entranced by the man’s antics and… expressive reactions. It was like the fella hippity-hopped straight out of a Sunday morning cartoon. Oh, to live a happy, unbothered life with things like cartoons again. But this show the Dicky-lookalike was puttin’ on wasn’t half bad either, if not a lil confusin’. The plot was a bit hard to follow, Sammy’s head tilting and brows furrowing as he tried to detangle the mess of words he was hearin’. “Hey… I ain’t the son of no bitch, pal.” He moved in closer for a whisper, making sure no peepers ‘round the corner would be makin’ out the next bit. “And that’s no way to talk about a woman givin’ ya presents. Ya gotta treat ‘em with the respect they deserve.”

His eyes shifted between the “souvenir” and Fake Dicky, rackin’ his brain to figure out what in the date-gone-wrong had happened here. “So… how’d her gift end up in yer leg?” Probably some bad table manners, if he had to guess. “Did ya drop it or somethin’?” Sammy dropped a lotta stuff too, so he understood. The pieces were beginning to slide together real nicely now. It wasn’t a lovers quarrel gone wrong or nothing, just a clumsy fella who ruined the date by droppin’ a precious gift from the special lady. Kinda like that one time Sammy tried lifting Cappy up and dropped him flat on his—

Anyways, this strange, silly man kept on sayin’ even more nonsense right after all that. Sammy watched intently as the guy adjusted his baseball cap, making sure to gather all the clues before jumpin’ to conclusions. But… uh, these were some real shit clues. “Er, pardin? Who ya helpin’?” Sammy had no idea what this man was on. How was movin’ his hat around supposed to help anyone? And now this nobody was offerin’ autographs? Oh, dear… maybe it’d all been a big misunderstandin’. That was okay, Sammy misunderstood a buncha stuff too before.

“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout nothin’ I said earlier. I was just talkin’ bout this one fella from TV.” He had to let this poor man down easy, since this Dick lookalike clearly had no idea who Big Dick was. “Hm… it probably ain’t a good idea fer ya to be touchin’ guns either.” Especially now that he knew this guy couldn’t even handle a knife without it slipping into his leg… “Besides, m’special someone doesn’t really go out shootin’ much anymore. Oh… ya probably heard him yellin’ real loud at the bad guys to surrender earlier. Hard to miss.”

Moving to extend an arm, Sammy gave his best nod and smile. “Don’tcha worry ‘bout nothin’, I’ll make sure ya get outta here unharmed and find yer lady. Name’s Samuel, but m’friends all call me Sammy. What’s yer name? And didya say ya saw some of my guys earlier?” He gave space for the guy to listen and think it over… since this Fake Dicky clearly wasn’t the brightest bulb in the barn. Ah! Speakin’ of, the bulbs in Sammy’s barn promptly relit themselves, reminding him of the big solo mission he got sidetracked from. “By the way, ya wouldn’t happen to know a Raoouul or Wyatt ‘round here, wouldya?”

Richard

Dick hit the ‘Dumbass Lottery’, or maybe Dick himself was the dumbass. He hadn’t quite decided which was which, and the hit on the head from the padlock wasn’t doing him any favors but he still clearly had the quick wit part of his brain down. Maybe not the man in front of him, who seemed to be staring and thinking for what felt like forever. Sammy Sosa here was hitting homers right through his frontal lobe and out of the park, but he didn’t know he had to run to score.

“I didn’t say you were…oh nevermind.” He shook his head, “She was more a devil in disguise than an actual woman. Let’s just say that. Anybody tell ya that ya think too much? Maybe a little…” He hissed, feeling the full force of the knife blade dig a little deeper into his thigh as he moved to sit up a little better.

“I didn’t drop it. Jesus Christ. She dropped it. Dropped it with force. Stabbed it.”

Was the army really hurting people that they just let anybody hold a gun and it didn’t matter if they knew the difference between dropping knives and stabbing them? Had he really been that unclear or was the lottery just giving him the absolute jackpot? Was this truly a win?

“Trying to help y’all. Aren’t ya the ones making everyone run around here like chickens with their heads cut off?” Shit. The man with the bullhorn? The one in charge? That was this man’s something special…unless Sammy himself meant something else entirely. He was screwed. This plan would never go off, not without a hitch, and he was shit out of luck. The lottery had just thrown him a curve ball. That six he pulled as a winning number? Turns out it was a nine and someone forgot to draw that stupid indicator line underneath it. He bit at his tongue, grunting and wiggling at his leg. Oh, he should have just died. He wondered if Denise had found his little trap yet, and if she had, did she save a bear trap for him? Honestly, he was jealous…

“I’ve handled plenty of guns. I can’t control other people now. Just help a fellow out, would ya?” He lifted his hand up, grabbing onto Sammy’s forearm and stretching his good leg out to lift him up. HIs other hand pressed against the wall.

He didn’t recognize him. He thought he did, and he thought he had a chance at being recognized as a public service celebrity, offering autographs and hunting tips for a chance at freedom, but Samuel, now known as Sammy, didn’t even give him more than a ‘Don’t you look like this one guy I know?’ glance. Well, there went that plan…unless….

The one guy, the guy that threatened Temma and Derek, had mentioned his name…and he had never seen him before in his life…which meant that they probably had pictures of them all…and he was easily recognizable as a criminal…but if this Sammy, if Sammy didn’t recognize him in the slightest, and was asking for his name…

Maybe this could be a new beginning…

“Oh…Ow…Hit my head hard. Don’t know if you could tell from all the blood. I think….I think my name is…uhhh…”

His hand brushed at his mustache.

“Harry. Harry…uhhh…”

He closed his eyes. What were the first things that came to his mind?

“Oakwood. Harry Oakwood.”

He opened one eye, staring at Sammy, and if he would begin to believe that this man was indeed truly not Richard McCay, famed hunting star of his own stupid reality show that apparently half of these military men might know him as and want to throw him in jail. He wanted to know about other people…one of them he knew as that stone faced bastard who stalked around and didn’t say more than two words to him ever.

“Raul? He’s one of them…bad…guys. Uhh, I don’t know a Wyatt. Sounds like a bad guy name. Terrible name. Not me though. I’m Harry .Harry Oakwood. Ready to be escorted out of here, right?”

Sammy

“Think too much?” Sammy pulled the same half-bewildered, half-flattered look he had whenever he tore up all the dummies at Roanoke Trivia Night. He had to stop and think about Fake Dicky’s words for a sec. “Naw… I don’t think anybody’s told me that before. Heck, y’know what? That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said t’me!” He continued to listen on with Fakey’s new and revised story, clearing up all the miscommunication that’d just happened. Except…

“Er… Jesus Christ? …Dropped ‘er knife? …On ya?” Ah… so Fakey was one of them new age fellas who thought Jesus was a She. Aw… well bless this lil man’s lil heart. Still, it was quite concernin’ that Shesus was personally stabbin’ this man Herself. Probably meant that he was the one up to no good around here. Or maybe he was just bad at math. An old teacher told Sammy once that being bad at math meant not goin’ to heaven. Sammy learned his multiplication tables real quick after hearin’ that one.

“Chickens with their heads cut off? Lotsa guns? Ah, now yer speakin’ my language!” And just like that, any doubt about the man’s character was thrown out the window. Poor guy was just misunderstood, that was all. And bad at explainin’ stuff. Probably math too. Sammy was startin’ to understand where this guy was coming from. He helped the fella up, watching the gears in another man’s noggin start turnin’ for a change. Turnin’ and turnin’, round ‘n round. All just to… remember his own name? Oh. Sarge Armstrong never once forgot his own name. Even if he did, one look at his strong arms would be more than enough of a reminder.

“Pleasure to meetcha, Harry!” Sammy extended an arm to shake the man’s hand. Well… it was more like he grabbed the man’s hand to hastily thrash it up and down. As much of a good guy Harry Oakwood was, the time was tickin’ and the clock was clickin’. Wherever Wyatt was, he wouldn’t be findin’ himself. Well… did it make sense fer someone to be findin’ themself? Sammy didn’t know the answer to that one. Probably something for those phillysophers to figure out. In any case, he couldn’t be affordin’ to dilly-dally around any longer.

“Hey, don’tcha talk about someone ya never met like that. I think Wyatt’s a fine name—he’s one o’ my gal pal’s kids and I promised to find him somewhere ‘round here.” Shame that Harry didn’t know anything about him, though that didn’t seem like much of a surprise anymore. “Ya see, I gotta keep lookin’ before somethin’ bad happens to him. So I can’t escort ya out myself, but don’t be worryin’ that bloody head of yers!” Sammy jostled his headset around to show Dicky what he was talking about, being extra gentle so his strong arms didn’t pull the lil thing apart like a toothpick. He had to learn that one the hard way.

“I got my trusty Mustangteers followin’ me. Best o’ the business, I’m tellin’ ya. They’re cleanin’ up after me, and they can come pick ya up no problem. And then the rest o’ our guys outside can take a real good lookatcha and patch ya up.” Proud and beaming at his ingenious idea that didn’t take no hard thinkin’ to come up with, Sammy spoke into comms with his confidence louder than a rooster at sunrise. “Big Mustang to Mustangteers, I got a new friendly fella downstairs that needs escortin’ outta here. His name’s Harry Oakwood and he’s beat up reeaaaal bad. Says he got stabbed by Jesus an’ everything. Thanks y’all, Big Mustang out.”

He turned his attention back to Harry, feelin’ a little down about having to part with his new friend so soon. But, Sammy was sure Harry’d make it back to Roanoke all safe and sound. Because that’s what they came out here to do—to save all the innocent and helpless folks that were stuck in here. “Well, I gotta dash, Harry. But it was nice meetin’ ya all the same. The Mustangteers’ll take real nice care of ya, I promise. Say, why don’tcha hop on over to trivia night after this is over? Drinks on Brad!”

And with that, Sammy’s job here was done. It was a heartwarming lil pit stop, but he had a real mission to attend to. Even Jesus… er, Shesus Christ Herself was givin’ him a sign that he was on the right track. That musta meant that Wyatt had to be around here somewhere… all lonely and scared, waitin’ to be saved.

Richard

‘Harry’ had his arm rightfully nearly ripped out of socket, his shoulder clicking, the joint wanting to join in on the human voodoo doll fun. He grunted, trying to force a smile on his face. “They ever call you…Sammy Sosa?” Jesus Christ, how strong was this guy? As he released the grip he had on his hand, Dick flexed his fingers, wincing at the sudden hand cramp that was now extending up into his bicep and arm. Did all the braincells go to his biceps? What the hell were they feeding the military kids these days?

He propped himself against the wall, thankful for the little boost that Sammy had provided. “Well…I don’t know about any kids around here.” What a lie to escape his mouth. Oakley would have had some idea about most of the children around here…if she was still around here…and he wasn’t about to out that Harry Oakwood had a daughter somewhere…Harry Oakwood sounded like a man who spent many a lonely night in a bar, had been single for some time, and couldn’t get a woman to come near him. Now…that last part might not be true…but…

Aww. No Princess carry for Harry Oakwood. His lips puckered in a little pout, but he tried not to let out a whine or whimper. Couldn’t get his hopes up. Harry Oakwood always was down on his luck. Sammy started to call it in, and Richard hung back against the wall, closing his eyes and wincing repeatedly. Perhaps it was for the best…and maybe his fellow ‘Mustangteers’ wouldn’t recognize World Famous Richard McCay.

“Who’s Brad?” Harry mouthed, watching Sammy give him a sign, a friendly wave, and then the Blessed Heart of the Military rounded the corner, and was gone, leaving Dick to lean against the wall. He closed his eyes and thought about bashing his skull against the wall. His plan…it hadn’t exactly…failed? Denise was probably living his dream at the moment, curled up next to his truck, beartrap to the face…He smirked a little, leaning down and grabbing the knife embedded in his leg. He twisted it slightly, pulling it free and grimacing at his own blood before he slid down again, closing his eyes.

Survival of the Fittest…and he was indeed…surviving…if Harry Oakwood stood a chance. He had had a nose job after all…



 

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Band-Aids and Ice Packs Part 1
Outside Lincoln - Medical Tents​

Jasper

Dr. Rhodes wasn’t entirely out of his element. The emergency room on Roanoke was typically filled with the drunkard shenanigans of the military, or the occasional accidental gunshot wound. The increase in incidents wasn’t uncommon compared to all of their own circumstances. More guns being fired, more reasons to…take lives. Being in the medical tent, helping to staunch the bleeding of what was surely the scum of the earth from what he had been told, was why he had become a doctor in the first place, as boring and commonplace as that was. He rubbed at his already sweating forehead with his elbow. It was winter, but with the amount of bodies in the tent, the tension rubbing off on most of them, sobbing, sweat and tears mixed in with relief…It was another day at just a different ER. He left his lab coat home, instead wearing a tight black shirt, a plastic sticker that slapped on his shirt that designated him as a doctor, and a pair of tan slacks.

Jasper was already tired, even as more and more of the victims and soldiers entered the tent. He feared for the few that he would actually have to turn away. The ones that they would have to leave behind…

Gordie

“Put your weight on my side.” Theo had insisted on walking just fine, but Gordon was already feel the intense amount of guilt of dragging him into open combat, one that he should have been more aware of in the open field, and on top of all that, having him witness his anger. He was having bad flashbacks of Tay…of dragging her back home…of an angry Trips…and of staring at the bottom of a bottle of beer. He had thrown his arm over his good shoulder, and leaned him against him, and walked…away from the rest of the hunters who had thrown their arms, or the stupid ones who didn’t know when to give up and were now buried under a fresh layer of snow. His helmet fell to the back of his neck, strap threatening to strangle his neck. Fresh snowflakes danced in his dirty blonde hair. A few stray flakes pelted his already dirty blood stained cheeks, where he had accidentally rubbed in an attempt to curb his tired emotions and feelings. He was bitter, and broken, but…not as broken as he had once felt….so long ago. There was something full in his heart…

He looked over his other shoulder. Chris was somewhere behind him, or possibly in front. He had lost track of the other standing member of Delta, but he was thankful for Chris. He should apologize to him later. A good ‘Sorry, I slapped the shit out of you but you were in your head’. The thing he was most looking forward to? A nap, and honestly? A warm hug from Gin. A reunion with the woman to say that he did it, and he didn’t have a breakdown this time. He was feeling like he might though, at any moment, just collapse and give up moving. He was ducking down for Theo. His back was killing him…and he might have some fresh new bullet burns on his arms…but he wouldn’t complain. He couldn’t complain. His job wasn’t over until he was formally dismissed…and the rest of Delta Team was still unaccounted for. Rickett and Huerta were somewhere still inside? Or on their way out? He wasn’t sure…but the last bit of contact he heard hadn’t been good. Two medievacs. But…Trips was alive…somehow she had done something to save him. He looked over at Theo, the anomaly he also still hadn’t figured out. A nerd. A bonafide nerd, who survived an actual gunfight, and still had a smile on his face. The snowflakes were pelting his brunette hair too, leaving it peppered and fluffy. His chest felt light. His optimism or smile or something was slightly infectious. It made him aggravated, angry that he could be so happy in the face of danger, when he had nearly died…but perhaps that was just jealousy…jealousy that this nerd probably didn’t know actual loss…or if he did…he found a perfect coping mechanism…

Gordie skipped the line into the medical tent, dragging Theo along with him to an empty makeshift gurney near the back. “Come on. Faster you get this done with, faster you can go stare at the stars some more…” He grumbled at him, helping to lift him on the bed just as one of the doctors came over. Gordie stepped back, crossing his arms and leaning against another gurney…before someone started to usher him on the opposite one.

“Not necessary.” Gordie growled.

“Nope. All necessary. Everyone who went into that place has to be medically cleared before we head back. No ifs, ands or buts.”

Gordon sighed, looking over at Theo. He undid the clasp on his helmet, and sat on a gurney opposite, already undoing the camo jacket. His dog tags swung out from underneath, and his own tired grizzled arms hung in front of him, watching while holding his breath as Dr. Rhodes approached Theo, already looking at where Gordie was looking as well, the bloodied mess of his shoulder blade.

“Take care of him first. He’s the one who got shot.” He motioned to Theo. His head twisted to look at the back of his shoulder blade, the area where he briefly seen his skin, twisted and knotted, as if he had been…burned. Curiosity was getting the better part of him, but he watched.

Jasper
“Alright. Sorry if you are a fan of the shirt, probably going to have to cut it apart. First question first, contact with the dead? Bites? Scratches? Anything that could be considered questionable?”

Dr. Rhodes looked down at him over the bridge of his nose, all the while dawning a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

Theo

“Man, I got shot in the shoulder, not the leg, its really - I’m really okay.” Theo was actually not all that okay. He didn’t handle pain well and this whole affair was making him feel dizzy. He made it through precisely one very minor stumble before Gordie was demanding - no, ordering - that he help him get to their medical tent.

What he should have said was tents, plural. Theo hadn’t realized it, in the gunflash-filled nighttime, but the military had set up a whole tent city in the front field of the prison. It was impressive that these people set up so much, in such a short amount of time. He doubted King’s Samaritans could have done as good a job. Hell, neither would the rebels.

Theo got drag-assisted into a tent marked with a Red Cross on it, and as soon as he crossed the threshold into the tent, the warmth hit him like a slap in the face. Between the people bustling about and the space heater he spotted off to the side, the place was damn near comfortable. Not quite cozy, but good enough that the few people who he spotted laying on the cots and unmoving wouldn’t risk hypothermia.

He’d stolen a few peeks at Gordie, trying to gauge his thoughts on all this. The guy looked tired, dirty, bloody, and sweaty, but that said nothing about what he was thinking. He had so many questions - he wanted to ask them all but barely knew where to start. When Gordie looked his way, catching him, Theo looked away. He was still grinning. The snow was pretty, the stars were out, he did something good, and he lived.

“You sound like you doubt the effectiveness of enjoying nature. Or doubt my sanity. Totally cool if you do, honestly. You’re probably way more used to pulling off badass stuff and surviving to brag about it than I am.” Theo grinned over at Gordie, mostly to avoid the glares of all the people in line they skipped past thanks to being hauled in by his very own Special Escort.

Being able to take a seat on the gurney was a relief - Gordie was taller than him, and had to do his fair share of hunching over to help him, making the whole walk kind of awkward. Not that he minded. He couldn’t help but chuckle as Gordie was swept up in Doctor’s Orders and took his own seat across from him, grumpily undoing his jacket. The sight of real actual dog tags surprised him - was he always in the military, even before this? Or did this newfangled quasi-military make new ones for people?

“I’ll skip the spiel about the cultural importance of Pac-Man and just say yes, you can cut it off if you need to.” Theo glanced up at the doctor and shook his head. “No bites or scratches, just the gunshot.”

Theo held still as his poor, unfortunate Pac-Man shirt (rest in peace) was cut off him, closing his eyes and wincing as the doctor carefully peeled it off his bloodied and torn skin of his shoulder. “First time I’ve been shot,” he muttered, as if trying to defend why he wasn’t being one of those stoic badasses who barely reacted to bodily injury.

Under that shirt, Theo’s body was dotted with fist-sized bruises - some new and fresh, some that looked much older and were well on their way to being gone and faded. There were some similarly-older looking bruises around his wrists, as if he’d been bound with something too tightly. His shoulder was a bloodied mess, the bullet having gone through-and-through. As much as he didn’t seem like the type to have one, Theo also had a tattoo: a D&D d20 die on his upper right arm, showing a natural 20 on the front-facing face of the die.

Just above the exit wound was a rather painful looking scar. A patch of his skin, no larger than his own palm, was twisted and knotted in a somewhat gnarly fashion. A burn mark, no doubt, but more distressingly there was a pattern to it. An intentional one - like a brand had been burned into his skin. It was in the shape of the letter C, with a horizontal and vertical line through it.

Theo was in too much pain to act like he was at all shy about anyone seeing the burn mark, or all his bruises, and it certainly had not crossed his mind to say anything about them to the doctor. Old news, as far as he was concerned. He was down to skin and lean muscle - a bit better off than some of the grossly underfed unfortunates at the prison.

Gordie

Under that shirt, Theo’s body was dotted with fist-sized bruises - some new and fresh, some that looked much older and were well on their way to being gone and faded. There were some similarly-older looking bruises around his wrists, as if he’d been bound with something too tightly. His shoulder was a bloodied mess, the bullet having gone through-and-through. As much as he didn’t seem like the type to have one, Theo also had a tattoo: a D&D d20 die on his upper right arm, showing a natural 20 on the front-facing face of the die.

Just above the exit wound was a rather painful looking scar. A patch of his skin, no larger than his own palm, was twisted and knotted in a somewhat gnarly fashion. A burn mark, no doubt, but more distressingly there was a pattern to it. An intentional one - like a brand had been burned into his skin. It was in the shape of the letter C, with a horizontal and vertical line through it.

Theo was in too much pain to act like he was at all shy about anyone seeing the burn mark, or all his bruises, and it certainly had not crossed his mind to say anything about them to the doctor. Old news, as far as he was concerned. He was down to skin and lean muscle - a bit better off than some of the grossly underfed unfortunates at the prison.

Jasper

Dr. Rhodes worked his magic, tossing the sterile medical scissors down into a plastic tray, one that he wasn’t entirely sure was completely sterile, but it had to do…He bit back his own resignations at the thought that the medical world had significantly dwindled down since the end of the world. First responders had been clearly the first to go. He’d been lucky to be stranded in a hotel room when the end of the world began. Otherwise, he was sure he’d be dead in the middle of a hospital in Kansas. They suffered every loss imaginable. Medicine was back to what felt like the middle ages. No more CT scans, no MRIs, no beautiful electronic medical records. Pen, paper, and limited supplies of medicines. Cancer was a death sentence again, and the flu was deadlier than before. He wasn’t surprised to find that he had been needed by her, or that he volunteered…because the little people they left behind were nowhere near medically trained personnel. All it took to be a doctor anymore was the ability to sew with a thread and needle…

“First time for everything.” Jasper mumbled, taking the shirt apart little by little, at least trying to save a majority of the shirt if he could. Gordie twisted his head, trying to avoid looking but he couldn’t help himself. It was hard when the rest of the tent was either groaning or in similar predicaments. Should have called this place Gun Shot Wound Palooza.

“You like D&D? Used to play a little in college. Gave up on it when I learned paladins aren’t as cool as you would think.” The doc mumbled. Gloved fingers grazed over the skin, trying to be gentle but he could feel the way he tensed as just the slightest touch. He grabbed a needle of lidocaine from the tray, popping the tip off with his mouth, and holding it just above the wound before piercing the skin. “Also sorry. I don’t warn you when it’s coming. Should kick in in a bit. How about you?” Jasper twisted to look at Gordie.

Gordie

“I always thought it was for nerds.” Gordon mumbled. “I liked the…uh…guys with horns…though. Started with a T?” He could tell Theo was not having a good time. His eyes gazed at the bruised wrists, and then moved to the wound, and then back to that scar…that scar that he had seen just briefly through the bloodied shirt. It definitely was distinct.

“No, I meant. Bites. Scratches. Contact with the Dead.”

Gordon’s face burned at the embarrassment.

“I shot a couple in there. No skin broken. Sons of bitches were in the tunnels underneath. I’m fine. Just sore.” He raised his arm and winced a little, rolling his shoulder to ease any muscles. “Not my first time being shot, if you were…I don’t know. Curious.”

He rubbed his upper thigh. The scar still ached now and then, but it was nothing compared to what was on Theo’s back…the odd mark that looked almost like…a familiar feeling.

“What’s that….on your shoulder?” Gordon asked. “Doesn’t look like any bullet burn I’ve ever seen.”

Jasper was working on pressing the skin of the bullet wound back together after making sure the tract was cleaning. He grabbed a bit of thread and needle.

“Not an old bite mark…right?”

Theo

It said a lot about these people that they (presumably? apparently?) came to help complete strangers at great personal risk. The world needed more of that, and Theo already wanted to know more about them, these mysterious and interesting Roanoke Ground Forces people. They had enough supplies to whip up this mini-tent city, they had medical staff, and they had organization. Structure. It was comforting and confounding and a little intimidating. Kind of like the soldier across from him who couldn’t seem to look at him. Theo wondered why. Shyness? Didn’t like watching people get stitched up? He couldn’t blame him if the answer was simply that he was tired.

Theo perked up a bit when Gordie mentioned GTA, Halo, and being more partial to Doom. “Doom one, two, three, or Eternal? Original or remasters? I’ve played them all. Eternal is amazing but there’s something special about the original first game. I can’t even imagine what it was like when that was mind-blowing progress in gaming.” Theo sucked in a breath and bit his lower lip as the doctor’s prodding at his wound got painful, closing one eye as he waited for the sharp sting of pain to subside.

When the doctor asked about D&D, he glanced at his tattoo - as if he needed to make sure it was unmarred, which it was - and then up at the doctor. “Oh, yeah - I love it. One of my favorite hobbies, actually. I’ve been playing since I was … jeeze, in middle school, I think?” He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Hey, that’s totally blasphemy. Paladins are definitely cool. Paladins, wizards, and bards are my favorites. I bounced around between those three depending on what we needed but usually I played a paladin. Good guy badass hero with a sword and magic - what’s not to love?” Theo turned that grin of his on the doctor, then looked away when he saw the needle. It wasn’t the needle itself that did him in, but the realization he didn’t need to watch what was going to be happening to his shoulder. He grunted when he felt the pinch to his skin, but otherwise didn’t object.

“Tiefling.” Theo offered, filling in the blank for Gordie. “Hey, nerds have all the fun, don’t forget that.” Theo folded his hands together in his lap, squeezing his fingers tightly anytime he felt a twinge of pain. Whatever the doctor gave him couldn’t kick in soon enough.

“Tunnels.” He muttered, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t know the prison had tunnels. Shit.” He sighed, rubbing at his face with the hand on his good side. He can’t account for what he doesn’t know about, and it irked him thinking about how many secrets this wretched place had that he still didn’t know about.

When Gordie asked about his shoulder, Theo bit his lower lip and ticked his jaw to the side. He didn’t look annoyed, just unprepared for someone to be that blunt. Though, the follow-up question about whether it's an old bite mark felt like a bit of a relief. No, maybe they weren’t nosy, they were just …. Rightfully concerned about dangerous things. That was smart. That was good. He could deal with that.

“Oh, hell no, not an old bite mark. I’d be toast already if it was, right? Nah, not that.” He shook his head, hair falling forward into his face as he stared down at his hands in his lap. “Its, uh-” Theo faltered nervously.

“Just a burn mark. Not from a bullet though. Just a…. Party favor from a fight with shitty people, is all.” He tried to play it off as no big deal, despite the fact the brand was about as old as most of his other injuries, including those on his wrists. “I wasn’t exactly on the winning end, but at least I lived, right? Go me.”





 

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Band-Aids and Ice Packs Part 2
Outside Lincoln - Medical Tents​


Virginia

Ginny headed for the nearest tent to search for the provisions she needed for her self appointed task; the machete was easy enough to find within the armoury of weaponry they’d brought from Roanoke. The bag, for some wild reason, was difficult to find. As she went through each tent, finding nothing suitable and then leaving, she flagged two privates to follow her. They did, without question.

About to give up, Gin spotted the tent filled with donated clothing. Roanoke had been overzealous in their offerings and she’d thoguht that maybe the people of Roanoke believed the slaves here were naked. But now? Now, well, it was convenient. She headed into the tent, rifling through the piles of clothing until she found a long sleeved sweater. She took the sleeves and tied them around the neck of the sweater, leaving the bottom open. It would be good enough to carry what she wanted back.

She led the two privates towards Lincoln wordlessly, stomping through the snow, the rage in her belly burning hotter with every step. King had been killed, fallen from the building. She was certain it was Cabrera's doing, even if Alex hadn't called it out over the comms. The fuck’s loyalty had always been dedicated to the Cabros and not the RGF; after their interview over a year ago she knew there would be a day when he'd prove her right. And here they were, Alex holding out for Cabrera, even in death, or pseudo death.

She made her way around the exterior of the building, no need to enter or cross through; she knew the layout of this place as much as someone who had been living here this whole time. She'd seen where the body had fallen, and it wasn't all that far from where they'd set up camp. As she rounded the corner she paused, surveying the area.

