Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The beating sun of a golden morning, the Engineer thinks to himself, as good as it gets nowadays.

He takes a sip of lukewarm water, delivered from the supplies distribution centre set up at the Sheriff’s building across the tracks of what the people left on this stretch of desert called First Outpost.

By the time it had become public knowledge that this new ‘zombie virus’ even existed, half the country had practically thrown themselves into the horde. Fear of later troubles? Sacrifice to please God? The Engineer shakes his head to himself at the thought, a hint of teeth showing through his half-smile.

The other half of the population took to survival. The Engineer had heard tales of the large fortresses up North, strongholds in the plains, barricaded shut at all signs of the undead. Sure, they took in survivors, people who could pull their weight, but that’s not what these people needed.

It was once a rumour, and it still could be, that some scientists in Mexico had developed a cure. Overnight, people flooded down to the South on whatever horses, carts, trains they could find. The Engineer’s seen the crazed looks in their eyes, mad with exhaustion - or perhaps mad with what the world had come to. Six years had passed since the Virus swept the Gilded Age USA, and still people trickled into First Outpost as if it had only been yesterday that their parents, lovers, siblings and children fell. Because they still are, and every day is a loss.

The Engineer is proud to say he’d played his role in the construction of the Eight Outpost System, an 1600 or so stretch of various rail tracks funnelling into the famed Last Outpost, hanging on the lip of the Great Rio Grande Drawbridge. Seven more outposts, just like these, every 200 miles and stocked to the teeth with ammo, sheet metal, barbed wire and molotovs in their shops.

Of course, there were alternate track routes than the Eight Outpost System, but none were as popular nor as efficient.

Maybe he’ll have the chance to see the works of his and his father’s, and his father’s before then in action again. The Engineer’s kept his identity under wraps, of course he has. Any Sheriff would be ruthlessly interrogating him over the timing of the construction, completed exactly three months before the first case of the Virus was documented. But the Engineer has no idea why this is the case. The Conagher family company had been bought up and paid to create the tracks, by some mysterious figure up in the North. The Engineer doesn’t have the answers people would want from him, so he doesn’t bother to cause trouble.

There’s a tap on his side, knocking him out of thought. It’s the thick leather glove of his friend - or, atleast, the only one he keeps around - the short fellow sitting beside his chair on the sand, sharing the shade of the ‘CONDUCTOR FOR HIRE’ sign the Engineer had set up.

For a price, anyone could acquire his skillset, and he’d take them as far as they’d want to go.

The ‘and plus one’ next to the big lettering is to accommodate his little friend here, who he has no intention of leaving behind.

The Engineer turns his head, looking down at his friend with a more curious half-smile than before, “Y’need something?”

His friend, the fellow with the face obscured by a hefty hat and bandana, reaches to pass the Engineer a sketchbook, and the Engineer lifts it up into the sun to inspect the linework. A town, one of the abandoned ones that line the tracks. The lines aren’t much more than scribbles, and it had taken the Engineer a long time to get used to focusing on the big picture when it came to his friend’s pieces. The shambling bodies of zombies, the large rocks in the distance. If Mexico needed an artist, his friend right here could take the mantle.

“This is good work, partner. Real impressed. Y’even got the… the mayor right here.” The Engineer prods at a shape on the page, distinctly marked by the formal hat.

Their friend lets out a little muffled cheer of excitement, before the Engineer passes the sketchbook back. He’d gotten it for them after catching them drawing lines in the sand with a stick, a gift to keep their mind steady.

The Engineer doesn’t notice the growing shadow before him at first, but what catches his attention is the fat bag of coins dropped onto his table. He looks up, though he feels like his friend hasn’t, to meet the gaze of a large, ironclad man.

“You can take me to Final Outpost, yes?” The man speaks in this accent the Engineer can’t quite place. He’s got this thick scar across his face, turning one of his blue eyes light like a cloud. It obviously travels down his face, but the armour he’s wearing is remarkably effective at shielding most aspects of his features.

“I’ve made the trip many times.” The Engineer reaches to grab the bag, opening it to count the coins.

“You have no plans to escape?” Mr Ironclad questions him, his eyes narrowing. The scar across his eye splits his eyebrow like it’s own Rio Grande.

“Not yet,” The Engineer is slowly realising how rich this man is as he can barely balance the coins in his hand, “Just raisin’ money for now. For me and my friend here.” He tilts his head to his little artist, who still hasn’t looked up from their artwork. He pours the coins back into the bag and shoves it deep into his pocket. 

“Well, we’re in business.” The Engineer stands up from his chair. “You got your own train? Cause I’m afraid I don’t got one I’m willing to risk.”

“Yes, I have train.” Mr Ironclad gestures towards one of many trains parked on the multitudes of tracks, “Sasha, there.” With a large hand, he points at an older train, the name etched onto the outside of the conductor’s compartment. 

“Well, ain’t she a beauty?” The Engineer muses, before crouching down to meet his friend’s level.

“We got business,” He mutters softly, “Come on, let’s fuel up.”

His friend scampers off to Sasha, leaving the two men on the sands.

“Tell me about your friend.” Mr Ironclad’s gaze follows the figure. 

In all of the Engineer’s years on this job, not many people tend to ask about these sorts of things. He’s almost caught off guard, before he responds, “They’re my… assistant, let’s call it. I do the conducting, they do… well,” He chuckles softly, “They do the damage. We’re a two-in-one, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No.” Mr Ironclad almost cuts him off, “No, I have no problems with this. More manpower, the better.” He begins to lead the Engineer to Sasha.

“And you?” The Engineer looks up at the man. He’s tall, imposing, and the other survivors in the outpost keep looking his way. “Tell me about yourself.”

Mr Ironclad almost, almost smirks as he responds, “Names have no meaning anymore, you know this, no? You may call me… Heavy.” Fitting , but the Engineer doesn’t say that out loud.

“Call me Engineer, Engie perhaps. And that’s,” His little friend is shovelling coal into Sasha’s fuel compartment, humming to themselves, “Pyro.”

“Short for… Pyromaniac?”
“Exactly.”

If Heavy had any doubts, Engie would have read it off of his face like blueprints. However, the man seems impressed. The two climb the ladder onto the deck of the train, and as if coordinated, take the higher vantage point to scout out the desert ahead.

“Y’won’t find any buildings for a few miles.”

“I know. I’ve made this journey before.”

“And that’s how you earned that armour?” Those scars?

“Many, many journeys earned me this armour.” Heavy brings a hand up to obscure his eyes from the sun.

“None that got you to Mexico?” Engie is half-inclined to raise an eyebrow, but he knows better than to antagonise someone like this. Someone with experience, who obviously knows how to hold his own.

Heavy pauses before responding, “No.” Before Engie can respond, he continues, “I am looking for old friend.”

“Well, let’s make sure you find them this round, right?” Engie claps him on the back as he passes by to the conductor’s seat, Pyro now drawing on the floor beside the open fuel vent. How the poor thing doesn’t burn up in the double heat astounds him, but he’s not one to question their habits anymore. God knows they’ve been through enough.

Engie sits down in the chair, looking over the little dials and such. Fuel - full, time - 11am, speed - 0. The distance catches his eye, a little counter calculating the distance the train has passed. 8000 miles. Four round trips, and the journey back here. Most folks would be lucky to even make it to 80 miles before running into trouble. Engie looks over his shoulder at Heavy, who’s looking back at him expectantly. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but a voice cuts across the deck. “Ye, yer settin’ off, right?” A figure is scrambling onto Sasha’s deck, bleeding from a head wound and several bullets to the body. Another accent Engie doesn’t recognise. “I-I gotta join ye, my party-” He slumps to the floor. Is he drunk? No, bleeding heavily. But also drunk.

“Take it slow, son.” Engie steps out of the chair. Heavy walks over to the man, pulling him over to lean against the railing. 

“My party… just up ahead…” The man winces as he takes a breath. “Ambushed… by some fookin’ outlaws…”

Bandits, outlaws, whatever you call them.

Since the apocalypse kicked into gear, bands of survivors took to the sands on horses to loot trains, get money their own way. Different bands operated differently, so Engie’s heard, but he knows he’d be more inclined to sympathise if they planned Mexico-ways. Most bands work towards the sole purpose of robbing and killing, and Engie doesn’t let those sorts make it closer than firing range. They coagulate towards the Final Outpost, where parties are more likely to have larger sums of wealth. It was rare to have a train ambushed so soon out of First, and Engie almost takes the man for a liar, but the bullet wounds don’t lie. The urgency in those half-lidded eyes, the desperation to crawl onto a stranger’s train… Engie’s seen it before.

He glances at Pyro, drawing in their sketchbook throughout the confrontation. They look up for a moment, then double takes as they stand up and shuffle over. In a muffled voice, ‘help?’ .

“Yeah, let’s get him some bandages.” Engie’s gaze follows Pyro as they hop off the train and enter the Doctor’s office. 

He crouches beside the newcomer. Heavy follows, a large hand tilting the man’s head to inspect the head wound. “I can fix.” He mutters.

“Y’sure?” Engie glances at him, Heavy doesn’t look back. The milky white eye is fixed on the blood trickling down the man’s dark skin. He brings out a cloth and begins to dab at the blood.

“Yes. Learned from friend.”

“Same friend you’re chasin’?”

A hand snatches the cloth out of Heavy’s hand and places a roll of bandages in it’s place. Pyro sits cross-legged in between Engie and Heavy, inspecting the man with curiosity. They pull out a molotov, and Engie almost hisses at them to put it away , but Heavy takes the firebomb and pulls out the alcohol-soaked cloth.

“This will hurt.”

The newcomer does wince, of course he does, but he looks like he’s halfway to join what probably came of his friends. Waste of resources , Engie thinks to himself, but he appreciates Heavy’s kindness. Not many men out here have time for kindness.

“Tell me your story. Distract yourself.” Heavy mutters.

