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Derailment
He's not sure what wakes him. It could be any number of things. It could be the light on his face, the air moving over him, the shift of cloth against skin where before it had just been the cool of the sheets and the heat of two bodies. It could be the hard ground under his back, which would also explain the aches in him as consciousness drifts closer. He's gone soft, he thinks sometimes, fallen out of the habit of sleeping well on the ground, lost in the embrace of Tom's big bed. But he still roughs it sometimes, so at first the fact that he's clearly outside doesn't sound any alarms.
But it's the kind of outside. It's not the light but the quality of that light; not warm and glowing but thin, pale, anemic. When he opens his eyes it's not the trees swaying over him in the morning breeze but what they're like, them and the other plant life, still thickly growing and untamed but bad. Unhealthy. Sparse where it shouldn't be and dense where it shouldn't be. No birds, no fucking birds at all. The hints of a world knocked out of balance and gone horribly wrong.
There's a cold wet nose pressed against his cheek, and a weight pressing into his arm, numbing it. He rolls, pulls it away and sits up, shoving Neil harder than he meant to. Dexter steps back, whining softly, and Mike stares around and then down, absorbing it in quick shocked bursts. The car. The campfire, smoking ashes. Dexter. The two figures, curled together on the ground. Tom's old and ragged sweater. His own pants. Camo. Boots. The itchy feel of clothes that haven't been washed for a while.
His gun.
There's no mistaking what this is.
He doesn't want to wake them. As long as they're still sleeping, this is his nightmare and his alone. Maybe they never have to wake up. And yet he has no idea what's really worse: being back here or being back here on his own.
"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. No louder, because he's honestly afraid that he might scream. "No. No. Fuck."
But it's the kind of outside. It's not the light but the quality of that light; not warm and glowing but thin, pale, anemic. When he opens his eyes it's not the trees swaying over him in the morning breeze but what they're like, them and the other plant life, still thickly growing and untamed but bad. Unhealthy. Sparse where it shouldn't be and dense where it shouldn't be. No birds, no fucking birds at all. The hints of a world knocked out of balance and gone horribly wrong.
There's a cold wet nose pressed against his cheek, and a weight pressing into his arm, numbing it. He rolls, pulls it away and sits up, shoving Neil harder than he meant to. Dexter steps back, whining softly, and Mike stares around and then down, absorbing it in quick shocked bursts. The car. The campfire, smoking ashes. Dexter. The two figures, curled together on the ground. Tom's old and ragged sweater. His own pants. Camo. Boots. The itchy feel of clothes that haven't been washed for a while.
His gun.
There's no mistaking what this is.
He doesn't want to wake them. As long as they're still sleeping, this is his nightmare and his alone. Maybe they never have to wake up. And yet he has no idea what's really worse: being back here or being back here on his own.
"No," he breathes, barely above a whisper. No louder, because he's honestly afraid that he might scream. "No. No. Fuck."
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I reach for one of the wads of newspaper, and it smells pretty awful but it's warm in my hands and my stomach grumbles impatiently anyway. It'll do.
"Think there's someplace to get a drink?"
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"Maybe," he said, "You don't seem like you mind all that much."
As for the drink... "Bathrub gin and cheap beer, mostly," he said, "But...I dunno. It's not to rough in here yet. We could risk it, don't you think, Mike?"
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In any case, the burrito is tasteless except for entirely too much salt, and he's barely an entire bite in before thirst looms. He nods to another booth a few yards away, a small semicircle of rickety tables made from oil drums and scrap wood. "They'll have something."
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It's not a bar, but it's close enough, and with them still in my sights, I make my way toward the makeshift counter, gun still heavy against my hip.
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In his pocket, Tom dug out a few tinny coins, looking at them and the attempt at a selection behind the bar.
"What do you think?" he murmured to Mike, lingering close enough to both of them to broadcast fuck off in big, neon letters to any watchers.
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But it fits him better than he'd like.
"It's cheapest, and it won't fuck with our heads."
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I'm used to shit. For a while, on the island, shit was all we had, but whatever the plunk onto the bar in front of us, is at least a couple steps down from that.
"Bottoms up," I mutter, cutting an annoyed look at a guy a few chairs over who's got his eyes on me.
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"You...you need to work on being invisible," he said to Neil, pointing with his glass. "Think you can try that?"
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"I don't think that's gonna happen," he says dryly, knocking back his drink and making a face. Some things never change. "Unless we wanna put a fucking bag over his head."
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"Guys look at me. You just get used to it," I shrug, like it's a fact of fuckin' life, and when I lean back against the rickety bar, I try not to slouch so much. I try and be invisible, but I'm not even sure what that really means.
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"It's just...people do what they want," he said, pushing his glass away half empty. He offered Neil a partial smile, rubbing one hand tiredly over his face. "Nice effort, though."
