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His grandmother always used to say the devil would come at him sneaky. God was seas of blood and raining fire, wheat from chaff and trumpets blaring, but Satan? He could come as anything. The voice whispering at the back of his head in a fight after class, his knees aching in mass, a pretty blonde girl from St. Alban's down the street, kilt rolled up at the waist an inch or two past proper.
And yet when the devil descends from his black helicopter and strolls up the stairs of the bandstand, all wolf's mouth and carefully pressed suit, Simon has him sized up in a moment.
"Runner Three, is it?" Professor Van Ark asks, though Simon knows he's already sure of the answer. "You look thirsty."
The bottle of water is the expensive kind he remembers from the Fitness Factory juice bar. Specially oxygenated, and five quid a pop. Its plastic is the blue of antique glass and solid in his hand. No worry about crushing it underfoot during a failed headstand or an ill-timed lunge. He gives it a squeeze, and condensation trickles over his fingers.
Van Ark watches him, eyes impassive and smile cruel. Probably stuck like that by now. "Aren't you going to drink it?"
"Guess that depends," he's been on his feet since he first heard the noise of the chopper over the moans — thought it was Jody and Maggie back from Bert with the helicopter at first, and God, where did they get to in all this? Does he even want to think — but now he drops onto the bleacher, body falling into the casual sprawl he's spent years on. Tossed from hand to hand, the bottle of water makes a satisfying, substantial thump against his palms. "What you going want from me if I do?"
"Oh, I can guarantee they'll be more in it for you than trinkets," Van Ark says, easing down to sit a row above him, legs crossed at the knee, coat draping around him in that perfect, artful way that only the really expensive cuts do. "In fact, take a drink on the house. This one's on me."
There's no apple, no snake, not much foliage to speak of, but when he cracks the cap and takes his first long gulp, Simon still feels like the whole thing is a bit on the nose.
---
"Cheating," Simon says, and Armando lets out a big, disgusted sigh and pushes himself back to his feet, removing one of his hands and most of his 70 pounds from Simon's arm and flopping back into his plastic chair.
"This isn't fair."
"Hey, you're the one who wanted to learn to arm wrestle." He waggles the kid's hand back and forth a few times, slim brown fingers almost engulfed in his own, and Armando fixes him with a dark glare that reminds Simon that he may look 10 but he's nearly 14 and not above dropping a brick on his head while he's sleeping. Got no respect, the youth of today. "And it's not all about strength, though we should talk about bicep curls before I leave. There are a couple of moves I can show you, though you'll have to be quick about—"
A storey below them, something thumps against the firehouse door, and Armando yelps as Simon's fingers clench around his. Most of Jamie's kids are asleep by now, trained to go down the second the sun starts to sink. Like parrots do when you cover their cages. Only a few of the older ones are still up, crowded around one of the station's solar lanterns reading novels, or playing with a banged up Monopoly set. It's probably better not to wake the little ones. And anyway, Jamie made him all kinds of promises about secure perimeters and nigh-unbreachable doors before running off with Five and Eight to save the township from destruction by chemical spill.
Whatever's out there, it'll get bored and go away. Probably. Hopefully.
"Back in flash," he says, finally releasing Armando's hand.
There's a small, round window set into the wall at the far end of the fire house's living quarters, and Simon creeps through rows of tiny sleeping bodies, limbs flung out in all directions off their yoga mat beds, and squints towards the ground. The moon's bright tonight, giving off steady light, but there's no sign of anything he can see. Whatever's out there, at least there's not a lot of 'em.
The banging comes again, more forceful this time, and Simon bites back a curse. Wouldn't do to introduce the little ones to any new vocab on his first shift as nanny.
He's got a gun, of course, tucked into the waistband of his shorts and hidden by the tail of his shirt. Though the way he shoots, it's not going to be much help if the thing outside is more than a foot away, or even the littlest bit agile. Maybe the noise will scare it off. Better yet, maybe Jamie's left him something in the way of a heavy and/or pointy stick down in the old fire truck bay.
Only one way to find out.
The metal of the fire pole is cool under his hands, skin hissing along it as he slides to ground level. If he's about to go out, at least his final moments began with a cool entrance. He tries to tell himself that's enough.
Another noise at the door. A rattle this time, and some kind of clicking sound, like someone jiggling the handle.
Like—
"Let me in!"
Simon's across the room in a heartbeat, moving the braces and barricades and throwing back chains, until the door bursts open with a clang, metal bouncing off metal, revealing Jamie's scowling face.
"Didn't expect to see you tonight," Simon says, trying to will his heart rate back down. Deep breath in, another out, until the racing feeling subsides and he can lock back up with steady hands. "How'd you like playing black ops? Do you all get special shirts now? 'I Survived the Top Secret Mission: Abel Township, year—'"
"Get out," Jamie's palm bangs flat against the door, knocking a padlock out of Simon's hands.