“We… we were just outta First when… when the outlaws…” The man’s face contorts into pain, and he twists out of Heavy’s grasp with a low growl, “Got alcohol in me eye, fook’s sake…” After a moment of rubbing his eye, he looks back. Heavy starts wrapping his wound with bandages. “Ah told them tae speed off, lured ‘em away, ye ken? But now Ah’ve got to catch up tae them…” The man chuckles softly, “Wouldn’t mind some help there.”

Engie looks to Heavy, “S’your call partner, what do you think?”

“... I know what it’s like.” Heavy’s voice is low with focus. “You will travel with us. Do not cause trouble, and we will find party.”

“Ye can call me Demo. Best defenses guy around.” Demo reaches up to shake a hand, but his fingers curl into his palms as another wave of pain hits his head. 

Engie shakes his hand anyways. “Well then, you’re with us. I’m Engie, the fella fixing you up is Heavy, and the other fella who got you these here bandages is Pyro.”

Demo grins, “And does Pyro ‘appen to have any more of them molotovs?” 

“Sasha does not carry drunks.” Heavy mutters. Engie can smell the whiskey on Demo’s breath too. If he’s managed to carry his vices this far into the apocalypse, maybe he deserved a drink or two.

“Ah, right… and if Ah said they were for ‘splodin’?”

“No.”

“Ah’ll be outta yer hair soon, then.”

Engie holds back a smile as he stands up. “I s’pose we’ll be setting off? Better now than never.” He glances at the time dial on the train’s board. 12PM. He’s heard tales of people setting off from First at 1PM, only to get the train swarmed by 10PM, before the moon’s hit the sky proper and before Second Outpost’s even in sight.

Pyro has managed to procure snake oil, and passes it to Heavy for the bullet wounds on Demo’s shoulder and belly. Engie has no idea what the doctors have figured out, especially in the apocalypse, but he knows snake oil’s become a cure-all. All good trains keep it stocked. Soon, Demo’s bandaged and his wounds are already fixing themselves. He wouldn’t be here if he had a Doctor in his party , Engie thinks, before returning to the conductor’s seat.

He pulls the lever overhead once, twice, and three times to finally get that sweet, sweet horn sound blaring through the outpost. He’s missed the feeling of the fuel vent beside him, dials in front of him, and the open expanse of the desert in front of him.

As his eyes search the sands through the shade of his goggles, Pyro shimmies over to sit beside him, next to the red-hot coals. Heavy takes a position on the left of the deck, scouting the conductor’s blind spot. Demo reloads his rifle, positioning himself at the back to pick off anything that chases them.

Engie half-smiles to himself and pulls the lever for the horn again, before kicking Sasha into gear and pulling the train out into the wasteland.

Chapter Text

What was the word that these people used? Misgivings?

Medic’s head is a storm of phrases in two languages, maybe three if he remembered the language well after all these years. His gloved hands do nothing to obscure his white-knuckled grip on the train’s lever. A soulless stare straight into the wasteland, only half through his slanted glasses. He readjusts the frame till it sits squarely on his nose once more, and stops the train.

The yelling from his party grows into focus, the adrenaline seeping out of his system.

“You practically threw him off! What the hell were you thinking?” The youngest of the group is advancing on the man in the tattered, bloodied uniform.

“I was shooting at them .” The Soldier growls, “I did not see you pick up your gun once!” 

The Scout backs away with a scoff, “So that’s your argument, right. Nobody knew there’d be bandits straight outta First! I wasn’t prepared!”

“You’re in the apocalypse, son, you need to be prepared for anything!” As Soldier reaches to grab Scout, the yelling fades into the background again.

A hand places itself onto Medic’s shoulder, the sudden presence meaning nothing as the doctor looks away. He can feel a weariness flooding him. It was not the first time he’d lost a teammate to the sands. Medic closes his eyes.

“I feel you need to speak, Docteur. They need order.” The hand is light on his shoulder, as the man in the suit beside him leans down to speak into his ear. “This is your train, non?”

Medic tilts his head to meet the gaze of the man he only knows as Spy, the one who sticks to the shade of the cabin and the sheet metal Demo had left behind when he…

No matter, more things to attend to.

Spy doesn’t smile, and Medic likes that. He doesn’t make any false attempts to comfort him, he doesn’t lie, at least not to him. Most importantly of all, Spy knows how to hold his own in a fight, which is why the others weren’t looking to throw insults his way.

“What do I say to a grieving, crazed man?” Who are these words even for?

Spy’s hand slips from Medic’s shoulder, and Spy moves away. He leans on the metal wall on the other side of the conductor’s cabin, and pulls out a tinderbox to his cigarette. The vice was new. Maybe Medic had to pick it up, he’d heard of a variation using the coca leaf in place of tobacco. Medic’s gaze follows the smoke as the wind carries it, and Spy’s voice knocks him back to reality. 

“To get back in line.”

Medic sighs, standing up from his seat. He looks the man up and down before nodding. “You are right.”

Soldier large fists bunch up Scout’s vest in his hands as he pushes the man nearly half-off the deck. They’re still yelling at each other - of course they were. This is their country that's falling. Soldier had lost his compatriots in the first waves, and Scout had travelled all the way across the country to get here. This is desperation. Did desperate men still have reason? Hypothesis, experiment.

Medic clears his throat, red gloves pressed against his lips. Soldier stops yelling, Scout looks over. Medic starts slowly, “Did I make the mistake of bringing two children with me?” His gaze flicks between the two, “Because children don’t fare well when they’re thrown off of a train and left stranded in the middle of the desert.”

Soldier lets out a low growl, before letting go of Scout.

“You two, and Spy, joined my train with the express agreement that we’d work together, ja?”

Scout looks away sheepishly, “Yeah. Sorry, doc.”

“With our friend Demo gone, we’re under more pressure than ever to get to Mexico safely. The least, the least I expect is to not kill each other.” Soldier has decided to lean on the railing of the other side of the deck, his hat low on his head. On his neck, Medic can see the bandages he applied to keep Soldier alive. “There is a chance he survived. In fact, I believe he did. If anyone could survive the…” The word escapes my mind every time . “... those people, he can.”

Medic remembers the crazed look in Soldier’s eyes when they first met, the blood trickling down his nose from a fight, the manic grin on his face. When a man who’s taken orders his whole life is left without meaning, he becomes a wild animal. Medic could only pray that he could assume some sense of stability into his life, and turn him into an asset rather than a liability.

“I was just sayin’ that if he, ya know, killed the outlaws…” Scout, please don’t start. “We’d still have Demo and I’d be able to turn a profit at the next Sheriff’s office, with all the corpses. Ya know I’m good at gettin’ money, Medic! We’d have enough money to buy all the extra equipment we n-”

That smooth voice carries over Medic’s shoulder, “This is not the time for another argument.” Medic can smell the smoke of Spy’s cigarette. “You must learn when a conversation is over.”

As Medic turns to look at Spy, he’s still leaning on the wall in the shade of the conductor’s cabin. Blue eyes are on him, and Medic is torn between surprise that he decided to step in after all, and the feeling that aches in his chest that He didn’t think I could handle myself, did he?

“You didn’t need to get involved.” Medic mutters as he returns to his seat. “They were listening to me.”

“Then why didn’t Scout shut up?”

“Because he never takes orders.” Medic sighs. He pushes the lever forward, and glances at the distance dial. 6550. Not long till the next outpost.

Scout is the first to hop off the train at Second Outpost, so excited he almost tangled his leg in what was left of the barbed wire Demo had set up on the train. God knows Medic doesn’t need to waste any more energy on him. Scout feels differently.

He’s aware that Spy and Medic are acquainted with each outpost, but he can’t help that he’s new to the south, and especially the Eight Outpost System. Only the slightest disappointment hit him when he realised Second was a lot like First, near identical if not for the different placement of the buildings. A trading post next to the entrance, rather than in the middle area. The Sheriff’s office by the exit. Notably less people, but he could see why. Whereas First Outpost operated like a safe haven, with supplies to hand out, Second did not. This was the first sign, Scout notices, that they were really every-man-for-themselves.

What remains of the military personnel have taken to the four turrets at each corner of the outpost. Medic had told him before that they’re to automatically shoot anything undead or paranormal that nears the large, sturdy stone walls. Why don’t they just shut the gates? But maybe things work differently here. Scout’s more acquainted with the northern strongholds anyway, where everything important occurred within the walls. It had taken a big push to cause him to leave.

I’ve come this far. Mexico’s practically round the corner.

Other trains line the various tracks, each with their own parties. From the blessing of shade between buildings, his gaze follows a slowing train. An older woman descends the ladder at the back of the deck, leaving another, younger woman to refuel. They’re both dressed like money.

It’s been six years, and we still have robber barons? The idea of real wealth in this day and age makes Scout feel queasy. His ma could’ve made real use of the cash.

The woman refuelling looks exhausted, her hair falling out of place. At a closer look, Scout can see what they’re using for fuel. Zombies. He’s familiar with the new-found use of the corpses, but he’s only seen it, well, never. He smirks a little to himself that the rich folk are running practically empty, but he sees how the woman keels over the dial board, trying not to retch… or to cry. Both?

Scout walks over casually, climbing up to the deck. “Hey.” The woman whirls around to face him. Her eyes are bleary, and he can see tear stains on her dress. “Let me help you, Miss.” He walks over to the conductor’s cabin. He takes the shovel out of the woman’s hands gently.

The woman looks surprised, her eyes wide behind the fallen strands of black hair and her glasses. Her face quickly contorts into something more angry, eyebrows furrowed, “I don’t need help,” She snatches the shovel back, almost threateningly pointing it at Scout, “I-I can do this on my own.”

“Well, let me give ya a tip.” Scout throws his hands up in defense, “Please?” The woman doesn’t move, Scout takes it as a sign to continue. “The fuel compartment’s deeper than you think. The shovel makes it less efficient. You’ll get used to just tossin’ them in.”