Snow untouched except for where the body had fallen, like a perfect impression of a snow angel, bloody wings spread over the white ground cover.

He had moved, what remains of the Kings limbs, tattered and torn, waved along the snow, almost
like he was attempting to swim in the frozen water.

A private beside her raised his rifle and she held up a hand to stop him. She didn't need to tell him twice and she appreciated the obedience. Gin stepped towards the reanimated body, it lifted it's head, broken arms reaching out.

A few minutes later, bag attached to her belt, she was headed back to the tent city of the RGF. One of the two privates.was crying, the second, now carrying the bloody machete, was still wretching as the walked. She directed the duo to return o their previous duties and headed into the medical tent to find an empty cooler.

Gordie

There it was again. That peppy attitude. That bright smile peppered amongst pain and suffering. Gordon seriously questioned his sanity, but at the same time, it was so welcome. There weren’t that many people around that were his own age. Chris was sometimes an absolute pain in the ass. Jack was closer to him, but he also acted like a child, not one to talk about violent video games and drink a beer with. Liza wasn’t exactly a pleasure to talk to either, but he rarely saw her, and it was typically with nose in the air. It wasn’t any fault of his adoptive mother. She had enough on her plate as it was, that she didn’t need him whiney anymore than he already did when he needed to be black out drunk in the kitchen on a bad night of basics. Theo felt like a friend already. His lip twinged again. He couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t he help it? Why did it feel so natural to just sit here? Nothing felt normal anymore…but this? This…felt perfect.

“Remasters. I tried to play the originals, but I’m actual shit at them. I ran out of ammo way too quickly. Also, some of those secrets are actual dogshit to find.”

His lip trembled again, and he smiled, quickly looking away again. His stomach felt sick. Well, at least that regular feeling was back, but he didn’t know if he could actually vomit, or bring anything up…even worse, he felt more fear about actually puking now than he had back in the humvee during Norfolk.

Jasper shrugged. “Sword and magic, too few spell slots, not enough time. I didn’t get to use him much.” Gordon felt even more embarrassed, at not knowing the correct nerd term in front of a bonafide nerd who for some reason was making him more and more nervous, and at the idea that Theo was still…more interested in having fun then realizing that he wasn’t exactly in the middle of a circus…or maybe they were. Theo was making him feel like he couldn’t be in the same room anymore. He had to get out. He was getting too warm, too anxious, and he didn’t understand why. Was he annoyed with him? He raised his lip a little. No. Maybe not annoyed? Pissed? Confused? Certainly more confused than anything.

His eyes still lingered on that burn mark, looking back at Theo, watching his face. Finally, he faltered…perhaps just a little, and Gordon knew that something was up. This wasn’t natural, and it certainly didn’t feel like just an accidental party favor…It was oddly shaped…and the bruises around his wrist. Something from the prison? He looked around the room, briefly looking to see if he could maybe accidentally spot something similar on somebody else, a tattoo, or something, but no. That burn was uniquely Theo’s, and he didn’t want to talk about it…Perhaps he wasn’t exactly sunshine and rainbows and nerd talk.

“Pretty weird if you ask me.” Gordon whistled, folding his hands in front of him. The doctor pressed against it, just to make sure that it was alright, before he moved back to look at the bullet would. “Almost as if you were branded…like you were cattle or something…like…I don’t know.” He didn’t linger on it, but it was there, as he watched the doctor leaned over, grabbing some needle and thread.

The doctor went to work, pressing the skin together as best as he could. Bullet wounds were tricky. The tissue damage wouldn’t be completely evident until perhaps months down the road. “I’m going to recommend not moving your arm much for the next two weeks. Short on slings to give you, but won’t really know if you’d need surgery either. If you have an old shirt, it’s really ease to make on-”

“I know how.”

Why had he said that? His face burned. Why had that come out of this mouth? Why, of all things? God, he had to get out of here. He started to grab his jacket, hopping off the gurney.

The doctor scoffed, shaking his head. “Get back up there. Not cleared.”

“I’m fine. No scratches. No bites. No reason to do…whatever it is…”

Jasper finished the last little bit of stitching, and grabbed a bandage.

“Jacket off.”

Gordon bit his lip. He already wasn’t the biggest fan of anything medical. He didn’t mind hospitals, but something about Theo standing there was only making it worse. He turned his head around, just in time to see Major Wallace coming in, a brand new bag attached to her waist. Mom. Mom could save him. If anyone could get him out of here…

“Major…Wallace.” He hated using her formal name, but this was no time to get blubbery and sad and embrace her in a hug and tell her he did it…He was alive. He glanced down at the bag…and suddenly noticed the amount of blood pooling from it. What…what was in the…the bag? He felt sick again. Not now. Please not now. He couldn’t puke now. He grabbed the edge of the gurney.

“It’s best to hold your tongue on the roof of the mouth. Waves off nausea when you don’t have Zofran…”

“I’m the fucking king of Zofran…” Gordie mumbled, stumbling into a half salute before he sat back on the gurney and tucked his head down to his knees, sliding his jacket off in a sign of surrender.

Theo

Theo could not figure out what was going on with the soldier’s face. His lip kept twitching into what he could have sworn was the beginnings of a smile before he forced it back into a neutral-to-frowny mask. Forcing his lips to frown didn’t do much to stop the way that expression traveled up his cheeks though. The guy was trying not to smile - and that was incredibly amusing to Theo.

“Oh God, yeah, some of the secrets and solutions for the original Doom were brutal as fuck. I admit I had to look a few up online. Maybe that’s cheating, but I wanted to one-hundred-percent it at least once.” It felt good to talk about something normal for a change. Something pleasant, like games, not a discussion about how to not die or how long can they last on a single can of beans or do they really think they can get in and out of a room fast enough without getting caught. Just sitting here, around people that weren’t trying to kill him, felt like a whole new world.

He wished Gordie would look at him again. He had nice eyes.

Theo peered up at the doctor, careful not to look at what was actually being done to his shoulder. “Maybe someday you’ll get to try it again.” He let that idea hang there in the air - the concept that anyone would ever do something as normal and as frivolous as play a game of D&D these days. Theo said it like he fully believed it though - like he had zero doubts dice would be rolling again. Maybe not today, but someday.

He had to look away soon though, wincing again and doing his best not to squirm while his shoulder was being worked on. The local anesthetic was helping a great deal, but it still was uncomfortable and bordering on painful yet. Unclasping his hands, he gripped the edge of the gurney and dug his fingers into its underside, holding on tight, periodically flexing his hands until his knuckles turned white and then letting go. It was all just an exercise in giving himself something else to focus on. It was between that and grinding his left foot into the ground. He had on Converse sneakers that were once a pale green, not heavy boots like many other people chose to wear. Definitely not something meant for long hikes on foot.

Feeling eyes on him, Theo looked back up at Gordie and caught his eye briefly before the soldier was looking around the room. He would have smirked if it weren’t for the pinch in his shoulder at that exact second, which made him grimace instead.

Theo felt himself stop breathing for a second when Gordie hit the nail right on the head. A brand. Fuck, he knew it was obvious what it was even if what it meant wasn’t so clear, but he was hoping the guy wouldn’t just call him out like that.

“Yeah.” He mumbled quietly, making a face of discomfort as the doctor pressed his skin together and started sewing him up. He couldn’t quite feel everything that was going on so he tried not to visualize it… even if all he could imagine was lacing his shoelaces together and the mental image of that happening to his skin made his stomach flip. For once he was thankful for the doctor’s interruption because it meant he didn’t have to keep talking about the burn mark.

Not moving his arm much for that long was going to be hard, but he’d endured worse. Maybe, if these people were sticking around, he could ride out those two weeks in relative ease before they shoo’d him off or whatever it was they were intending to do. He’d be back to square one, if they were just going to patch everyone up and set them loose. Not that he regretted seeing the prison fall… but at least it was a roof and a source of heat. Theo’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fear in his chest over not knowing what was coming next.

Gordie’s unexpected interjection that he knew how to make a sling made Theo look up from his shoes, head tilted slightly to the side. It wasn’t that he couldn’t figure it out on his own, but it almost sounded like he was…. Volunteering to help. It made him grin.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you probably don’t need to run from him.” Theo nodded his head towards the doctor. “He’s just trying to help. That was a whole lot more gentle than what we got inside.” It went unsaid that inside meant the prison.

When a woman in uniform approached, and Gordie addressed her as Major, Theo glanced over, reluctant to look away from Gordie. She looked about as one would expect someone high ranking to look (if he understood his minimal education about military rankings right). Stern, all business, and has-her-shit-together. Frankly, she was kind of intimidating… and that bloody cloth bag was not doing her any favors. Theo instinctively leaned away, putting weight on his good arm.

It made him feel a little bad that the soldier across from him was apparently fighting off nausea and he didn’t know why, but now all he could do was try not to climb off the gurney and crawl away from whatever this Major was here for. It wasn’t her, necessarily, that unnerved him. It was the bloody bag. He didn’t even dare ask what was in it.

“Its, uh… it is a medical tent, I don’t think anyone’s going to fault you if you throw up, man. It’s okay.” Still, he moved his feet out of the way by kicking them up on the gurney and sitting criss-cross, just to make sure he didn’t get splashed on.

Virginia

Ginny paid no mind to the people in the medical tent, nor their stares at the bag on her hip. She was solely focused on her task, searching for a container to put her prize within. She needed something she could carry, something with a tight lid and something that would muffle the noises it made.

She found a red and white cooler and flipped open the lid finding it empty save for some ice packs. Gin pulled the makeshift bag from her hip and dropped it into the container, shutting the lid firmly, with satisfaction. Just enough space for it to fit, not enough for it to move.

A voice addressed her from nearby, by formal name and title, but she recognized it, would recognize it out of a thousand other voices. Ginny’s eyes snapped to the nearest gurney, Gordie seated atop it, removing his tactical jacket. She quickly surveyed those around, half civilians from the prison, half other military personnelle. She fought every urge inside her body to rush to his side, check him over herself to make sure he was alright.

She set down the container on a metal table, leaving it aside for the moment; the last thing she wanted to explain to Gordie, or anyone else, what she was up to. Gin strode to Gordies side, letting the doctor do what he needed undisturbed. “You didn’t call me in.” She said softly, her fists clenched at her sides, doing her best not to reach for him, to make sure he was actually there. She’d spent the better part of the last few hours keeping herself distracted with constant reports from the strike teams - the only thing keeping her sane.

This was the exact reason why she never allowed the recruiters to call Jacks back, why she endlessly threw other projects, tasks and teams for him to participate in. This was too much. She was vaguely aware of the civilian sitting across from Gordie who he was speaking with. Last update from his team indicated he'd found civilians and was leading them out.

Ginny blew out a breath and reached for her son, gently tucked a hand under his chin and tilted his head up so she could look into his eyes. “You got it - I knew you had it in you, baby.” She spoke softly. “Good job.”

Gordie

“No. I really I should…go. Really. I’m fine. Not gonna puke. I…I promise.” His face was peakish around the edges, but he stopped as he tried to get off the gurney.

Perhaps it wasn’t the doctor that he wanted to run away from. Perhaps it was the constant marvel that was the man sitting across from him, grinding his green converse into the dirt as he swung his leg. He was waiting for him to start humming, or something else rather annoying that could possibly come out of those lips…lips that he was staring at again, before quickly turning away. He couldn’t help but notice the way that he kept gripping the underside of the gurney, taking the metal between his hands and squeezing it.

Every part of him wanted to take Theo’s hand in his own, and let him squeeze if it it was truly that uncomfortable.

God, what was wrong with him? What was actually fucking wrong with him? Did he hit his head? Did he have a concussion? He couldn't actually be doing this, right? He couldn’t actually be…having some sort of feelings for…this dork…this nerdy dork who…

No. Because he wasn’t like that. He…He wasn’t…right? No. There wasn’t any way. It wasn’t…It wasn’t him. No.

Theo was a complete and utter mystery to him, one that his brain just could not wrap around him. He had seen the other victims, the ones from Norfolk, who were absolute messes as they helped them to convoys after what had happened. They had been shaky, crying, tearful, thankful, but…they weren’t smiling. They weren’t laughing about video games and dorky nerdy hobbies. They just wanted food, and comfort, and a place to sleep that wasn’t the floor.

Theo confused him…and…his heart hurt staring at him, knowing that his wrists had been bruised, probably bound at some point, and this back had been burnt…He couldn’t be happy about that? He couldn’t be…be thinking about Doom and shooting demons, and…all that all the time? Something was wrong with this man…and Gordie was contemplating if he wanted to find out why…

He had to get out of here, before he did something else extremely embarrassing, or live up to his well earned nickname around the military. Doctor be damned. Theo made his head hurt as well. Theo made everything hurt. It was all his mind could think about…He was ready to walk over to Gin, ask her if he could just take a walk, but she made her way over to him, just as Jasper finished up the last of the stitches, and patted Theo’s other shoulder.

“Finished. Again. That’s probably gonna scar, and I wouldn’t move your shoulder for the next couple of weeks. Probably need a sling…and sounds like your new friend here, can help you?”

“W-What? Oh. Yeah. I…” Gordie grimaced a little, twisting back to hop away but Gin was there, blocking his way.

“Other than that, I don’t think you are a risk for infection, and so I dub you..free.” Dr. Rhodes grabbed a sticker sheet from a nearby table, and placed a green sticker in Theo’s hand. “Keep that handy. Lose it. Come back, but that’s your ticket in and out of here…”

“Ma’am.” Mom. Every part of him still bit his tongue when he had to talk to her in any kind of formal situation. His body stiffened. Was she mad that he hadn’t specifically called her over the radio? That he hadn’t been one to cry for his mother. His adoptive mother. Honestly, the only mother he had ever truly felt anything for. His own mother was a bitch, and probably dead on top of all her designer dresses and purses. He avoided her own eyes too, looking over at the doctor instead as he took off the pair of gloves and started to swap them for new ones.

“I figured you were busy.” He mumbled. “I thought I could handle it. I didn’t…”

He didn’t want the embarrassment of having Major Wallace come running to his aid at every single beck and call. Shit had gotten bad in there, sure.

“I wasn’t alone. I guess. I had Bozeman, and there was another girl, Haewon I think was her name? and…Theo here. I don’t know where Bozeman or the girl went but…I got Theo here. Lost Trips and Rickett too. I mean. We made it. But…I’m sorry, Ma’am.” He spoke, working on removing his shirt for the doctor all while twisting his head this way and that so he didn’t have to look at either him or her.

He avoided looking her in the eyes, until he felt her hand under his chin and she was forcing him to look, to look at her and know…know that he was fine. He wanted to embrace her. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get out of here. He was so done. So tired. So broken. But he did good.

He smiled a little. Her praise made him smile. He closed his eyes, letting out all the tension he had been holding in his shoulders.

“Thanks Mom. I….” He nearly slipped. “Can we go home now?” He mumbled, feeling gloved hands trailing along his back, looking for any open wounds. He winced almost immediately as he felt pressure along his spine.

“That hurt?”

“No.” Gordie immediately responded back, tensing up as the doctor shifted around, edging Gin back a bit as he stepped between them and pressed on his abdomen. Gordie winced again.

“Well…I think that explains your nausea, King of Zofran. Gallstones…and I’d say quite a few of them in there. I’d say you probably need your gallbladder removed…at least at some point. Might be why you feel sick sometimes. Surgery is a little more risky these days, so I would say it’s better now than later but obviously, it might cause some problems in the future.”

Gordie quickly snatched his shirt back up, twisting it in his hands and looking away out of embarrassment. Could they just go now? Could they leave? Could he run away form Theo before he saw more of him…than he intended…sitting there…shirtless…tired…and now with an embarrassing health problem?

“What happens now?’ he asked, looking between them both as he tried to ignore the news that the doctor had just told them, and look back at Theo, where that branded mark lay…where he sat, criss crossed legs, as if he was meditating…as if he was at peace with the world…with those pursed lips…and that little swirl in his hair…

Fuck. He looked away again, closing his eyes and looking at Gin.

“Can we please just…go home?”

He needed a drink.

Theo

Much like a cat perched upon a windowsill on the opposite side of the glass, Theo sat quietly observing those around him. Most of his attention was being stolen by Gordie, but it did bounce to the doctor and to other passing people in the background. When the woman soldier - the Major, apparently - approached them, his attention was more on how Gordie reacted than on the woman herself. She was a blank wall as far as being able to read goes, so if he wanted any kind of read on who she was, he was going to have to get it based on how Gordie reacted.

Kind words, a soft voice, physical restraint - it was hard to gauge from her if this was just her personality or if this was specifically how she treated Gordie. Gordie though? Oh, he was much… not easier, but more like… fun to try and figure out. A battle was happening on his face ever since the moment they both were ushered over to their respective gurneys. Potential grins were buried, looks were banished, sentences went unfinished. He couldn’t just hear the gears turning in Gordie’s head, he could practically see them - turning, and falling out his ears and rolling across the floor.

When Gordie mentioned him to the woman, Theo lifted one hand in a lazy wave. “Ma’am.” He let his hand drop back down into his lap, listening to the names Gordie rambled off to her in some kind of report. Bozeman, Trips, Rickett. He thought he recalled seeing the name Rickett on the woman’s jacket inside the prison, so doing the math, Trips was the one that got shot and Bozeman was the guy who was losing his shit. The one that Gordie had to slap back into his senses. It was, admittedly, kind of hot watching Gordie take charge like that.

The woman’s hand on Gordie’s chin answered several things. Well, potentially answered things. Either she was highly creepy and handsy with people younger than her (in which case he wanted out right now thank you) or they were related. Mother? Aunt? Older sister? Cousin? Hard to tell. They didn’t look related but stranger things had happened.

Ah, that’s what it was. Mom. And he wanted to go home. It made his heart hurt, hearing words like that come from someone who not that long ago was in the middle of a gunfight, saving his life. It made him realize not just how young Gordie was, but it reminded him he too wasn’t some old grizzled veteran of anything at all either. He couldn’t blame him - he wanted to go home too.

Actually, he mostly just wanted a home to go to, period.

Theo felt himself staring overlong at Gordie once his shirt was off. Not leering, necessarily, but… admiring. If Gordie’s eyes even began to slide his way, he looked away - down at his shoes, up at the ceiling, at Ginny or Jasper, at the opposite side of the tent, at that one nurse who was attempting to cut open a plastic blister pack of something. It was kind of nice to know modern inconveniences still existed.

The concept of home lingered in his mind, and it was going to keep lingering until he piped up and said something. Shutting up was never one of his strong suits.

“If nobody minds me asking… what or where is home for you guys?”

Virginia

Ginny frowned at Gordie as he suggested she’d been too busy for him to call. She wanted to reassure him that would never be the case; she would have torn down that prison, burned the world to get to him if he needed it. But he didn’t, she knew he wouldn’t; not after all the time and work he’d put into being prepared. He’d been so scared. The closer it drew to their launch date, the more she’d seen him withdraw, deeper into his worry.

She wanted to protect her kids, Gordie no different than Jacks or Liza-May; but she couldn’t get him out of this, out of being deployed on this mission but she could help him prepare. She trained with him, because she had to train too, she had to prepare for anything as well.

And then he smiled, called her mom, and that damn near broke her heart. She held her ground, stopped herself from pulling him into a hug, crushing him until he felt better, or she did, if that were possible. He wanted to go home and truthfully, if she could, she would have packed him into a truck and driven him home herself. “Soon, baby.” She murmured, quietly, hopefully so that only the two of them could hear it.

The doctor cut back in, continuing his exam and she watched with concern until he announced the issue, what was causing him ailment. Gallstones. Fucking Gallstones. She sighed in relief, surgery was more complicated but this surgery wasn’t the worst possibility he could have faced. He was asking to leave again and she nodded. “Soon.” She repeated, stepping back to give him space to put his shirt back on.

It was then the other boy spoke, asking them where home was. Theo, if she recalled what Gordie had just told her minutes ago - hard to recall because her sole concern had been her kid. She’d noticed Gordie keeping an eye on Theo, and now vice-versa. Theo sat on his own bed, facing Gordie, watching her son. Truth-be-told, this was common. Gordie was displaying Rescuer behaviour, the title stood for itself; concern about the Victim he’d just saved.

Theo, the Victim, displayed the same, though seemed oddly relaxed for someone who had been a captive at the prison.

There was something else in those guarded looks, but Gin wasn’t entirely sure what. “Roanoke.” She answered simply. “An’ it's the same place ya’ll are going once we’re done clearing here.”

She turned to face Theo fully, looking him over. “You ain’t a hostage, we’re takin’ ya there t’get ya’ll cleaned up and back to health so you can decide just what year gonna do next.”






 

VHvDYET.jpeg


Band-Aids and Ice Packs Part 3
Outside Lincoln - Inside Medical Tents and in a Humvee​

Gordie

He normally didn’t feel shy without a shirt on, but with Major Wallace hovering over him now, making that painstaking face as Dr. Rhodes mumbled that he indeed probably needed surgery to stop his frequent stomach pain, and Theo, watching while feigning interest everytime his eyes somewhat filtered over to him, Gordon wished he could just slink back into the prison.

Soon. How soon was soon? He wanted to ask Gin, but he didn’t exactly think this operation would have so many people. Did Gin expect them to be this overloaded? This many survivors? He hadn’t really had an idea of how much intel Cab had given beforehand. He wasn’t privy to that, but this…this seemed to even be an extreme.

Theo would not leave him alone, in more ways than one. He could feel his staring, and then looking away. Was it just as awkward as what he was feeling, as he slid his arms back into his shirt and over his head, the military grade issued dog tags sliding back against his chest. He tucked them up under his shirt, and grabbed his jacket, as the good doctor gave him his reward sticker. Gordie took it, and held it in his hand, not feeling childish enough to stick it just about anywhere else, like a forehead or his arm. Instead, he held it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the older material.

“Well, just…uh…keep in mind what I said…think about surgery…and see you around.” Dr. Rhodes was coming back, slapping a small packet of Zofran in Gordon’s hand, and giving him another pat on his shoulder before he was off and away to find another patient, which truly wasn’t exactly hard to do. He was already overworked enough as it was.

His thumbs peeled back the package, and slipped the tablet under his tongue. He was already working on hopping off the table as Gin explained to Theo where they would be going.

“South. North Carolina. Probably a few days back at least. But…”

A cold breeze entered the tent. Another batch of folks were leaving, their stickers and tickets out of here in hand. He caught the view of someone being led out the opposite end, kicking at one of the soldiers.

’It’s just a scratch…”’ He heard them cry.

Gordon looked away, back at Theo, and then back away again, up to Major Wallace.

“Are we even going to have enough room for all these people? Where are they all going to fit? How are we going to get them all back? It’s a couple days, and we can’t just pop open the medical tent whenever we stop. If…” The tablet was dissolving too quick for his liking, and he made a face.

“Are we stuffing them in our own humvees?” Gordon looked back at Theo. His eyes lingered again on his battered wrists, the bruised skin just beneath the bone. He met his eyes, his own cerulean blue eyes blinking as he tried to figure out…how he was so calm. They just lost their home, and were being forced to move. Shouldn’t he be balling his eyes out like half the tent was, or worried that the military wasn’t exactly who they said they were?

’What if he’s done this before? What if…What if he’s lying?’

Suddenly, his drive to not let Theo out of his sight heightened. They had info on all the important targets, all the ones considered hostile and dangerous…but what if this was just an easy front for him? What if he had an alternative motive? He had an awful amount of knowledge about radios…Where did he learn that?

Theo bothered him so much, but he didn’t want to just let him go…not back to being bound or branded. No. Theo hadn’t wanted to talk about what that was. It was the only time he saw him not laughing or smiling or trying to prove that he was happy.

God, what if he was more broken then the rest of them?

“I want Theo to come with us.”

He didn’t stutter or hesitate as he stared at the man.

“If he wants to. I…I mean, but I just…I think you better at least come back to Roanoke. With me.”

He stood his ground, firm, as he watched him. He still rubbed that green dot between his finger, his symbol of freedom, but his gaze flickered between his mom, and his new mystery. A mystery he was dying to figure out.

“Also, Ma’am…Mom. I punched Bozeman. Cracked him in the jaw. He lost his shit in there. We both shared leadership, but…If he says anything.”

He shrugged.

“Kind of deserved it.”

Theo

Roanoke.

The name elicited images of the doomed Roanoke Colony, the first attempted permanent English settlement in what became Virginia. The same colony where the English settlers disappeared without a trace and nobody is quite sure whatever happened to them. Killed? Dead of disease? Or perhaps they just moved in with and integrated with the local natives?

He also vaguely recalled maybe reading some sci-fi novel once with a space station named Roanoke but couldn’t quite remember what it was called… but if he remembered right, that place was a dump and a terrible place to be, held together by whatever that setting’s equivalent of duct tape and a prayer was.

This was super not a good look.

“Oh wow, you guys really named it after-” Theo stopped himself. Don’t say a doomed colony. Don’t say a doomed colony. Don’t go there. Shut up.

“Another city? That’s cool.” Smooth save. Nobody’ll notice. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the place was or looked like. A military base? A big industrial building? An apartment block? A huge beached ship? Some cool underground bunker? Something even more inventive? He hoped whatever it was, it wasn’t another prison. He was already tired of bars on doors, no matter how safe the walls around Lincoln made them from the dead.

Theo chewed lightly on his bottom lip in thought, eyes going back and forth between Major Wallace and Gordie. Mom it was, then. That answers that. It’d probably be a good idea to stay on Gordie’s good side if his mom was a Major. That sounded important and high ranking. Was she in charge around here? She looked like it. Good of her to check in on her son even when busy.

He tried to offer Major Wallace a polite smile, but it faltered for a moment. He wished his own mom were still alive to check on him - but he couldn’t risk thinking about that now. He wasn’t fully sure if she was telling the truth when she said he wasn’t a hostage… that just wasn’t how things worked these days.

“That’d be nice, yeah. You guys kinda… did a number on this place.” He vaguely motioned over his shoulder in the approximate direction of the prison. “But it also wasn’t a good place to begin with so… No complaints from me.” He shrugged his shoulders. What choice did he have, anyways? It was probably better than being kicked out and told to go march through the snow without any supplies or a plan.

He tried to be subtle about it, but he did make a bit of a grimace-frown-face when the doctor mentioned Gordie would need surgery for his gallbladder. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but that sounded like a death sentence these days. Then again… if these people had a whole military, all these medical tents… maybe they could manage it? It’d still be riskier but… maybe not a death sentence? Still, he worried. Then wondered why he worried. Then tried not to think about it.

Instead of trying to think about why that was, he tried to focus his attention on the ground but wound up stealing looks at Gordie. It was somehow better and worse when he put his shirt back on. No longer grinding his foot into the ground now that the doctor was done stitching him up, and feeling none the better for it, he was now lazily swinging his leg back and forth as he listened and observed. Sitting still was apparently difficult for him - not when people around him were in a whole lot worse shape or getting dragged out because of suspicious scratches.

Gordie had a good question. Had these people planned to take all of them back? Did they have enough vehicles for it? The first thing that came to mind was his history lessons about the Trail of Tears, and worry knotted in his stomach. He tried not to let it show on his face.

Pretending to be not terrified was a lot easier when Gordie blurted out he wanted him to come with them. To ride with them. Theo’s eyebrow arched and he looked between the two, uncertain if that was even allowed.

“Major, not that it’s any of my business, but I saw it too. The other guy was losing his shit - like… it was kind of obvious, y’know? But he stepped up right away to lead instead.” He motioned to Gordie. “He did a good job, I think.” He shrugged.

“And I mean, as long as I don’t have to walk the whole way back… I’m okay with that. I’m unarmed.” He held both hands up casually in support of the fact he thought he was pretty harmless, all things considered. He was definitely not the muscled thug type.

“Like, probably better me than… some of the other people here, right? The Samaritans.” Theo’s gaze wandered around the room for a moment. Of all the people in here, none of them appeared to be Samaritans or enforcers - all the workers. Slaves. He hardly saw himself as a slave… but was that really what he was? He had a hard time wrapping his mind around it.

“What happens to the Samaritans? And what happens when you run out of room to take everyone back? Do you just… leave them behind or… shoot them? Because there are some people who were helping fight against the Samaritans who definitely deserve to get out of here safely - and I’m not sure you’ll believe me if I tell you who.”