"Like hell. You seen what it looks like out there after dark?" he swings around, puffs his chest out. Macho bullshit, but sometimes there's a time and place, even after the end of civilization. "Jesus Christ, what happened to you?"
Jamie's eyes are red and watery. His lips are pulled back, teeth bared in a snarl. And he's soaking, sweat tricking down his temples and plastering his shirt against his chest like he's taken a quick dip in a pond on his way back. Simon knows from sweat, and that's not the product of a normal run right there. He's sure on that.
"None of your business." Jamie jerks a chain lock back open, kicks a crate out of the way. "Get gone, or else."
"Nice way you've got of treating your friends," Simon takes a step back from the door, tries to get the lay of the land. What with all the kids' rooms (not to mention the Singstar machine) upstairs, he hasn't spent much time on the main level. Jamie's got home court advantage, but Simon's faster, more agile. If it comes down to it, there's got to be a way to end this that doesn't involve shooting at anyone. Not in front of the children, anyway.
"I'm not your friend, mate," Jamie says, taking a step towards him. The padlock's still clenched in his fist, and Simon dances out of the way, further back into the room.
"Yeah, well I'm not your mate, pal."
"I'm not your pal—" Jamie stops, cocks his head and stares at him. "What are you trying to do right now?"`
"Oh, you know." There's a workbench in the corner of the room, piled high with old jackets and fire-resistant trousers. Simon vaults it, the presence of something metal and sturdy between them a relief. "I figured you might go for 'I'm not your pal, buddy.' And I'd come back with 'I'm not your buddy, hombre.' And we'd go round like that for a while until you got your knickers un-bunched and let me bunk here for the night."
"Huh." He swipes a hand across his eyes, little beads of sweat flicking away from his fingertips. "Kids alright?"
Simon tries not to gawp at the subject change. "Oh, yeah. Little ones are all down for the night. Jasper had a nightmare about a half hour ago, but me and Madeline got him settled."
"Good," Jamie takes a step backward, hits the door with a now-familiar thud and drags his hands over his face. "You can sleep down here tonight. But I want you gone first thing, got it?"
"Works for me," Simon says. If he's lucky, maybe Sam'll have an early mission on the schedule and he won't get stuck running home blind. Worst to worst, there's that gunner with the braids posted on the gate this week. Angelica. She seems to like him well enough, she'll probably shoot any zoms that get too close to taking a chunk out of him until they can find someone to let him in.
Jamie grunts and doesn't move. Simon tries to figure out the best way to arrange a pile of boots and coveralls into a bed. It's not until he kicks an old helmet clear across the room by mistake that the guy finally snaps back to life, stomping off like Simon's not even there, trying to fluff some suspenders into a pillow.
---
It's always the same dream, more or less.
She'll be running, hair loose and blowing across her face as she glances back at him, mouth wide in laughter.
They don't run on anything real — not grass and roads, not dirt or bridges. Fluffy, cottony dream stuff, usually. Sometimes in the gym at his old school. Simon's not sure what to make of that second one, honestly, but it's better than dreams from his teen years when he'd show up to do the same track naked.
They don't speak ever and that's the worst of it, because what's the point if she's not talking to him? What's the point?
Months from now when someone will ask him, he'll tell the truth. He never did think Van Ark would kill her. Never once.
It serves him right that she never talks to him now. If he'd known her well enough to know what she'd say, he'd have realized she was never going to take a deal, never going to come on side. That that there was no other way for this to end. Archie was one of the good ones.
Simon's got no illusions about what he is now.
Alive.
---
"Simonnnn," Delilah whines, collapsing dramatically into his leg, "show us how to do the dance."
"Show us," Magdalena this time, and Tamsin, and those two boys with the same name. George? Gerry? "Show us Simon, show us."
"Alright. Alright, alright, alright," he climbs to his feet, shaking off the heap of boneless children flailing around on top of him, and plants his feet shoulder width apart. "You start with your hands in your hips, then you want to bring your feet in, so your toes make the point of a triangle. Form a line and show me."
By the time they're all in a row, his dance troupe has expanded to ten children of varying ages, fidgeting and elbowing and wobbling as they stand with their feet turned in.
"That's a piegon toe," Simon explains. "To do the full step, you start with your feet side by side, then turn your heels out, like this. Try that for me?"
There's a steady stream of giggling and some more wobbling, and poor little Yestin nearly gets bowled over, but they all seem to manage well enough. There's hope for the future of humanity yet.