The woman looks down at the zombie, and lightly pushes Scout out of the way. With one kick, she pushes the corpse into the fire, if not for getting a splash of green blood on the end of her skirts.

“How’ve you been doing it? Before I swooped in, of course.”

The woman in purple sighs, “Using the shovel to cut them into bits?”

“Sounds messy.”

She sighs again, shoulders slumping, “It is.”

Scout’s not really spoken to anyone save for his party and a few various travellers in, well, forever. He needs to push the conversation, doesn’t he? “Call me Scout. What’s your name, Miss?” He pauses. Be a gentleman! He can hear Spy hiss somewhere in the back of his head. “If you… wanna?”

“If we do end up meeting again, Scout, you can just call me Miss Pauling.” I am so fuckin’ good at conversating.

“Miss Pauling, yeah, you look like one.” Scout looks away, then back again. His gaze meets a confused expression. He suddenly glances at the fuel dial. “Uh, still low? I can get you coal. Or maybe your friend is, where’d she go?”

“Bandages and snake oil run at the doctor’s.” Pauling smiles, but it’s weak in the way that shows it’s a… bad thing?

“Always good to be stocked.”

“... for herself.”

Scout raises an eyebrow, “She’s a doctor? Or I could just buy you some-”

“No!” Pauling yelps, then covers her mouth. She moves her hands to smooth her hair out of her face in a fluid motion, as if to pretend that was her plan all along. “No, it’s… it’s fine. Look, since you’re here and talking, I should probably tell you something.”

Yeah, sure, we can get married.

“There’s this… man.” She’s married? “I think I’ve seen him once or twice.” Hallelujah. “At outposts, just passers-by, really. But there was always something about him. His eyes were dead, I can’t explain it. His clothes were absolutely ruined. I saw him out on the sands, and the zombies didn’t even look at him. Not once.”

“... so there’s a zombie on its way to Mexico?” Okay, this was one thing Scout hadn’t heard about.

“Yes!” Pauling looks out of the window to the outpost. “He’s just human enough to pass, but he’s still carrying the infection. Warn whoever you’re travelling with. You need to be careful out there.”

“Of course, Miss, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes just for you.”

Pauling smiles, God, she smiles , and covers her mouth with her hand. Suddenly, she stands up straight. “Fuck, she’s coming back.” She seems to have startled herself with her own swearing. “You, you need to get off the train now.” Scout doesn’t move for a moment, “Now, or I’ll throw you off!”

She wasn’t kidding, and soon enough Scout is practically getting tossed off of the railing. Luckily he climbs down quickly, boots hitting the sand with a crunch. “Was lovely meeting you!” He calls, before he scampers off to his own train.

Warn whoever you’re travelling with, a sentence easier said than done. As Scout hops onto the deck of the train, he slowly realises that getting a word in at all might be difficult. Whilst Scout was having his fateful meeting with the wonderful Miss Pauling, Soldier had taken to spending most of the party money on absolutely loading the train with barbed wire. 

Scout’s mind is thrown back to earlier that day, the wind whipping his hair as he stared off of the deck at an all-too-confident Demo hopping off of the train and throwing himself into a firefight. He’d taken some of the barbed wire with him, and the last time Scout saw him, he was strangling a bandit to death with it, after already disabling the horse the bandit rode on.

Bullets ringed through the air still. He turned to Soldier, “What are you doin’? Shootin’ at air or what?”

Soldier only let out a grunt and a gesture into the wasteland.

Where Scout thought there was only one of the bandits, more were incoming, and Soldier was doing his part to lure the train robbers away from an already-injured Demo, despite having taken a bullet-graze to the neck at that point. Scout’s last meaningful memory of the moment Demo left was staring at how empty the deck looked without his defences, and what it meant to have Soldier’s blood on the floorboards because of it.

“We were already low on money, and you knew that!” Medic hisses, approaching Soldier, who was carrying the barbed wire without gloves like it was nothing. Even Demo made sure he had the right kind of protective gear - even just a cloth covering his palms would have done fine.

Soldier doesn’t respond, not at first at least. He has this habit of pulling his hat down low over his face, so nobody can really see his eyes. Scout has to admit, it makes him a little intimidating. Wait, so how does he see? The illusion dissipates immediately.

“If we are to turn this train into a fortress,” Soldier growls leaning up to Medic’s face, “We need defenses. Sheet metal is not good enough . We can block bullets, but what about when they climb on the train?” He speaks in this way that constantly almost sounds like yelling. Whether he’s ever offered a gentle word or not, Scout writhes at the thought of how unnerving it would be to hear it.

“When they climb on the train, you shoot at it!” Medic is exasperated by this point. Spy lingers in the shadows of the conductor’s cabin, another cigarette between his lips. His eyes, dark and almost uncanny, are fixed on Soldier. Medic continues, “You, Scout and Spy are all to attack .”

“All attack and no defense?” Soldier advances on Medic, “You almost sound like you want this train to be overrun!”

“You know that is not what I meant.” Medic pinches the bridge of his nose, mumbling something in that language Scout thinks sounds goofy, and turns back to the conductor’s cabin. His white jacket flows in the breeze like he’s from some kind of fairytale. “Spy, we’re approaching night. Will at least someone on this train uphold their agreement?”

Medic drives by day, Spy drives at night, whoever’s not conducting is on the lookout.

“Bien entendu.” Spy nods, moving to take the seat.

Scout figures he should say something, considering nobody’s acknowledged him yet. “Hey, uh, I should probably mention a little something-”

“Not now.” Medic sighs. “Not now, Scout.”

Scout shrugs, picking up his revolver and moving to the end of the deck.

It was common knowledge, to him at least, that desert nights could get unfathomably cold. Spy had yet to find evidence to prove this. The nights were as the days, an aching heat that threatened to destroy minds. The day he would experience real chill again, he’d revel in it.

The man turns his head to look at the sleeping figures behind him. He’s almost… envious? Sleep had not come easy to him for a long while now. He didn’t know if it ever would.

The thoughts jolt out of his mind as he catches sight of a town up ahead. All the lights are off, and he can hear the guttural groans of zombies even from here. Abandoned , all towns are these days. They’d have plenty of shops, ammo, money to spare at the costs of having to mow down hordes of the undead. Most travellers were advised to give them a wide berth, and if on train to simply speed past. Spy had heard tales of conductors losing fuel too close to a town, and the next party along the tracks getting swarmed by the undead they lured in. Pitiful . Spy knew of worse fates.

As his eyes, well-trained to the darkness, followed the town as the train passed, Spy caught a glimpse of something. A traveller, limping by the looks of it, carrying a shotgun and blasting the zombies’ skulls open before they can even turn to lurch at them. The figure’s only on the outskirts, though. Spy offers only a small prayer for what will become of them once they’re in the heart of the town. 

Chapter Text

It’s a common misconception that zombies are completely mindless and out of control. Over the past few years, the mystery around the undead grew amongst survivors and eventually flat-out lies had run its course throughout the last of humanity. 

‘They follow a leader.’ Untrue. Zombies are lured to two things; the scent of blood and loud noises.

‘They become weaker once infected.’ The virus causes an influx of adrenaline being produced, forcing the beings to use as much strength as they can offer at all times.

‘You can disguise yourself as one of them.’ If you are not infected, you are not safe. It doesn’t take open wounds to lure them to blood. All it takes is blood. Every shifting shape on the wasteland horizons is a target.

Whilst the Eight Outpost System offers efficiency, it does not offer safety. As more and more people bring their trains down the tracks; the wheezing of the engine, the rowdiness of certain parties, the sound of gunshots only bring more and more zombies to the tracks.

One aspect of the System that not many people seem to consider nor take up are the alternate routes. Slower, sure, but relatively safe compared to the main tracks.

Miss Pauling’s gaze tracks a herd of wild horses picking at the sand, silhouettes lit up by the moonlight. Ranches had set their herds free once news of the virus hit. It was heartwarming, really, the final act of human intervention in the animals’ lives. But the mustangs had grown skittish, terrified of anything shifting on two legs.

I don’t blame them.

The sharp click of footsteps fade into her familiarly unnerved focus. A shadow breaks the warm light of the fuel vent, just in the corner of Miss Pauling’s eyes. Her hand grips the lever just a little tighter. Two eyes press against her skin.

“You haven’t been minding the fuel.” A low voice. Or was it another malicious hiss? Either way, Pauling reminds herself of the guard dogs pulling against their chains back at the laboratory. She let this happen.

“We…” Her gaze travels to the fuel dial. No. “We’re almost out of fuel.” No, please don’t.

“And what do you suppose we do about it?” She always does this. Lets out a few more links of the chain, lets me run, snaps my neck just as I forget that I’m still bound. 

I let this happen. “Find something to refuel with.” 

A cold, almost clawed hand comes up to grasp the back of her neck. Never to console. Pauling shuts her eyes for just a moment - don’t think about it - passing it off as a particularly long blink as she looks up at Helen.

“I do hope you’ve noticed that we’re coming up on a building.” The hand tightens slightly. “You’ll find fuel there. Don’t be too long.”

She’s right, honestly. She’s never been wrong. That’s what throws me off-balance. “Of course, Madame.” Pauling turns to look out of the window. The distant shape of a slanted roof breaks from the sands in the moonlight. A tower above it, climbing into the stars.

Ten years ago, Miss Pauling had practically crawled into Helen’s arms to gain the opportunity to join her rising empire. She’d been told it was a crazed idea, that the woman lived in a world of journals and predictions. But Miss Pauling knew there had to be some sort of reality to her. She’d just hoped there’d be humanity.

Money was her drive. It was Miss Pauling’s, it was anybody’s, but Helen enacted her plans with consistent focus on driving her wealth up, competition down. The only heiress to a family fortune large enough to buy a state, it was a deliberate choice not to marry. Pauling admired that she hadn’t, but soon the thoughts as to why began to flood her head. As far as she knew, she was the closest person to Helen. Somewhere deep in her heart, she wished that her work for Helen meant something to her. Not deep in her heart, Pauling was never skilled in hiding her emotions. Even the smallest praise from the older woman brought a soft smile to her face that she'd force herself to hide. 