Theo looked back and forth between the Major and Gordie, not really sure who would listen. Sure, he should be pleading cases to the Major - but would convincing Gordie also mean convincing her?

Virginia

Ginny regarded Gordie as words tumbled out of him, evidently his anxiety running high making his thoughts spiral and a million questions pour out. “Above yer pay grade.” She murmured, a light smile crossing her lips. She wanted nothing more than to pull him into a hug, to make him feel safe and comforted and no longer worry. “But we gotta a plan, we know how many people are here.” She glanced over to Theo as he echoed the same question that Gordie had. “No one is walking.”

She was taken aback hearing that Gordie had lashed out at Bozeman’s son, much less swung on him. As much as he was stressed and anxious now, the fact that he’d acted in such a way spoke volumes for the chaos that had happened inside of Lincoln. Her heart ached - he was too young for this shit, not enough experience and certainly not enough training.

Now Gordie was asking to bring Theo with them, back to Roanoke, but not simply there but with them. Ginny turned to fully face Theo, eyes slowly taking in the scrawny nerdy man, who continued to watch her son. “How old are ya’ll, Theo?” She asked but didn’t wait for an answer. “Twenty-three? Twenty-four?” Once more her eyes traveled down and up his form before settling her gaze back on his face.

She said nothing, for a time, mind wheeling as she tried to dig up any information she had on anyone in Lincoln named Theo. If she’d heard something from the reports, it must have been irrelevant. Ginny inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “Get yer shit.” She said, voice returning to the cold distant tone she used within her profession.

Ginny turned Gordie, giving him a nod. “Collect yer things, ya’ll are with me.”

She didn’t wait for either of the boys to answer, turning back to where she’d come from and collecting the medical cooler she’d left behind. The two privates she’d taken on were back, looking a little better than when she’d left them but they both eyed the cooler in her hand. Gin continued out the front of the medical tent, heading back for her veh
icle. Hopefully Henry doesn’t mind company on the way home…

Gordie

Roanoke. Their settlement. A new settlement for more and more. He guessed nothing could have prepared any of these people for the sudden upheaval of their lives and now being forced south to survive. As he scanned the room, he could see the hesitation that he expected, the sudden kindness of the medics being shoved away, the nervous tension of what would happen to all of them…and then Theo, smiling, as if this was the light at the end of the tunnel. He remembered the debriefings, and Gin’s talks to him prior to all this. He shouldn’t have been surprised if people didn’t want to be saved. Change was never welcomed unless it was expected, and this was not to be expected, even if it was to rid and scrub scum of the already terrible Earth. He didn’t understand it, but he felt a need to…protect…and defend Theo…from feeling what the rest of the people around him were feeling. He was thankful that he wasn’t a blubbering angry idiot at him, even if internally he was beating the shit out of himself for punching Chris, losing sight of Haewon, and…Tay…or maybe that was the gallstones…

Gordon felt like a child, standing there in front of his stern and upfront mother, ready to defend Theo like he was a broken stray animal and Gordie desperately wanted a pet. But Theo wasn’t a pet…

Was he that desperate for a friend? He was sure that Gin would scold him, tell him that he couldn’t just handpick someone out of all the refugees to just pull out of line. Preferential treatment would look awful, and not all in line with RGF humanitarianism.

The only person who was roughly around his own age was Bozeman, and he had just broken that bond with a good punch in the jaw, but they were already rocky to begin with, Bozeman meeting him during his ‘I just got the girl I had a crush on fucking killed and now life fucking sucks being in the Navy’, phase. Tay…Tay had been the other one…and that….

Jacks was fine, for a younger brother, but he acted so much younger than he actually was, and Gordie didn’t see him ever taking him seriously if they ever played video games.

Perhaps that was what this was…Theo…was his friend…and that was him craving companionship instead of just the lingering Daddy and Mommy issues.

His face turned bright red as Theo complimented him. His cheeks were bright red. He fanned at his cheek. “It’s too…hot in here…” he grumbled under his breath, ducking his head down as he moved to follow after his mom. He didn’t have much or many things to gather. His helmet was tucked under his arm, and he was working on buttoning the last few buttons, but he was fumbling a little more than usual to get it back in proper fashion.

All the answers to their questions were way above their pay grade, but Gin was at least bringing them along. He still didn’t understand the logistics of how they were getting the majority of these people out of here, without forcing them to walk along and be exposed to nature, but again, he didn’t get paid to ask those questions, just to shoot. He wanted to question just how much he was getting paid for this emotional trauma, but his paycheck was walking behind him, stumbling and grinning, as if he had just won the lottery…and maybe that wasn’t so bad.

“So, we’re moving out soon then? Like tonight?”

Probably another question he wasn’t going to get the answer too. Dawn was still breaking. He suddenly realized he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and he was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. As he pushed past the leather flap, he held it open for Theo to move through. In the morning light, there was little daylight sneaking past the dimming floodlights, and Gordon looked down at Theo, examining him in the morning break for the first time.

Maybe it was the fact that he had gotten him shot, but there was an overwhelming feeling that something was wrong with Theo. Maybe he was so broken that the only emotion he could feel anymore was happiness, which didn’t sound so bad…but it wasn’t natural. Or maybe he wasn’t comprehending that…bad shit had happened to him. Maybe he was traumatized. Maybe he was just as broken as Gordon was, but had found how to cure himself of all the nightmares that alcohol couldn’t touch…

His chest ached, as he looked at his cheek, the lingering lines of scratches and blood there. He could see the little lines of indents on his nose, where he knew that he had glasses but probably hadn’t worn them in months. His dark hair was probably fluffy right out of a shower, instead of the dirty sweaty mess that it was right now…

Fuck.

He twisted back to look at the prison, his face still a bright pink. He looked at the lingering soldiers milling around, and he sucked in a breath.

“Should really find Bozeman. Find out if that girl was okay…” He realized he was losing Gin though, and he started to move to follow her, although a little slower.

“Really wish I would get paid more to…because these answers are going to drive me fucking nuts…”

Not just to her questions…but the questions of why Theo made him feel so sick to the stomach…or again, maybe that was just the gallstones.

Theo

Above the soldier’s pay grade, and no answer given to their questions. Great. Super. Theo’s confidence in this all dipped a little. Or maybe slid sideways. Damn near anything had to be better than Lincoln, and while he was still beyond relieved and happy that this was over, this wasn’t exactly sounding like sunshine and rainbows right now. At least nobody was walking.

“Twenty-three.” Theo responded, in response to Gin’s question about his age. He wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. If she was concerned about him sharing vehicle-space with her and her son, would age even matter? A threat is a threat… which he was pretty sure he was not. Not to these people, not now, anyway.

At Gin’s command to ’get his shit’, Theo looked down and around himself, wondering what the hell kind of shit he was supposed to get - because he sure didn’t have anything to his name. Not anymore. Other people made damn sure of that. He didn’t so much as even have his wallet with his driver’s license and student identification card in it anymore, let alone something useful or meaningful. Whatever stuff he had in his cell at the prison didn’t mean much - some clothes and toiletries, nothing worth going back inside for.

“Shit gathered.” He held his arms out and motioned at himself and his big invisible bag full of nothing. All he had were the clothes on his back, which he’d put back on after Jasper was done with him. “Not unless you want to send people back into that prison to search the cells and rooms, but I don’t have anything meaningful back there.”

Theo slid off the cot, tucking his clearance sticker into his pocket and offering Gordie a grin. “At least you get some more company on the way back. It must be a long ride.” He had no idea why this request had been made, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The last thing he wanted to do was risk getting piled in with someone who might want to punch his face in for his role in… everything.

Poor Gordie though, red in the face and feeling overheated. The gallstones must be doing a number on him, after all this. He’d never had a problem like that so he wouldn’t know, but certainly it couldn’t be good. Theo flashed the doctor a pair of thumbs up as he left, trailing along behind Gin and Gordie until he stepped out into the cold air outside the tent, thanking Gordie quietly for holding the tent flap open for him.

The air still smelled like war and danger. Blood, smoke, other things he couldn’t identify and possibly didn’t want to. But he glanced up at the sky, watching the morning light break through - far more pleasant than the harsh glare of floodlights. He breathed in deeply, the smells of danger and everything, and then let out a heavy exhale. He made it, and that made him smile, no matter how exhausted he was.

Theo crossed his arms over his chest to try and hold in as much heat as he could, wincing a little at the movement in his shoulder, and eventually catching up to walk beside Gordie. The additional light and lack of immediate urgency gave him another opportunity to scope out the sea of tents that had popped up. It hit him hard just how many there were - and how many people this Roanoke place was really thinking they’d take in. He hadn’t been at the prison long enough to get a good headcount or know everyone, but it was a lot. The sheer size of the operation - both of them, really - was impressive. It was hard to feel like none of this was real, even though he knew it was.

“You get paid to do this? By who? Like… actual money?” Theo raised an eyebrow and looked over and up at Gordie, as if just now realizing how damn tall this guy was. “That’s wild. I can’t imagine people caring about money anymore.” He trailed off, studying Gordie’s face a bit before looking away, his attention drawn away by the sounds of people crying in tents they were passing. He didn’t see who it was inside, but someone was sobbing and blubbering things he couldn’t really understand. Something about not wanting to be outside.

“Uh, right, yes, go find the guy you just punched. I bet that’ll go super well.” Theo smirked, rubbing his arms before curling his hands underneath them. The movement just made the bruises around his wrists all the more obvious. Tilting his chin up, he shook his head a little to get his hair out of his face. He was in need of a damn shower and he was sure he looked like a sweaty mess.

“So if you guys aren’t leaving until… whenever, tonight, something, what should I do until then? Go wait in a tent? Otherwise I could help you see if we can find the girl.” He cleared his throat, glancing up at Gordie, then down at the ground, and for once his smile faded away completely.

“I wouldn’t say no to food, if there is any.”

Virginia

Ginny mostly ignored the two boys that followed behind her through the crowds of people and neatly organized tents. She paused every so often as a fatigue-clad messenger arrived to either relay information or hand over something more classified via note. Some she pocketed in the breast pocket of her jacket, others she handed back to the messenger and provided information. Each time, they would nod and take off to do whatever task she’d sent them on or relay their message. She’d been explicit in training them not to salute her or Henry when they arrived - they would be targets enough with the number of people they needed to speak with, adding a salute would only confirm ranks. While she doubted Cabrera’s intel was wrong - no one at the prison had been expecting them - she’d spend enough time in active combat to know better than to trust everything she was told.

As they approached the end of the parked convoy, where the Humvee that she and Henry had travelled, the crowds were fewer here, only higher-ranking military, and of those, most were working through the information and data they were collecting from the medical tents, freed captives and re-arrested inmates. None paid Ginny and her entourage any mind as they approached and passed by.

She was aware of Gordie’s further hesitance, discussing with Theo about finding the Bozeman kid or another indentured they’d freed from the prison. She was thankful to arrive at the hummer and find it devoid of Henry or anyone else - better for him to be surprised about their returning guests rather than explain it now. She turned to the back and popped open the trunk, setting down her cooler. “Drop your gear here, weapons too.” The order was to both of the boys, not specifically Gordie. She wasn’t going to let Theo in the truck with the chance he’d get a hold of any weapons, his own or Gordie’s.

Ginny waved the first of her two privates forward. “Run to the mess tent, grab some meals and drinks for them - “ She paused, considering. “And yourselves. Bring them back here.” To the second. “Blankets, from the relief tent, spare clothes too.” She wouldn’t make either of them change, but wanted to make sure Gordie had options. If he didn’t feel comfortable in his fatigues, she wouldn’t make him stay in them. He was done now, his mission complete and she’d argue with anyone who said otherwise.

With both privates already jogging back the way they had come, she turned back to the two by the truck on the Humvee. “I’ll deal with Bozeman.” She said softly, now away from anyone in uniform, she didn’t give a fuck if the civilian in thier midst heard. “Give me a hug, would’ya? Yer killin’ me.”

Gordie

Twenty-three. Gordon looked at Theo, almost in disbelief. He was older. He was three years older than him, and yet…he wasn’t…acting like it? Something had to be wrong. Again, he stared at those bruised wrists, turning yellow and gold in the rising son. Someone who had hurt him. Someone here? Someone somewhere? Someone had destroyed Theo…and it made Gordon mad, angry…and just generally confused as to why? He felt acid rising in his throat, as rage built in his temples. Why? Because he had saved this man, and now he was just realizing that someone had made it their mission to hurt him in the past? Stupid fucking military brain. He had to focus on something else…before he did something he would regret.

Military pay had never been glamorous. Gordon remembered how pissed his father had been when he had brought him in the enlistment papers, slamming them on his desk, and how he retorted that he would never be expected to have a cent of Whitaker Pharmaceuticals, and that he could be expected to be poor the rest of his life. He wondered what the shock to his father had been when the banks and stock markets had crashed, leaving him penniless. He would have loved to have been a fly on the wall, watching his father and mother both lose their shit over their whole empire built on drugs falling to the ground.

“Paid in maybe a few extra meals once a month, a few more thanks, and the thought of a job well done?” Gordon shrugged. “It ain’t something to be worried about.”

Sure, he might have missed the extra little bit of money…but money wasn’t shit anymore. Nobody cared unless they wanted to show off…and he had learned real quick that bragging about a fancy car was a good way to get the shit beat out of him in the navy.

The sobbing dug at him, the general misery of it all, and he was thankful that Gin was leading them away, to a little bit of a sanctuary away from everyone.

“If anything, probably deserves another punch…but he really…he saved me…he saved you too… so…thought I’d tell him thanks if I saw him.”

If Bozeman hadn’t yelled over the radio, they might not have both been there. It could have been their bodies being drug through the snow, and he could only imagine what Gin would have done then…

Gordon followed the Major to the back, quickly stripping his rifle free, along with the heavy tactical gear around his waist. His jacket was the only thing keeping him warm in the falling gentle snow, but he was so tired. His fatigues were stained with not only Theo’s blood, but blood from the few men that he had shot. Once again, he felt sorry for their washing machine at home…but he imagined he could probably get new ones once again. He was itching to get out of them. He was thankful that she asked for clothes and blankets. It meant he was done. God, he was done. He had lived…again.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. As soon as they were in private, aside from Theo which Gordie assumed would never leave at this point, he wrapped his arms around Gin and tugged her in. His head fell to her shoulder. The tension that he had been holding in his upper arms relaxed, and his shoulders sagged. His body leaned into hers, and he let out the heaviest of sighs. He didn’t want to cry. Crying had always been a sign of weakness. It's what his father told him, and yelled at his nannies for, asking them why he was crying and to ‘take care of it’. His tears were a burden. It’s what he always thought, but God, he was so done again. Bozeman had shot Trips. He was probably dealing with that same burden that Gordon had been dealing with with the guilt from Tay, but Trips was fine…or he would be…

“Trips is the only one…who got hurt this time. I think. I didn’t get shot. I’m alive. I did it, Mom. I didn’t fuck it up this time.”

He squeezed her tight. “We didn’t fuck up.”

He didn’t want to let go. He buried his head into her shoulder, wiping the few tears that had leaked free on her own fatigues and then pulled away, to look at Theo.

“Back seat of the humvee will be warm. It’ll be quiet too. It’ll be tight but…we can take turns taking naps or something. I just want to change, and not be in this…anymore. I want a drink. I want to sleep. I want to eat. I wanna be a fucking kid again and not be here. Oh…Now that I think about it. I don’t even think you know my name…”

He blushed, embarrassed and waited for a slap on the wrist as he twisted back to look at the rising son.

“Gordon.” He mumbled. “My name’s Gordon. I don’t even know if I told you that the whole time we were in there but…that was for security reasons. You can stay here. Nobody will bother us. I don’t think people will like you wandering around anyway. We can get food and just sleep? That’s okay Mom?”

He turned back to Gin, and then at the back of the humvee. As much as he hated that cramped piece of metallic junk, it was the closest thing to getting back to Roanoke right now, and his own bed, and it was their own little piece of heaven.

Theo

Theo was watching. Studying. Not just Gordie, but Gin, and everyone who approached her, and everyone he caught sight of around them. He couldn’t make it through life being the tough badass stack of muscle, so he had to survive in other ways: being smart and observant. He was already picking up a lot that he wasn’t sure anyone else knew they were putting down.

Gin was important, that much was clear, and possibly in charge of all this. If not the one in charge, then damn near high up and close to. The messengers who approached her didn’t salute, but they didn’t need to - he saw the subtle change in their body language that would have preceded a salute had they all not intentionally been holding themselves back. He even noticed how one or two of them had almost started to salute before they remembered themselves and tried to play it off like adjusting a hat or wild hair.

That was interesting.

If Gin was important and Gordie was her son, then that meant Gordie was, unofficially, important too. Maybe he didn’t have the fancy rank like she did, but it wasn’t out of the question that Gordie got some special treatment somehow, somewhere. Theo cast a glance aside at Gordie, considering this train of thought, entirely catching the taller man in the act of looking at him in return.

Gordie didn’t look like a nepo-baby. If he was, he either wouldn’t be here and would be back home snug as a bug in a rug, or he’d be strutting around like he owned the place as all “son of the bossman” types tended to do. Neither of those were happening. Especially when he heard Gordie’s payment was all of a whole extra couple of meals, infrequently. Talk about minimum wage - you couldn’t eat a pat on the back, and thanks didn’t keep you warm.

Okay, so shelve the nepo-baby theory - not disproven entirely, but the data didn’t support it at this time.

Pausing at the back of a Humvee with his rescuers, he stood idly by as Gin popped the trunk open and gave her orders. Right, gear and weapons… it made him realize he did have a weapon at one point, but not now.

“Hn.” He grunted, furrowing his brow as he squinted off into the distance towards the prison. There was literally nowhere on his person he could have hid it. It wasn’t like he could just shove it in a pocket. “I have no idea where I dropped that piece of metal. Probably back there by the cars, where I got shot. Doesn’t matter though. It was…” He trailed off, holding one arm close to his body and frowning. It wouldn’t be long before that local anesthetic the doctor gave him would start to wear off. That wouldn’t be fun.

“It was just a hunk of metal.” He mumbled, omitting the rest of his thoughts. In a show of peace and goodwill, he turned his pockets out for Gin and Gordie, showing he had nothing on himself.

“I don’t have anything. You can search me if you need to.” He shrugged. He didn’t actually want to get patted down and definitely not anything invasive, but he was in no position to argue. Besides, he figured the order was really for Gordie, not for him. He never had an opportunity to acquire and keep any kind of gear or weapons in the first place.

Theo’s mind was too busy churning over questions and concerns and worries that when Gordie leaned in to give Gin a hug, he blinked and stared at them for a second - before quickly looking away. It felt like a moment not meant for his eyes, no matter how sweet it was.

His heart hurt a little as he looked away, then he smiled softly as a stray snowflake landed on his nose. The cold made him wrinkle his nose a bit before he could wipe the melted snowflake away.

Letting Gordie and Gin have their moment uninterrupted, Theo scooted away and stood a few steps off to the side, rocking back and forth on his feet. He desperately wanted to climb into the Humvee, but didn’t want to do anything that looked suspicious. Last thing he wanted was to make it this far only for some trigger-happy lackey somewhere to think he was acting suspicious around Momma Bear Army Queen here and put a bullet between his eyes.

When Gordie spoke to him, he blinked a little owlishly, rattled out of his thoughts - and then grinned. “A warm backseat sounds like the best place to sleep right now… and yeah, it’s a little awkward, y’know, you doing the whole saving-my-life thing and I have no idea what your name is…. And all I’ve done is ramble at you about radios and shit.”

Gordon. It was a surprise, actually. The grumpy, tall-as-a-tree, blonde, blue-eyed, blood covered man in front of him had a young face and an old-soul manner to him. It made him uncertain if the guy was going to have a young-sounding or an old-sounding name. He could have been named Kyle or Cecil or Brayden or Arthur and any of those would have fit. Instead, he was a Gordon, and he couldn’t decide if that sounded old or young. That made it all the more fitting for this curious person in front of him.

“Theodore, but call me Theo.” Theo held out his hand - the one on his good side - for Gordie to shake. “Thanks, Gordon, for saving us.” Not just him. Us. His hand was surprisingly steady despite the fading streaks of dirt. Other than the bruises around his wrists, some fading knicks and scratches, and mild calluses on his fingers, he didn’t bear the hallmarks of someone who’d been worked to the bone in that prison like a lot of the slaves did.

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to not being in all this anymore too.”

Virginia

Ginny held Gordie close, loved he feel of him squeezing her back, resting his head on her shoulder, hearing him word vomit about Trips and Bozeman, ringing reminders of Tay. Finally, he talked about not fucking it up. He hadn’t, she’d had faith in him - their first mission hadn’t even been his fucking fault; she blamed Henry entirely for him leading the charge into an unknown place because some old man in his underwear had told them about it. There had been no planning, no intel, no idea what they were walking into and too many of their new and young recruits had come back damaged; physically, mentally, if they came back at all.

After that mission, plenty of the youngest of their members had AWOL, more than she cared to admit. Some had been retrieved, given a second chance, but some were gone. Disappeared into the night.

She’d seen Gordie when he’d returned, the boy hadn’t been good when he left, he’d come back a shell. This wasn’t simply her being overprotective, it was throwing people into situations they were unprepared for and then being surprised when they broke.

She said nothing, they’d have their own debrief drinking later, in private when she could speak freely and not worry about someone overhearing then later deciding there was any kind of nepotism at foot here.

Gin watched as her son focused on the other boy again, this was more than simple infatuation or the ongoing desire to protect the person he’d rescued, and it almost appeared that Theo reciprocated the feelings. She decided then that Theo would be on her list to be interviewed.

Theo, for his part, appeared to give them some privacy, without wandering away. She appreciated it; score one for the skinny nerd. “Fresh clothes and food should be here soon.” She stepped to the side of the Humvee, opening the back door for the two boys, then stepping to the driver's side to lean in and grab the radio there. She changed the channel, then turned down the volume, this way they could reach her if needed,
but they wouldn’t hear the flurry on incoming reports while they rested. She returned it to the cupholder in the console between the seats. “I have more work to do here.” She continued, closing the driver door. “Radio’s upfront, if you need me, I’m on the channel it's set to.”

Gordie

He never wanted to let Gin go. His head nestled close into the crook of her neck. His back might have ached more at lowering himself down, curse the fucking height differences and Alaskan nutrients in the water that probably caused him to grow like a giraffe, but nothing beat the warmth of her love. He didn’t want to leave. He knew she had things to do, people to save, be the important boss that she was trying to be, but he hadn’t died. He hadn’t fucked up. She made him feel like…the mother he never had, the mother he should have had, not the mother who shoved a nanny at him whenever he cried, or refused to pick him up, or change his diaper or just in general be disgusted by him. She never made him feel like that, even now when he was caked in mud, dirt, and dried blood.

Fuck favoritism. Fuck nepotism. Gin was his mother, forever and always, and if she wanted to give him a cake in front of everyone else, then he’d sit there and eat it because he god damn well deserved it….and she made him feel like he deserved it.

Theo presented the idea of patting him down for weapons, just to be sure. Gordon twisted his head to the side, hoping that the glare of the first sunrise was enough to hide the blush that was returning. No. Why? Why did he care so much about being in such close proximity to this stranger that…he just barely knew? Stupid.

“Not necessary…unless I have reason to fear you…” He mumbled, and while Theo had maybe a tad bit more muscle mass in his arms, Gordon towered over him, and could probably pin him beneath him if he did try anything stupid. Heaven forbid Gin and Captain Austin come back to their humvee covered in blood, and Theo began his mass murder spree…that Gordon wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t capable of…

He had been ready to stand his ground, skin another man for even attempting to shoot at him, pried a radio from a dead man’s hands, and hadn’t flinched a bit, but…

God, why couldn’t he figure him out? He was either the most dangerous man in this prison, or he was the unluckiest son of a bitch who had learned how to live on his own with a smile on his face….either way, Gordie just couldn’t get him out of his head. He took his hand, fingers gripping his tight, clenching it between his own, feeling the back of his knuckles with his toughened fingers, and then letting go, twisting back to the humvee as Gin opened the door, and he was quick to clamber into the back, scooting to the far side. His head instantly collided with the plexiglass window. It was already feeling much warmer than the snow filled grounds. He flexed his jacket off, leaving him in that tight military green shirt, and military fatigue pants. He wanted to slide out of his boots, but he left them off. He tried not to take up too much room, which was hard when he was already so tall, and all he wanted to do was stretch out, when there was no room. His eyes closed and he mumbled a quiet ‘Thanks Mom’ to Gin, barely registering what she was saying about the radio. He wouldn’t need it. What stupidity could happen now?

He was free. He was done. He didn’t have to do this anymore. Not today. He had done his damn part. His cheek hit the chilled part of the window, and he let out a heavy sigh, looking over at Theo as he scrambled in next to him, and they shut the door. The world around them quieted, except for the empty bit of static that filtered in from the radio. He looked back at Theo. He was exhausted. Every bit of him was starting to ache. Food was coming. He might be able to change into pajama pants if he was lucky. Who the fuck cared if he walked out of here in non-miltiary fatigues? He’d done his stupid duty, boomers. Deal with it. He wanted to grumble. His lip twinged into a smile at the thought of telling Captain Austin ‘No Cap’ to his face, and watching him struggle with the Gen Z humor.

“You’re only twenty-three? I won’t be twenty-one for another few months. How did you learn so much about radios?”

Every question he wanted to ask Theo felt like it was bubbling at the surface. He stared at the bruises on his wrist, and he resisted the hard hitting ones. Why was he in prison? Had he been here prior to the end? Who decided to hurt him? The questions that Gin would probably try and cover in an interview…

“So, um…what’s your favorite video game then? I know you like them, but…”

His eyes were drooping. It was anything to keep himself from falling asleep, and Theo as well, because two boys falling asleep in a humvee also led to questions around the fort, ones that he didn’t know if Theo wanted to be dragged into, and Gordie didn’t know the actual answers himself.

“Shit…”

He sat up, seeing a figure approaching Gin. He was almost unrecognizable, but Gordon remembered the man from Norfolk, and he looked grim. Cabrera had been their inside man, that much he knew, but this man looked like he had been through so much worse than just being locked inside of a prison for the better part of a year.

“What’s happening now?” He wanted to scoot up front, and listen, but thought better of it.

“Did you know Cabrera?” He looked back at Theo.


Theo

The promise of food, water, warmth, and a change of clothes meant everything these days. To top it all off, he’d received medical care. This was already looking better than the prison - a low bar to clear, truthfully, but it wasn’t all that long ago Denise promised him food and shelter too, and look where that got him. Not that he really had a choice - then, or now.

Gordie’s comment that patting him down wasn’t necessary was a welcome one - he was pretty done with being touched by strangers right now - but the addition of ’unless I have reason to fear you’ felt like one of those traps cops make when they pull over someone. He couldn’t describe how, but he’d seen enough television to feel like it. Not that he’d ever been pulled over himself, of course.

“Nah, you don’t.” It was as honest of an answer as he could give. Neither of them knew enough about each other to decide otherwise. This blonde string-bean was with people who came to save the day, for whatever reason. He was holed up with the bad guys though not of his own volition and had readily helped the other side out every chance he got. If it wasn’t obvious now he wasn’t one of them vis a vis the Samaritans, then there wasn’t anything he could have said or done to prove otherwise.

Climbing up into the Humvee after Gordie, he glanced over his shoulder just to make sure nobody was taking aim at his back for daring to touch one of their vehicles. Nobody was paying them any attention. Letting out a sigh of relief, he ducked inside and shut the door behind him.

The immediate change in atmosphere inside the Humvee compared to being outside of it was startling enough to make him pause a moment as he sat in his seat, next to the window opposite of Gordie. He held his arm close to his body on his injured side, not wanting to move it any more than necessary, and finally let out a heavy breath and slumped back into the seat.

The inside of the Humvee wasn’t much to look at. A typical SUV or even a minivan would have been more comfortable. This was cramped, stripped down to necessities, and full of hard surfaces and equipment. But more importantly it was safe, it was a ride out to someplace even safer (he hoped), it was warm, and nobody was going to try and kill him in here. Again - hopefully.