"Good, good. Nice work everyone. You start with two pigeon toes, just like you did there. Then I want you to move your right foot to the right, like you're going to take a step sideways — not yet, Wanda, let me show you first. So, you'll go right, then bring your foot back to centre. Right, back to centre. Then with your left foot—"
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Jamie's back," Tamsin shrieks, just in case no one else had noticed the six foot tall black man staring at them all like they've just come down from outer space.
"So he has," Simon says, with a what-you-gonna-do shrug in his direction. "Do you think we should ask him to dance?"
"Jamie!"
"Jamie, come dance with us."
"Please Jamie."
"Dance!"
"Oh no," he backs away, the two red jerry cans he's holding in front of him sloshing as he raises them up like sheilds. "What've you done to the kids?"
"Been giving them some lessons in arts and culture," Simon says.
"He's teaching us how to line dance," Carena pipes up. Always trouble, that one.
Jamie looks like he's smelled something foul. "Line dance?"
"It's cultural," Simon insists, grin going sheepish. "How was the fuel run?"
After their last encounter he hadn't been expecting an ask back. Though Eight had been maddeningly vague on the whole thing and Five had offered up the usual silent treatment, he'd gotten the impression Abel was on the hunt for yet another Runner Ten. Quite the turnaround, that, even for them.
But sure enough, a week later on a joint op with New Canton, Runner 112 had scowled, tossed her headset to him mid-stride and offered a toneless "Nadia's on for you" before running off ahead. And Nadia's brief and rather cryptic instructions — via secure channel, even — had led him to a funny old oak tree just a half mile outside the township walls, where he'd found a rather terse note scrawled in crayon, illustrated with a few drawings of what was either a pig or some sort of house cat. And, well, here he is.
Janine had let him go with surprisingly little fuss. Probably got him bugged to high heaven. Simon hopes she's enjoyed listening in on a day of jump rope and slightly suggestive clapping games.
Jamie shrugs and sloshes the cans at him again. "Got enough. Guess you'd better be gettin' off."
"Guess so," he says, and several members of his newly formed dance troupe whine in unison. "Though I must say, it pains me to walk out on a heart to heart chat like this."
"Got enough noise around here without you, don't I?" The man does have a point. The echo effect of the fire house and the half dozen under-fives alone are enough to give lesser men migraines, Simon bets.
With the clamour he's putting up with, Simon wonders why a guy like Jamie would go for a girl like Archie in the first place. All that talking, you'd think he'd want someone more subdued.
"So should I start checking every tree I pass in case you need to hire a child minder again?" he asks as he's collecting his gear: headset, gym towel, two different drawings of himself from Franklin and Bettina. "My rates are the best in town."
"I'll keep using the same tree," Jamie says, grudging, like he's the one being hard done by in this situation. "Give you a few days notice. If you can't come, leave me a note saying so. If there's no note, I'll expect you to be here."
"And if I go grey on the way over?" It really is meant to be a joke. He even chuckles after it. Doesn't seem to fool either of them.
"Come by anyway, and I'll make sure you're proper dead when you get here," Jamie flashes him a grin that's sharp at the edges and tips his head back to laugh.
Simon isn't sure what to do with the fact that he finds that strangely comforting.
---
The air at the top of the bandstand is cool and clean. Perfect country atomsphere, without ever leaving the city. Not that there's much to leave nowadays.
If he doesn't look towards the horizon, he can almost ignore the cloud of smoke still boiling up into the sky, right where his home for the last six months ought to be. Simon narrows his eyes at Van Ark's face instead, takes another swig off the water bottle and asks, "how do you know there's anyone left alive to spy on anyway?"
"Oh, they're surprisingly precise, those zombie soldiers," Van Ark says, and Simon has to suppress a grimace at the proud papa expression on his face. "Much better than the real thing, for missions like this. Not so likely to become… overzealous."
Overhead, the black helicopter circles past, wind it kicks up whipping at Simon's hair. Van Ark doesn't seem to register it at all.
"Of course, we did plan for moderate casualties. Important to keep up the authenticity of the thing." he continues, so pleasant, and Simon has to fight against the murderous red veil threatening to drop in front of his vision. Eyes on the prize, Lauchlan. Doesn't do to deck the boss on the fist day. Not with a benefits package like this.
Speaking of.
"How do I know you're telling the truth about, you know?"
Rather than answer, Van Ark shrugs his coat off one shoulder, pulling an arm free. He unbuttons the cuff of his shirtsleeve, rolls the fabric up to his elbow with precise, careful folds.
The scar is on the underbelly of his arm. Pink and shiny and jagged, like a badly-drawn bolt of lightening cutting through the flesh. For sheer size alone, it's a wonder it's not worse. Simon's seen his share of scars over the years. He'd expect the flesh to be raised and ropey, expect to see signs of stitch marks or staples. But beyond the discolouration, the skin is smooth as his own arm.
