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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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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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"You saw him," Tom was shouting. The bum was ill, skinny beyond starvation, just tanned leather stretched over bone. "He was here, he was with us, tall and thin, black hair, dog tags - you saw him."
He was shouting, screaming, at someone that looked scared. Millennium Park was empty except for the bodies and the crows and the truly destitute. Mike was somewhere behind him.
And Neil...
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"We'll find him." Whispered against the sweaty nape of Tom's neck, holding onto him like he's all that's left, because he is. "C'mon, we can't... look at him, he doesn't know anything."
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"How the fuck did this happen?" he said, swallowing hard. "He wouldn't have...he wouldn't have taken off. If he'd gotten hurt, we would have found him when it clear out. I..."
He gritted his teeth, fingers curling. "...shit."
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He reaches out, lays a hand on Tom's shoulder again, though he's using it to steady himself far more than he's trying to impart any comfort. Over the ruined skyline, the greasy sun is setting.
"C'mon, we'll check. But we gotta..." He steps away again, hands helpless at his sides. Dexter comes trotting up, somehow not trampled and snuffling hopefully, and in spite of himself Mike bends and picks him up, and when Dexter licks frantically at his face he barely seems to notice.
"Yeah. Shit."
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The cars. Yang. Yang might be a good place to start...
On impulse, he grabbed Mike's wrist and hauled him close, briefly resting his forehead against his jaw.
"...thank you."
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"You just stay with me," he whispers. "Okay? You stay with me and it'll be all right."
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"Back to the cars, ask around and work block by block if we have to."
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"This way," he says, nodding down a broad street, the el tracks rickety and half-collapsed in the distance. If he focuses on a single point ahead of him, he doesn't have to think about how terrified he is. he closes his eyes momentarily, sends a thought out into the ether, though he has no reason to suppose that it'll be heard. Florence has many powers, but he's never supposed telepathy to be one.
But still.
Florence. If you can hear me, we need you now.