I don’t smile at her anymore. The train slows. Helen’s shoes are extraordinarily clean. Pauling has bruises on her knuckles. She doesn’t praise me anymore.

The four years before the apocalypse, Helen had bought up buildings all across the Texas stretch of Chihuahuan Desert. Converted them into laboratories, facilities to store God knows what. She’d never been allowed to enter, only to wait outside in the carriage and plan on how to be even better to access the buildings. There were hundreds of these things. When Pauling had caught a glimpse of the map of the rail lines Helen had commissioned, she noticed the white line travelling between each of the dots. At the time, it was simply for the transportation of supplies. Now, Pauling’s stomach roiled with ill at the idea of what Helen had been counting on.

“I won’t take long.” Pauling doesn’t mean to sound so despondent, but she can’t help it. For six years, she’d been forced under the woman’s heel. And now the woman could offer nothing more than a sardonic smile.

Their shoulders brush as Pauling passes. The knife twists from in between her ribs. I let this happen.

If her clothing hadn’t been chosen for her by a society long gone, she’d prefer to wear the sorts of fashion she sees the men wear. No skirts to snag on the railing, no awkward heel that threatens to twist her ankle as she descends the ladder, and God, please, not so many layers that she’s strangled in the desert heat. The North was definitely more forgiving.

However, it dawns on her that this is the first time she’ll enter any of the laboratories. She looks over her shoulder at the train, and Helen is smoking from a pipe - turned away from her. To think this would have been a gift a decade ago.

Pauling traverses the sea of sand eventually, and wrenches one of the large doors open. It doesn’t cross her mind to at least try to glimpse into the dusty windows for any signs of zombies. Maybe she doesn’t- No. She needs to live. She was simply careless.

The laboratory is mostly empty. The dark doesn’t make it easy to navigate, and more than enough times she hits her hip or shoulder on a sharp corner, or walks face-first into a cobweb. Of course spiders survived the apocalypse, why wouldn’t they? 

The moonlight doesn’t hit the main room well enough to define any specific silhouettes, but she notices the slanted shelf of sorts in the centre. She runs a finger across the shelf. It’s metal, and she can feel shackles and bolts across one of the panels. She moves onwards. If the high ceilings were to make room for higher shelves, she couldn’t possibly see anything. Instead, she felt each table for anything worth using for fuel. Newspapers, several loops of rope, even a large wheel she’d easily be able to dismantle. Her fingers trace over the planks of a barrel, and she drags it towards the door to hold it open. Inspecting the other side of the central room, she trips over… What is it? A square frame, canvas in the middle. She pulls it beside the door. Fuel is fuel.

Once she feels she’s gathered enough to atleast get to the Third Outpost, she steps outside into the fresh, less-dusty air of the desert. She’s weighed down by the wheel she’s slung over her back, and the rope is beginning to dig into her arm, but she’s relieved from the pain for just a moment. She throws all of the fuel onto the deck, clambers up the ladder, and is met with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m sure I told you.” Helen holds her pipe as delicately as Pauling wishes could be her. The woman scoffs, “Each laboratory stores gold and silver. Did you find any?”

“It was dark.” Pauling admits. “I couldn’t see.” I really couldn’t, Madame, I swear! Let me fix my mistake, please. Please. She closes her eyes for just a moment. It’s been six years since I said that.

Helen turns away. “Then go back. There will be a room directly to your left.”

“And you’ll handle fuel?” A part of Miss Pauling is begging her to actually work with her. The other half is trying to make a break for it, and disappear into the depths of her mind. 

When Helen doesn’t respond, only takes a puff from her pipe whilst looking at the desert ahead, Pauling takes it as a sign to silence herself. She steps over the future fuel and climbs down the ladder. I let this happen.

Her steps carry heavier, and her shoulders slump under no perceivable weight.

The next time she enters the laboratory, she takes a sharp left and finds herself in a significantly lighter room. Pauling takes her time wandering this time. Focus shifts to every little detail as she walks slowly into the left room. The bricks of the walls, cheaper construction. There’s no detailing, and it’s clear these laboratories serve one purpose. She lets her fingers pick up dust as she runs them across a table, she lets the dust smear on her dress and when her hands meet gold her first idea is to pocket it.

She’d smell it on me.

But she pockets it anyways, no use carrying it in empty arms. Moonlight gives silver bars a light blue hue, which helps to grab her attention. She’s weighed down, but it doesn’t feel like a liability when it’s practically free cash.

She’ll take it all.

It’s difficult to push Helen out of her thoughts when she’s only a hundred metres away at all times, ever since they met.

She’s suffocating me.

I let this happen.

Her second return to the train, Helen picks up one of the gold bars Pauling sets down with an exasperated breath. Her talons trace the gold, as if to inspect the quality. Wasn’t it hers, anyway? Pauling looks back at the laboratory, then to Helen. Was she searching for approval again? Seriously?

Pauling’s dreams shatter as soon as they can form. “The room on the right, you’ll find a jar.”

She wishes that maybe Helen had made a shopping list beforehand, so the back-and-forth wasn’t necessary.

It then clicks that it’s purposeful. Helen sees an exhausted, miserable subordinate and throws her to the edge of sanity. This is not the first time.

The third journey to the laboratory, there’s no weight on Pauling’s shoulders. She’s as light as a breeze, really. She arrives at the building with a quick pace, a small smile on her face as she approaches the right side of the room.

The building is not symmetrical, Pauling realises as she walks face-first into a brick wall. Her smile doesn’t falter as blood trickles onto her lips, and she even lets out a high-pitched giggle as she traces the wall with her fingers until she finds a doorway.

She slips into the room on the right, dimmer-lit than the main room, even though the moon’s risen higher since the first visit. She reaches out to the barest shape of a table, and grabs the first object her hands can pick up. A stone sculpture. She feels over the grooves with her thumbs.

Miss Pauling readjusts her grip. She hopes it’s a beautiful sculpture.

She slams it into the wall. A sharp crack splits the air like lightning. Even she’s a little surprised by the sudden noise. She pauses, letting the statue fall to the ground. Her deep breath only serves to feed herself dust sprayed from the brick wall upon impact. It scratches the back of her throat, but she’s already tasting iron. 

Time passes where she simply stares at the moonlight on the floor, letting her throat itch with each breath, refusing to move. She pulls back slightly, heaving the statue overhead for a moment before swinging it onto the tiled floor. The shards of stone and porcelain skitter across the ground like insects. Of course the spiders survived the apocalypse. 

The desk takes the next hit, a pile of research papers she hadn’t noticed soaring into the air like doves. A sharp crunch. God, she broke the fucking thing. 

Half-blinded by the night, Pauling reaches out onto the desk to catch the jar before it slides onto the ground and breaks. It was a lucky catch, she hadn’t spotted it until the moonlight glinted off of the glass.

She holds the, admittedly, quite heavy jar in her hands. If I give this back to her, I’m just going back to the same-old.

Pauling had destroyed things in the heat of her emotions before. It was sometimes messier, sometimes not. But she still felt the same wave of shame and fear afterwards. The same shame and fear that brought her back into Helen’s arms.

Next time, it will be the last time.

She thinks this every time.

Pauling can’t see what’s in the jar. She won’t be surprised if it’s nothing important. I let this happen. She holds the jar close to her chest as she leaves the laboratory at a brisk pace, as if to make up for the time she wasted on her feelings.

Pauling thinks she’s imagining it, at first. She’s heard similar sounds, but nothing like this.

The guttural howl of something more than natural tears the sky in half down the middle. She forces her eyes back up to the train, please, not the train , and the shapes shifting in the shadows are unmistakable. Large, rippling bodies of gray and black fur sift across the sands at a pace unmatched. Pauling spots the glow of red eyes. The snarls, another howl, claws at the train’s metal front which releases a screech into the night sky.

And Pauling sees Helen. 

She’s still alive, God knows how, but she’s struggling to reload her Mauser from on top of the deck. The light from the fuel compartment throws her into a soft, orange glow. Her movements are sharp, panicked.

Not like this. Pauling’s body twitches to move forward, but she doesn’t move. No, not like this.

One of the creatures - furred, a blur, utterly wrong - lunges onto the deck of the train with a speed Pauling can’t fathom, hurling itself at Helen. The woman doesn’t flinch. She never did, not even when Pauling screamed and cried into her face. Faced with gnashing teeth, Helen empties the clip into the creature’s face at a point-blank range. The creature lets out a shriek, a whimper. They’re still human. It stumbles off of the railing completely, hitting the sands with a thud.

That’s when Pauling sees it; the jagged cut across Helen’s abdomen, blood staining her purple dress like a smattering of oil. Pauling’s stomach roils as she imagines the scent of the compound, instead of the blood. Anything but blood.

Another shadow takes the leap onto the front of the steam train. Higher, faster than the previous attacker. Helen responds immediately. She hasn’t finished reloading her Mauser, so in one swift movement she pulls out a blade - a blade Pauling doesn’t recognise - and drives it into the blur’s neck. No longer a blur, the beast twists and turns out of Helen’s blade, crashing backwards with a cry of pain. They’re still human.

The world quietens for a moment. Morning , it’s all Pauling has, Morning, take the beasts away. She presses two fingers to the pulse point on her neck. She’s swaying slightly.

Helen is panting, but she turns to lock gazes with Pauling, dead-on. She can’t see me. Pauling focuses on her breathing. It’s dark. She can’t see me.

Helen finishes reloading her Mauser, and raises it in Pauling’s direction. As if by instinct, she throws herself out of the way as a shot rings out into the sand. The impact of her fall knocks her glasses out of her face, and she definitely feels a few of the pins in her hair loosen, tossing some strands of her black hair across her vision.