"Stupid creature nearly hit bone," Van Ark says, mild as if they were talking about the weather. "By rights, I should have died from blood loss even before the virus did its work. Your Runner Eight was there when it happened. Surely she mentioned it?"
He remembers. Course, Sara never mentioned it directly — she's not the type. But when the man who caused the whole damned zombie outbreak gets bit, news has a way of leaking out.
When the man who caused the whole damn outbreak gets bit and survives, it comes out even faster.
Simon grips the water bottle tighter and doesn't let himself reach out to that eerie nothing of a scar. "So can you do it again?"
Van Ark's smile doesn't change, but out of the corner of his eye Simon would swear he sees the faintest flicker of horns and hooves. "Wouldn't you like to find out?"
---
"We'll talk about it back at base," Rummer Eight snaps, cutting off Sam's rambling and, frankly, repetitive apology just before it can reach the ten-minute mark.
"Yeah, right, of course. But can I just say how sorry—"
"Leave it, Sam," Simon sighs. His trainers squelch with every step forward, and there are bits of pond weed trailing from Sara's hair. There might be some sort of algae in his pants. Simon would be willing to read Rajit's novel cover to cover and take a crack at its two subsequent sequels if it means getting a shower when he gets in.
"Do you want me to get Runner Four to meet you at the gates with some towels?" Sam offers. "She's set to got out on supply run next, and I don't think she'd mind."
"Yeah, do that," he agrees. If Sam's got something to do, at least it'll stop him talking about how the scanners just don't pick up bogs like they should — and hey, at least, the zombies following you had a worse time trying to swim than you and Eight, right? And he could sop up some of the water leaking from his eyebrows every time he tries to blink. That'd be nice too.
Their headsets go quiet as Sam flips to secondary comms, and Sarah glances his way, hint of an exasperated smile twisting her lips. "Should we mention this in the mission report?"
"Let's not," Simon says, "else someone might point out that we could've spotted that bog, even if Sam's cameras didn't."
"Fair point," Sara agrees, reaching up to give her ponytail a twist and sending a stream of brown water spilling down her back.
Screw the books. At this point Simon would be willing to read semi-erotic fanfiction about Rajit's novel for that shower. Actually, he might be good with the fanfic in general. The guy does have a deft hand with those sex scenes. And it never hurts to have a little mental material, on the off chance he manages to score five or more minutes under the spray.
"Three," Sara says, interrupting what's quickly becoming a distracting train of thought. "I think someone's trying to get our attention."
"Where?" he scans the horizon, hands clenching at his sides. It's not like the old days, when a person in the wild was one more survivor, one more sign the zombies hadn't won yet. Nowadays the best they can hope for from a new person is that they only want to steal things or cause minimal structural damage to the township, rather than burning it down outright and murdering everyone inside.
"By that tree. He was waving a minute ago — there he is again."
The figure pops out from behind the trunk for the space of a blink, not so much waving as frantically gesturing in their direction. Simon's shoulders relax. "It's Jamie."
"Sam's new Runner Ten?" There are layers and layers of something in the way she says it that Simon doesn't even want to think about trying to unpack.
"The very one," he agrees. Jamie's off course from the township, but Sam did say the way was clear, and whatever's going on seems to have him well riled up. "I'll go see what he wants. Meet you back home?"
"Like hell," Sara says, tone the kind that brooks no argument. "It could be a trap."
"Or it could be that little Suzie's run out of her favourite cherry lollies and escaped into an abandoned building filled with razor wire," Simon sighs. "Either's about as likely."
By the time they're near enough for speaking, Jamie's taken to leaning against the tree trunk, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankle and a full-on murder scowl on his face. "What's she doing here?" he doesn't actually look at Eight when he says it, but given the limited number of females in their little group, Simon makes an educated guess.
"Sara and I were just at swim practice," he says. "Does wonders for the shoulders. You should come along when we go again — could be a marvellous help the next time you've got little ones to carry."
That ought to be good for a glare. Maybe even a grunt, should he be so lucky. But Jamie just frowns and nods, like Simon's said something normal and not at all sarcastic. He seems distracted. A little bug-eyed too, now that Simon looks closely.
"What's your status, Runner Ten?" Eight asks, and Jamie's lips pull back in a grimace at the designation. Still not taking, that Abel Township Stockholm Syndrome. Sam will be so disappointed.
"What's the matter?" Simon asks, doing his best to sidle in front of Sara without actually touching her or doing anything else that might get him shot in the back. Eight's great in a tight spot, but he's never quite felt comfortable having his eyes off her when she's got a gun in her holster. "Did Bettina beat you at Scrabble again? I've told you I can't just drop everything and come out here every time you need manly consoling."