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"Around here, they do more than look," he says, turning to Neil again, trying not to think about what he would have thought once, looking at him. What he might have done. "Just watch your back is all." And we'll watch it for you, like it or not.
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I want another drink but I don't wanna rummage through my pockets to find somethin' to pay with, so I push off the counter, arms folded across my chest, looking as bored and relaxed as possible and keeping my eyes averted from everyone, including the two of them.
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He sighed, tired and frustrated, feeling the grit and grime of the city in his pores already, clogging him up.
"We should get out of here while the getting's still good."
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"Attention. Attention. All citizens are to report to Old Order Park immediately for a special event. Repeat: All citizens are to report immediately to Old Order Park. There will be no exceptions. Anyone found on the streets after twenty minutes from now will be shot on sight." There's a pause and then the message begins to cycle through once more, but already there's a mad rush of people shoving towards the exits, dropping whatever it was they had been doing and hurrying like their lives depend on it. Because they do.
"I don't like this." He's yelling to be heard over the noise, reaching out and grabbing for Tom and Neil's hands as the crush of bodies threatens to buoy him away. "C'mon, stay together. Whatever fucking happens."
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But I don't wake up. Someone's elbow crashes hard into my ribs and I grunt in pain, hissing out a curse and weaving my way toward Mike, my hand curled around his in a desperate death grip.
"What the fuck's goin' on?" I call out over the den. Maybe that voice over the loud speakers should've been enough, but it wasn't. They can't just start mowin' people down in the streets, can they?
But everybody else around here seems to think they can. And will.
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Twilight when the hit the streets, and slightly easier to breath, but the thinly controlled panic was still palpable as they neared the huge, overgrown park, all yellowed grass and ruined sidewalk. The water had receded half a mile into the lake and, along side the twisted ruins of Grant Park, there were only mudflats all the way out to the putrid indication of water in the distance.
"Oh, god..." he muttered when he saw the stage.
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A gallows. Not built for one person but five, and the nooses swing gently in the evening breeze. 'Special event' indeed. He feels faintly sick.
Once he wouldn't have felt anything at all.
Slowly, he becomes aware that a hush has fallen over the crowd, but it rises in a soft sigh as three men are shoved onto the stage by a phalanx of armed thugs, skinny and ragged and clearly beaten. They turn and face the assembly, and the tallest of the guards lifts his rifle and brings a bullhorn up to his mouth, bellowing "THE ENEMIES OF THE PEOPLE!"
And there's a answering shout, but it sounds a little too outraged, a little too forced in its enthusiasm. As though every person there is fully aware of the very thin line separating them and the three men about to die.
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Someone bumps into me from behind and I stumble, catch myself on a skinny, dirty kid no older than me, and mutter an apology.
When the crowd yells back, I stay silent, watching like I'm goddamn hypnotized as the nooses are slipped over one head at a time.
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On some level, he knows that this is gut instinct and likely to get them killed and that nothing will come of it, not now. They might be gone on Monday, but even if they're not...things have changed. You can't go back to living and dying for a cause when you've been living for something else for so long.
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"Neil... look, just don't fucking watch..."
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The lever's pulled and there's this grinding sound, a clatter and a snap, and then they're all swinging there, two of them motionless and one of them twitching. The crowd gasps in unison, then the man with the bullhorn's barking directions, but I can't hear them over the sudden roar of the crowd. But it's not excitement or joy, fists pumped in the air and voices shouting desperately... it's a bunch of scared people cheering because they know they're supposed to.
It happens fast that the crowds starts to move again and I'm shoved further forward, jostled between bodies 'til I look behind me and no longer see any familiar faces.
"Mike!"
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"Do you see him?" he shouted to Mike, keeping his eye on him in the chaos. Despite his best efforts, he was barely keeping his ground.
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"I don't--" This is not real. This is not happening. "Neil! NEIL!"
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My mouth's open to call out again when something else shoves me from behind, knocking a startled grunt from me. I'm about to stumble away, it's happened so many times I don't even bother to turn and look, but suddenly an arm locks around my chest, hauling me back against a body twice the size of mine, my feet practically leaving the floor.
"What the fuck?" I snarl, thrashing, reaching back and clawing blindly at the guy's face. My finger finds an eye and jabs and there's a roar of pain just behind my ear. I get loose enough to jam my elbow into his ribs, stumbling forward and noticing wildly that no one around seems to give a shit, but before I can get far, the arm hooks across my throat and a big meaty fist slams into my side.
The air's knocked out of me with a violent cough, and I can hardly breathe, let alone stand.
The hand closes over my mouth but I can't yell anymore, anyway. I'm being dragged now, lips pressed so hard against my teeth that I taste blood. I can't hear anything anymore, everything seems fuzzy and far away, and it's just before the world goes dark that I realize the arm clamped across my throat is closing off my windpipe.
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