In the minimal amount of room he had, Theo leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair, eyes closed as he took a moment to simply breathe and enjoy the relative quiet. The Humvee was full of nothing but the occasional static burst from the radio and the sound of Gordie shuffling around. His body wanted sleep, but his mind was too full of keyed-up buzzing for that to be possible yet.

At the declaration Gordie wasn’t even twenty-one yet, Theo raised a brow and whipped his attention over to the other man. Mister Hero wasn’t even old enough to drink yet? Should he feel ancient? Because he didn’t. Not necessarily. Both of them were out here doing things that were, to steal a team from the rescuers, above their pay grade.

“Nerd’s gonna nerd.” It was a stupid answer, but the thing that came to mind first as Theo slumped back against the seat and let himself relax, folding his arms over his lap. This damn thing didn’t have much for arm rests and that seemed like a significant oversight.

“I was in college for computer science, but I played around with how radios worked since I was in high school. Just a side hobby thing, y’know? I had a ham radio in my bedroom. It was pretty cool when I stumbled on someone else on it and talked to a random person from somewhere far away. A lot of older people, mostly. Everyone our age was online.” He grinned at the memory, missing those days sorely. “I ran my college’s radio station before shit went south. It was pretty cool. Those things-” He motioned at the radio Gin left them up front “-are just smaller, shorter-distance versions than what I played around with. Same with the ones in the prison. If you know how they work, you know how to break ‘em too. That’s why the radios inside the prison didn’t work - first for the Samaritans, then for you guys.”

Theo flashed a proud grin at Gordie. “That second part was unintended of course. We were just looking for ways to fuck shit up for the Samaritans. I’m the reason the radios got jammed.” He left out the part about how terrifying it was to sneak around the prison and plant the little devices where hopefully they wouldn't be found, knowing the battery life was limited and they would be running up against the clock… and that messing up meant people would die.

“Hard to pick just one. My friends and I played mostly shooters since that’s just what’s out there for multiplayer, but I like strategy games the most. The ones that make you think. Stellaris is one of the best…” Theo trailed off; both of them had their attention nabbed by the figure approaching Gin.

He grimaced at the sight of Cabrera up here, so close to all these apparently important military people, looking so…. Relaxed? That made no sense. Wouldn’t he be in handcuffs? He was damn lucky he was alive - though he looked like he was damn close to being not-alive at this point.

“What the hell?” Theo muttered under his breath, slowly shaking his head. Something didn’t feel good about this.

“Cabrera? Shit, of course I know him. Everyone knows King’s right hand man. I mean like, he’s not on my Christmas card list or anything, but the guy is scary as shit. No way in hell would I want to end up in the same room as him.” He narrowed his eyes at the scene beyond the window. The guy looked like he got the shit beat out of him, and he couldn’t exactly say it wasn’t deserved. He sighed watching the curious exchange.

“We were under strict orders not to harm him though. Like, the rebellion, I mean. But that’s what the guy in charge of it all said.” Theo lowered his voice a little and did his best possible impression of Weston, accent and all. “Under noGoddamn* circumstances will any of y’all so much as glare sideways at him or take a peek at what he might look like on the other end of your sights. You do that, I take you out back and end you myself. We clear?”*

Theo cleared his voice and shrugged. “I don’t know why that was the rule. I assume he had it out for that guy and wanted to kill him himself.” He nodded his head in Cabrera’s direction. “I mean, the guy leading the rebellion is scary as shit too, but I hope you guys don’t like… execute him. He doesn’t deserve it. That guy though? Cabrera? I dunno man, I’ve heard stories.”

Gordie

Theo wasn’t just a nerd. He was an advanced nerd. He had the whole college degree thing to back him up, not that Gordon needed much more evidence besides the D&D tattoo, the shredded Pac-man shirt, and the ability to run about shit for far too long were things he had ignored. He just didn’t know how deep the nerdom had run. Nerd was going to nerd.

Gordon watched, leaning his head back, arms sliding behind his head as he leaned in the opposite side of the humvee. College had been his parent’s plans. Business administration, some kind of law degree they could slip him into at Harvard or Dartmouth or whenever had an opening that would take bribes under the table. He didn’t need to be smart, just show up to class once in a while, and he could have whatever he needed. He figured his parents wouldn’t even know he had gone to college, unless someone slipped that they didn’t see him on campus. He thought about running away. He talked about it with Nathan too many times. College might have been the answer…if Nathan hadn’t come up with the Navy plan first.

“Anyone ever tell you to, I don’t know, maybe not talk to strangers on CB radios? Older men on radios sound way more dangerous than Snapchat.”

He raised an eyebrow, but his lip tugged into a little smirk. He wondered what college would have been like, if he had gone…would he have been doing something just as nerdy? Probably not. He’d be staring at cars, racing them in parking lots, probably talking about boats….because what else had he known besides the lifestyle of the rich and famous. He still hadn’t ever smoked weed. Gin probably would kill him now…That was kind of a refreshing thought the more he thought about it. A mother who cared enough to kill him for doing something illegal.

He looked at the radio stuck in the dash. Short distance, huh? Made sense. Didn’t need people knowing when they were coming, but also wanted to communicate with the humvee in front of you. He twisted back to look at Theo, raising another eyebrow.

“Wait. You were the one who jammed the radios? How? How the hell did you do that when you’ve been locked in this hellhole? Did you also build robots in college? How do you jam a radio?” He was partially curious, but also wondering if he could do it again at the drop of a hat, like if all it took was sticking a piece of tin foil on an old filling or rubbing two pieces of iron together and hoping they created enough…science shit in the air to do something. Maybe Theo was dangerous. More dangerous than…damaged.

He just casually dropped a ‘Hey I made a dangerous piece of technology that probably fucked over the military’, and went right back to talking about video games. Again, maybe more dangerous than damaged after all. Gordon sucked in a breath and looked at the radio again on the dash, and then towards the woman standing outside the humvee.

What if….What if Gin was listening…What if she had a feeling too…What if this little humvee hangout…was not as a secret or private as he had hoped?

He looked at Cab, watching him motion with his hands. His words were muffled by the iron and plastic, so he couldn’t clearly hear what exactly he wanted, but he saw him motion to one of the humvees. He frowned even more, as Theo started to go on a rant about the man, even using a terrible…what even in the fuck was that accent…Alabamian?

Most of the military saw Cabrera as some warhero, or at least, he acted like it. Head held high, goofy fucking grin on his face, as if he wanted the attention. Gordon had always kind of wanted to wipe the smile off of his face. He had his little band of brothers that followed his every waking footstep. The typical warhero who probably could have had his face plastered on every book in a store if he wanted to, instead of Dieter Fucking Kohler, and would have actually meant it. Heart of gold Cabrera. It kind of made him sick. The way that Theo described him, as being a villain, the second hand man to the whole ringleader of this fucked up prison? It fit him, but also…he didn’t know that he had been undercover this whole time. He didn’t know that he was trying to do good. Of course, he saw him as being scary and terrifying, when in reality, the man sang fucking Pitbull at the top of his lungs, shirtless until he passed out drinking.

Cabrera could be scary if he wanted to be. How fucked up had he been? Gin waved him on, and they marched past their humvee, but Gordon swore he saw the man twist his head back to look at them. Shit. Could he hear him? Could he hear Theo?

“Dude. Shut the hell up.” He whispered, practically darting across the humvee, throwing his body across Theo and pressing his hand over top of his lips, glaring at him.

“I think they can hear you. Fuck. Stop insulting him.”

​
 

VHvDYET.jpeg


Band-Aids and Ice Packs Part 4
Outside Lincoln - Inside a Humvee​

Theo

“Talking to strangers on the radio for the fun of it is the whole point of ham radio! Or was, anyway. I actually never met a weirdo on the radio - found plenty online, though. Can’t send an unsolicited picture over the radio, y’know?” Theo rolled his eyes - sure, he had been pretty trusting back then, but it wasn’t like he ever gave anyone enough detail to track him down. Still, sharing this information pulled a little smirk out of Gordie and that felt worth it. He knew there had to be some personality in there, beneath the tired grumpiness.

“Yeah, that was me. Well, me and a lady who was in the prison too. They brought her in from someplace else as one of the slaves. She was an engineer - we worked together to figure out how to do it with what we had on hand. Getting the right parts together took some time, and then hiding them all was the scariest part. We also needed batteries to power them. We took apart whatever we could get our hands on.” Theo looked down, a blush creeping over his face - Gordie seemed so flabbergasted that anyone could put together such a feat. He wanted to say it was no big deal… but honestly, it kind of was a big deal.

“They were mostly made out of microwaves, wi-fi routers, and some aux speakers. The concept is pretty simple - make a lot of junk noise on the frequencies the radio works on, and then all the radio picks up is garbage. It’s like the technical equivalent of walking into a room banging pots and pans together: nobody’s going to hear a thing over all your racket.” He shrugged. “Nah, I didn’t build robots in college, I got into programming instead - I wanted to make video games. BattleBots was an awesome t.v. show though, even if there are better uses f-”

Theo found himself shutting up right quick when Gordie was suddenly damn near on him with a hand pressed over his mouth. His eyes widened - first at the sudden movement, then at Gordie’s words, and then at the realization of how close Gordie was… and how damn tall he was too. He also realized, with a quick burst of fear and sheepishness, he’d wrapped his left hand around Gordie’s wrist almost immediately, gripping tight. Muscles in his forearm tightened as his body put him in a state of alertness, ready to fight off the blonde man in case he needed to despite the recent rescue.

He held his breath and blinked for a moment, staring at Gordie and studying his face rather than looking out the window to watch Cabrera stalk past them. He was pressed against the door and window behind him, sitting at an angle. If anyone opened this door he’d probably fall right out of the Humvee.

Finally convincing himself he wasn’t going to get murdered here and now, Theo let out a slow breath through his nose. He could smell Gordie with the man this close: sweat, blood, and something faintly medicinal on his breath. It wasn’t awful, though it could be better. He’d run into worse in the prison.

Theo let out a two-syllable grunt that was probably intended to sound like “Sorry” behind Gordie’s hand. One finger at a time, he loosened his grip on Gordie’s wrist and let go, holding his hands at his sides in a placating gesture. He was flexible enough that if he really needed to, he could plant his foot against Gordie’s chest and shove him off that way if it came to that. But, he didn’t - choosing to remain pressed against the Humvee window and door, staring at Gordie and watching for his next move. The fear had already mostly faded from his eyes as he studied Gordie intently, ready for whatever came next.

Gordie

Theo was rambling. Gordie was half listening, half watching desperately out the window, waiting for the small indication, a small head twist, a small nod, a small smirk, or something that told him that these conversations were private and not indeed being listened in on, because someone was paranoid. In all honesty, he was probably the more paranoid one, but what did he know? But he didn’t want to be in more trouble, and for Major Wallace to have to dig him out of an even bigger hole than the one she was already probably going to have to dig him out of for punching Bozeman in the face? Now he was out of his fatigues and in the back of a humvee with one of the residents of Lincoln Correctional Facility? Scandalous.

Maybe no one would care that much, but he cared. He stupidly cared.

Gordon pressed himself against Theo. It was a quick tactic, like pressing himself over top of someone to protect them from a grenade blast. One hand pressed against his lips, the other against his chest, moving it upwards, fingers trailing as he got to his unhurt shoulder and pressed him down. His breath was warm against the palm of his hand. Suddenly, his hand came up to grip Gordon’s, wrapping around his wrist, pressing his nails against the skin.

A reflex. Gordie looked down at Theo. A reaction to what he had just done, one out of a fear, one that…he possibly had been in before, and maybe Gordon had just triggered a PTSD reaction in him, all out of stupid selfish fear for himself. He growled a little, twisting his head back up to look out the window. Gordon frowned, waiting to see if Cabrera was still there, walking past the window, but it appeared as if he was gone. Their surroundings were quiet. He sighed. The rumble of a humvee behind him kept him still. He could see headlights flip on, and he ducked his head down low, moving his head down to Theo’s level. His mumbled sorry felt odd on the palm on his hand, a tingle lingering at the back of Gordon’s head. Like the feeling of someone’s first kiss, except there was no kissing. It was a brief tingle of intimacy.

Theo pulled away. The pressure of his tightened grip on his wrist was released. His fingers padded Theo’s cheek, patting lightly at the tissue before pulling his hand back, wiping his hand on the palm of his camouflage pants. He leaned back. He had dived across the humvee. His legs had crammed themselves in the same seat as Theo, knees knocking against his. His chest was pressed against his. He pushed his arms back. He was hovering above him now, the little blonde locks that hadn’t been sweatily pushed into his hairline, falling down. He breathed heavy, head bowed against his chest.

“No. I’m sorry. I…”

He lifted a hand, brushing his hair into his sweaty forehead and pushed against the door. The humvee was still locked, thankfully. The rumble from behind said that Cabrera had driven off, and they were alone again.

“I…I just didn’t want to get in trouble. That’s all.” He huffed, moving back to his own seat and crossing his arms. His head bowed low against his chest. The last time he had told someone to shut up like that….it was one of the last things that he’d ever said to her, and now he….was feeling the forces of PTSD weighing heavy on his chest. He sighed and twisted, looking out the window, leaving Theo in awkward silence for a moment as he thought.

“You can go back…to talking about radios…” He mumbled. Something to dull the noise in his head for a moment. “You were talking about…Battlebots? I remember the show…but briefly and only because it was a nerd show…”

Theo

When was the last time anyone had been this close to him? A hand on his mouth silencing him, another on his chest sliding up to his shoulder - thankfully his uninjured one otherwise he really would have yelled - chest to chest and knees against his. They were so close not only could he smell Gordie, he could feel his breath and feel his body moving when he inhaled. Hell, he could probably count how many seconds Gordie held his breath before letting it out.

A stranger was pinning him down forcefully, in a place they quite possibly wouldn’t be seen or heard, and by all rights he should be terrified right now. Terrified and angry and affronted at the intrusion into his personal space.

And yet, he wasn’t. The contact was oddly electric with the speed and confidence in which Gordie moved. Yeah, sure, he was being told to shut up and get down, but by the way he was watching outside with such close attention there must have been a reason.

Oh Christ, and then the guy growled.

Beams of headlights flickered over some of the shinier parts of the inside of the humvee as a vehicle somewhere pulled away and drove off. Was that what Gordie was watching? He didn’t hear shouting or shooting outside, so either it was not a big deal or nobody but them had witnessed it.

Theo let out a heavy breath around Gordie’s hand, subtly twisting his hips to the side. The absolute last thing he needed right now was for his body to catch up with his mind about how unexpectedly fucking hot being pinned down was like this was. Especially with his arms held in place, Gordie hovering over him, those blonde sweaty locks falling wherever, and -

Ah, hell.

Theo bent his knees and brought his legs up a little closer to himself, letting out another huff as Gordie took his hand away, leaving him to curl up in his seat. This was absolutely not the time or place or people for this. Free again, and already feeling an odd void in Gordie’s absence as the man took his seat on the other side of the humvee, Theo wrapped his arms around himself and decided to stare out the back window instead. Maybe if he was lucky Gordie wouldn’t see him blushing.

“.... I forgot what I was talking about.” He mumbled right back, clearing his throat. “Y’know, you could have just told me to shut up. I am capable of listening to instructions.” He cast Gordie a grin, though it faded as he studied the man’s face.

“What was that about?” He glanced over his shoulder, out the back window, then the other direction and out his side window before returning his attention to Gordie. “Did your people honestly let him drive off? Why? He-”

A lightbulb suddenly turned on in his head as things clicked together. The brief glimpse he’d seen of Gordie’s mother and Cabrera out the window looked too familiar. Friendly, but respectful. Not the exchange of people on opposite sides…

“Holy shit.” He muttered, going wide-eyed at Gordie. He couldn’t help but curl up a little tighter in his seat. “Your mom knows him.” It was a statement, not a question. He narrowed his eyes at Gordie now, studying him and his reactions.

“Who else? How many others were inside?”

Gordie

There was a subtle breeze around the door of the humvee. Gordon was thankful that they were made cheap and fast. It allowed a small little bit of cold air to chill his warming red cheeks, and give him something else to take his mind off of what he had just done. Had he been too rough? Theo was quiet himself, turned away, curling in on himself, and for a few seconds, Gordon regretted what he had done. Maybe he had grabbed his injured shoulder by mistake? Maybe he had hurtled him too hard into the metallic interior? These things hadn’t exactly been built for comfort or long journeys. They’d probably break down at least once before they got home….He was about to ask if he was okay, when he was back to twisting himself around, and smiling at him. Smiling. Gordon raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed.

God, maybe he had just fucked him up a little more, and he was too kind to let him know. Theo might have forgotten what he was talking about, but Gordon hadn’t…he had lingered on his words, listening about batteries and…Battlebots…He used to make fun of kids like Theo in school. Private school. Fucking hell. Private school. He had gone to a school for the elite. Nothing was too good for the Whitaker boys. He had gone to school with rich kids from all over, but it wasn’t like he felt that he bonded with them. Not like…Eli. Racing Ferrari’s on the weekends, getting drunk on yachts, spending his weekends not worrying if he was failing chemistry because…he’d never need it. His future had been set in stone…and when Nathan had shocked the world by joining the Navy…Gordon knew exactly what he was doing…and when it hadn’t worked…he did the same thing. He had forgotten about most of those people, most of those people who probably had some rich private bunker they were all set up in, and the end of the world was just an excuse to drink themselves to death. He didn't have friends. He hadn’t had a family. He had money that paid for most of his connections…and nerds? He paid for nerds to do his homework, or rather, his dad had. Anything that Theo was talking about? Going to college, making things of nothing, knowing how things worked inside and out? He was a damn genius…He liked to listen to him ramble…because it reminded him that the world wasn’t just guns and shooting and him being a complete idiot about the way the world worked.

What if he was the broken one?

“I don’t know about that one. You kept fucking smiling and laughing when I told you to play dead.”

He twisted his head back to the door, hoping that the cold air would hide the grin that was threatening to poke through his face, and the blush. He twisted around again after a moment, watching the humvee drive off in the distance again, and then back at Theo. Theo was starting to put the pieces together, the pieces that Gordon already knew. He frowned again, and raised an eyebrow before he realized that Theo wouldn’t have known. He shouldn’t have known, and he couldn’t have known.

“Yeah. We all know him. He’s one of us. I don’t remember. I think there was another guy that went with him? Thought there was supposed to be someone else too, but I don’t think they went. I don’t know. I’m just the monkey in this circus, and Major Wallace…my…’mom’...” he held his hands up, ready to do air quotes, but stopped himself. “Yeah…my mom…Don’t call her my mom…in public….She’s not…really my mom, but….that’s….just…call her Major Wallace.” He twisted his head away again, looking at the radio, almost embarrassed that he even thought to call Gin not his mom…He was still warming up to the idea of calling her mom, even if it had been a year and a half at this rate.

“Cabrera’s always been one of our men. He wasn’t supposed to be there that long, I don’t think. We’ve been training for this day for far too long. Again, I’m just a monkey in the damn circus, and my mom is the ringleader along with Captain Austin. This whole thing is probably in part his problem too. He didn’t…seem suspicious to you?”

The front door to the humvee swung open, and Gordon immediately straightened up in his seat. It was one of the officers that Gin had sent off, carrying a handful of clothes and two meals. He dumped the clothes in front of the driver's seat, and passed the meals to the passenger seat, before he nodded at the two of them and shut the door. Gordon slumped back as soon as they had gone, and stood up, stretching over the center console to grab a handful of the clothes. The officer must have grabbed a random assortment of sizes. Most of them were donated by the few Roanoke citizens who felt hopeful to their cause. He pulled free a pair of jeans, checked the size, groaned a little, and tossed them back. He’d make them work. Finding his size, when he already regarded by being freakishly tall by most of the men around him, was already a pain in the ass before the end of the world. He grabbed the darkest looking shirt in the bunch, a black shirt that was faded, but said, ‘My Boyfriend Bought Me This Shirt at Virginia Beach’. He groaned, and started to turn it inside out.

“Did I hurt your shoulder by the way?” he grumbled, finishing twisting the embarrassing tourist attraction shirt inside out, and moving to grab the ends of his own shirt. “You still look like you’re in pain….and I know I promised to make you a sling.” He wanted out of his own fatigue so badly that he was already grabbing at the ends of his green shirt, and pulling it above his head. His dogtags raised with him, as it got stuck momentarily on his ears, revealing his abs, not fully developed in a six pack, but had the workings of one. The brief hair that was on his chest was full of blonde peach fuzz. He tugged the shirt free from his body, leaving him shirtless, the little army necklace of death dangling down between his pectoral muscles, as he looked at Theo.

“You still want one?”

Theo

One of Theo’s favorite things to do was take stuff apart and figure out how it worked. He’d spent his whole childhood doing it, and a portion of his young adulthood too, until the end of the world realigned his immediate priorities. People were a thing to figure out too - though the taking them apart step part was less literal in that aspect. He already wanted to take Gordie apart and figure him out. Why did he only seem to have one mood: pissed off? Maybe two - pissed off, and pissed off about being sheepish. Was it just the danger and seriousness of the current situation? Would he lighten back once they got back to this Roanoke place? Was it all just a poker face? Theo had never been great at hiding what he was thinking or feeling, wearing it all on his face. Subsequently, he was terrible at poker.

Being told he kept smiling and laughing after being told to play dead made him blush, and there was no hiding that. He scoffed at the accusation. “No I didn’t…. Did I?” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. Gordie was just bullshitting him, that’s all. In his mind, he got told to shut up and got pinned down all in the same breath. Unless he just really wasn’t paying attention during his nervous ramble.

The revelation that King’s Right-Hand-Man was a plant by this military group the whole time was a surprise, but one he accepted without that much mental struggle. Of course a group this organized would insert people into other communities undercover. He sighed and shook his head. “Maybe that was why we were told not to go after him… maybe he knew? Hm.” He muttered, staring out the window. The information made him question whether the rebellion was really a home-grown event out of desperation, or part of a bigger plan. It seemed valiant but risky as hell, but maybe there was more to it.

Theo shook his head. “Nah. I avoided him, but from what I did see? Just another thug full of shit. Cocky. Got in people’s faces when he needed to. Always looked angry about something. Just like a lot of other people in there-” He cut himself off when someone opened the humvee door. He tensed, uncertain what to expect, having all but forgotten about the promised clothing and food. Promises like that tended to be broken more than met, anyways, so when Gin’s people really did deliver? Another point in favor of these people.

He waited until after Gordie had his pick before he leaned forward, careful not to move his injured shoulder as he dragged out the rest of the pile that hadn’t been claimed. The dark grey sweatpants looked way too big, so he took the pair of faded jeans instead. The matching dark grey zip-front sweatshirt he claimed though, even if it was a size or two too big. There were two t-shirts left. Catching sight of the print on the front of Gordie’s as he turned it inside out - embarrassing but also hilarious in this context - he shook out the two shirts and checked for anything equally embarrassing. He snorted at what he saw, and held them up for Gordie to see.

One shirt was white and read “Waukegan Bible Camp” in blue lettering above a cross, with the phrase “Gettin’ On Our Knees for Jesus!” below it. The other shirt was black with a rainbow over a skeleton, and the words “Everything Sucks” on it.

“Which one? I can’t decide - am I really in a getting on my knees mood? Because I think the skeleton one is more applicable.” He tossed the bible camp shirt onto the metal console between them and left the skeleton shirt in his lap. He was no coward - he would have worn any of them print-facing-out, unlike Gordie.

It was hard not to sneak glances at Gordie as he stripped off his shirt. He tried hard not to stare, but wound up looking a little longer than intended anyways. “Could be worse, I guess. The sling is probably a good idea.” He hesitated for a moment, then turned to face the front of the humvee as he carefully peeled off his ruined Pac-Man shirt as best as he could. He winced with the movement despite trying to baby his shoulder. Once the shirt was off, he had to pause a moment to take a breath and let the pain pass.

Gordie would have a good view of the burn mark on the back of his shoulder now, from this angle. There were bruises on his back too, just like his chest and stomach, about the right size from being punched. He seemed closer to that six-pack status than Gordie - interesting for a nerd that supposedly got by on brains, not brawn. He certainly looked like he had strength to offer, even if he didn’t act like it.

“And no, you didn’t hurt me. It was-” He paused, stopping himself from saying something stupid to the wrong person at the wrong time. “-fine. Don’t worry about it. Sorry for the noise. Anyway - Let’s make Jesus useful here - maybe this’ll make for an okay sling?” He nodded his head to the spare shirt he wasn’t using as he carefully tugged the fresh one over his head, hissing from the pain as he had to maneuver his arm through the sleeves. He probably could have just taken the sweatshirt, but he would regret the lack of layers, he presumed. By the time he got it on he realized that despite the tag saying it was his size, it was a little small - like it had shrunk in the wash. It wasn’t uncomfortable or impossible to wear, just a little snug around his torso and arms, clinging to his biceps as he moved his good arm.

“Want me to, uh…. Hop out for a second? While you change into those?” He motioned at the jeans Gordie selected.

Gordie

“You did.” Gordon crossed his arms. “You laid on the ground for a few seconds…then you started grinning like an idiot at the sky. Dead people don’t start laughing.” Could he have blamed him for that thought? He had just been cooped up in a jail for…how long had he been there? How much freedom had he had? Hadn’t he said he had just gotten there recently? Why couldn’t he have just left? Those were the questions people always asked about victims…Why not leave…and often, he wondered the same thing about himself. If he hadn’t been defending their position, he might have laid down with him and done the same thing. Hadn’t he wanted to lay down and laugh at the sky after The Ranch? Trauma did things to a person’s brain that nobody could explain…and he wondered…how traumatized was Theo? How traumatized was he, himself?

“Nobody should have known…if Cabrera was smart…but…the one guy knew…the one guy we picked up along the way…Xander?”

His throat clenched a little, remembering the man. He had seen it…the wound…before it had gotten bad, little tendrils already threading an infection around a bite mark. He had felt sad in the moment. He wondered where he was…if he was…still…He shook his head.

“But he wasn’t one of ours…I don’t know. It’s possible he wasn’t smart and he told everyone in the whole prison that we were coming and then this was a trap for us…but I don’t think he’s that dumb. I might not like him…” He looked over at the radio again on the dash, crossing his arms and twisting back to Theo, “but I think he knows what he’s doing. Like he’s done this before…”

Cabrera just itched him the wrong way. A man with too many faces, and he couldn’t decided if he was on his good side, or if he was acting. Wasn’t that the problem with people undercover? They get too sucked into their new life that they forget how their old one went, and the two start to blend together? Or was that just some made up psychologist bullshit to cover up for people’s actions?

As Theo dug through the clothes, and grabbed the last remaining bits of t-shirts, Gordie immediately regretted missing the ‘Everything Sucks’ t-shirt. His boyfriend shirt was feeling itchy on the inside already, poorly pressed bubble letters rubbing against already cold and sore skin did not feel the best. He scratched at his chest, grimacing at the other one before smiling. He wanted to say something, but he barely knew Theo…and he had already seen him on his knees, as it was. It was supposed to be a Christian T-shirt. A Christian Minecraft T-Shirt. A simple phrase but….He thought about telling him to combine the two together, but that would make everything seem remotely worse. The prospect got a snicker out of him. ‘Everything Sucks Gettin’ on Our Knees’. He quickly twisted his head around, blushing at the sound that had escaped him. He was losing his cool guy composure.

He twisted around, hearing a whine, a small noise of pain, and there was Theo, shirtless next to him. It shouldn’t have affected him like it did, but seeing the bruises that traced his back, that mark that clearly was a brand but wasn’t a brand according to Theo, the abs that didn’t mask him as a nerd at all…it made him pause and stare. His hand reached out hesitantly, ready to help him in case he couldn’t pull it down. Anger was boiling at the bottom of his stomach. What in the hell had he been doing….? Had he been beaten as well? Abused? Was there an absuer in the midst of the prison? That started to make a lot more sense. If Theo was hiding a hidden abuser from the people, not wanting someone to get in trouble…had it been that boy that he had been with? Who would hurt him? Yes, Gordon had the thought trace through his head that he’d really like to place his hand back over Theo’s mouth, press his plam into those lips again and tell him to be quiet…but this…this was…His eyes grazed back to his wrists, the yellow bands of healing skin still there, telling their own story. Someone had taken the time to bind him, restrain him…and kick the shit out of him?...and for what?...