Jamie's expression could cut steel. Behind him, he can hear Eight's trainer thumping against the ground in a none-too-patient rhythm.
"Alright, fine," Simon says. "Tell me straight."
"It's Felecia," Jamie pulls himself away from the tree and edges closer, until he's right up in Simon's personal space, shoulders hunched and voice dropped low. "She's, you know. Girl stuff."
"Uh," he frowns. Tries to think. "Problems with boy?"
"No," Jamie hisses. He's gesturing now, hand moving in loopy figure eights in front of his stomach. If anything, his eyes have gotten wider, more frantic. "Definitely girls — women, like. Women's things."
Simon squints at him, trying to think.
"Oh for God's sake," Sara sighs. "He means she's menstruating."
Jamie makes a pained noise.
"Ah, right." Simon nods. It's really simple, now that Eight's cracked the code. "So, what do you want me to do about that? I don't think you can just turn that off."
"I don't know," he's still giving him that look, like it's Simon's fault that Mother Nature's decided to come for one of his brood at a time when he can't pawn her off on the school nurse. "Never dealt with this before, have I? I look like an expert to you?"
Behind them, there is a significant cough.
"What?" Jamie says, still giving Sara a heaping helping of the old side-eye.
"Did you at least get her the right supplies?" Eight narrows her eyes right back, arms folded across her chest.
"What," Simon asks, "like chocolate?"
"Pads? Tampons?" Sara suggests. Simon's not sure anyone's fixed a look that exasperated on him since he stopped spending his waking hours in a uniform, surrounded by nuns. "You'd think the two of you had never spent any time around women."
"I'll have you know that once in uni I personally purchased product of the feminine hygiene variety on a midnight run to the chemists," Simon says. Better not to mention that his shopping list had also included wet wipes and condoms. That had been a good night.
"Then you'll know what we're looking for," Jamie says, back to blanking Sara for all he's worth now that her moment of usefulness has passed. "Come on then, there's a Boots not far from the firehouse."
"And which of you is planning on showing," Sara hesitates, "what was her name again?"
Jamie examines the bottom of one of his boots.
"Felecia," Simon sighs. He's got half a mind to tackle Eight some afternoon at the training field and sit on her until she tells him what happened on that secret mission to make these two hate each other so much. Of course, there's no saying she wouldn't just shoot him in the stomach and be done with it, then and there. She's probably got guns hidden everywhere.
Maybe he ought to try sitting on Janine instead. Even if that doesn't work, he's liable to get something worthwhile out of it.
"Which one of you," Sara says, loud enough to knock another very interesting train of thought right out of Simon's head, "is going to explain to Felecia how put a tampon in?"
Jamie looks at Simon. Simon looks at Jamie.
They've never had a silent conversation before. That must be progress.
"Sara," Simon says, slinging an arm around Eight's shoulders with about eighty per cent more fake cheer than necessary. "Wasn't I just saying how we don't get to spend enough time together?"
"I'm already coming with you Three," she shrugs his arm off, jostling him with her shoulder much harder than she needs to, in his opinion. "Don't beg."
"I wasn't begging." But Sara's already breaking into a brisk jog, still sprinkling water in her wake. "Jamie, tell her I wasn't begging."
"Whatever," Jamie says, and turns to run.
---
His grandmother's house is all polished dark wood and brocade furniture and The Sacred Heart of Jesus watching him with eyes that shouldn't move every time he passes through the parlour. Even the throw pillows are stiff with embroidery; delicate hand-stitched proverbs and scrolling borders making a lie out of the appearance of comfort.
Nanna Lauchlan — known as such to absolutely no one — fit it to a tee. Simon remembers her as carefully coiffed hair tinged smoky lavender, as protruding wrist bones and sharp shoulder blades, as pearls on a string and a faint air of tragedy that followed her like perfume, like the incense in a thurible. Ten years after her funeral, two years past thirty, he can't think if he ever looked long enough to remember the whole sum of her face.
He remembers her bible, though. Dark red cover, gold lettering, names of Lauchlans past decorating the inside front leaf. Required reading every Sunday after supper, and after phone calls home from school, and every day the two weeks it takes his first black eye to fade.
I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked and behold, a pale horse.
Always the damn pale horse.
Her back garden isn't much of one, but there's treetops above the walls and slugs under the tumbled down remains of former flower pots. Fresh air, and only the sky to watch him. Even before he learns to do his first bicep curl, his first Warrior I, his first knee lift, Simon knows where he's better off.