She feels around for her glasses, and turns around to catch sight of what was about to attack her. There’s no dead body behind her. There’s not even anything alive to finish what it started.

She…

Pauling slowly turns to look at the train.

One of the creatures took the opportunity to clamp its jaws around Helen’s neck, tossing her against the deck, railing, metal like a ragdoll. Another one scrambles onto the deck to join, grabbing her leg.

She won’t cry. Not even at the end.

Another creature hops onto the deck. Bites her abdomen. Another, obscuring Pauling’s sightlines. Another. Another.

It’s at that point Pauling’s brain realises that it simply cannot conceptualise what it’s just seen. Pauling’s swaying grows, and she falls back to the ground.

Pauling is woken up by sunlight and warm sands. She stands up and brushes herself off. A few steps towards the train, it’s empty , and she looks back to the jar on the ground. There’s a brain in it, coupled with a pair of eyeballs. 

You… you can enjoy the sun a bit.

Miss Pauling continues her journey to the train. The deck is covered in blood. Werewolf or human, it’s difficult to tell. They’re still human. She sighs, glancing back at the brain in a jar back on the sands. It looks pitiful. Discarded.

She climbs off of the train, picks up the jar, and brings it back onto the train. She sits in the conductor’s seat, a shaky grip on the lever she pushes forward. She sits the jar in her lap, rests her chin on the top of it, and lets the train get her out of this mess.

I let this happen.

She shuts her eyes.

I’m glad I did.

It doesn’t take long before she throws up.

There’s tales of a man who’s been wandering the wastelands for six years. Who knows where he’s from, why he’s here, what he’s doing? All that’s known is he’s an omen of sorts. With an aim that could rival the day God smites me down.

Sniper’s back is pressed to the far end of the bank vault, rifle pointed square at the open vault door. The stock presses against his cheekbone, fitting square in place with a scar from a long-past predicament. His finger hovers over the trigger, twitching for that sweet rush of a kill. Half of the bank vault, currently, is taken up by zombie corpses. Lured by the train that passed by earlier in the night, the things got active all of a sudden, and started on a very unprepared Sniper.

A zombie crawls into the vault. BANG.

His plan was to shoot down the mayor of the town, steal the code to the vault, and rob the place blind before running back to his train he’d left back on one of the alternate tracks. Obviously, luck is not on his side today. Whilst other travellers, especially any new folk on the EOS would’ve made a break for the Doctor’s offices, Sniper bites his tongue - with what, envy? - at the idea of being able to apply a bandage and have it stick. Soak up any blood. Stop the bleeding.

It takes a moment, but eventually a zombie shows its head around the corner. BANG.

And so Sniper ends up sitting down, getting comfortable on the back of another zombie corpse, preparing for a long night of shooting the zombies as they trickle in, until they’re all gone. He’s already been shot square in the chest, and a section of his forearm stripped to nearly the bone. A loose, now tangled strip of bandages lay strewn across the floor. Sniper is certain he’s going to trip on it on his way out. A bottle of snake oil lies tipped on its side in the corner like a discarded bottle of moonshine.

Getting cocky now, are we? BANG.

Sniper knows the gunshots are definitely attracting more and more, but it’s more and more bodies he can burn. Real fuel’s difficult to come by when every other person on the tracks thinks you’re demonspawn.

The zombie obviously doesn’t mean to trip and fall into view. BANG.

But Sniper was human once. Fully human, no zombie, no demon. It was one, just one, just one fateful night on a train that had led to a chain of events that caused Sniper to be thrown off of a train in the middle of a nightmarish firefight during a blood moon. He had landed on the ground with a thud, but before he could reach for the rifle he’d lost in the fall, he’d received a bite to the arm. The neck. The leg.

Don’t interrupt my story. BANG.

He’d made a point to nick an empty train, disappear to the far ends of the tracks, succumb to the disease in peace. It only took a few days.
No, weeks?
No, months?
No, years?
Physically, he is a zombie. His blood sprays green, he feels the constant rot ache down to his bones, the insatiable twitching in his body to rip apart flesh. Mentally, however, he’s as right as rain. And that’s where the problem comes in.

Nobody is going to get close enough to a zombie to hear him out. And nobody is going to get close enough to this zombie to find out.

Chapter Text

As fate would have it, the night is peaceful. Ah could’ve just slept. One weary eye scours the early morning wasteland from the end of Sasha’s deck. He sets his rifle down under a hand, his other reaching up to feel over the bandages on his face. But Ah guess ae owe them.

Demo looks over his shoulder to look at the others.

Engie woke up early to continue driving. Anyone who had any idea how trains work before the apocalypse are coveted, from a time before just anyone would hop onto a piece of metal with an engine and throw themselves into First.

Pyro’s drawing, a chip of charcoal in their massive glove as they create some shapes onto their sketchbook. Demo brushes a thumb over his rifle. Ah cannae ask them fer a drink now. Bloody banned from it.

Heavy holds his shotgun to his chest as he looks out into Engie’s blind spot. The funny thing about Heavy was how he didn’t ask Engie to stop if he perhaps saw a pack of wolves in the distance, or maybe some outlaws minding their own business for once.

Demo’s old party would’ve thrown themselves off of the railing, broken a tooth on the tracks before getting up to throw themselves at anything from any distance. At least Scout and Soldier would. Demo would join, and be the one to make Spy and Medic a little less angry about their bravery. Wonder if they made a rule about jumpin’ off the train now.

Being struck in the head with a hoof, then shot multiple times was an experience Demo had never had before. Not even after those nights at the bar after having left the mines, when he’d end up inviting randoms to duels in a drunken stupor.

The thought of alcohol sends a jolt into his head, as if he’d just reminded his brain to give him that sweet, sweet hangover. He reaches to grasp his head in his hands, gritting his teeth before the wave of pain dissipates.

“Doktor’s building on left.” Heavy calls, cocking his shotgun. Pyro looks up from their sketchbook with a blink. Engie nods and begins to slow the train, his head turned to look out of the left window.

Demo grabs his rifle and stands up to join the party, but all eyes turn to him.

“Y’sure about this?” Those goggles do nothing to cover the conductor’s narrowed eyes. “Don’t want you to get any more injuries.”
“Ae can handle myself.” Speak louder. It feels like Spy’s right next to him again. “Plus, yer all coming with. Couple’a zombies can’t take down all of us, can they?” 

Heavy shrugs and nods before hopping off of the train. Pyro follows less gracefully, tumbling to the ground. Engie’s gaze follows Demo as he pulls himself over the railing and lands on the ground. He reaches out a hand to pull up Pyro, a difficult grip with how large their gloves are. A clinking of molotovs somewhere underneath all the layers of clothing they wear sends another wave of pain through Demo’s head, and he turns away to walk across the sands.

The sun beats down on the three figures in the desert. Demo can feel the grating feeling on Engie’s eyes at the back of his neck, which he chooses to ignore. Ae guess he’s watchin’ over the train, then.

Heavy readies his shotgun as he turns the corner of the abandoned building, the gurgling of the undead coming into focus. There’s multiple, and Heavy waits for everyone to gather by the windows to take a look.

Four zombies lurch towards the window, scratching at the glass with chipped, green-bloodied fingers. Each of them are salivating, at the last stage of infection. One of them throws itself at the window, and all three of the livings jump backwards, but it slumps to the ground - glass unbroken. Doin’ stupid shit fer the next hit, yea? Ae know how it feels, lad.  

Demo looks over at the door of the building. It’s wide open. Too focused on a meal ta use logic. He gives Heavy a look before walking to the doorway, “Jus’ keep ‘em distracted. Ah wanna try somethin’.” 

He enters the shadows of the building, a relieving break from the sun. The light cast through the windows illuminates the four shifting bodies almost like a painting. Another zombie gnashes its teeth and throws itself against the glass. Moving targets are easy targets when close-range.

Demo raises his rifle in a swift motion, and fires a bullet square into the head of the zombie currently pinned to the ground by the others. The shot rings out - he’s never shot a bullet in a building before, his head goes electric once again. The zombies do not turn to him, despite the noise. The three remaining flings themselves at the window yet again, clawing at none other than each other in an attempt to grab Heavy through glass they still can’t break .

Heavy looks at Demo quizzically, a raised eyebrow, but an impressed smirk spreads across his face. Pyro waves at Demo urgently, even hopping up and down. 

“Yea, lad?”

Pyro brings out one molotov, holding it out. Before Heavy can snatch it out of their hand, they throw it to Demo.

“You plan to burn Doktor’s office to ground?” He growls, but Demo laughs as he tilts the bottle around slowly to ensure that the cloth is soaked in alcohol.

“Ae know what Ah’m doing, ae know what Ah’m doin’.” Soon, a matchbox is in his hand, “Ae used ta work in the mines, ye ken? Worked with all sortsa explosives.”
“Molotov and dynamite are different. Doktor’s office is made out of wood. ” And if Heavy’s point hadn’t quite fully come across, “You think bandages will not burn? Snake oil will not burn?” 

He just had ta make a point, di’n he?

“Pyro, lass… lad… Pyro, the zombies ain’t trackin’ ye. C’mere, help me loot the place.”

It’s only a little bit, very , humorous to see Heavy’s unimpressed scowl as Demo and Pyro toss anything not nailed down into their pockets, bags, anything.

“Maybe if ye weren’t the first thing they got their eyes on, ye’d be able te join us.” Demo snickers. He mimes throwing a molotov just to elicit a panicked reaction.

He reaches over to grab a large glass bottle of the snake oil from directly behind the three zombies left. They’re trampling over their fallen comrade still. Happens te the best of us.

He crouches down to inspect the label of the bottle, never mind the three undead behind him. It’s like sitting behind a horse - who knows when you’ll be kicked?

Snake oil, funny thing it was. Just about everyone who had made it to First after the apocalypse had heard of it. Before the virus blew up society, snake oil was the kind of thing you’d avoid, always a shifty unlicensed doctor trying to sell it or some other life-extending elixir that’d turn you immortal.