And he was still…smiling…

He was broken. He had to be broken beyond repair…and he might lose it…when he got back to reality…when he saw Roanoke…he might just revert back….What if he was like Jacks? Oblivious to the world? No…No. He had seen him tug a radio out of a zombie and then smack the living shit out of him. He was comprehending things…but maybe he thought this was a video game? That…That was also reasonable too.

God. He hated this puzzle. He hated this man who could just smile his way through anything and act like it was no big deal. He hated how happy he was. He didn’t hate Theo. He hated the way that he made him feel…like everything was going to be alright when he knew it wasn’t.

He swallowed harshly, and turned away, blonde locks turning to look at the food on the seat, “Don’t be sorry. Stop saying you are sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Gordie mumbled under his breath. He looked back as he heard him hiss again, and closed his eyes as he finally pulled the shirt down and free. He heaved out a sigh, tensing as he mentioned changing his pants. He twisted his body a little.

“I can wait a few…” He mumbled. “You need a sling first anyway.” It’d give him a few minutes to calm down a little. He dropped the jeans next to him and scooted over, propping himself up on the metallic barrier between the seats.

“You’re telling me Jesus wasn’t useful here? Don’t let half the people around hear you say that.” Gordon smirked, grabbing the remnants of the ‘Holy Sacred Phrase That is Totally About Praying and Not About…’Shirt, and balling it up. He scooted closer to Theo. His hand brushed up the side of his head, moving him between him as he pushed the shirt down around his head and through the neck hole.

He grabbed the left arm hole, and then grabbed Theo’s wrist, his larger hand encircling around where the bruises lay, and tugged his hurt injured shoulder forward a little. His other hand came to rest on his elbow. His head pressed a little closer to his ear, and he was quietly mumbling to himself, repeated instructions from the past.

“Through the other side, and then…wrap it tight.” He mumbled.

He guided his elbow through the hole. Still holding his wrist, he tugged it through the right arm hole, suspending his arm through the makeshift sling.

He sighed, pulling back to inspect his work a little before starting to gather the loose little bit of material that was left. He reached up, the back of his knuckle brushing against his chest as he reached up behind his neck, tugging him forward almost into his chest, and tucked the loose bit of material into the neck line of the sling.

“There…” he whispered, pulling back, and clearing his throat. “It’s not…perfect but it’s…doable.”

He started to scoot back and shake his head.

“I can also…live in these pants for a moment. Um…Are you hungry?”


 

VHvDYET.jpeg


Band-Aids and Ice Packs - Part 5
Outside Lincoln - Inside a Humvee​

Theo

Theo had somehow entirely forgotten (or maybe he just didn’t realize?) that while they were outside on the ground after exiting he’d laughed then. Gordie snapped at him then, too. “Well… pfft… I had good reasons for doing that!” He sputtered, gesturing in the vague direction of the front of the prison. He did have good reasons, he swore he did, he just didn’t know if he could explain it in a way that would make sense to someone who wasn’t inside. So, he didn’t even try to explain further, because it would just probably be rambling and Gordie probably didn’t actually give a shit.

Unless he did give a shit? He couldn’t tell.

At the mention of Xander, he grimaced. “The mop guy.” The words came out before he even thought better of it, and he cleared his throat. “I don’t really know him, but I heard he got his ass kicked pretty hard in the pit. Nearly died. I thought he and Cabrera hated each other? Like with good reason, at least from Xander’s point of view. From what I hear, Cabrera was the reason that other guy’s settlement got taken over by the Samaritans. That’s the rumor, anyway - I don’t know how it went down, that was before my time there.” Gordie’s conjecture that this has happened before struck him as very interesting. Interesting enough that he didn’t even comment on it and just kept on going - mentally filing that one away for later.

“I’ll apologize for whatever I feel like apologizing for.” He said it with more force and snap in his voice than he intended, looking away to tug down the edges of his shirt. It hurt like a son of a bitch getting that shirt on, but it beat being dead. It could be worse. He could be bitten. He could have lost a limb. He could still be tied up. He could still be inside that shithole prison. He could have failed.

When Gordie scooted over to help with the sling, he shifted in his seat to offer up his bad arm. He knew he could probably have managed this himself, but having help would just make it easier. He shrugged at Gordie’s question about Jesus’ usefulness here. “I’m not exactly the praying or church type, but yeah I get it. It always seemed weird to me. There were some people inside that were, though. The prison’s chaplain is still here too. Somewhere. Assuming he lived. Though I can’t imagine who would take the time to kill a priest.”

It was admittedly rather nice having someone help him like this. He expected himself to flinch at the little brushes and touches that were necessary to do this, but he didn’t. Gordie’s hands felt warm, rough, and strong - yet he was gentle, especially around his bruised wrists. And all the while he was murmuring the instructions the doctor gave them… It absolutely sent his mind cartwheeling into gutter-thoughts that he pushed out of his mind immediately.

“Getting on our knees, and everything sucks. I feel like whoever donated these is either trying to send us a message, or a recommendation. I honestly can’t tell which.” He grinned at Gordie, tilting his head slightly to the side as he spoke, his face inches from Gordie’s.

“Ah man, you turned yours inside out? Don’t be a chicken-shit, Gordon. Gotta rock out that ridiculous t-shirt message.” He was sure there was a good reason he turned it inside-out. Doubtful this group of military people were very… embracing, of the kind of message that would send, so he wasn’t about to push the envelope.

“Works great, really. Thanks.” He gave his fingers a wiggle - the sling felt secure and comfortable, pretty good for using a t-shirt.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbled at the mention of being hungry. “Shit, I absolutely am hungry, yeah. I haven’t eaten in, uh…. Since….” He glanced out the window, trying to gauge what time it even was. “Yesterday morning. Y’know, before I spent half the day hiding radio jammers around the prison… and before some jackass tried to throw me into a gas chamber. So I’ll eat whatever you guys got to spare.”

Gordie

“Mop guy?” Gordie raised an eyebrow. “He went from Marine to Mop Guy? Eating crayons really got to him, didn’t they?” He cracked a smile, and immediately regretted it, knowing the fate that was left for poor Mop Guy. He shouldn’t be laughing…because poor Marine had been the one to save them all, direct them where to go, and bring the RGF to their home. Shoutouts to Mop Guy, may he run into a field and forever be free before…you know…Old Yeller taught him a lot.

Theo turned snarky for a second. So, he wasn’t always such a chipper happy go lucky guy? Gordie felt his lips twinge a little. Part of him wanted to press his buttons, and see deep down, how angry he could get, but the other part of him knew that it was already a shit day, and Gordie wasn’t helping things. He was in pain. They both were, and telling him that he shouldn’t be sorry for something so minor was probably within reason of getting his head bit off. Still, Gordon chewed on his lip and raised an eyebrow, testing him for a second, nonverbally asking him, if he was sure he wanted to use that tone with him.

There were always two topics to avoid in conversations with new friends: Politics and Religions, and since they were the new politicians of this world, it seemed like religion was now on the table. He’d never liked religion. His dad joked that he was the God of the new world, and he liked playing God with people’s lives. He didn’t understand the idea of putting all his faith in one man, and he had seen plenty of people lose theirs and gain theirs in Roanoke. Hearing that Theo wasn’t a fan either already added another point to his ‘This Guy Might Be A Good Friend’ list.

“You had a priest? A priest survived in that place? With all of those thugs and bastards? Religion survived?” He was honestly a little baffled. He was sure someone would have rang a priest’s neck, even if they started preaching that they were all going to hell. This priest must have known how to hold his tongue…

It was getting stupidly hot in the humvee, especially after his comments about the words on the t-shirt. Why couldn’t Theo be a normal human being and keep the comments to himself or at least let himself snicker about it when nobody else was around? Instead, Gordie gave a fake laugh, but kept his head down, cheeks burning at what he was insinuating.

“Hey. Not chickenshit. Just not up to everyone asking me who the hell is my boyfriend and where is he? Military dicks already have given me too many embarrasing nicknames. I don’t need ‘Sandy Cheeks’ added to my list…” He didn’t need to give Theo the story of ‘Spermy, Spermman, or Pukey’. His face still was a bright shade of pink, as he were still inches away from Theo, watching him grin a stupid grin and he crossed his arms over his chest, as if that would cover the reverse embarrassing text. He twisted his body.

Right. Food. His cheeks still burned as he pulled away, and moved to grab the few microwave takeaway meals, foil cover them to keep them at least somewhat warm. He grabbed the top one, and leaned back, handing it to Theo. He tugged one for himself, and settled back down in his seat, removing the foil.

The meal itself wasn’t anything fancy. Microwave instant mashed potatoes, some sludge that looked as if it had been salisbury steak in a previous life, corn from a non-perishable aluminum can. It was a Bachelor Pad Dinner extraordinaire, but Gordie didn’t hesitate. He pulled free the plastic silverware, still stealed and looking like it had been extracted from an old restaurant, and immediately started to dig in. He was halfway through cutting through the bit of mystery meat when he looked over at Theo, frowning.

“Do you need…help? You know…with your arm…and all?”

Theo

Theo cracked a smile back at Gordie’s reaction to ‘Mop Guy’. In retrospect, knowing a bit more about the bigger picture now, it was a depressing as hell situation for the guy. Crayon joke or not, it just made the sentencing to a janitor position all that more of a slap in the face. It was dark humor, but still humor, so he smiled at it - and he was thankful Gordie did too.

What he didn’t figure out, though, was why Gordie still smirked even after he got snappy. His exhaustion was wearing him thin, and it was starting to show. And yet, despite being snapped at, Gordie seemed to… enjoy it, for some reason? Not only that, he was looking at Theo like he was ready to play with his food, challenging him to snap again. Part of him wanted to accept that challenge and see how far he could push, and what happened if he kept pushing.

“Yeah, a priest. Dunno what kind, I never asked. But I also think Coke and Pepsi taste the same so what would I know about telling basically-identical things apart.” He snickered at his own joke. “I assume people didn’t kill him because he stayed out of their way and didn’t get judgmental on them. Also - surprising thing I’ve learned, which kind of blows my mind, is that there are some people in prison who are very religious. In their own way. Even when they know they’re basically sinning left and right, it's still important to them. Especially some of the gangs - it's just like… part and parcel of identifying with the gang, or something. I’m sure someone who is into studying people would have a field day in there.” He motioned idly in the direction of the prison with his free hand.

When Gordie mentioned the idea of a ‘Sandy Cheeks’ nickname, he had to cringe, though he still snorted a laugh at that. “Right, that would suck - wait, you have a list? Of nicknames?” Okay, now he was intrigued and he needed to know just how embarrassingly awful these military people could be.

“I’ll find out this list of nicknames, one way or another, y’know.” He teased lightly as accepted the foil-covered microwaved meal. He honestly at this point didn’t care how it was prepared, barely cared what it even was, as long as it was edible and not poisonous. A microwave dinner was so normal, so pre-Fall, that he’d happily accept it.

Sitting folded-up cross-legged in his seat, Theo carefully balanced the meal in his lap, hunching over it as he peeled back the foil like it was a Christmas present. The smell of warm food practically made him drool. He got mashed potatoes, green beans, and what was either chicken or turkey or somehow both. All of it looked a little mushy, but it absolutely didn’t matter. Food was food and thankfully it was not yet another crumbly protein bar or stale Pop-Tart.

“Nah, I got it. I got really good at eating one handed while playing games.” Theo grabbed the plastic-wrapped fork and pushed the end of the handle against his leg, pulling the plastic downwards to reveal the fork, all the while keeping his meal in place with his fingers on his sling’d arm. Waggling the plastic off, he dug in immediately.

He didn’t try and hide how hungry he was, how quickly he dug into that food, or how he hunched over it like he was ready to protect it or lick every last drop off the container. He ate exactly like someone for whom meals were inconsistent at best and never a surefire thing. He went for the meat first - protein, priority one - before occasionally spearing a green bean or a glob of mashed potatoes. He didn’t eat fast or piggishly, maintaining some semblance of manners despite the situation. If he was taking any time to enjoy the taste (to whatever extent the taste could be enjoyed) he didn’t make it obvious.

“Question,” he started, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you guys at Roanoke get, uh… does everyone get food to eat? How many meals a day? One? Two?” He glanced up at Gordie briefly before averting his eyes back to his food, sheepish to even ask such a question.

Gordie

“How in the hell can you not tell Coke and Pepsi apart? They are literally two distinct drinks. Two distinct tastes. Pepsi might be a little better than Coke, but where are your tastebuds? Did they die?” Okay, yes; he was back to square one. Theo was a mess, but the way that his lips started to twirl and get a twinge to them everytime he had a smart comeback, for saying something that he was probably internally patting himself on the back made Gordie want to tackle him, pin him down, and tell him that he was wrong. Show him that he was wrong.

“I’ve never been religious. I don’t care for it. The world is kind of fucked any way, one way or another. If people want to believe that some man is going to cure their problems by wishing upon a star…go for it, but no. I….”

His lips twisted. He looked out the window, and shrugged.

“Forget it. Not important.”

He shouldn’t be talking about something so dark and depressing as what drove him to keep on going, because Theo had been stuck in his own personal hell, and he sure didn’t need Gordie crashing in with his emo narrative. Gordon already had the hair to match his mood. He wasn’t sure he could ruin Theo though. Theo was just happy to be alive….What a nice change of pace.

“No. Forget I said that too. I don’t have a list. People just call me Gordie. Gordon sounds like I should be on a golf cart or some shit, dressed in a suit and pretending I know how business deals work.” Which in the long run, now made sense why he would even be called that in the first place.

“I swear to fucking God…” He shook his head, “Don’t. Just. Gordie. That’s it. That’s all you have to say, and if you say another nickname, I swear…” He didn’t. He didn’t need to know that he was Spermy, Gorgonzola, or anything other that Vincent had come up with. Vincent was banned from ever coming near Theo. “If I hear one of these supposed nicknames out of you, I’m going to throw you in the ocean.”

His own lip twinged again, and Gordie realized that he was losing a battle. His stoneface was faltering, just ever so slightly, and he started to occupy himself with the microwave meal in front of him, peeling back the foil and glancing down inside at the mystery slop. His help had gone to the side, Theo proclaiming that this was not an issue for him, and Gordon watched, with amusement. Theo didn’t even bat an eyelash. He was right. This was nothing to him. The plastic fell away from the fork, and he was digging in, without a second thought. Gordie twirled his fork around the protein, picking at it carefully before plunging it into his mouth. The fork lingered between his teeth, as he bit at it, and kept it in place, his tongue batting it back and forth as he licked it clean. Theo wasn’t ravenous, but he clearly wasn’t one to squander food. A product of his previous home. It amused him, to watch him try and be polite as possible, but not want to waste a possible second longer of food that…maybe he thought would be taken at any moment.

Gordie pulled the fork out of his mouth, letting his teeth click together as they chomped down on the empty space before going back to pierce at the meat.

“Well…Roanoke is a weird place right now. Everyone can eat right now, but there’s a lot of talk about how long we can keep living like this? As long as you are a productive member of society, you get to eat, but it’s not like most people go hungry? It’s not as much of an issue as you’d think, but people like to bring it up a lot as an issue. Along with room, expansion, sustainability, and food supplies. Mom works on that a lot with the town. I’d say we at least get to have breakfast, and dinner. Mom is especially picky about dinner. You can’t be late, and it’s an all family affair. Then comes game night. ”

Gordie took another bite of the meat, sliding the fork to the back of his mouth, and tugging it back out, letting the prongs sit between his front teeth and balancing it there, like a cool party trick. His tongue occasionally poked at the prongs, waggling them back and forth while he looked at Theo.

“Did you guys…like…not eat in there? I mean, we knew it was bad…but like…should I ask you?”

Gordie put his food on the metal table. His stomach was already starting to not agree with him again, and he had half a heart to offer Theo the rest of his meal, even as he moved to stab at some of the vegetables. His recent aggravating diagnosis was rearing it’s head a little, but he let it slide.

“How bad was it in the prison?”

He leaned closer, twirling his utensil as he stabbed the corn and brought it up to his lips, again, making a bad habit of playing with his food and fork instead of eating it. Blonde hair drifted down into his eyes, and he twitched his head to the side, the locks flicking to the side of his cerulean eyes.

“Do you want some of mine? I’m not going to eat it all.”

Theo

The way Gordie reacted to not telling Coke and Pepsi apart was golden. He seemed so shocked and flabbergasted it was bordering on being offended - and it was perfect. The look on his face made it worth it. It was totally the truth, too, and that made it even better.

Nothing quite made him want to not forget something and delve into an obviously important topic more than being told to forget about it because it wasn’t important. Hopefully he got a chance to peel that response apart later. Would there be a later? Or would he be dumped off at this Roanoke place and never see Gordie again because he got too busy and didn’t want to associate with someone from this place? That’s what he assumed would happen… and the idea made his chest hurt a little in a way he tried to ignore.

“Gordie, then. No nicknames. You don’t look like you belong on a golf cart so don’t worry. You can just call me Theo - and not Theodore. That makes me sound like I’m eighty years old, sucking down cigars, and rambling about the good old days or something.” He made a face at Gordie’s threat about throwing him into the ocean though.

“Shit, that’s right… you guys are at the coast? So like… literally at the ocean?” He had to stop himself before he made a noise of disgust. “Hard pass on being thrown into the ocean. I…” He trailed off, uncertain what to say, and ultimately deciding to not say much. “... it's the salt, y’know. Bad for you.”

He couldn’t help but notice that Gordie took his time eating, even playing with his food. It wasn’t exactly childish, but what struck him was how relaxed he was about the food in front him. There was no desperation for it, no fear of it being stolen away, no heavy emotional relief it was finally given to him. There was only certainty. Security. An unshakable knowledge that food would be given as needed rather than withheld or bargained for.

This was maybe the first time the depth of the divide between their situations really sunk in. A true have-and-have-not comparison. He felt himself staring at Gordie - not leering or admiring this time, but studying. The color in his face looked good despite the past few hour’s trials. He wasn’t emaciated. He didn’t look faint. His eyes, hair, nails, and teeth looked fine. His face wasn’t sunken. He looked… healthy. Normal. Theo’s eyes wandered over to the back window, looking out towards the rows of tents. Somewhere out there were (hopefully) the slaves who were the worst off. The ones who for one reason or another weren’t getting enough food and were dying for it. Theo bit his lip, holding his meal tray just a little tighter at the thought.

Gordie’s question registered, but he couldn’t look at him. Not right away. His brow furrowed a bit.

“It was bad enough that it’s hard to know where to start.” He said quietly, staring through the back window for another moment before looking down at his food. No - if he was going to talk about it, he was going to look someone in the eye and make sure they got it.

“I’ve only been here a couple weeks, maybe a few months, it's hard to tell. There’s no real way to keep track of what day it is there. It’s… bad. There’s not enough food - there was a fire in the kitchen and pantry that destroyed a lot of it. Someone set it on purpose. King’s men blamed the rebels - faceless people nobody would fess up to being. But it wasn’t us. We’re not stupid like that. But… because of that, we all had to ration food. The more important you were, the more you got. Guys at the top got three full meals a day, but I know there were slaves who were starving. Either they didn’t get enough, or got food taken away as punishment… or torture. Or people would steal it, get into fights over it.” Theo cleared his throat, glancing down at his food, scooping another mouthful of vegetables into his mouth. They tasted amazing. He didn’t care anymore if he talked with his mouth full.

“Everyone’s always afraid of being thrown into a cell for doing something wrong, or for being beaten where they stood by an enforcer having a bad day. Or someone just angry at the world and fed up with living there. It’s pretty constant. People sleep in the prison cells because then you can lock the door at night so someone doesn’t try and attack you at night. Sometimes people get attacked anyway. Not everyone in there was a prisoner before the fall, but a lot of them were. And these weren’t, like… small-time criminals either. Murderers, rapists, gang members, arsonists, everything. King expected the slaves to do all the work while the rest of them just kind of spent the day pacing around acting like they were important.” Theo studied Gordie’s face as he talked, because it gave him something better to look at while thinking about the prison. It made it easier.

“Criminals do pretty much what you expect for fun in their free time. There’s a bar, a whorehouse, and the…” He paused, then looked down at his food. He couldn’t look at Gordie’s face when he talked about this part.

“The pit.” He finished quietly, remaining focused on his food while he finished the last of the maybe-chicken-maybe-turkey. He decided to call it turken.

“If you’re not gonna finish it, yeah, I’ll eat it.”

Gordie

Gordie started to question what kind of naming convention both of their boomer parents had gone through, and why his brother had been one to get a cooler name than him. Theo wasn’t wrong. He did sound like a man who sat in an armchair, reminiscing about how life was sweet and kids these days don’t know what they were missing. It made him question what kind of life Theo had had before all this? Had he also been a kid plagued by rich parents of a massive corporation that put too much on his shoulders but also didn’t care what he did? He wasn’t sure his mother and father would have cared if he was playing with CB radios and talking to trucks halfway across the states, but then again…would a normal parent have?

“That’s right. Ocean air every day of the week. There’s only one way onto the island. One road, and it’s heavily protected, but everything else…yeah…beach on all sides.” Gordie smiled, “Paradise, really.” Theo looked like he was going to be sick. Okay, so, he wasn’t a fan of salt water? “Then I’ll have to find a river nearby, and toss you in that way. No salt. No problem. Don’t tell me you are a salty gamer? Is that why you can’t have more salt? You start spewing hate speech over voice chat? High blood pressure already? Or do you just swell up like a balloon like a sponge? You kind of make me want to do it just to see what happens.” Gordie teased, still toying with the work in his mouth, a smile spreading as he liked to see that Theo at least had cracked a little.

Perhaps he had struck too much of a nerve? Theo stared at him, lost in thought, before glancing back out the window. Gordie took a glance too, but only saw the glow of the inside of the tents, and the soft sunrise slowly peaking it’s way over the treeline. Gordon frowned. He shouldn’t have asked. This should have been a question saved for the interviews that were to come, from someone who was better at this kind of thing than him. Someone who knew how to handle someone when he was sure that they were about to cry. Good fucking job, Gordie. The last time he had made someone cry…

He sucked in a breath. This wasn’t about him. This was Theo’s story. He stayed quiet, watching him as he held his food a little more tighter. There was fear in his grip, an anxiety as he tugged it closer to him. Did he think Gordie would snatch it away? He listened, and sucked in a breath. It was bad. It was nearly as bad as it got. Rationed food. Someone sabotaging their own supply for what sounded like a plan to keep power and order in place. He watched him take another bite, another fear that this might be his last, and he continued.

Lincoln was full of fear. Theo hadn’t just been a victim, a man who wanted to change things by running around with a signal jammer for radios. He had been scared for his life. No wonder he laughed at the sky, and took for granted the little things. No wonder having his arm in a sling didn’t even seem to phase him. Gordon couldn’t understand it…because he hadn’t lived it. His life, even after the Fall, had still been picturesque compared to everyone else. He had been carted off to Roanoke, given meals still, told to learn the basics…and even the Ranch…he had thought that had been the worst of humanity. God, he still couldn’t escape having everything handed to him on a silver platter, could he? He listened, not even bothering to finish his food, instead pushing it towards Theo.

“Take it. Take it all. I’m not hungry anymore. I’ll be fine. Listen.”

He leaned in a little, his face stern as he looked at Theo.

“Roanoke is not like that. There’s fear, but it’s not fear that anybody is doing anything wrong. It’s fear that people live on and strive to be better for. Everyone is taken care of, in some manner or way, whether people want to or not. There’s justice, but it’s the right kind of justice. Why do you think we are here? You don’t have to live like that anymore. None of these people do. My mom will make sure of that. She knows better. Whatever happened in there? Those people will get justice, and the people who fought for better lives? I don’t think they’ll get punished. They don’t deserved to be punished. I don’t think you deserve to live like that. Not anymore…and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened to you.”

He leaned over, his hand coming to rest on Theo’s unhurt shoulder, and he patted it.

“So take my food. I’m not hungry. There’s a warm bed, fresh clothes, and maybe we can find some video games? I’m sure someone there has something in their basement or something. Either way…you aren’t going back. I won’t let it happen.”

He thought about that brand on Theo’s shoulder, and he squeezed.

“You’re safe.”

Theo

Even hearing Gordie describe what Roanoke was like was starting to make him worry. An island. An actual island. Surrounded by water. Deep water. It made his stomach nervous in a way that had him slowing down with his food. He couldn’t decide what would be worse: An island with steep, rocky, deadly cliffs and no way off at most points, or an island with gentle sloping beaches that just meant they were in danger anytime a bad storm or hurricane came by. That was the other fear - storms. Not just any storms, but the kind that brought flooding. High water that you couldn’t avoid, couldn’t wade through, and would get swept away in. Water that pulled you down, pulled you under, invaded your airways -

Theo took a breath and tried to stop himself from spiraling before he got sick. He didn’t dare let go of his food tray yet, but he put his fork down into it for now. He didn’t know if he dared admit what his fear was. What if these people turned out to be pieces of shit? Admitting what he was afraid of would just be handing valuable information over to them they could use against him. Last thing he wanted to do was get waterboarded.

But that was the thing. They weren’t Samaritans. They weren’t going to a place like Lincoln. Allegedly. He didn’t know if he trusted this group for real yet, but they were sure earning points left and right. Watching Gordie push his own food closer to Theo, he felt like there were even more points being added up in favor of the RGF. In Gordie’s favor specifically.

When Gordie leaned in, Theo raised his eyes from his food to the other man’s face, catching his eyes and holding his gaze as he listened. He listened, studied, judged, and weighed Gordie’s words and the expression on his face, trying to decide if he was being honest. All signs pointed to yes. Even the apology - for something he hadn’t even done - felt honest. The hand on his shoulder felt real.

I’m sorry for what happened to you.

Has anyone ever said that to him? To anyone in this prison?

Gordie squeezed his shoulders, and Theo looked away just in time to wipe tears from his eyes before they escaped.

“Thanks. I’m gonna hold you to that promise. Renege on that, and just know that I am pretty sure I could build a weak version of a taser with the right parts.” He offered a little smile to Gordie, trying to act like he hadn’t literally been brought to tears.

“Also - It’s not really about salt.” He shook his head, then scoffed. “Not high blood pressure, not - shit, no, I’m not one of those kids that shouts hate speech over voice chat, jeeze. I.. uh.. Don’t laugh at me for this, but I don’t really know how to swim. I’ve never seen the ocean. And I hate deep water. Like, that shit terrifies me, no thanks, hard pass, so I’m trying really hard to ignore the fact you just said this place is an island with only one road on and off.”

Gordie

Theo still looked unsure. As if the idea of paradise wasn’t his paradise. He understood if that was his worry. His own private paradise was one that was out in the middle of the ocean, tucked away on a boat, and the night air above him, staring in the stars. Perhaps even floating among them. He probably wouldn’t have made a very good astronaut. Science wasn’t his thing. Math even pissed him off. He hadn’t paid attention in class on purpose after Nathan died. If his parents had wanted a genius to take over the family business, they weren’t getting one to begin with, and if they wanted to continue paying his teachers off for getting him good grades, then fine by him. He still bet that his father blackmailed his physics teacher over because he still understood the concept of gravity and mass, but he had gotten a damn good grade on the final.

Gordie kept himself close to Theo, his hand still gripping his shoulder tight. The middle finger of his hand came to graze against his back, touching the scapula and feeling his back bone. He brushed his finger back and forth as he squeezed, rubbing it ever so slightly. A small gesture. His eyes drifted the sling, and then to his other shoulder, where the brand sat. He sucked in a breath. His eyes went back, and fell into Theo’s gaze. The soft eyes that were on the verge of breaking. The eyes that told him that what he had done had probably been the kindest gesture anyone had offered him in months. The eyes that held his entire world, and truly meant that he was grateful for what he had done. Not just what he had done, but the entire RGF.