---
For all Abel's supposedly entered a new age of military precision since De Santa's return, it's almost criminally easy to duck off base. Ever since the Major got a look at what the New Canton radio operator's up to Sam's been stuck running three or four missions at once. And if he's in the field when Five's on a mission somewhere else, Simon could pretty much strip naked save for his trainers and have no one so much as say boo. Literally. He's tried it, he knows.
So when he ducks into the Sainsburys round the corner from the coffee roasting place (Janine wants their bean grinders, of all things) and heads straight for the far right aisle, he's not surprised when there's not a word on the comms.
The section is surprisingly picked over, but he finds what he's looking for in the cooler, shoved far enough back that he has to strain to reach it. The only thing that's kept it from the looters so far, likely.
He waits until he's back in the street before he speaks.
"Hey, Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Any zombies near me?"
"Where are you again?" he's distracted. Simon wonders if he's even trying to find him on the screens. "Were you at Bletchly Park?"
"Nah, you've got Seven and that Australian kid they want to give Mag's old number to out there for training exercises." He knows Owen's name, but it's debatable whether Sam does. The guy hasn't had time to come down to the training yard in weeks. "I'm at the shops. Want me to bring you back anything?"
"Tartar sauce," Sam suggests, and Simon's stomach lurches in protest. "Oh, there you are. Found you. Looks like you're clear to the east and south, but there's a swarm massing up a few streets back."
"Works for me." He heads more east than south, kicks himself into a near-sprint. Might as well cover as much of the worst ground as he can while he's got Sam actually paying attention. "Let me know if more than six of them decide to hit my tail before I'm on open ground, would you?"
"Where are you headed?" he hears papers shuffle, and too much focus in Sam's voice. "Your assignment—"
"Told the major if I was feeling up to it, I'd take a look at some of our cameras out past the edge of town," Simon lies. "I'll be all over the map for at least a couple hours. I can rally you when I'm headed back towards Abel, get an escort in?"
"Sure, sure," the shuffling gets louder, and Sam's hissing in his ear, "dammit, where did I — Simon — Runner Three, I've got a situation—"
"With Five. I know, I know. I'll catch you later?"
Sam doesn't even acknowledge him before cutting the link. Simon tries not to take it personally, though he does suddenly and completely forget about the tartar sauce.
---
The radio is a sweet, tiny thing. Fits right in the palm of his hand. Won't be hardly anything to conceal.
"I want updates every 72 hours," Van Ark says. "One of the men will monitor the frequency. Any further instructions will be passed on to you as necessary."
"That's it, then?" he tosses the device from left to right, moving his hands wider apart with each throw. Van Ark's brow develops the slightest furrow, and he goes wider again. "Spy on the troops? A little office gossip? Doesn't seem like much for immortality."
They've not said the word out loud before. Talked around it, sure. Used plenty of synonyms. Protection, survival, immunity, inoculation — a good one, that one. He'll have to remember it the next time someone hauls the Scrabble board out at the rec. But they're all only a shade of the truth, aren't they? This isn't some protein shot to add in at the juice bar, some stick with a needle and hey, presto, a few more years free of the measles.
He's seen that scar. That's not a walk back from the edge. More like falling off the mountain and somehow still ending up unscathed at the peak, peering down at the ground miles below.
Van Ark receives the pronouncement the same as ever, save a slight twinkle in the eye. "Clever boy."
It takes him months more to realize which words he's being commended for.
---
Carena's face is a mask of angelic innocence when the fire hall door swings open, and Simon cocks his head, studying her through narrowed eyes.
"How tall are you?"
"Ninety-three and one-quarter centimetres," she says it more like 'ninety-free,' but other than that it's got the deliberate over-enunciation of a carefully memorized fact.
"They'll be signing you up for women's basketball in no time," Simon says. "And how high up d'you reckon that padlock near the top of the door is?"
Carena scuffs a toe against the floor, shoulders wriggling in that way that little kids never seem to realize is a dead giveaway. "Dunno."
"Let's think it through, then," he scoops her up by the waist and she squeals and giggles and nearly kicks him somewhere entirely unfortunate with her flailing. "Now," he hoists her up, so the top of her head is nearly level with his. "I personally am about, oh, 1.8 metres tall. Got that?"
"Uh huh." She nods, lower lip jutting out with the ferocity of her concentration.
"And this lock here, it's about even with my shoulder. Agreed?"
Carena nods.
"So, how high do you think the lock is?"
She scrunches up her face in concentration, eyes crinkling and lips going all fishy. "Higher than me."
"Mr. Holmes, you've done it again," Simon says, and swings her around in a circle before swooping her back to the ground. "Want to tell me how you got up there?"
"Jamie's got a ladder." She points to her left, and a sure enough there's a little red stepping stool kicked hastily under one of the fire truck, only its little legs still sticking out.