In the years leading up to the apocalypse, laboratories started popping up just about everywhere in this stretch of the desert. Nobody really knew any of the chemists working within, but by the time the Eight Outpost System was locked into place as the way to go; a weird little chemical compound had started popping up in doctor’s offices, the pockets of traders, anywhere with shelves had it. It didn’t take long for the people to give it a name, after its use. Snake oil, a real cure-all. Heavy had used it on his bullet wounds, and the injuries practically sewed themselves shut.

What Demo wants to know are the ingredients. He carefully reads the title ‘Snake Oil’, well yea , and flips it over. Nothing. No ingredients, no company attached to the bottle, not even the gaudy portraits most inventors slapped onto their gadgets. Why were people using this? Demo couldn’t lie to himself, it works like a charm, but who in their right mi- A gunshot. A zombie lurches at him.

It collapses onto him, knocking Demo to the ground. In a flash, he kicks the body away and scrambles to the other side of the room until his back, heaving as he pants, hits Pyro’s legs. He looks up, and the quiet little guy is looking back down at him with the head-tilt of a curious (or perhaps confused) dog. Pyro doesn’t look concerned, and gestures to the zombie.

Fer fuck’s sake. The thing’s dead, it’s blood splattered on the walls and now pooling on the floor. Heavy is looking coldly at Demo from outside of the building, cocking his shotgun again. Then he smiles, pulling his shotgun up to the last two zombies. As the window’s been shattered, they’re clawing through to the outside world, never mind the shattered and broken glass they’re shredding their arms on.

Demo winces, and then the two gunshots ring out. He opens his eyes to the sound of footsteps, his gaze following Heavy as he grabs the four corpses and steps back out into the sunlight.

“Now you can use molotov.” Heavy gives a very ‘you’re welcome’ wave before walking away, presumably back to the train.

Pyro giggles, bringing one of their larged gloved hands up to their face as they do so, which is only a little useless considering the massive bandana keeping their face concealed. They look down at Demo, their eyes glowing with excitement. 

Demo stands up slowly, only a little dazed from Heavy’s very funny and not evil prank, and Pyro claps excitedly.

The two leave the building, back into the devastating heat of the desert. Dry conditions make fer a great fire. Demo brings out the matchbox again, lighting the cloth on the molotov Pyro had given him. The two wait patiently for the cloth to really catch fire, before Demo hurls it into the abandoned Doctor’s office. Glass shatters, and the fire bursts out the doorway in an unfurling rage. The wooden structure starts to glow. It doesn’t take long for a panel on the roof to cave in, expelling sparks through the gap.

Demo glances at Pyro. Pyro is still at the sight of the flames, the building breaking down. Their eyes shine a soft red colour, reflecting te fire, yea? If only it were night-time. All good fires happen at night-time, and Demo feels like Pyro would agree.

“Y’all gonna come back?” Engie’s voice barks across the sands, “We’re losin’ daylight out here.”

Demo’s boots carry him a few steps towards the train, until he realises Pyro isn’t following. He returns to gently hold their arm and pull them away from the building as the roof caves.

The four congregate onto the deck to distribute the bandages and snake oil between them. Demo nervously hands Heavy his share as he’s pushing the four zombie corpses into the fuel vent. The large man turns his head, and smiles at him, “You are not used to zombies by now?” Don’t laugh at me.

Six years ago, Demo worked as a member of some mining operation a little ways north. A good opportunity to make money, and to make things go kaboom. He’d travelled from way across the ocean years before looking for work anyways, never mind how dangerous the mines could get. The others who’d worked alongside him introduced him to dynamite, the new way of carving through rock quick. They’d also introduced him to copious drinking to aid with the misery of the job, but that was a different matter altogether. 

In the early days of the apocalypse, back when the military ‘had it under control’, Demo had arrived late to his job at the mining operation behind the town’s church, and a woman had stopped him to tell him that nobody had exited for hours, and that there might have been a cave-in. He’d heard rumours about some ‘priceless jade tablets’ discovered in the caves the day before and he wouldn’t be surprised to find out how many people had been involved in a brawl over stealing them.

So he entered the mineshaft, scoured the maze of torches and carts until he found the room, difficult to miss. Two jade tablets, a strange mask. As his fingers traced the etchings on the green crystal, a sudden rattling swept through the mines. 

He’d never seen a skeleton in person before, no less thirty scrambling towards him wielding rusted pickaxes.

Demo had grabbed some discarded dynamite and practically blew up the entire mine on his escape, and after returning to the outside world the entrance had been sealed. 

It had been labelled the Stirling Town Mystery by the newspapers that Demo refused to read and had only heard about. One day of disappearance, and his coworkers had become rotted. The part of him he drowned in alcohol could only wonder if he’d start rotting too.

Either way, it was the first documented instance of the paranormal rather than the virus, and nobody had the time nor the energy to investigate the town since.

Watching the zombies in the abandoned Doctor’s office scramble to attack was a reminder of a sore, sore memory.

“Ae guess not.” Demo gives one of the corpses a big boot into the fuel vent, and walks away to his post at the far end of the deck.

Staring out into the desert, watching as the burning building fades into the background, Demo had barely noticed when the train stopped.

“You’re gonna stay here, I’m guessin’?” Engie looks down at him as he approaches, “Suit yourself.” He climbs down to the tracks and walks away.

It’s only then when Demo realises they’ve made it to Second Outpost, groups of other people gathering on their trains or perhaps arguing over sales at the Trading Post.

And then he realises, in his drunken stupor of yesterday, he’d forgotten about his party. He should be with them right now. But Demo made a sacrifice, sacrifices mean consequences.

He hops down onto the tracks and walks over to the Trading Post. The bandages and snake oil rattle in his bag like a sick windchime. Ae don’t need them, not really. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, and he turns to meet Heavy’s gaze. “Only sell half.” He warned.

He cannae be readin’ me mind, can he?

“... aye.” Demo nods, entering the open-air building to sell off only half of his stock.

Demo returns to a train populated only by Pyro, absentmindedly throwing coal into the fuel vent as they draw with more focus onto their sketchbook. As he approaches, he takes a peek at the fuel dial - full. He glances down at Pyro. For some reason, they’re only wearing one glove. Suddenly, they don’t feel so large anymore, as Demo’s gaze traces a scarred, dark-haired arm.

“Ye can stop fuelling. We’re all stocked.”

Pyro looks up at Demo, alarmed, sitting up to look at the fuel dial. Obviously they didn’t mean to waste coal, and they frantically wave their hands to Demo to stay quiet .

“Shh, our secret.”

Why’re they so worried about Engie findin’ out? But Demo’s seen how they follow the man like a working dog. It’s about loyalty.

Demo lays down on the deck. Sleep doesn’t come easy when the sun’s bright overhead, but luckily the bandages over one of his eyes does some of the heavy-lifting. He shuts his eyes. The rattle of bones shakes at the corners of his darkened vision. No sleep, got it.

“I’m curious, Demo.” Boots pace past his head, “What role didja play on your old train?”

“Eh?” His hand reaches up to trace the gaze over his head, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Well, partner, everyone plays a role on their train. Like how I’m the conductor, y’understand?”

Suddenly, Soldier is next to him, listening as Demo explains the best places to place barbed wire. He laughs raucously, “You’re turning this train into the Alamo!”

Demo smiles, “Ae told ye before, Ah’m the best defenses guy around.”

“So I’m guessing you’d know where to place all this, yeah?”

He opens an eye. In Engie’s gloved hand - so that’s where Pyro’s glove went - he’s holding a few rolls of barbed wire. Behind him, Heavy’s tossing some sheet metal onto the deck with a loud clang . Demo sits up, then stands. He glances between Engie and Heavy.

He wasn't asking ‘cause he forgot. Demo reaches to pick up the barbed wire out of Engie’s grasp, pulling out a long strand of the metal to inspect it. He’s asking ‘cause he remembered.

“In fifteen minutes, Ae reckon we’ll be unstoppable.” He chuckles to himself.

He copies the placement of his old defenses. Do they still have them up? Barbed wire coils around each side of the deck, tangling between the wooden panels of the railings. It doesn’t need to have order, not really, when its only purpose is to snag into rotting flesh and clothing, preventing any attackers from finding an easy way up. He focuses any of the extra coils around the back of the train, the open end with the ladders down to the ground.

With three giant panels of sheet metal, he positions two on either side of the deck nearest to the conductor’s cabin, and one at the far end, leaving only two smaller spots on either side to disembark the train via the ladders rather than a wide expanse for anything to clamber aboard.

Soldier pats his shoulder, throwing Demo forward, “We used the same tactic back at Fort Constitution! You’re a natural.”

Engie’s voice catches his fall, “You weren’t kiddin’, this looks great. When we have more money to spare, I’ll be sure to get ya s’more.” He claps his hands together addressing the others, “Y’all ready to set off, then?”

The train sets off in the afternoon, the party sitting on the deck by the conductor’s cabin. Engie looks over his shoulder at Demo, who’s been fidgeting with a fresh roll of bandages to re-dress his head wound.

“I’m curious about you, Demo.”

Distractedly, Demo responds. “Ae’ve noticed.” He realises quickly that he’s no good with the medicinal equipment of the wasteland. Heavy wordlessly reaches over to take the bandages and sort it out himself.

The southern drawl calls again, “Tell me about your old party.”

“Aye, well…”

Scout is pretending to shoot something in the distance, making poor impressions of gunshot sounds.

“We’ve got this lad, Scout. He’s nae a wee lad, a young adult really, but he acts like a right bairn sometimes. Comes from up North, from one o’ the Strongholds, ye ken? Travelled a long time to get ta First. Scout’s… not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he can talk a storm, believe me. Pulls in more cash than any of us when he’s the one haggling. Other than that, awfully unlucky bastard. Ye ever seen someone get struck by lightning? Saw him get struck a fair few times.