He fell into those eyes. He fell down, and felt like he was falling. Falling right back into the prison with him, standing beside him, and consistently getting punched repeatedly over and over again in the stomach. He didn’t want to see those eyes leak. He didn’t want to see those tears fall. He never wanted to see this man hurt again, because everything he needed to know about Theo, were in those eyes. He was a tender soul, who had a bad fucking few months, and just wanted someone to hug. Every part of him wanted to tug him inwards, and embrace him, keep him close and promise him, whisper into his ear, ‘I will never let anything happen to you again’, but that was a worthless promise even to the people who needed to hear it the most. Bad things were always going to happen. They were always going to be getting into some kind of shit. Hadn’t Gin told him that, in some way or another? To pick himself back up again because this wasn’t the end? The only reason that he did not hug Theo to his body and keep him there, patting and rubbing on the back, was because he had just made him that damn sling, and he didn’t want to ruin it. He pulled back and smiled a little, twisting his head to follow where Theo’s gaze was at, when it wasn’t directly in his line of sight.

“Dude. I’d still shut the fuck up if I were you. That radio could still be listening. Don’t advertise that. ” His head twisted to the dash, and then back to him.

He was afraid. More than just afraid of whatever Roanoke was about, but also the terrible fact that it was an island, surrounded on all sides by water. Gordie stared, a little in disbelief. He’d grown up in water all his life. Water was his life. He lived and breathed in water. He didn’t realize how much of a problem it would be until he watched Theo clam up. Even just talking about the ocean seemed to make him sweat.

“Hey. It’s really not that bad. And it’s a really big place. It’s not just water. There’s forest and greenery too, so you can totally duck your head down low so you don’t have to see. Don’t worry about it too much. Maybe I can teach you to swim? Free of charge? Maybe that’s my repayment to you? For all the shit and getting you shot like that? I teach you to swim?”

Gordie reached back up, his hand grazing Theo’s cheek, as he moved back to his shoulder. He squeezed it again, his middle finger again, grazing the middle of his back and rubbing, just ever so slightly. He coughed a little, pulled his hand back, and twisted back away, pulling his arms over his chest. He was getting too close. He had to step back, step away, or something. The only adrenaline still pumping in his chest at the moment was the little bit that he got from being in such close proximity to Theo. Exhaustion was setting in. When had they even started this mission? It had been daylight…yesterday. Fuck.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting fucking tired. You have to be way more tired than me. Why don’t you finish that food or something? Before you keel over and I don’t know if it’s from lack of food or lack of sleep? Maybe that’ll make you feel better? Then when you wake up, maybe we will already be in Roanoke…”

Fat fucking chance of that…but Gordie was on the verge of needing a nap…and Theo couldn’t have possibly slept on anything good in that place.

Theo

Gordie’s hand on his shoulder felt weighty, in a good way. It was a welcome touch, reminding him of better times from the past. Friends, family, people willing to reach out and reassure him everything would be fine and they’d keep on going despite whatever current hardship was in front of them. Did it still hold true today? The hardships they faced were worse now. Before the fall, it was things like work stress, impending layoffs, a bad test score, breakups, family drama, health scares, and heartfelt words that couldn’t be spoken that plagued the lives of people around Theo, and himself. Not anymore. Now it was things like getting killed.

He didn’t want that hand to leave - but it did anyway.

“I’ll, uh, consider the offer, about swimming lessons. Maybe when the water is warm? And along a beach…. Where it’s knee high at best?” He grinned as he tried to say yes while also weaseling out of it at the same time. The idea of even having lessons was scary… but he couldn’t deny he wouldn’t be opposed to seeing more of Gordie. Shirtless and in wet swim trunks, specifically.

Theo took another big bite of food and nodded lightly at Gordie’s observation he must be tired. “I think I pulled an all-nighter.” He muttered after he swallowed down the last of his food. He sat aside the tray and grabbed Gordie’s, since it was still there as an offering.

“I wouldn’t mind exploring the forest, if it’s safe. Otherwise, I’ll just stay in the middle of the island and pretend I’m not on an island.” He grinned between bites of Gordie’s food, which he finished quickly, finally stacking the trays one atop the other and putting his plastic fork on top. That was more food than he’d had in months - maybe longer - and now he felt stuffed. Not sickly-stuffed, but warm and content and full. He licked his lips and slouched back against his seat.

“That was kind of like a Thanksgiving meal to me, so yeah, I’m getting tired. Like, beyond tired. Exhausted.” He looked down at his hands in his lap, rubbing his knuckles and cracking them, then grabbed the pants he hadn’t bothered to change into. Rolling them up into some semblance of a pillow, he stuck the wad of cloth between his head and the side of the Humvee.

“It’s no reclining heated seat… but it’ll work.” Theo stretched out in his seat, with what minimal space he had, and settled in. It wasn’t very comfortable and he had no blanket, but the inside of the vehicle was warm, he was full, and his injury wasn’t back to hurting yet.

“Oughta catch some sleep before there’s too much noise to do it…. Or before my shoulder starts hurting again.” He muttered, casting a glance over at Gordie. “It would probably help if you stayed here, so I know it’s safe.” He commented sheepishly, face turning a little red.

Theo turned away, folding his arms against himself as he curled up against the side of the Humvee, doing his best to get comfortable. He didn’t think he could sleep - but he closed his eyes anyway.

At some point eventually, possibly fifteen or twenty minutes later, Theo was actually asleep. His breaths were steady, his face slack, and he finally looked at rest instead of everything else he’d had on his face that day. He was so exhausted, falling asleep sitting up next to a relative stranger was not impossible.

Gordie

“Well, it’s down south, and the water is always a little warmer.” He couldn’t guarantee that the water would only be knee high. Gordie loved wading out in the middle of the night, after a few drinks, and laying flat on his back. Granted, he never wanted to go too far. Tide was always scary, but that was where his heart was, and he loved forever that Gin lived near the water.

He thought for sure that perhaps Theo would be too tired to even take another bite, especially after an all nighter, but he tugged Gordie’s tray closer to him. Gordie leaned his head against the side of his seat, pulling his knees to the side, and yawned. He wanted to melt into the seat, and wake up back home. He wasn’t looking forward to the journey home. The slow trek, all while he shivered and tried not to complain, despite the resting bitch face that told everyone that he wanted to be left alone. Except this time, he wasn’t going home alone…

“Yeah. There’s little bits you can explore and get away from the world, when you need to. I think there’s some little bit of wildlife there. Nothing dangerous though.”

Did he break it to Theo now, that their home was right on the edge of the beach, or did he wait for the surprise to sink in? He figured that Theo had enough surprises, and he didn’t want to have him already lose the allure of Roanoke. He had already survived Lincoln, the worst of the worst, and he was just happy to be alive. Why not let him be happy just a little while longer? Gordie pressed his shoulder into the hard seat of the humvee, his head finding the top of his shoulder joint as he nestled down.

Theo started to make himself comfortable, all while Gordie watched. He nestled the pair of pants into a makeshift pillow, and curled up. Gordon looked at the few extra pairs of clothing and sighed. Curse being a giant from Alaska. Nothing would even remotely feel like a blanket to him. Instead, he rubbed at his arms and nodded as Theo demanded that he stay here.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Gordie watched him blush, and he twisted his head, hiding his own grin. He couldn’t go anywhere if he wanted. The embarrassing t-shirt would only get him stares, along with questions about why he wasn’t in fatigues. His body started to slump. The exhaustion was settling in. He watched Theo for a few moments longer, as the boy started to relax into sleep. Gordon started to get lost in staring at him. The way that his thin dark hair fell and framed around the sides of his face. The way that his lips pouted ever so slightly as he breathed out his nose. The way that he held himself, crumpled to the side of the humvee, and protected himself. The way that his chest heaved in and out. Gordon caught himself, staring as he watched every muscle in the boy’s shoulder start to relax and he finally drifted off into dreamland. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head on his shoulder, curl up next to him, and fall asleep too because Theo was probably warm…and Gordon felt oh so cold, but that was the shoulder that was hurt, and branded…and he couldn’t.

He settled for watching his chest rise and fall in rhythm, almost a rhythmic lullaby to fall asleep to. In and out. In and out.

“Sleep well, Theo.” Gordon mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. He grabbed one of the extra pairs of sweatpants that had fallen to the floor, and started to roll it. He laid it on the central console, the one that barred the two back seats from being one long seat, and then laid his head on top. It wasn’t comfortable. He needed room to stretch out, and he was still scrunched as he tried to maneuver his 6’4” legs down the side. He laid sideways, occasionally twisting his head to watch Theo sleep and to make sure that nobody was about to open the door and give Theo the surprise of a lifetime…which he was sure would happen. Gordie twisted his head to lay on his back, sighing as he stared at the ceiling of the humvee.

He had had enough of this day, despite it going so much better than The Ranch. His eyes were starting to close. He wasn’t going to be able to put sleep off any longer, and as he did, he smiled, thinking about the way that Theo had come bursting around the corner not even a few hours ago, and raised his arms in the air, scrambling because he had witnessed Gordon be a badass.

“I hope you don’t laugh in your sleep, Chuckles.” Gordon mumbled, letting out one final yawn before closing his eyes and drifting off into a similar dreamland…one that was now filled with one other occupant who would start to live in his head, rent free.


 
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Forgiveness
Outside Lincoln- Medical Tent​

Weston made it to the medical tent, but not by his own two feet.

How it all happened was hazy to him. He was plodding his way through the snow, shivering under his too-thin hoodie, watching people shuffle from tent to tent. He must have been moving too slowly, because someone behind him barked an order about hurrying it up. Was it directed at him? He had no idea. Everyone sounded underwater with the way his ears rang as his blood pressure dropped - and Weston dropped along with it.

It took two RGF grunts to catch him under his arms and drag him to the medical tent, where they managed to maneuver his large frame onto a cot. It was barely wide enough for his shoulders, but he was too out of it to complain - even when they handcuffed his left wrist to the metal bar on the edge of the cot.

It felt like mere seconds later when he opened his eyes fully and blinked, but when he did, he was staring up at the canvas ceiling of a tent with no clear recollection how he got there, an IV hooked up to his arm pumping him full of God-knows-what.

Everything still burned with pain that only felt like it was getting worse now that the adrenaline had worn off. His mouth was like cotton too. When was the last time he ate or drank anything? Temma had given him water, but how long ago was that? Hours? And the last time he had food - he couldn’t remember. It could have easily been two days since he’d eaten anything. All of that was catching up to him. Even though his stomach was empty and growling, he still felt nauseous.

People shuffled around him as he blinked the blurriness out of his eyes. Nobody he recognized - people in and out of uniforms, white coats, regular jackets, a whole assortment. None of the medical talk made sense and at this point, he wasn’t sure he cared to make sense of it. They could be hooking him up to a machine to euthanize him for all he knew, and he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it. Someone reached for his neck to feel his pulse, and he instinctively flinched and jerked away as he sucked in a breath. The handsy medical person muttered some kind of an apology and reached for his wrist instead, asking him some kind of question about whether there was anything they should know about.

What a loaded question - there was a lot. But he presumed they meant medically.

“Haven’t been bit. Got beaten and shot and damn near suffocated. Might have a concussion? Dunno. My ears are ringing and there ain’t anything that don’t hurt.” Weston tried to sit up, only for someone to push him back down gently by his shoulders. That was irritating as hell, not being able to sit up and get a good look around. He wasn’t the only person taking up a cot in here, and more were filing in through the tent’s flap every few moments.

Ignacio pushed through the flap of the medical tent, loud with the sounds of the wounded and medical personnel exchanging orders. The sickly stench of blood mixed with the bite of antiseptic in his nose. His eyes locked onto a grizzled Marine, old enough to be his father. The man lay on a cot with his arm splayed out. The Eagle, Globe and Anchor inked into his biceps was now bisected by a vicious gash, gleaming with bone. The wounded Marine's eyes flicked to him, glazed with pain. Combat medic was hunched over the wound, an angled needle in his hand flashing in the artificial light as he stitched. Didn’t look like it would heal easy.

"Move." Another medic barreled past him, his elbow catching Cabrera’s bad side. Motherfucker He bit back a whimper through clenched teeth and pressed his arm tight against his ribs. Felt like someone lodged a fucking spike beneath his shoulder-blade.

Ignacio looked at the other cots. Crew cuts, camo painted faces, mostly military. The next tent held more of the same, the RGF troops with various injuries. The third tent was different, it felt more crowded. No uniforms there. Just civilians in torn, dirty clothes. Slaves. Ex-slaves.

A piercing shriek cut through. His gaze snapped to the woman scrambling backwards across a cot, terror on her face. "No, please-" she fell off the far side.

Cabrera stepped forth, reaching down to help her. "Let me…"

She screamed, pushing herself across the ground. Her arms trembled as she tried to shove his hands away. "Help! Someone help!"

A man leaped over from the other side of the tent and pulled her close in his arms. Both on the ground, the man looked up at Cabrera. That same raw fear wrapped around his rage. Then it hit him. They were the victims… His victims.

More faces turned towards Ignacio. Some blank, others twisted in hatred. A teenage boy curled tighter into himself. An old woman clutched her thin blanket like armor.

Ignacio felt dizzy, stepping out into the early morning light. The bite of cold air did nothing to clear the hurt and guilt from his head. The thought that helped him shake off the haze was shaped like a man. He kept searching.

Another tent and nothing. Just more Samaritan slaves. His heart kicked against his ribs, a different kind of tension knotting muscles. The fear he'd carried since he left the control room clawed back up his spine. The last time he saw Weston. Through the grainy camera feed. Standing in the locked gas chamber. God, he really hoped Madison made it. That she did what he couldn’t do. No matter how much he wanted to run there. Fuck everything else. He couldn’t… He had to make sure everything was set for the raid. And he had to make sure King would never make it off the roof.

Cabrera ducked inside another tent and his gaze caught a familiar profile. Something small and warm unfurled in his chest. A feeling he couldn't name, didn't dare examine too closely. It felt so…vulnerable. Yet, it bloomed, chasing away the fear and doubt.

Weston was alive. He was breathing. Safe.

Their eyes met and Ignacio’s gaze felt loaded. But his soft smile easy as ever. Sincere.

He wanted to say something, to come over. But it would change everything once he did. Once they talked. So for a moment, he just wanted to stay there and stare, utterly relieved.

As much as Weston wanted help, all the medical people flitting around the tent and around him felt like mosquitoes buzzing his head more than anything else. They were so damn grabby too, reaching for him, poking and prodding, squeezing and evaluating. He nearly swatted another hand away when someone reached for his shirt - he had to squeeze the metal bars of his cot to keep his hands in place as what he presumed was a nurse or assistant took a quick look at his gunshot wound on his side. The woman glanced at the wound, stared at his least favorite mistake of a tattoo, then gave Weston a glare. She didn’t bother even smoothing his t-shirt back down over it when she was done. She just let go of the fabric and commented that a doctor would be along to ‘deal with’ him.

Letting out an annoyed huff, Weston looked up and around the tent once the nurse moved away - and immediately his vision locked on to a familiar form in the tent-flap door-way.

Cabrera - alive, and up and walking, no less.

Weston stared at Cabrera, their eyes meeting, his lips parting as he drew in a breath that hurt to take, surprise and relief on his face in equal measure. They hadn’t exactly parted last time on good terms, but he couldn’t deny the fact that all he felt was relief seeing him alive. Cabrera smiled, and he smiled right back.

“Ignacio-” Weston started to sit up, wanting to leave this cot behind and go to him, but he didn’t make it far at all. The handcuffs on his left wrist kept him chained down with a protesting jangle, and all his various aches and pains made his body scream at him when he moved too quickly.

“Jesus fucking Christ-” Weston groaned as he flopped back onto the cot, folding his right arm against his side. One of the nearest nurses shot him a glare but, seeing as how he hadn’t managed to go anywhere, turned her back and resumed ignoring him in favor of someone else who needed tending-to.

Still finding his breath again, Weston motioned for Ignacio to get closer, offering him a grin. It was a lopsided one, part of his face and eye swollen up from taking a beating. He looked like bloody shit, but he was at least awake and coherent. “C’mon man, ain’t draggin’ this cot over to you, and I ain’t shouting across the whole tent. My luck, these people’ll just sedate me to shut me up.”

Cabrera’s gaze snapped to the cuffs and something twisted in his gut. Was that a fucking joke? They came here to save people. To free them. And the guy who fought for that freedom the hardest was now fucking chained like a dog?! Sure, he got it. Why they did it. He wasn’t stupid. But he wouldn’t have it. Not as long as he was around. They would treat Weston with respect or he’d take it to the Captain if he had to. If he had to, he’d go talk to the fucking Council. Major Wallace would have his back. Hopefully.

Too many thoughts raced through his head, laced with shame and anger. He had to force that shit down. Weston's voice helped. Like water on flames. The playful note soothing Ignacio’s nerves just right.

“Hey, boy...” He walked over to the bed, standing right next to it. His gaze softer, tracing the injuries. He knew more were hidden that he couldn't see. He put his hand over Weston’s wrist, over the metal shackle. It burned. Reminding him the coarse rope he was holding earlier.

“I see it’s a spa day today?” His lip quirked up on the side. His stance and tone casual, even as his thumb grazed skin next to the metal band. Mindlessly caressing the little spot in the most discreet sign of affection he could allow himself to show.

“Hey.” Weston responded, that single syllable carrying a lot of unspoken weight on it. “Yeah, might as well grab yourself a table too - y’look like you could use the relaxation. The masseuse is a bit of a rough hard-ass though, gotta say.” He grinned a little wider with the relief that Ignacio didn’t just march right up and punch him.

“Listen -” Weston rolled slightly to his side, reaching over to put his hand on top of Ignacio’s - not to stop the discreet caress that was impossible for him to miss, but to return the gesture as much as he could. Bloody hand be damned, he gave Ignacio’s hand a light squeeze. It was a quick one though, very aware of the number of other people in this tent that could be watching.

“As much as I’d love to say the rebellion had a whole damn army in its back pocket all this time, I don’t. This one wasn’t me. I have no fuckin’ idea where they came from or what’ll happen to any of us. The pair out front that looked like they were in charge said we’d be put on trial. Dunno if I believe it.” Weston gave Ignacio’s hand another squeeze before he let go, rolling onto his back again with a grunt.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Ignacio. Maybe I’m a fuckin’ idiot for that, after everything. I dunno.” Weston glanced over at Ignacio, eyes roaming over him and taking in his injuries. His eyes eventually settled onto Ignacio’s bloodied and split knuckles, furrowing his brow at how painful it looked. Weston reached up to his face with his uncuffed hand and rubbed at his eyes, which suddenly looked a bit red.

“I’m sorry. I know we got stuff we should probably… talk about.” Weston’s gaze flickered to the nearest nurse, who was busy with someone else. There were too many damn people in this tent and he just wanted a moment alone with Ignacio.

“You look like you got sent through a meat grinder of your own. What happened?”

Weston thought he needed to apologize. For what? For fighting against everything wrong with that place? No. For what he assumed was betrayal. For never telling Ignacio the truth.

Whole array of emotions passed through him. One lingered. Guilt.

Cabrera thought about what he’d say to Weston. Not often because he couldn’t allow himself that kind of thinking—not when he had to stick to his bastard self. But he’d imagined it before. Now? All the words abandoned him. All that was left on his tongue was...

“I did it.” He swallowed hard against tightness in his throat. Holding Weston’s gaze. Seeking understanding or anger or anything that would indicate acknowledgement. But deep down he knew he’d need to explain.

His attention was snatched by a passing soldier and he pulled his hand back, one last little circle traced on Weston's skin.

“Hey, Corporal. I need these cuffs off.”

The guy stared at him the way Cabrera remembered white folks looking at him when he was young. When his family moved to a shitty neighborhood and he was hanging out with black kids, with Jamal. The guy looked at him like Ignacio was something less.

“Fuck you.” The Corporal said. Already turning his attention away when Ignacio spoke loud enough to disturb the wounded.

“Fuck you Master Sergeant, Cabrera,” that made the guy look back, “Callsign Dream.”

The guy’s lips parted when he realized who he was talking to. Stumbling over words he tried to apologize but Cabrera cut him short. “The key. Give it to me.”

Weston had expected a number of things from Ignacio: Anger, rage, betrayal, disgust, hurt. Maybe a fist to his already aching face to match his heart. Maybe Ignacio had gotten ahold of his last-words letter, if his plan worked, and now he’d throw all of it in his face and call him a fool or worse.

He’d been thinking about what he could and should say to Ignacio ever since he got tossed into that gas chamber. It was intermixed with grasping desperately for ideas on how to get out. And once he was? He still kept thinking about it, in between swings of his axe and trying to just make it one more step, one more minute. He didn’t actually think he’d get an opportunity like this - that was what the letter was for, after all - and now that he had it? He damn well couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Those half-dozen spiels he had saved away in his head fell right out the second he saw Ignacio smile at him. He’d always been a sucker for a good smile.

Those three words - I did it. - was exactly the opposite of what Weston anticipated. So much so, that they didn’t even sound real. Right, Ignacio did it, and he was the Queen of England too.

“What.” Weston didn’t say it like a question, just a statement as he stared back at Ignacio - the one eyebrow that could still move going as high up as his face would allow. He didn’t try and tug his hand back or move away from Ignacio - he just looked shocked and dumbfounded. Was Ignacio really telling him what he thought he was saying?

When the man in uniform - one he presumed was some grunt - came by and Ignacio addressed him as a Corporal, he had no idea how Ignacio could even tell what the guy’s rank was. The prompt fuck you the request earned Ignacio made him squeeze a hand that had no strength left in it around the metal bars of the cot. The Samaritans might be done for and it was well deserved, but fuck anyone who talked to Ignacio like that.

The prompt correction Ignacio gave him - Fuck you, Master Sergeant Cabrera, Callsign Dream - was comically effective and got the Corporal moving, but did absolutely nothing to make Weston’s mind spin less.

The Corporal yanked the key out of his pocket, one of several on a keyring. Apparently still hesitant enough not to just hand the whole bundle over, he fumbled once or twice, then finally managed to shove the key into the handcuffs around Weston’s wrist and unlock them. They fell away, and the Corporal was already excusing himself to go scuttle off - casting one look over his shoulder before finding a reason to exist on the other side of the tent with someone else.
Weston waited until the Corporal was out of easy earshot, first rubbing his wrist, then slowly sitting himself up so that he could sit on the edge of the cot. It took a few moments, several grunts, and a rather colorful curse about whatever the ass-end of a holler’s runny pit was, but he managed to get upright. Weston then motioned for a nearby stool, some wobbly three-legged thing someone hauled in and left under a table, for Ignacio to sit on.

“Master Sergeant?” He blinked up at Ignacio, still wrapping his mind around all this. Suddenly he looked down and huffed a laugh, which made him wince.

“Well, Christ fuckin’ almighty, I’m the blindest bat in the barn.” He muttered, shaking his head and running his fingers through his messy hair. “Here I kept wondering - who was the guy on the inside? Was it one of mine? With the rebellion? Why wouldn’t they have told me? ‘Cause it had to have been someone on the inside, from what Madison told me, but I just… couldn’t put two and two together.” Weston sighed, letting his arms rest on his knees and his hands dangle. He’d wiped his hands off at some point, but given how bloody he was from head to toe, it didn’t matter anymore.

He narrowed his eyes a little at a spot of nothing off in the distance, then blinked at Ignacio. “The whole time? Was this-” he gestured to the tent in general “-the plan the whole time? And you couldn’t tell me?”

Cabrera pulled the stool closer and sat down, he was about to lean forward with his elbows on his knees but his shoulder protested. So he sat a little awkwardly straightened up—that way it hurt less.

He let Weston talk and work it through in his head. Waiting for the explosion that didn't come. Just quiet acceptance that hit harder than rage would. Maybe exhaustion did it. Maybe the fact Weston realized Ignacio was on his side as soon as Weston chose the right side. Or maybe Cabrera simply didn’t know him as well as he thought he did and that’s why he was surprised Weston didn’t even raise his voice. Did he….feel betrayed or relieved?

With a slow exhale, Ignacio gave himself some time before he said. “The raid was the plan from the start. But the way it happened and how late it happened, was not the original plan.” He offered a rueful smile as he spoke in a low voice. “Caring for my enemy.... was never part of the plan either.”

The weight of what he was hearing hit him like a ton of bricks. Ignacio was the inside guy the whole time, and had never really been what Weston thought he was - who he was - this whole time. It was some kind of trick, some kind of ruse - an act that would have made Tigran jealous had he been hearing this too. It was a hell of a big pill of information to swallow at once.

Weston searched Ignacio’s face, looking for some kind of sign the guy was just fucking with him, but he knew he wasn’t. You don’t throw out a title with that much confidence and have people listen if it’s a complete pile of bullshit.

“Ignacio, I don’t know if I should be rightfully pissed the fuck off, relieved we’re alive, Goddamn proud of the stunt you just pulled off, or if I should be laughing my ass off right now.” Weston glanced down at the IV still in his arm, and then up at the fluids bag hung above his bed. The sticker on the front read ’saline’ all in caps. He squinted at it a moment, as if doubting that was the only thing in it, before sighing and looking back to Ignacio again. He still hurt everywhere, so it couldn’t be painkillers.

“Was any of this at all real?” He motioned between the two of them. “Fuck the plan, did I ever get the real you for even a minute?”

“Who is that?” He fought to block the doubts. He couldn't risk falling apart. Not here, not until all of them were back to safety. “The real me...” Bitter chuckle burned in his throat, nothing funny about it. Just like there was no more joy in his smile. “I don't know anymore, man.”

He held Weston’s gaze until he couldn’t. He looked down. Mindlessly stared at the blood on Weston’s shirt, fueling the storm in his heart.

“But the memories…” He didn't trail off because he was unsure about that part. He hesitated because it hit him how vivid the memories were. “I never had to fake how it felt to hold you in my arms.” His voice just a half-tone. Not ashamed. Afraid. If someone overheard. What would it mean for them? For Weston's future.

“The way you touched me.” He mindlessly uncurled the fist he didn’t know he was clenching. “Your body with mine.” His eyes locked with Weston's. Unguarded. “Your room…my sanctuary. The only place I could lower my guard. Just a little.”

He straightened up and inhaled sharply. “I don't know what’s real anymore, Weston. But those memories? They feel goddamn real to me.”

Weston locked eyes with Ignacio as he listened, still holding his breath and waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had to be a catch. Had to be a trick. Had to be a but… to what he was saying. No caveat, carve-out, or exception ever came. Just the simple confession that it was real. As real as it can be with both of them lying to stay safe and neither of them being able to talk honestly. One who couldn’t tell the truth, and one who didn’t know how.

His mind still a storm of too many emotions and questions, in the end Weston just gave Ignacio a tired half-smile. Onlookers be damned, he reached forward for that hand Ignacio kept clenching into a fist and gave it a squeeze. It was brief contact, just in case someone else nearby turned at the wrong time or decided to be a lookie-loo when they shouldn’t, but it was honest contact all the same. He was reluctant to let go, fingers sliding over Ignacio’s before he broke contact for now.

“Why didn’t you let me help you? The one time I tried to talk about it, the one time I tried to say I didn’t think what King was doing was right, you told me that maybe I wasn’t the right man for the job. That’s when I figured I couldn’t tell you what I was doing. I wasn’t lying when I said I was doing it for you - just as much as everyone else here. It wasn’t about me.”

The words cost him. Each one carved from the place where he buried his true self—something far from innocent but still vulnerable in the face of barbarian violence and pathology he had to adopt. The place he guarded like a lioness protecting cubs. Something he hoped he could uncover one day. Something he could regain. Could he?

“I couldn’t tell you.” He shook his head, looking down at the spot where he felt the phantom warmth of Weston’s touch on his skin. He hesitated. He was so damn sick of lying. To everybody. Often to himself. So he looked into his lover’s eyes and confessed.

“I never trusted you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I couldn’t allow myself to trust you. Not with this. I’d trust you with my damn life, Weston. But…not with this. Not with everything on the line. After Andrew was gone I—” Right… He never told Weston, did he. What Andrew really meant to him.

It was a punch to the gut, but one he unfortunately saw coming. Every unspoken feeling and emotion he’d been carrying around all this time felt like it’d been shoved off to some dark corner of his mind and hidden to the best of his ability. Something swept under a rug or ushered behind a closed door, or crammed into a corner under a dusty tarp. Pay no regard to what’s behind Door #1, that’s just someone having feelings they didn’t deserve to have.

Of course they hadn’t trusted each other. Not like this.