"It's a miracle he hasn't chained you all to a wall," Simon sighs, and ruffles Carena's hair until she shrieks and darts away. Back to her old self already. If he hadn't been there, he'd never guess she'd been choking in Jamie's arms a few days back while the lions closed in. Speaking of, "Where is the big man?"
"He's having a nap in the chief's office and said we aren't allowed to wake him up." That recital voice again. If all the kids have memories that good, Jamie ought to have them do a few more chants. 'I will not run away from home and require complicated rescue from Abel Township runners,' for one.
"Good thing I'm not one of you, isn't it?" Simon says, and heads for the stairs to the second floor.
---
"You killed her," Simon says, and the radio responds with a soft hiss of static.
At his feet, the Dedlock snipers are sleeping sweet, wrapped up snug in their pretty yellow outfits lest they wake up in the middle of the night ready to bother mummy and daddy for a drink of water. No good, no good, not when daddy's gone off in his big black copter and mummy's so busy with that shiny bit of silver that won't answer, Goddammit, no matter how hard he jams the buttons.
"I know you can hear me," he says again, to silence. "Monitored twenty four seven, isn't it? That's what he said. I know you're there. I know it. So go get him, dammit. Bloody well get him on here and tell me why I shouldn't run home and tell the Major everything I know about you. All your bases, all your plans."
There is a soft, soothing sound. Like a flat note on a piano — like the tones Archie would've heard when —
Always the damn pale horse.
"I could cut you off right now." Movement at his feet, stirrings of consciousness, and the Dedlock's head bounces off the wall as sharp as a ball coming to the end of the give on an elastic string. "Smash your little radio. Leave you in the dark. How'd you like that? No more eyes on the Major. No more research from the doctor. Where would you be then?"
The silence seems to throb, like a heartbeat .
"Answer me," Simon shouts, and the words bounce off bare concrete walls.
Another rush of static and a voice he doesn't know.
"What makes you think you're the only one?"
---
"Rhett, Rhett... Rhett, if you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?"
There's a groan from behind the desk, still sitting in the same place it must have before the poor fire chief had his face eaten off in the line of duty. Simon drapes himself along the door frame, head tipped back and one knee bent, seductive-like, and tries to decide if the sounds he's hearing are more 'why am I awake' or 'I have become a rotting death monster.'
"Whadoyouwant?" Jamie mumbles, still hidden completely by the desk. Not a bad system, he has to admit.
"I brought beer," Simon says. "Get up."
Jamie's head appears above the edge of the desk. "Come in. Shut the door."
The cans rattle together as he fishes them out of his pack. Cheap lager of dubious European origin, the kind of stuff he would've drunk at school back when it was someone's older brother buying the beer. Going to taste like hell warm, and they'll be lucky if it isn't half flat. But still. Nothing says manly bonding like alcohol.
Beyond the desk, he can see a sleeping bag spread out on the floor, topped off with a few blankets and what looks like a pillow case shoved full of non-pillow fabric. "That's cozy. You always bunk in here?"
"Shut up. Beer first," Jamie sticks a hand out, stifles a yawn with the other. "What you doing here?"
"I thought I'd—"
"Ssh," he claps his fingers against his palm until Simon gets the hint and cracks open a can, shoving it into his hand. Jamie tips his head back, takes a long swallow, and comes up scowling. Even after knowing him this long, Simon can't tell if that's because of the quality of the beer, or just his resting expression. "Fine. Go ahead."
"Just a social call," Simon says. There doesn't look to be any sort of chair in the office, and an offer to sit on the bed doesn't seem forthcoming. He plonks down on the desktop instead, pulling his legs up under him until he's sitting cross-legged and peering down at Jamie's still-frowning face. "Thought you could use some gossip."
"Right." He takes another swig, and screws his face up even worse than before. "This beer tastes like cat piss."
"It can't be that bad."
"You tried it?"
He pulls another can free of its plastic rings. The smell, once he pops it open, is not encouraging. "Oh lord. That's not good. That's really not good."
"Yeah. Toss me down another for when I finish?"
---
He didn't know what was hiding in that town, that too-quiet gone still empty shell of a town with it's big old barn that's all solid walls and no windows and room enough to hold them all if needed. A stronghold a safety measure a trap. God help him, he swears he didn't know.
God help him.
---
"Be straight wit' me?"
"Hm?" The desk isn't really long enough to lie on properly. His legs dangle over the side, feet nearly on the floor, and the raised trim at the other edge is digging into his neck where his head hangs down as well. Above him, the ceiling tiles are stained from some years-old leak, puddle of brown radiating out from one corner in a way that's all too familiar.
"For real, though."
"I'm being straight," Simon says. Slurs.
"You and Archie?"