“But our mate the Medic helped him out. He’s this, ah, foreign guy, dinnae where from, but he’s a doc.” Heavy looks up from untangling the bandages, listening. “He owns the train we were on. He let us join his party cause he promised ta get us ta Mexico, kept us in line even though Ae was always doin' daft shite ta wind him up.

“An' he always had his shadow. We called him Spy, nae idea why.” Pyro glances over curiously, “Quiet man, but the smartest on the train. He was the logic while Medic was the boss. Smokes a good bit, reads them posh books Ae cannae understand. He'd drive the train at night - Ae dinnae think any of us ever saw him sleep.

“Then we had Soldier. He’s the first Ae spoke to. This hard, military type, but he ended up a wee bit troubled after the Fort Constitution disaster. He was mad and impulsive, but Ae was the same, wasn’t I? Still am, likely. He had my back, so Ae knew Ah’d messed up if he went quiet durin' one of our many party bletherin’s.”

Demo looks up. He hadn’t realised that the others had gone quiet. Ae spoke too much?

Engie chuckles and shakes his head a little bit, “They sound like good folk, Demo. We’ll find them for ya. Unless they’ve taken one of those alternative tracks, they really should be right up ahead, y’hear?”

“Ae hear ye.” Demo nods. It’s only been a day, but it feels like years since he’s last seen his party.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in friendly conversation, which Demo engages in. Pyro even writes (albeit poorly) some of what Engie can’t say for them. Heavy tells a few tales of the wasteland from his years on the sands, run-ins with vampires and werewolves. Engie comments on what he’d do in these situations, earning him a few chuckles.

“Maxim guns, I tell ya, legendary weapons. We get our hands on one of those, we’re practically unstoppable.”

Heavy redresses Demo’s bandages, using a borrowed molotov to clean the wound with alcohol. Demo doesn’t even notice when all of the bandages come off, his left eye still blank and slightly starry. Like the night sky. Like when the horse kicked him. He doesn’t comment on it. He’s still healing, anyways.

As night crawls into the sky, Demo finds that only he and Engie are still awake. Heavy and Pyro sleep on the deck, under the moonlight and in the warmth of the ever-present desert heat.

He clears his throat, “What about ye?” Engie turns his head slightly, “What’s yer story?”

“Used to work on a railroad. Family-owned company I was set to inherit, y’know? But, ah, we got bought up.” Engie sighs, shaking his head. “Someone up North wanted to construct some tracks connecting some buildings to each other, leading way South to the Rio Grande.”

Demo raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

“I thought it was a crazed idea. Who in their right mind-” Engie stops himself, taking a deep breath before continuing, “But it gave me an advantage since the virus. I know these tracks like the back of my hand, and how to expertly run a train.

“I met Pyro soon after the apocalypse.” He smiles, “Got them out of some trouble. They decided to stick around ‘cause I helped them, couldn’t be more thankful.”

“Ah’m curious about Pyro, as well.” Demo looks at their sleeping form down the deck, curled up like the strays he’d seen around Stirling. “They don’t talk too much, do they?”

“They’ve gotten this far without the need to, haven’t they? I reckon you shouldn’t worry about them too much - worse things going on in this world.” That’s fair.

For a little bit, the only sounds are the hissing of fuel and the constant turning of wheels, until Demo speaks up again. “What happens at the Final Outpost?”

“Final? Partner, we’ve only just left Second. Don’t worry, I’ll debrief ya when it’s time. You should catch some sleep.”

“Yea, Ae should.” Demo leans back against the railing, rifle tucked up to his chest. “Was nice of ye to get me the barbed wire and the sheet metal.”

“It’s no problem. I figured everyone should play a role here, right? It only makes sense, to play to people’s strengths.”

Demo nods, his eyes - eye - shutting.

Chapter Text

“I see a train.” Harley turns his horse around to face the tracks. A large dappled horse, one they’d found out in the wastelands wandering, looking for a home. The group had named her Sal, and she was unstoppable. She’d taken bullets, a sword slash across her chest, more zombie bites than anyone else - no wonder, animals don’t catch the virus.

It seems like God’s last act on this forsaken Earth was to ensure that the end of the world only put a bullet in the eyes of humans.

No matter, it seemed like humanity didn’t want to give up so easily. But as before society collapsed, there still seemed to be a divide. Those who wanted to go through the strenuous tasks of volleying themselves across the country on their silly little trains, over the Rio Grande Bridge, had chosen the difficult way of life.

The easy way of life had already been found. Take a revolver, take a horse, gather a few compatriots, and rob the trains.

It was already a worthy job before the end of days, back when people had real wealth and the banks were chock full of real goods. Harley had told the group stories relayed from his late, infected father of holding up banks and firing duels and nights in saloons playing card games without a care in the world. Harley is the only one in the group who’d been an adult for it, only 19 when the virus creeped onto the backs of every American, now nearly 26. The rest are younger, Milton being only 17. 

So what if the world calls them outlaws, bandits. It’s no worse than breaking into the towns themselves and robbing them blind while the few survivors pray they’ll have homes to return to. The bandit clan they belong to don’t have such a privilege. Orphans, those left to die, those kicked and beaten near to death on the now zombie-ridden streets were finally given the chance to make a name for themselves, weren’t they?

And there’s enough of them to make a real change. It’s said that their leader, wherever she is, planned for this to happen. Offered them the opportunity of a lifetime to make themselves rich.

“I dunno,” Milton’s black horse attempts to nip Sal, who responds with a warning stamp, “They don’t seem to have much, save for that there sheet metal.”

“Then don’t shoot at the sheet metal, get them ponies on deck.” The most amiable animal left on the wasteland, an easy target for any bullet. The fight’s beaten out of them half the time, refusing to kick back.

“Sure thing.” A tired sigh leaves Milton’s lips. He attempted to grow a moustache a while ago, but it somehow makes him look younger.

None of us are old enough for this.

“Moses,” Harley’s gold tooth glints in the sunlight, looking straight at the quiet, smaller man at the back, “Y’ain’t getting shit from this if you keep actin’ all miserable back there.”

I watched them die.

First Outpost is when the real ponies appear. New, fresh faces who want a taste of adventure. Moses had dared a pal to charge at a train, just to spook them. He watched the man get near-decapitated by a drunken madman armed with nothing but barbed wire. He’d rallied the rest of the group to kill the freak, but there were more on the train. Moses could bear to lose one man, the rest were gonna get it. But he watched as each of them dropped dead. Bullets to the head, to the chest. He counted his losses, turned his horse, and galloped as far away from the tracks as possible.

He’d told Harley about what had happened when he joined his little group in the clan, but Harley didn’t care.

“I ain’t leadin’ the charge.” Moses mutters. “That’s your job.”

“Sounds good to me.” Harley responds tightly. He can’t possibly be angry at me for that. “Roscoe! Git your ass over here.”
A shorter, more scarred brown horse stops in line with Moses, “I’m here, let’s just do this thang awready.”

Sal leads the charge, racing across the tracks in front of the train to loop around the other side of the tracks, Milton’s black horse joins her. Moses and Roscoe tackle the left side, cocking their shotguns as they approach the train. 

Harley fires the first shot. The clang of metal hits Moses’ ears. So much for not aiming at the sheet metal . He almost chuckles to himself.

He can hear yelling from the train, the ponies on deck scrambling to their weapons. A bullet hits the sand just behind Moses, another whizzes past Roscoe’s ear. But Moses can see them clearer now. The smooth, young face of a man aiming a revolver at Milton, the man next to him barking orders from under a large hat, ready to shoot at Roscoe again. 

It’s them.

“It’s them!” Moses yelps, “Them’s the freaks who killed my group down by First.”

Harley aims his rifle at the man in the conductor’s cabin firing at him with a revolver, Sal circling round to the back of the train now, “This ain’t the time!”

“Naw, it is, they’re gonna kill us!”

“Not if we kill them first!”

Call it irony, call it karma, the way that a shot rings out and Roscoe collapses on the back of his horse, slowly sliding off. Moses’s eyes fix on the ribbon of red pouring down between two wide eyes. His horse is kicked into a panic, and steers to gallop out into the wasteland.

Moses catches up to Milton, riding alongside him, “Roscoe’s dead! Don’t listen to Harley, we’ve gotta r-”

Blood sprays from Milton’s shoulder, slamming Moses in the face at a velocity that almost hurts . The boy lets out a cry of pain, and keels forward to grasp the wound. He yells out in a series of curses, and before Moses can attempt to steer him away, he starts firing back at the young man on the deck. That earns him a bullet to the chest. Moses can see through the wound for a split second, before the blood pours like a waterfall. Milton keeps shooting, he hits the boy in the belly.

“Get outta here, Milton, don’t be stupid!” Moses reaches to grab Milton’s sleeve, and his body is suddenly thrown into him as another shot rings out. It almost knocks Moses off of his horse, but Moses throws Milton’s corpse back onto his horse. His hand is covered in blood. Milton is covered in more blood. He died with gritted teeth. He still doesn’t look like an adult.

Harley forces Sal to keep up with the train as he attempts to unsnag his sleeve from some barbed wire. Eventually, he wrenches it away, taking the barbed wire with him. He looks back at Moses, “They’ll kill us if we run!” His eyes wide, panicked as he raises his revolver to shoot at the conductor. The bullet ricochets within the cabin. A gloved hand pushes the conductor’s head out of the way, nearly slamming his face into the dialboard, and a masked gentleman appears in the window to fire at Harley. Not Harley, Sal.

Harley could die for all Moses cared, but Sal had been through too much, hadn’t she? Moses raises his shotgun and sends bullets spraying towards the outstretched arm. Harley snarls as he pulls Sal closer to the train to grab the figure’s arm, sending the next bullet into the sky. The gentleman is half out of the window as he gets himself closer to Harley, using his other hand to drive a dagger into his neck.

Harley’s dead. 