Weston chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before remembering it’d been split on the other side and worrying it around wasn’t a good idea. More lightbulbs came on, more puzzle pieces fit together. A plan this big necessarily took more than one person to pull it off… meaning there was a good chance there was more than one person on the inside.

“I never trusted you either.” Weston swallowed hard, looking down at his hands as he rubbed one with the other. His knuckles ached, just as split as Ignacio’s were. He forgot when and how exactly that came to be. The scuffle with Marx? Maybe. “Not quite. I wanted to. Wished I could. But I never quite… never quite let myself feel safe with anyone. Didn’t know how.”

Weston sat up a little and cleared his throat, reaching up to rub at an eye despite not wanting to acknowledge there were tears trying to escape. Normally this is when he’d cut loose and leave the room or something, or piss someone off and turn it into a shouting match instead of whatever this was - but he couldn’t do that anymore. Not with Ignacio.

“I never told you since I wasn’t real sure who’s side you were really on in the end, but…” Weston hesitated. It was something he’d never told anyone. “When I killed Andrew - which I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for - I already knew all this ain’t right. It was the last straw. He called us poison and I wanted to tell him he was preachin’ to the damn choir. But y’know what I told him, when I was there next to him? Showin’ him that picture I found on him in his pocket? I told him I was sorry… and I promised I’d fix it.”

Weston gestured vaguely to the tent in general. “I did it for a lot of people and it's a long damn list, but that also meant I was doing it for him, too. That’s what it started as. Didn’t even know the guy and I knew he was right.” Weston laughed dryly before swallowing hard again, as if there was a lot he was trying to hold back. “Had no idea that it meant I was doin’ it for a whole damn army that probably didn’t need my help. Hopefully I didn’t simply fuck it up for ‘em, like usual. I couldn’t take out King, and shit, I couldn’t even get Derek to listen to me. Lotta fuckin’ good I did.”

Weston lifted his red-rimmed eyes to Ignacio, studying his face. “You had to choose the mission over me, in the end, right? That’s what that was back there?”

He wanted to reach up and wipe the tears that would come. But every mark of affection was a gamble. Whole tent of people could see them with a glance.

Talk of Andrew’s death pushed a spike in between his ribs. Each goddamn time. He never had a moment to mourn. Grief locked down. Sealed away. Because one crack, one moment of weakness and the whole mission could have gone sideways. It was the only thing that mattered. Until it wasn’t.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Back then I had to choose between you and the mission. But I couldn’t..."

Weston exhaled heavily, and couldn’t seem to pull another breath in. It took a moment before his lungs would function again, lowering his eyes a moment before returning them to Ignacio’s face. No more hiding and avoiding things. Not anymore.

“I forgive you, Ignacio.” He smiled softly as one of those tears finally escaped, sliding down his cheek as he ignored it. Let someone see it. Fuck playing tough guy right now. He couldn’t be honest and play pretend at the same time.

“I was angry because I thought you gave up on me - and chose him instead.” He didn’t even want to say King’s name out loud. “I think that was the most honest thing we’ve ever said to each other. We should probably do it more often.”

Weston’s eyes drifted around them, wishing that curtain was a set of solid walls and a door instead. “If they let us. What happens next?”

Ignacio stood abruptly. Vertigo. Fucking drunk. Didn’t matter as long as he didn’t stumble. He grabbed the curtain and yanked it, blocking the view of the rest of the room. Until a nurse wandered over to check what was happening—they had a moment. A moment he didn’t waste. He stepped into Weston’s personal space and took his head in both hands. When Weston looked up he leaned in. The kiss was gentle, demanding but gentle. Sweat, tears, blood. He couldn’t even taste it all. His nose filled with the known scent that reached far deeper. A good place. Good memory. Fuck. He didn’t realize how much he missed it.

The speed at which Ignacio stood made Weston flinch, uncertain what to expect. Had someone spotted them? Did Ignacio hear or see something? Were they in danger? He hadn’t yet uncoiled his nerves or relaxed his body, unable to convince himself that he was any safer here than he was anywhere else. Safety was a thing that didn’t happen regularly - the only exceptions to that rule were those times when he was in his quarters with the very man right in front of him.

The touch of Ignacio’s hands on his bruised, battered, and swollen face were electric. Pure magic. The kiss made him forget every ache and pain in every part of his body. Even his split lip didn’t hurt anymore - all he felt were those warm lips on his. Somehow, those lips were familiar and new all at once. Gentle, but not shy. It was different from every other kiss they’d ever shared. It was demanding with a need unlike other times, when it felt more like a hunger that needed to be sated before they could move on with their day with their heads on level.

Not the first kiss, but the first real kiss that actually meant something.

Weston reached up and placed one hand over Ignacio’s, holding on to his wrist and making sure he stayed there, thumb stroking back and forth over the back of the other man’s hand. Realizing what he’d been sorely missing this whole time made him wish they’d never argued in the first place - or had figured out a way to patch things up sooner. It was impossible to hold back that grin that threatened to tug his lips away from Ignacio’s.

Soft slide of lips. Slick, deep kiss. He tasted Weston’s tongue like it was the first time. Drinking the slow burn of passion, feeling the other man cave into mutual longing. The touch reciprocated. It felt good. Weston's hand on his hurt, but in the right way.

His other palm slipped down. Skin of Weston’s throat beneath his thumb, soft, delicate. He stroked it gently, brushing fingers against jaw and neck, to curl over the broad contours of muscle. Firm, hard body and the strength he could feel in those shoulders, even now, even when Weston was beat and wounded.

He broke it. Only to breathe. Lips barely separated, eyes closed and his words whispered into the wet heat between them. "I missed this..."

Weston leaned his forehead against Ignacio’s when they broke the kiss - not wanting it to stop, though his lungs ached for a breath. He leaned into the hand on his shoulder, finally feeling his muscles start to relax. A friendly, comforting touch was so rare at Lincoln that it was nearly extinct. It hurt to realize he’d almost forgotten what this felt like, and had almost died thinking he’d never feel it again.

“I missed it too. I missed you.” He swallowed hard. “I was afraid you were dead.” Keeping his eyes closed, Weston focused on the sound of Ignacio’s breathing and the pulse he felt under his thumb that held Ignacio’s wrist. All signs of being alive. He needed to see it, hear it, and feel it to convince himself it was all real.

He didn’t get an answer as to what will happen next - and maybe it didn’t matter right now. Maybe all that mattered was that they were alive - and, because they were alive, it meant they had a chance to do the right thing.

“Do you want to start over?” Weston opened his eyes and kept his forehead against Ignacio’s. “Try things again, slowly, while we figure ourselves out? Just… without the lying, the yelling, the bullshit?” The corner of his mouth turned up in a grin. “We oughta keep kissing like that, though. It was good.” The kiss was actually perfect, but it might have been the emotions of the moment talking.

He wanted to dive back in but he stopped himself. So reluctantly pulling away, only enough to look at Weston. Feeling loss on his lips. But his hands were not empty. Nor was his heart.

The suggestion, the offer, stunned him. Maybe because for him, everything that happened was a bit like a dream. Or more like a nightmare. He was himself but he wasn’t. He was someone else yet he was himself. It was goddamn complicated in his head and chest. But Weston’s words offered a way out. A clean slate. He smiled, feeling his lungs tight.

“I like the sound of it, Jones.” Gentle slant tugged his lip. He was about to speak when the rumble nearby spiked up his heart rate. An explosion. He jerked back, grunting at the pain striking his shoulder. But where? Was it in the main building? He looked at Weston with urgency in his gaze.

“I’ll be back.” He gave the man’s arm a quick squeeze and he rushed towards the exit.

“Good, I’m glad.” He gave Ignacio a smile, reaching forward to pat him on the hip with his other hand. Not to be lewd about it, but because his muscles hurt and that was only about as far up as he could reach without gritting his teeth and feeling his muscles shake.

He liked the sound of that. That was all Weston needed to feel okay about this. About the two of them. He had plenty of time to think about a lot of things lately, and thus his mind had settled on a few matters he felt needed to be mentally finalized before he bit the bullet. Primarily, one of those was regrets.

Weston had countless regrets about any number of things. A lifetime of fucking up and being a terrible person does that to a guy. But one thing he did not regret was his time with Ignacio in general. Did he regret the lying, the arguments, the shouting, the inability to communicate, the inability to show some vulnerability? Yes, of course. He hoped Ignacio regretted the same and similar, from what he’d dished out on his end. But not once did Weston ever regret a single kind word, touch, or look - and in the end, he’d gotten some clarity in why some things were the way they were.

One thing he decided was both a regret and not-a-regret was his handling of what happened when Ignacio had side-stepped his quasi-flirtatious question of whether he was his back at Northview. He could not regret wanting to ask, nor could he regret feeling hurt and let down when Ignacio’s answer was no, or his outward projection of calm acceptance of the answer for the sake of keeping the peace and bottling up his feelings (as per usual). What he did regret was how he approached the question in the first place. Hours after almost dying to an explosion and horde of the dead was not the time to press someone as to a relationship’s commitment level. Not when you were still wiping the blood off each other. Not without making it abundantly clear the answer mattered deeply.

So it made sense to hit the big ol’ red re-do button and try things again. Slower. Smarter…. And with another explosion, of course, because their relationship just wouldn’t feel like them if not accompanied by chaos, apparently.

The explosion made Weston flinch and suck in a breath that hurt. He expected the tent to come crashing down at any second, for more explosions, more gunshots, anything - but it didn’t happen. He could hear a lot of gasps and explanations on the other side of the curtain. Someone dropped something metallic somewhere in surprise.

“Be careful.” He clapped a hand over Ignacio’s grip on his arm before letting go, watching the curtain flutter behind him as he rushed out. The urge to follow him, to be at his side as he investigated what the hell was happening to God-knows-which-side (and whose side were either of them on now, anyway?) was all-consuming. He’d done a shit job of being at Ignacio’s side in the past. He wanted to fix that. He could start fixing that right now.

Weston pushed himself to his feet but had barely taken a single step before a pair of people tugged the curtain out of the way and ushered him back to the cot. It was just as well - he’d gotten dizzy just standing up. Only one of them was an actual medical person of some kind as far as he could tell. The other? Armed and uniformed, one of the RGF and not here for medical services. Not the same Corporal as before, but another grunt. The man didn’t put a hand on him, but stood nearby as if he was ready to put Weston back in his place if he tried anything funny. There was distrust all over his face, but he at least kept his mouth shut. Was he under armed guard now? Great.

He grumbled and complained about being told to park his ass in bed and let someone help him, as every red-blooded stubborn American man is required to do, but when he finally got himself laid out on the narrow cot again and settled enough that he could breathe, he was thankful he was at least getting the opportunity to rest and be treated. He knew he was in rough shape - the kind of shape that lays someone up for a while and would put his life at risk if he didn’t give himself time to heal up. So, instead of remaining silent about being grateful, he thanked the medic, and kept the rest of his complaints to himself. He could worry about Ignacio in silence and let the medical staff do their job unbothered.

Maybe, just this once, it would be okay for him to let go of feeling like he was responsible for everything and everyone all the time.



 

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The Past Catches Up
Outside Lincoln - Inside a Medical Tent​



Weston

Something wasn’t right.

Weston had dozed off at some point after Cabrera left the tent, the noise around him becoming nothing but a hum of activity that turned into white noise. A nurse or something of the equivalent had come in, asked him a few questions, took his blood pressure, and changed the dressing on his gunshot wound. He had closed his eyes when she was taking down his empty saline bag in order to replace it - thankful he was getting the hydration without having to sit up and try and chug water.

How long ago was that? He couldn’t tell. But now he was awake, groggy, dazed, feeling floaty, and scared because something was very much not right.

Breathing felt hard - he tried to pull in a breath but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. His heart felt too fast. He thought he felt nauseous before but now he was certain he was going to be sick if this kept up. The world around him seemed darker - and not from dimmed lights or a return to nightfall, but because the edges of his vision were getting dark.

Panicking, Weston tried to sit up - but could barely move. His arms had turned to mush, like someone had gone and slid the bones right out from inside them and replaced his muscles with jello. His legs were no better. He managed to drag one arm up and across his torso - but when he looked down he swore his nails looked the faintest hint of blue. His heart beat even faster. Something was wrong, and he was dying.

“Hhhh-” A slurred noise was the only thing that came out at first as he tried to call for help, tongue and vocal cords not coordinating together to form an actual word. The curtains around his bed were drawn mostly closed again, likely an attempt to block out some of the light as he slept, but now it meant nobody could see him struggling. He had to get someone’s attention somehow - and soon.

It took all the effort he could manage to drag his arm off his stomach, but it was the only way he could reach something that would make nose. A metal cart was parked nearby, where the empty saline bag, gauze, and a few other things he couldn’t quite see were sitting discarded. He could barely make his fingers work, but he didn’t need dexterity for this - just strength. Whatever bit he still had, anyway.

Weston reached out, hooked his hand and wrist around the bar running up the side of the cart, and tipped it over with a tug. It clattered to the ground, making a hell of a racket. Good. He hoped to God someone would hear that and come check out what was going on - and he hoped even harder that it was someone who cared enough to help stop whatever it was that was going on.

Jasper

This was pure and immediate chaos, and as much as he thrived in it, he detested it. Jasper wiped his forehead with the crook of his elbow. His emergency rooms were normally clean, crisp, and organized. Everything had its place. There was little room for error when everyone knew where everything was, when everything was stocked, and when he knew exactly what kind of injury was about to walk through that door, a nice beautiful heads up from EMTs and what have you. No. This. This was enough to send him wanting to crawl back into bed with a beer and curse everything to all hell…and he didn’t like to curse. He was normally efficient, in and out. He didn’t like to waste time. Time was body and brain.

It wasn’t the sheer amount of bodies that were walking through the tents. He wasn’t surprised by the amount of malnourished people. He had done his fair share of volunteer work before the apocalypse began, in third world countries and what have you. Doctors Without Borders loved to plaster his face on campaign ads. He had dealt with packed waiting rooms, long wait times, and the most heinous of inflicted injuries.

No. The thing that was driving him nuts? The medics. The staff. The people around him. Worst of all, he know he trained most of them to be better than this…

It was no secret that the Roanoke Ground Forces were short on medics. Hell, the whole world was short on medical personnel. When this whole mess had started, they were the first to go. He had been lucky. Lucky that he was stuck in a hotel room, in his own personal hell, listening to the voice mail his ex-fiance left him, stating that yes, he had been fucking someone else, and he was sorry. Lucky that his Emergency Room Physician conference had been taking place in Roanoke Virginia, right when things started to seem like they were going south for just about everyone around him. Lucky that he had something he could sink his teeth into instead of focusing on how blind he had been to what was going on around him. Stories for another day, another time. He’d been one of the emergency room speciality doctors to survive, and it was by pure luck. Medicine had gotten a whole lot more awful as well. Supplies were rationed. Drugs were either ridiculously hoarded, or impossible to find. Labs, Radiology, and anything diagnostic was extremely limited. It was back to ‘Caveman Medicine’. He hated it. He hated that he had to turn around people with colds, flus, all the problems of a pre-apocalyptic ER, for the worst-case scenarios. Save the antibiotics for the septic thirty, forty year olds, and not for the elderly with pneumonia. Pray to god that someone didn’t come in with a heart attack, because there wouldn’t be enough heparin to keep a clot forming for more than a few hours. Being a doctor had been his life, but now, he felt like the Grim Reaper…and even more so in this field of tents.

He had trained some of these medics. Trained them in the basics of stitches, setting bones, checking for infections, watching for the early signs of bites from the dead, the usual. The easy things. Now that they were faced with their truly big first mass casualty situation? A situation that he dealt with on a daily basis pre-end of the world? It was like they had all lost their brains. The army medics were scrambling more for their own people, bias clearly taking over at the few good men of the RGF who were dealing with gunshot wounds, than the poor malnourished victims of the Samaritans, who had just lost everything.

Jasper had dealt with enough homeless to know the thoughts going through their heads as well. He ached for them, but he was only one doctor, and he had to just patch them up, and let what would come next, come. He wanted to strangle some of these nurses, watching them walk around with used needles, bloodied gauze, marching it past people and rushing to the next victim that came crashing through the door. There were tools everywhere. There were saline bags getting scattered and mixed in with the bags of premedicated opioids and morphine, for the ones who really would not be able to stand or walk. It drove him nuts. There was no needle count, no signout checklists for the really pungent painkillers. It was grab, and go, and pray….because if someone did walk in here with a bite, someone who didn’t tell them, someone who did die…it was like a bomb had just been set off inside…

He needed a break. Jasper sighed, as he patted a poor woman on the shoulder, ripping his pair of gloves off. He should have been keeping them on, saving the poor nitrile pair for someone else because of limited resources, but his hands were sweaty, and he needed a minute. He needed fresh air. He wished he would have snuck one of Caleb’s cigarettes before he left, something to calm him down. Another nurse rushed past his table, his little center he had set up, knocking into it as she passed and scattering a fresh batch of unused needles and gauze all over. She uttered an apology, but didn’t stop to help him. He groaned. No. He was walking away. He couldn’t take it. He gave the woman a green sticker, patted her gently on the hand, and sighed, immediately moving to cup at the bridge of his nose and squeeze. Maybe two cigarettes…

Jasper turned. He walked out of the back of one of the tents, and disappeared into one of the more quieter ones. The brief bit of fresh air was cold against his cheeks, enough to wake him up a little. He missed his bed. He missed home. He missed him. He missed cleaning up his wounds instead of everyone else’s. Maybe it was his banter, or his stupid smile, or comments about how he needed to lighten up a little, but Jasper was starting to deeply miss that stupid son of a bitch back home…

He sighed, looking around one of the more critical care tents. It was quieter here, but not by much. The medics here were rustling around, grabbing fresh saline bags, changing dressings, and giving more pain medication as needed. Their supplies were much more organized. A fresh change of pace, but they weren’t doing much better. Another explosion had rattled the building, and they were preparing for more intake. He sighed again. His back ached. His shoulders were rubbing. He was tired, but he’d do his job…because they needed him. The pains of the job would always be there, the people might not be.

A clatter brought him out of his grumpy stupor. He blinked. He had just witnessed the last nurse rushing out of the tent….hadn’t he? What in the hell was that? He frowned, twisting around. He spotted the fallen metal tray, still rattling off to the side as it started to come to a stop. More fallen dirty gauze, an empty saline bag, and a used spool of thread came unraveling towards his feet. He sighed.

“Why can’t we pick up after ourselves again? Is it that hard? Really?” he mumbled under his breath, moving towards the pulled back curtain. He pushed it aside, ready to apologize to the person behind it ... .if there was one, and continue on by making sure that they looked at least somewhat professional around there. He lifted his head as he poked around the curtain, and immediately sucked in a breath.

There lay a man who had clearly seen better days. Dried blood still clung to his beard and hair. Clearly he had suffered, but it wasn’t that that was scaring him. His eyes, despite the swelling around his cheekbones, were wide and puffy, almost dazed. His lips were turning blue, and his fingernails…his fingernails were blue. He’d seen it a thousand times. He sucked in a breath, and rushed over, immediatly grabbing Weston’s hand and holding it up to the little that he could see. The stethoscope draped around his neck was already coming free, and he tugged it free, and starting to put it in his ears. His eyes drifted up to the saline bag…the saline bag that was not…a saline bag.

He could make out the hastily scribbled in sharpie, fading at where someone had crossed off NaCL solution, and wrote Morphine infused. The sharpie had been nearly scrubbed off. A mistake. A fucking mistake. He bit at his lip, looking back at Weston’s hand with one hand holding it, the other trying to find his lungs, and listen. His fingerlips were indeed turning blue. No mistake of the light. No previous injury. It was the real deal. Lungs sounded compressed and tight.

Someone would be getting fired if this was his ER, but it wasn’t….No.

“I need narcan! I need it fucking now!” Jasper screamed in the tent. He wasn’t sure if anybody heard him. There was no reply back. It was just him…As he dropped Weston’s hand, and let it flop back to the gurney, he watched his arm twist back, and he noticed the tell tale scars….old track marks. No wonder….

“Listen. I’m Dr. Rhodes. I’m a doctor, and you are not going to panic. You…are having a bad reaction to something that never should have happened…and I’m going to do my best to keep you awake…but if you fall asleep….”

He frowned. He was still waiting for footsteps, or any acknowledgement from someone for his cry for narcan.

“You fight. You fight like you did in that place. If you were bad, good, playing both sides, I don’t care. You fight…Stay awake for me.”

Weston

Distantly he felt the sensation of his and being grabbed and his arm moving, but it also felt a little like it wasn’t his arm. Things seemed fuzzy, disoriented, and distant. A face appeared in his field of vision - nobody he recognized, some blonde guy, but even with his compromised vision he could see the immediate concern on his face.

Thank fuck.


There was a thrumming in his ears that made things sound far away. The cold metal circle of the other end of the stethoscope was pressed against his neck, and he flinched. He hated when people touched his neck, but it wasn’t like he could bat this man’s hand away even if he wanted to. That all by itself made him panic more - the realization he was as mobile as a sack of wet sand, helpless as he suffocated. The doctor would have heard a slow heartbeat that was working its hardest to keep on going, which momentarily beat a little faster upon contact before settling back in its too-slow rhythm next to lungs that refused to inflate far enough.

Narcan.

Somewhere in the back of Weston’s terrified mind that word bounced around the Great Bingo Card of Shit He Knew But Didn’t Talk About and landed on a square marked heroin addict. Former, in his mind, because he hadn’t used since the Fall and rarely ever itched for a fix these days - though most doctors and counselors would probably correct him and say addiction is a lifelong chronic health condition to be maintained, not cured. At least, that’s what he’d read in books he’d flinched from the library and hid in his room. But fuck ‘em and their fancy learning - if he wanted to say he was former he damn well would. He could only shoulder the weight of so many labels at once.

“Hherr-” His fucking tongue wouldn’t function, and all he could do was slur his words, and it pissed him right the hell off. It felt important to get the word heroin out so the doctor knew what they were Narcan-ing him for, right? Not that it explained why any of this shit was happening. Did some fucker happen to have a shitton of that shit on them and decide to inject it into him when he wasn’t looking? Who fucking was it - one of the Samaritans? One of the military?

Precious moments later, a harried looking nurse came barreling into the tent, a white plastic case with a purple sticker on it in her hands. It said “OPIOID / NALOXONE EMERGENCY BOX” in big bold letters across the top. Her brows were furrowed and she looked sour-faced, as if ready to question Jasper as to why he’d be shouting for such precious limited resources, until she caught sight of Weston. She paled, handing the box over to Jasper. “We don’t have many of these left.” She cautioned him, taking a step to the side but not leaving yet, in case she was needed.

If Weston could have sighed in relief, he would have. A doctor, and someone brought what he called for. God might have been fucking him around these past few days, but at least he stood a small chance. Like hell was he going to live through all this shit just to die gasping and wheezing on a cot in a field somewhere. Wanting to both beg the doctor for help and give him a dose of heavy sarcasm for ordering him not to panic (too late, he already fucking was, bucko), Weston’s jaw worked but no sound came out.

Fight. Fight again, and keep fighting, just like he had been doing for… not just this past day or two… not just these past two years even… but fight like he’d been doing for his whole damn life. Part of him was so damn tired of fighting all the time and never winning his wars.

His mind drifted though as his arm flopped to the side, hand clawing at air. His track marks were usually pretty hard to see, given all his tattoos up his arms, unless one were specifically searching for them. He doubted even Ignacio, Toni, or Tigran had noticed them. If they did, they kept quiet about it. Dave knew about them. Hell, he’d been there through the worst of it.

Tears squeezed out of his eyes at those memories. What a piece of shit he’d been, doing that to himself while all Dave could do was sit back and watch him rot. He could do better than that. He would do better than that, than this. He had to. After all, he had at least one person willing to stick with him, and countless others that had put their lives in his hands and trusted him.

So, once again, Weston was back fighting another battle.

Jasper

Every second felt like hours. Every minute felt like an entire day had passed. Every passing moment he watched the man before his chest heaved. Jasper had to rely on his own eyes and ears. His fingers flexed, pressing on the inside of the man’s wrist, keeping the back of his hand flat on the gurney. Agony was setting in. He was waiting for his breathing to eventually stop, the air exiting from his lungs for the last time, and he would have to start CPR. He wasn’t sure anybody would be coming, and he was ready. He pressed deeper into his wrist, as he felt the pulse starting to weaken. He looked at the IV, still flowing into his vein. He quickly moved his hand up the inner part of his arm, grabbing the needle still in his AC, right next to the barely visible tiny faint marks, and grasped it. He kept the needle in place, but disconnected the IV tubing. He’d need the IV later…if things really got bad…A gloved hand passed over the marks. The faint marks that he only recognized because he had seen them way too many times, and he had started to look for them when starting IVs, because patients lied about drug habits, and the body never liked to lie…

The unfortunate side of patients…is that they came with mouths and brains…and he was not a dentist or a neurologist…God, he could never…but that wasn’t their fault, and he wasn’t there to berate them for what they had done in the past. He was here for the present, and to send them onto someone who could eventually get their future back in order, and if they didn’t want that…well…that was their own choice.

He was already starting to do Root Cause Analysis in his head when a nurse came rushing over. He twisted back towards her, snarling as he grabbed the box from her hands. “Our inventory management does not need to be discussed in front of patients, and it doesn’t fucking matter. We use what we have to save who we can, and if we run out, then we find something else. Now. I want the damn names of the nurses who aren’t reading bags and taking fucking histories!”

His finger jabbed at the saline bag that he just disconnected, the liquid now dripping on the ground, a waste of the medicine with the faded sharpie that had written ‘Morphine’ rubbing off on his glove. He flipped the metallic tabs on the box, revealing a syringe inside labeled ‘naloxone’. He lifted it up, pulling the safety cap off with his teeth. Safety was apparently off the table at the moment. He lifted the access port of the IV that was still attached to Weston, and placed the needle directly in, and pressed down on the plunger, injecting the narcan directly into his vein. He pulled back, pressing the safety on the gurney and tossing the needle onto a nearby table.

“Go find me a second box. If this doesn’t work, I’m going to need a second dose. Low supply be fucking damned. Also recheck the saline and morphine bags. Move them so they are damn near seperate. We should be banding or indicating former drug users by some kind of color coded armband or something, a sticker, and be checking histories! No fucking opoids for anyone with a history.” He snapped. His head was pulsing. He was over this. He wiped his forehead on the inside of his arm, snapping back to Weston, and watching him carefully, looking at chest and hoping…hoping that there was some kind of movement.

If he didn’t recover…he wasn’t sure how to explain that they had a completely avoidable medical death on their hands…and it would mean more headaches, more meetings, more regulations, which he wasn’t opposed to, but it would mean more meetings and less medicine…and there was a fine line that he hated when people who knew nothing about medicine decided that they should be able to regulate each and every aspect…

“You’re going to feel a rush. It’s like an adrenaline rush. You are probably going to feel sick to your stomach, and a massive headache, but I’m afraid giving you anything more than a couple of ibuprofens is going to be off the table. It’s like you are going to be detoxing….I’m sorry.”

He apologized to Weston, heavily sighing as he watched his face for any changes, any allergic reactions, and more importantly…if he was going to have to give him a second dose…

Weston

His body was on fire and aching, lungs and brain screaming as he writhed on the table, body fighting against something invisible invading it. His fingers curled and flexed on their own until his knuckles turned white and his hands shook. He’d been afraid of dying earlier because he was not only afraid of what came after, but was afraid of the pain. And now he knew for sure: dying was pure agony. There was no white light or calming numbness. It was just pain.

He barely heard the nurse or doctor at all, their words incomprehensible noises. He wasn’t paying any attention to them anyway. His head lolled to the side, though his eyes were still open. Wide open, in fact - he was paying rapt attention to the cot behind Jasper.

“Real shitshow here. Explosions and everything!” Dave - or more accurately, the hallucination of him - said as he lounged on the cot behind Jasper. His legs dangled off the edge, good one swinging back and forth idly. He scratched under his chin with the back of his fingers, short scruffy facial hair making that scritch-scritch sound. It was a habit, a nervous tic, of his he did anytime he was thinking. Weston sucked in a very real breath at the trick his mind was playing on him, once again this close to a very real death. He’d been down this road before. It didn’t get any easier the second time around.