"Me and—" This is a sitting up type of matter. Clearly. Simon gets his upper body raised almost enough to feel it in his core before he gives it up as a lost cause and sinks back. The ceiling tiles seem to do a lazy, about 90-degree spin. "How do you mean?"
"Did the two of you ever..." he trails off, but Simon turns his head in time to see the suggestive hand gesture that follows.
"Nah mate."
"Come on." There's a scuffle, and Jamie's hand pokes at his elbow. Simon passes him another beer. "Tell us the truth. You two were close."
"Not really," the room feels too warm, too close, and still not quite fixed on its axis. He's not even three beers deep yet. Won't be doing keg stands again any time soon. "We partied a bit. Had some fun. She helped me put on a coconut bra once."
"Eh?"
"For the luau." She'd pinned a silk flower in her hair, big and pink, nearly the size of his fist. Tickled his nose something awful when she reached behind him to do up the fastenings.
"And the two of you never..."
"Don't get me wrong, I would've," Simon rolls onto his side with a groan, reaches for his half-empty can. "But she was all gone on you, and I guess she didn't think you were the type for a menage et trois."
Jamie makes a gagging sound, but there's a thread of laughter in his voice. "Not bloody likely."
"It still seems weird, doesn't it?" He tips the can up, rolls the last few leftover drops of beer around in his mouth. "Her being dead, when idiots like us are still hanging around. Runner Five over at Abel — now, if there's anyone that ought to be dead right now. I've never seen anyone get into more scrapes my whole life. Like, literally always in trouble. But Five's alright. Still running around places, head all in one piece. Or me — I can run right at a gun and no one so much as grazes a bullet past my ear."
"What, you want someone to do you in too?" Jamie scoffs, and it's all bluster and discomfort.
"It's just never the people you're ready for it to be, you know?" He flops back, lets his head dangle off into space again, riding the combination of the blood rush and the alcohol.
Jamie doesn't say anything right away, and Simon lets his eyes drift shut. His body feels light, divorced from his brain, the way it does just before sleep. He'd wonder what Archie felt, too, in those last few moments, if it weren't so obvious.
"What you really doing here Lauchlan?"
"I'm sorry about Jasper," Simon says. Above his head, he swears the strain is creeping, tiny threads spidering out onto new tiles.
Jamie's beer can opens with a gunfire crack. "Always knew I'd lose one of them some day. Thought it'd be Carena first, though."
"Doubt it," he folds his hands across his chest. Thinks of a twin bed in an old house and the Sacred Heart of Jesus always watching. And lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil. Was a nice try, he'll give it that. "Girl's like a cat. Got at least nine lives, and probably more."
"Hah," Jamie says, and if there's a sound less like laughter Simon's yet to hear it. "Don't give her ideas."
"Seems like," Simon hesitates, gropes sideways for a beer and finds only empty cans, "she's bounced back well, I think."
"Kids," a shrug, another long swallow, and whatever expression he's wearing Simon's in no position to see it. "Even after all this, death don't mean much to them. Not even like you can tell 'em their friend's not coming round no more these days, when they're the one chasing you with their teeth out."
"I guess 'they're in a better place' doesn't work so well when that place turns out to be the middle of a swarm down the street from the shops you're looting," he grins at the ceiling, but it still comes out flat. No proper joke at all.
Jamie makes a noise that might be disgust or frustration or who knows what. "Talk about something else."
He thinks on it. "When that old chief of yours sent your firefighter friends out to play hero back at the start of the outbreak, why'd you stay back?"
"That's your idea of something else?"
He reaches a hand up, tracing the shape of a tendril of brown. "Humour me."
"Not a hero, am I?"
Simon scoffs. "Because running a dying child through a lion preserve, that's not heroic nowadays."
"That's different innit." The bluster's still there, but it's amazing the change in Jamie's voice when he drops the volume like this. "No point dying just 'cause someone tells you to, but she's one of mine and I could save her. That simple. You look after yours."
It's on the move, he's sure of it. The stain. Not brown so much, when he looks, but rust. Spreading out, liable to cover half the tiles soon, sneaking, oozing, crawling, bleeding.
"Hey," Jamie jabs him in the side with two fingers and Simon's teeth crunch around his tongue keeping in a shout. "You asleep up there or what?"
---
The voice through the radio's not hardly the noise of thunder, but the beast comes through all the same.
He finds the poison in the doc's lab, on a shelf in the back, propping up a stack of papers and stuck behind a jam jar filled with something viscous and yellow. In this jumble, no one will miss it for weeks. When he shoves the vial into his pocket, the liquid slops against the sides silent as... no, that's far too on the nose for thinking.
The hoofbeats he hears as he's leaving he doesn't bother to explain.