He looked so Goddamn real. Every lock of dark brown hair that fell out of place to be pushed away, only to fall right back, was spot on. Every imperfection, every move, every habit, every crinkle at the corners of his eyes, every scar. Everything. Even the way Dave held the cell phone in his hand - with a thumb and two fingers, because his pinky and ring finger couldn’t straighten out all the way now that the Army was done with him - were right.

“This is the second time you’ve been in this predicament.” Dave titled his head. “I was right last time, y’know. Your nose didn’t turn out crooked. This time you’re probably gonna walk away with some scars. Don’t worry, they’ll look pretty badass. The new guy might like ‘em.” Weston grimaced, and Dave just laughed and shook his head.

“Babe, I don’t expect you to remain celibate. Don’t worry. I mean, you’ve displayed a real… uh, interesting… taste in men lately. I mean honestly. Toni? Toni?” Dave made a face, then laughed. “His tattoos were terrible, but I get it. He offered up what you needed when you needed it. Anyway - whatever, no, that’s not why I’m here.” Ghost-of-Dave somehow slid off the cot and walked right up to Weston’s cot, standing next to Jasper as if he himself were real flesh and blood. He even heard the weird click-click noise Dave’s false leg sometimes made when he moved. Jasper seemed too busy bitching out the nurse to notice a ghost was next to him.

Dave leaned down until he was nose to nose, eye to eye, with Weston. “I’m proud of you, Weston. You’re out here fixing shit, no matter how hard it is. You’re not done yet though, okay? Remember what I said - not time to get your ticket punched yet. You got people to take care of. A lot of ‘em. What comes next is gonna be hard, but you’re not doing it alone this time.” Dave smiled at him, that gentle lopsided easy grin he always did. Tears ran from Weston’s eyes as he tried to reach out, finding nothing but Jasper’s pant’s leg to hold on to.

“Oh, by the way, the nice lady I mentioned? She says hello, and says she’s doing okay. Adjusting. Still kind of angry, but not at you. I’m trying to get her to play foosball with me.” Dave leaned forward and rested his forehead against Weston’s. Weston felt cold against his skin.

“Love you, babe. Keep going. You’re doing better. I’m proud of you. Now - breathe.”

Weston sucked in a gasp of air as the adrenaline suddenly flooded through him, heart beating wildly - at least it felt wild in comparison to its barely-beating it had been doing previously. Now he was realizing it wasn’t out of control, it was kicking up back to normal. He took several deep lungfuls of air - the pain from his bruised ribs was awful, but his body craved the oxygen. Dave was already gone by the time he turned his head to stare up at the ceiling of the tent, breathing hard but breathing and that was the important part.

“Oh God, fuck-” He wheezed in, clutching an arm against his ribs before suddenly rolling onto his side, away from Jasper, and getting sick over the side of the cot. There wasn’t much to offer up to the ground, but his body wanted it out and there was no stopping it. He laid there on his side, shuddering and panting afterwards, feeling hot and cold all over. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to be sick again - not immediately anyways, he slowly rolled onto his back again where it was easier to breathe. The color was starting to return to his lips and fingertips, slowly but surely.

“Don’t let ‘em kill me.” He wheezed again, eyes searching out for Jasper. “What the fuck?”

Jasper

The beauty of Narcan? It tended to work insanely fast..or it was supposed to…He’d give it another minute. Another minute, and then, there was no chance. He’d need a second dose. A second dose…and maybe a third? If he needed a third, help them if they could find him. Jasper started to wonder just how short their narcan shortage was…and what would happen when they would run out? He’d watch too many drug addicts suffer, and even more that he hadn’t been able to save. Many that didn’t even try to get high …because fentanyl was a fickle bitch.

Weston heaved, shuddered and shook, and Jasper stood, hovering, ready to twist him on his side, in case he was going to seize. Then he stopped. He paused.

“Shit.” The nurse had fled for another box of narcan, and Jasper was reaching back. He didn’t have a crash cart. He had his own hands and arms for CPR. No amount of narcan would work if he wasn’t going to breathe in the first place. He hovered, placing his hands against his chest, and paused, as he felt something tug at his pants. He looked down, fingers tugging at his brown pants. He looked back up, noticing how red and purple his face was, and the tears…the tears rushing down. He still wasn’t breathing. He had to move fast. He was taking too long. This was routine for him. Why was he hesitating? Maybe because he feared someone in their own medical staff was trying to off people? Maybe because this wasn’t his fault…and he felt sympathy for the stranger on the gurney.

He had barely pressed down on his chest, when a gasp of air hit his lungs, and Jasper was backing up, letting Weston be sick. He didn’t offer any sympathy, as a nurse came back, holding the second narcan box. He glared at her.

“Took you long enough. Get me Zofran, hang another bag of saline. SALINE. S-A-L-I-N-E. If you even think someone tampered with it, you bring it to me and I’ll be the deciding factor. Get me some tylenol and ibuprofen. No opiates. ”

He turned back to Weston and frowned,

“You think someone wanted to kill you? One of the nurses? Someone from the prison? Anyone else in here? I’m going to need names or descriptions…We don’t discriminate against medical care, no matter how terrible of a person you could have been…or continue to be.” His eyes scanned his tattoos, and then back to his face.

“One of my first patients was a drunk driver. He careened his car into a family of four. Nobody survived…but him…and I kept him alive. He still sends me apology cards every year from prison. I don’t judge. You are safe with me.”

He moved to run his hands through his hair,

“I need a break from doing stitches anyway. What’s your name? Sorry. I won’t let them kill you. Hope you like ibuprofen. Did you tell anybody about…” He pointed down at his arm, where the marks were faded, “Or is that your best kept secret?”

Weston

God, Weston felt exhausted. He could sleep for a year and possibly still be tired. Everything hurt and was shaky. He felt sick. His head didn’t feel right. He was so tired of this. He swore if even one more thing happened to him today he likely wasn’t going to make it through that. He’d taken too much of a beating already.

Trying to focus on breathing - which felt amazing now - the doctor’s words finally made sense instead of sounding far away. Saline and more medications, but no opiates. So he’d been right, it had something to do with that. Weston made a frustrated grunt and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

“A long Goddamn list, doc. Doubt your kind like me - they had me chained up earlier until ordered otherwise. And the assholes inside?” He snorted, which turned into a cough, which just made him wince and tense up. He started to roll onto his side, until he realized that hurt too much, so the only real choice he had was to lay on his back. The effort made him shudder.

“Anyone that was loyal to King, or just okay with how things were, wants me dead, man. You got no idea. Christ, I don’t know if any of your guys have any idea… what was just…. Jesus Christ.” There was no way he knew how to explain the years of horror he’d survived here, how to explain the shit he’d had to do to make it this far, how to explain what he was even trying to do and how impossible it seemed. He was at a loss for words, and hadn’t thought to ask Ignacio what he told people in charge here.

Fuck, he was an idiot. He should have. His own survival and safety should have been his first concern, not… Goddamn… making up with the guy. But he couldn’t help it, feeling like he’d already come that close to death - like maybe both of them had - some things just couldn’t be left unsaid.

“Your military guys interrupted my execution… so thanks for that. I guess I owe y’all one. I’ll remember to send you Christmas cards too.” He sighed heavily, raising his arm just enough to glance at it when Jasper pointed.

“Some people know. Not everyone. Mostly the higher-ranking ones, some of the enforcers. I haven’t used in years. I got clean when I went in. Most people don’t notice them - either it's the tattoos, or they don’t know what they’re looking at, or both. I didn’t think to say anything to the nurses… didn’t even know there was a danger.”

Jasper

The nurse looked extremely annoyed and aggravated that Jasper was ordering her around, but removed herself from the conversation, occasionally looking back between the two men, glaring, and then back to what she was doing. Jasper himself was starting to get antsy, just watching Weston struggling to catch his breath, which he was doing much better now on his own, but was still struggling with, every so slightly .He’d have to go digging for oxygen tanks and canulas if they had brought them, and he was sure that they did.

Clearly, the man was wanted. Probably one of the most dangerous people in the prison if what he was speaking was true. Everyone wanted him dead. He helped him roll onto his side and cough, and then rolled him back onto his back. He’d get him another pillow, mostly because he felt guilty that this had been the medical staff’s fault…and partially the man’s fault for not giving an adequate history.

“You want to know something? I don’t think they like me here either. Prisoners and nurses alike.” He smiled a little. He wasn’t in the ‘need to know’ information haul of who was in charge, and what had actually happened on the inside, but he heard the word ‘King did this’ on multiple people’s lips and he knew that he had to be the main head honcho, the one that they had come after, the one that he had been given a little bit of information about, mostly as a warning. ‘If you see this man come into the tent, you report him to authority immediately’.

Jasper shook his head.

“You don’t have to explain to me, or you could. I get it. I’ve seen car crashes, mass shootings, the worst trauma’s imaginable. When the military told me that they were short on medics, and I would be seeing some third world trauma in a first world country, I just shrugged and said ‘Okay…and?’. I wish I could say that these things shock me…but they don’t.” His legs were getting achey. He wanted a chair. He twisted his head around to find an empty stool. He pulled it closer to Weston’s gurney and sat down, folding his gloved hands under his chin as he listened.

“Well, first of all, I’m not military. I’m just here to help. Second of all, you might want to start including it in your medical history that yes, you’ve used before. It’s pertinent because in cases like this, where we have morphine that we are preparing in bags, and you’ve been on any kind of opioids either before, or currently, if we give you too much, it’ll knock you out. You used in the past. It means your tolerance level is at all time low, but your body remembers that feeling. Remembers that high, and as soon as it gets a taste of it, you go into shock and have a reaction. You can’t have opioids. Not for a few more years, at least, and even then…there’s not been enough research to say how long you could go before the risk is negligible.”

Jasper ran a gloved hand through his hair, grimaced as he tugged the sweaty hand free, and tugged the nitrile gloves off his hand and onto a nearby tray. The nurse finally came back with what he wanted.

“Leave them on the tray. I’ll do it. I don’t trust any of you anymore. Go watch all the other patients. Make sure none of them are about to kick the bucket.” Another glare, a scoff, and an eye roll, and she was gone, leaving him with a fresh silver packet of Zofran, ibuprofen and tylenol, and a fresh saline bag. It didn’t look tampered with, and there was no faded sharpie writing. He turned back to Weston.

“You seem like a guy who can dry swallow pillows? Or I can find some water. Oxygen too.” He squeezed the bag gently in his hand as he started to hang it on the IV pole, grabbing the little bit of IV tubing that was left in his wrist and reconnecting it. He made sure it was dripping before he turned back to the pills on the tray, and unwrapped the Zofran.

“This tastes like shit, but goes under your tongue. Let it dissolve. Should help the nausea…How important were you in there? An execution? You must have been next on the list to run the place then?”

Weston

Weston couldn’t remember the last time a doctor talked to him like he was a person, rather than a piece of shit who earned whatever problem he was dealing with. He rarely saw doctors on the outside before going to prison. The actual prison doctor, before the Fall, didn’t know the meaning of kindness or mercy. Dr. Braaten was cold and distant to anyone who was a Samaritan and that definitely meant him. So for this guy to actually sit here and explain something to him, man to man, rather than being condescending or an asshole, was… unexpected and new. And good.

“Alright, yeah, I get ya. Next time I get beaten half to death, shot, and almost suffocated I’ll let the nurses know.” There was a little bit of humor in his voice - just a little flat sarcasm - because part of him felt defensive over his own ignorance. He had no idea if it was really the issue, all he’d ever heard was rumors before the Fall, and hell if he knew what was real and what wasn’t. He was no doctor. And, to top it all off, it was embarrassing to him that he needed the help rolling over to cough, but he wasn’t going to brush away the assistance. He was out of juice for playing tough guy.

“Yeah, I can swallow ‘em fine.” He accepted the pills as they were handed over, slowly pushing himself up to a mostly-sitting position. He had to swallow them one at a time without water, but he got them all down. When he put the Zofran under his tongue, he made a sour face and shuddered, holding his jaw tightly closed until the worst of the taste-shock passed.

“Christ that’s some nasty shit.” He muttered, carefully laying himself back down on the cot. It thankfully didn’t take all that long for it to dissolve - and now he was left with an awful taste in his mouth. He damn near would have preferred to suck on a Tylenol at this rate.

How important was he? That was a hell of a question for this guy to ask. He let out a chuckle, wincing as it hurt. “You say that like you didn’t expect the answer to be yes. Second in Command, right behind King himself… till the fucker realized I was trying to kill him. I got served up a pink slip in the form of a beating, a noose, and a gas chamber. The asshole.” He huffed, glancing up at Jasper, meeting his gaze and hoping the doctor would realize he was being serious. “I got no regrets about leading that rebellion. I’d do it again.”

Weston grunt-sighed, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. “I’m sure I’ll swing from the same rope as the rest of them at the top. So maybe it doesn’t matter - but I knew damn well that was probably the case even when I tried to convince people to surrender.”

Jasper

Jasper picked up on the little bit of sarcasm, and crossed his arms across his chest, leaning back a little on his stool, and crossing on leg over the other one. Even if Weston was joking, and who could blame him? The likelihood of getting beaten and shot and making it to a hospital in time, and said hospital having a healthy supply of painkillers, was practically astronomical. Even if he was joking, Jasper on the other hand was completely serious.

“What I would suggest is that you wear some sort of bracelet or something. While it might not be legally binding, and sure, what is legally binding anymore, but an indicator of some sort in case of situations like this, but it could be helpful. I don’t know. Some people carry their sobriety around with pride. A thought. Or…maybe even a tattoo? Just a suggestion. Make your life a little easier, and make it so we don’t accidentally kill you.”

Weston was a braver man than him, dry swallowing pills without so much as a gag. Jasper patted him on the shoulder, letting him sit with the Zofran while he stood up and looked to find a nearby cooler or something that held water bottles. He raised a finger, one to tell him to hold on a moment before he returned, two water bottles in hand.

“Hot commodities around here.” He said, twisting the top and handing it to Weston. He twisted the top to his own, and held it to his own lips, sipping at the cool liquid. He coughed a little, the liquid going down the wrong pipe as he heard Weston’s response. He wasn’t just talking to a man who he originally thought to be a victim in all of this, perhaps one of those Samaritan thugs, maybe someone brainwashed to follow this ‘King’ person he kept hearing about, but to be talking to the man who was second in charge…and lead a rebellion.

“Honestly? No. I didn’t expect to see someone so high up not in handcuffs tied to a gurney. Or not in protective custody?” There was no armed guard. Even when they brought in prisoners for medical treatment, there was always an officer in the room to make sure that the prisoner didn’t escape, or try to off themselves with whatever they could get within an arms grasp.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but I wouldn’t expect they would have led this much of an effort to bring in a huge medical effort, if they wanted to hang them all here? You might have a fighting chance. A good chance at least, state your case, tell them what you did. A gas chamber? Really? Jesus Christ. Should have brought more oxygen masks.” His hand came to the corner of his mouth, rubbing at his lips and moving down to his chin.

“What was in the gas? Do you know?” General curiosity and medical mystery started to plague him.

“You probably saved more people than you know. Fighting for what you believe in. I can’t take that away from you. I’ve seen the worst and best in humanity. Good people don’t come in beautifully wrapped up packages with bows and ribbons. The best people? The best people are the people who’ve been shit on, spit on, sent to the bottom of the barrel, and they rise back up. Sounds like you are on the rise.”

Jasper stood up, and pressed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“You still got time. Don’t waste it."


Weston

In a normal world, a medical alert bracelet was a fantastic idea. In the real world nowadays, it was like painting a target on yourself. It was a sign around your neck that practically screamed This is how to kill me and how to do it quickly. Did he really want to advertise to the world that if someone just stuck him with a needle full of the right stuff they could drop him like a sack of shit and make him suffer? No, absolutely fuckin’ not.

But did he want to go through this again? Also absolutely fuckin’ not.

“I’m sure I can fit in another tat somewhere.” He weakly lifted his arms. There was room, yes, but it would not be aesthetically pleasing to put something like that on him. So… maybe a bracelet. “I’ll think about it.” He couldn’t promise the doctor he would do it, but he’d consider it.

The way Jasper inhaled his water and coughed on it when he told him who he was, was… more or less approximately what he expected. Maybe with a dash of more horror, disgust, or fear. But, yeah, surprise and shock seemed about right.

“I was in cuffs earlier until -” Nope. He caught himself. He didn’t want to make anything more complicated for Ignacio than it probably was going to be. The reality of it was, even if they wanted to try again and start over, would anyone let them? If Ignacio was a hero to these people, and he was shit to be scraped off the bottom of their heels, he couldn’t (and wouldn’t) bring Ignacio down with him. It was probably better to not say anything about that situation. That… connection.

“Uh, someone uncuffed me. I was half-asleep, I didn't see who. I figured it was getting in the way of this.” He motioned vaguely to the IV stand. “Besides, your guards are probably busy with all the people who didn’t want to stand down or got squirrelly. I haven’t resisted at all.”

He had to squint a little at Jasper’s face as he tried to decide if the guy was pulling his leg about stating his case and having a chance. He seemed serious about it though. “Don’t take it personally if I say that sounds like bullshit, and I don’t know if any of us will fully believe it. A lot of us were locked up here before things went to shit, remember? Think you’re going to find anyone who really believes trials and judges and courts lead to a fair shake? There’s a saying some folks share - Guilty for what we done, sentenced for who we are. Lotta people take that to heart. Gonna be hard to shake that notion out of ‘em.”

Weston took a moment to drink more of the water - surprised at how good and cold it felt going down. “Ain’t any gas left, I don’t think that chamber’s fully operational anymore, but it is air tight. You don’t need gas to kill people - you just gotta take away the air and let ‘em slowly suffocate. That’s what was going on. Most of us got out in time thanks to-” His voice faltered and actually broke, but he swallowed down a pained noise. “-a friend. Not everyone though, and some people looked in real bad shape and had to be carried out. Not enough oxygen for too long. Bad news, y’know.

So… there may not be a whole lot left of them even if they did live.”

Weston rocked his jaw back and forth, trying to push away thoughts of pain. What a damn punishment - the inability to have anything stronger than aspirin for pain. Well, shit.

“Yeah, everything’s comin’ up daisies. I’ve heard that before. Ain’t sure I believe it yet - depends on what’s coming next, doc.”

Jasper

Someone uncuffed him? Jasper frowned. “Certainly sounds like a motive for murder if you ask me? Uncuff you, make it seem like you were an innocent man, and shove you full of morphine to make it look like they weren’t trying to kill a convict? I’ll have to report it to one of the higher ups when I see them next, but I doubt anything will come of it. Like you said, too busy with the people who are resisting, but if we have someone amongst the people who are trying to help, who just want to kill? Not on my fucking watch.”

Where were security cameras now when he needed them? Possibilities that he hadn’t even imagined, only heard of in those stupid true crime stories that his ex-fiance used to love. He sucked in a breath. Two years later, and he still felt that stupid pain in his heart.

“And I’ve treated a lot of prisoners before you. I don’t take anything you all say personally. Anything any patients truly say personally except ‘thank you’. Most of what comes out of my patient's mouths are curse words and threats that I’m about to be punched in the dick. It’s whatever. I do know that I’ve been called every racist. I know that people do bad things. I know most of you were probably locked away for whatever you did. What I’m saying is? Right now? As far as I’ve seen, the military? They are the judges. The stories I’ve heard? You didn’t have a fair justice system in there to begin with? Why else would you have led a rebellion? You might be guilty. Doesn’t mean you can’t change.”

Jasper sighed.

“State your case. Show your evidence. The worst of the worst can stay in jail. Not denying that, but the innocents that were dragged in? The people who tried to change things for the better? The ones who learned their lesson? Maybe there’s a chance.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But what do I know? I’m just a doctor. I’m not the judge here. If I was a judge, I think a lot more people wouldn’t be standing.”

His hand come to rest on his nose, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Should have brought more oxygen tanks. Explains a lot of blue lips and shortness of breath I’m seeing. Thought it was possibly just hypothermia setting in. Shit. Alright. Well that helps. I haven’t seen anyone…actually…well…you know…so I think your friend did a damn good job.”

He patted Weston’s shoulder again.

“Well…if you wanna know comes next, you have to keep on living. Things can only go up from here. I think that’s for sure, but…I can’t tell you what happens next because I don’t even know. I know where we are going. Roanoke. It’s an island south. It’s not bad. It’s paradise compared to where you were living. Sun, some crappy surf, and too many bars, but…I can’t tell you what happens next. Just, I think you should keep going…

Jasper shrugged,

“And it will probably look at least a little good if you have twice survived attempted murder under your belt…for doing the right thing?”

Weston

“No, no, no, it’s not like that, its - ugh, fuck.” What a shitshow. The last thing he needed was the doctor reporting suspicious activity in this tent and having it come back to Ignacio somehow, because he was definitely not someone to suspect.

“Listen. I didn’t want to say anything, but I know exactly who uncuffed me, and for damn good reason. He didn’t have anything to do with this. So yeah, report it to whoever that someone fucked up my meds or whatever, but those two things got nothing to do with each other, okay? I’m not giving names. It doesn’t need to come up. He’s not out to kill.” Weston let out a huff, which hurt.

He still didn’t quite believe this talk of fairness, especially of the military were the judges. Not after what they’d done, collectively and individually. “Yeah, we didn’t have anything even resembling fair justice inside. Exactly the point. But people are on edge and scared from that. Yeah, right now, a lot of ‘em might be thankful you guys showed up because damn near anything sounds better than King’s fuckers… but once that honeymoon wears off?” Weston shook his head.

They might be right back where they started. New faces, same problem. The cycle might repeat. He hoped it didn’t.

“You haven’t seen anyone die from it? Yeah… cause the ones that had it the worst already died in that room with me.” He furrowed his brow at the shoulder-pat. It wasn’t the contact that did it, as odd as it was to be on the receiving end of a friendly gesture that didn’t come along with threats or the expectation of favors, but mentioning his friend ‘doing a damn good job’. If only this guy knew the half of it.

Weston’s eyes drifted towards the flap of the tent. It was closed, but it made him picture what else was out there these days. This place - Roanoke - sounded… good. Island, sun, water, bars. It didn’t even sound real. Jasper’s last comment about surviving made him smirk a little, despite himself.

“Beating, hanging, suffocating, shooting, and now possibly a drugging. I’m up to four or five wins today alone. I’m not gonna push my luck further - God’ll just think I’m getting cocky.” Weston pressed his lips into a frown, then glanced back to Jasper.

“This is gonna sound like a real dumb thing comin’ from someone like me, but… if there is anyone you can put in a good word with, I got some belongings inside that prison I need back. Pictures, a book, that sort of thing. Sentimental. I’d hate to lose the picture especially. It’s of… someone who’s not around anymore. So… please. It’s important. I’ll march back in there myself to get ‘em if there’s nobody to spare. Under guard if that’ll make these people feel better.”

Jasper

Jasper didn’t like the idea of people just randomly running around, uncuffing one another. It sparked the idea of another rebellion, one that the man in front of him just admitted that he had been apart of in prison, and if the right people were uncuffed, who was to say that the siege that was happening inside, wouldn’t continue on the outside. Still, the man had been through enough, and the one person who had screwed with his meds, was one of his own, so he had to report that. He still didn’t like the idea of not reporting someone being a complete and utter imbecile, or the fact that someone was running around with keys to handcuffs that was potentially not one of their own? The story didn’t sit well with him, but he just nodded all the same. If he happened to mention it off hand to someone to be on the lookout for any more ‘uncuffed’ rebels, then, that wasn’t really telling was it? He’d gotten good at lying when he was a mandated reporter and had to stare child abuser’s in the face and tell them that he wasn’t going to call the cops, right when he would turn around and call CPS. People’s safety were on the line.

“We all are scared. There is no justice system. Someone will argue that…we make our own justice now. I think there’s a fine line of good and bad. An even bigger line of grey that strikes them both down the middle. The fine line? It’s getting thinner day by day. I don’t disagree with you. I’d be scared too. I get that. You’ve been ripped from what you thought was the last bit of society on earth and told that the military still exists. I really can’t tell you what to feel, or what they should feel. They should be scared. They should be on edge. People waving guns in my face? Sure? Taking me somewhere I don’t even know if it exists? Alright. But I think there’s gotta be some trust…and you can’t build trust on injustice.”

If after the honeymoon, the people of Lincoln couldn’t begin to trust the people of Roanoke, they might be right back where they started, with a new King of all things, and all of them would be up a creek with no paddle. They had to form a bit of trust somewhere…and maybe that was his job. Give the medical attention, food, water, take them somewhere safe…and rebuild? He didn’t know….but maybe it was a start.

“Again, I’m sorry about your friend. I’m sorry about a gas chamber, of all things. I get that it’s hard.”

His answer felt so apathetic, a practiced response to anybody who had been in his Emergency Room. He hated how terrible and practiced he sounded in that moment, but what else could he say that wouldn’t already be said, over and over by the people of Roanoke. Weston should probably get used to apologies.

“Or He might think you are a cat. Nine lives and all. Might want to take it easy. Easier to step on a rusty nail these days than most.” His thoughts went back to Roanoke for a moment, to Caleb who he hoped to God was not playing with a fucking buzz saw or grinder, and wasn’t just sitting in his ER smiling from ear to ear waiting for him. He’d kill him. His eyes rose to the ceiling and he sucked in a deep breath before he turned back to Weston.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to somebody. I’m sure this place isn’t going anywhere, and there will be a deep investigation, and a look into what needs to be taken back. I can’t in good faith though, let you walk back into that place. Not with the undead probably starting to rise in the halls. You just got over an overdose. I’d tell you to go back to sleep, and rest your lungs. I’ll make sure someone knows though. Part of that trust, right?”

“Dr. Rhodes?” One of the softer, kind hearted nurses, lifted the canvas flap, her fingers shaking as she stared at him. Her eyes filtered down to Weston, and immediately her face paled, as she stepped into the room. “There’s more intake coming. We need you in the front. Not back here.” Her eyes narrowed at Weston, and she twisted her body to the side, as if to ignore him.

“No. Clearly you do need me back here, because you all have gotten sloppy. There was an emergency. I’m taking care of a patient, making sure they are stable, and then I’ll come back out there. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“What are you talking about?”

The nurse put her hands on her hips, frowning at him. “Everything was fine when I left.”

“So, this is your patient?”

“Yeah. He’s my patient.”

“So, you switched out his saline?”

“Well, duh. He’s dehydrated, and in pain.”

“In pain, huh? So you gave him morphine too? Did you happen to place his IV as well?” Jasper threw his hands on his waist.

“Yeah. It was a no brainer. He’s got a huge vein despite…”

“Despite, what?”

The nurse instantly turned red, glaring at the doctor and moving back out of the tent. Jasper quickly stepped to the side, and grabbed her arm, tugging her back in.

“Did you do this?”

“Let go of me.”

His grip tightened, and he grabbed the nurse, tugging her back to face Weston. He frowned.

“Did you do this…on purpose? Did you give a man, who has struggled, who has fought, who has won past his problems, who has been beaten, strangled, choked, a bag of morphine…on purpose?”

The nurse growled. She had been caught, redhanded, and now was coming face to face with her crimes.

“Did you see his tattoo? The man is a fucking Neo-Nazi.” She whispered, struggling to get out of his arm. “I was just doing what we should have been doing in the first fucking place.”

Jasper gripped her tighter. He wanted to slap her. He held her tight, and gave Weston a sorrowful look.

“That man has done more to save people, than you ever FUCKING have. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know your name, but you should never have to deal with this. I’m taking her to our superiors and can be cuffed to a gurney and force fed morphine for all I fucking care. I’m sorry. This is not our justice. This is not Roanoke’s justice.”

Jasper grabbed the edge of the tent, lifting it, and looking back at Weston, as he started to drag the nurse out and away,

“You are not to be judged. If anybody gives you any more shit, you tell them to ask for Dr. Jasper Rhodes, and I’ll deal with them personally. I don’t care if you are the worst criminal in the world. You are safe. You are free. You are you. This is just the beginning. Don’t let this destroy you.”

With that, he closed the tent flap, and marched off the offending nurse, gripping her arm enough that he hoped it hurt and she would be begging for morphine, and he could tell her that they were saving it all for the Ex-Nazi’s who weren’t former drug addicts.



 
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