Everyone’s dead. Moses looks over his shoulder at the retreating horse of Roscoe, dragging his corpse into the dust. Milton fell off a while ago, lying dead in the tracks. Harley uses the last of his breath to send another bullet into the gentleman’s face. The gentleman keels over, and is dragged back into the conductor’s cabin by a friend.

A friend. That’s what his groups had been missing. Teamwork without an actual bond resulted in disaster.

To Moses’ horror, the train slows down. He kicks his horse firmly, attempting to draw the poor thing away from the train.

“If you move, we will shoot you.” A voice calls from the deck. The train finally stops, and three figures hop down to walk towards him. Moses apologises under his breath to his horse for the sudden yanking of her reins. 

A fourth figure, the gentleman, exits the train to approach Sal, who’d slowed down alongside the train. Moses can see the glint of steel in his hand from the shadows the train leaves. “Don’t hurt her!” He yells. The gentleman stops and turns to look at him. “She’s… she’s a darn good horse. Please, take her, let her free, she ain’t like us!”

The largest of the three approaching him turns to give a simple nod to the gentleman. The steel rises up to Sal's throat. The gentleman cuts her bridle off. He moves to retrieve her saddle, throwing it onto the sands.

Moses feels a tear roll down his cheek with relief, his eyes squeezed shut as another sob shakes him. The footsteps stop by his horse.

“We will have our conversation at eye level, ja?” A hand pats his horse’s neck. “We have a few questions we’d like to ask.”

Moses keeps his eyes shut as he dismounts his horse, and opens them to meet three taller men. Two of them are old enough to know their way around the wasteland, the third no older than Harley. He feels like he’s back at the base, getting reprimanded by the higher-ups berating him as they play poker.

“We got shot at by a bunch’a kids?” The man who could’ve been Harley’s friend turns to the others, gesturing at Moses loosely.

“A bunch of outlaws .” The one with the cowboy hat tilted low over his eyes growls.

“Ignore them.” Funny accent. “What do you know about Outlaw Town?” A gloved hand meets his shoulder, “Has it changed?”

“We still run it, fair and square.”

“Ach, super! We’d like for you to send a message for us. Can you do that?” 

Moses nods, “... yeah.”

“In about a week, we’re going to make all of your little friends regret what they’ve been doing across the wasteland.” Moses’ blood runs cold, he glances up to meet the spectacled gaze of the man digging his fingers into his shoulder. He leans down, speaking lower, “I’m not beyond massacre. I want you to understand that.”

The man pulls away for a second, “Scout, Soldier, retrieve the bodies.” The two other men nod and walk away. 

“They wanted to kill you, did you know?” I could tell. “Knowing Scout, he’d be fine with just a simple shot here,” He prods the space between Moses’ eyes. “But Soldier, he’d shred you into nothing more than unrecognisable flesh.” He grins. “But I could tell you didn’t want to be here. We don’t either. So we’re going to reach the Rio Grande,” His grip tightens impossibly into Moses’ skin, “And if Outlaw Town isn’t empty, well…
“What was his name, Milton?”

Moses shrinks under the man’s gaze. “If I tell them that four men are gonna take them down, they’ll laugh in my face. They’ll shoot y’all dead.”

“So you can’t help us?”

“I’m ‘fraid not, sir.”

The man chuckles, pulling away from Moses at last, “Very well. What is your name?”

“Moses Buckner.”

“Such an American name, Herr Buckner.”

Another shot rings out, and Moses slumps to the ground. His head cracks against the metal of the rails. Blood pours into one of his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to blink it away.

Roscoe’s laughing at something or other, Milton’s complaining about dinner and Harley’s telling another crazy story. It’s okay.

It takes Scout an embarrassing feat of strength to throw the four corpses onto the table at the Sheriff’s office. Why the others didn’t do it, he understood. Scout’s the sweet-talker, the one that drags in the cash at all the shops and offices while the others spend like it’s religion. Soldier and Demo, atleast. Soldier, atleast.

The Sheriff gives him a once-over before nodding, “Good work, partner.” He passes Scout a fat bag of cash, which he swings over his shoulder upon leaving into the sunshine of Third Outpost.

Exactly the same as Second. And First, for that matter.

“Und how much were they?” Medic intercepts him right out of the door. Spy’s smoking, the gray clouds billowing into the face of Soldier, who is forcing himself not to sneeze.

“Two-hundred and ten. Impressed, or what?”

“Wunderbar!” Medic claps his hands together, “I’m buying you all bandages and snake oil.” He whisks away, his jacket flowing behind him in the breeze.

The firefight earlier had been more brutal than the last time. Spy had taken a bullet to his chin, ripping through his cheek. He looked haunted as he lurched backwards into Medic, clutching the wound.

Soldier had pushed Scout out of the way to take a couple of bullets to his shoulders, the blood pooling on the deck.

Just like last time.

Medic used the last of his supplies to patch everyone up, demonstrating the use of snake oil on Spy as he lay near-death, head in the doctor’s lap. The same hands that had sent one of the outlaws to Hell had gently tilted Spy’s head up, clearing the entry and exit wound in a single swipe. The way his flesh had knitted back together made Scout’s skin crawl, and he almost threw up over the railing when Medic treated Soldier’s multitude of wounds.

Spy puts out the last of his cigarette on the windowsill of the Sheriff’s office, “I’ll watch over the train. I’d rather you two behave.” He slinks away, pulling out his tinderbox yet again.

Soldier wordlessly trudges away.

Scout feels a little empty just standing there, so he finds something to do.

The Trading Outpost is bustling with people selling whatever they have. Scout’s eyes trace gold paintings, silver plates, even a man arguing over why he can’t sell a lump of coal. Nobody sells good fuel, dumbass.

What catches Scout’s eye is a lone man that had hopped straight off of a train that hadn’t yet stopped, slipping through the other people to set down a large amount of gold.

“Hey!” Scout doesn’t think before he calls out, walking over, “Hey, wait!” He stops by the man.

Two blood-shot eyes look down at him. His hat jingles slightly, pinned at various places with old pieces of chains. Green blood is smattered on his worn clothes, one sleeve rolled down.

Scout almost regrets starting the conversation. Almost.

“Pal, business deal of the century. I can get you more money if I sell it. People say I have, uh, a way with words or somethin’. All I ask is for, like, fifteen dollars after I help you sell all this gold.”
My revolver’s out of ammo, and I don’t want the others to know I’ve been irresponsible with my shooting again.

“Don’t think so, mate.” The man scoffs, “You get your own gold, you sell it and get more than fifteen dollars.” He shakes his head, “And you don’t go pokin’ your nose in other people’s business. Easy way to get a bullet between the eyes, I reckon.” He sells the gold in front of Scout, almost as if to shoot the metaphorical bullet. 

Scout mutters under his breath, “No wonder you don’t have a party, Christ.”

“Excuse me?” The man turns to look at him.

“Nothin’!” Scout starts, and scampers off to find out where Soldier ended up. The way the man moved, behaved. Was this the guy Miss Pauling was talking about?

Medic holds the bottle of snake oil up to his eyes, the glass reflecting the sun from the Outpost from the shade behind the buildings, in the little gap between the wooden panels and the stone walls. 

Spy leans against the stone, pulling his cigarette from his lips before speaking, “Let me guess, another one of your lectures?”
Medic uncorks the bottle, swirling the liquid with concentration, “You went out into the sun, Fledermaus. You were lucky that our dear Scout and Soldier were looking the other way.” He lowers the bottle, looking Spy in the eye.
“I drove a dagger into the neck of a man who attempted to kill you!” Spy hisses, the points of his teeth shimmering.
“Und almost broke my nose in the process. So are you going to let me fix the sun damage or not?”
Spy’s skin roils with a burn aching to his bones. A part of him wants to dismiss the doctor, retreat to the shadows of the conductor’s cabin. He’ll be right next to me again. “Very well.” He mutters.

Spy isn’t the type for casual conversation, but he finds an elicit reaction in the way his mind floods with a dormant guilt as Medic’s gloved hands apply the snake oil to his skin.

“They still attack me. I’m not one of them.”
“You are still undead, Spy. You’re not undead like they are, but that doesn’t matter. Think of it like a privilege, ja?”
“There is no privilege for me.”

“Can you infect others?”

A woman in red lays at his feet in a pool of blood.

“No. I’m sure of it.”
“I ask out of curiosity, nothing more. I’m inclined to believe you. After all, I’m not a vampire.”
Spy wrenches out of Medic’s grasp, “You dare call me that!”

Medic doesn’t respond.

The two return to a train haphazardly entangled in barbed wire, a new piece of sheet metal joining the other at the end of the deck to leave just one, thin exit point not even Spy was sure he could slip through. Soldier leans against the wall, sitting on the floor and reloading his shotgun. 

Spy mutters something under his breath before approaching Soldier in the shade of the metal, “What is this?”

“Defenses.” Soldier grunts, a shotgun shell held between his teeth as he speaks.

“Do you have any idea how to make a defense?”

“I didn’t realise we had an expert on our train!” Soldier looks up, “Last I heard, our defenses relied on Demo. Who, if you have not noticed, is not here !”

Spy scoffs, “Is that how you choose to argue back?”

Soldier looks down at his shotgun again, pulling the last shell out from between his teeth to place into the gun. “Yes.”

“Nous avons un singe stupide à bord.” Spy mutters, “Put the metal by the railing, cover a different angle. Nobody has attempted to climb onto the train.”

Soldier’s lip twitches, “I’ve watched zombies climb over twenty-feet tall walls.”

Right, the Fort Constitution disaster. “And I’m assuming there were four of them, so try to build four here.”

Soldier stands up, grabs the new piece of sheet metal, and roughly drives it into the floor where Spy mentioned. He gives Spy a long stare before walking away to another section of the deck. Spy didn’t even want to mention the long vines of barbed wire stretching over the deck, tangled in the empty space one of the outlaws had left after the firefight.

Medic boards the train a little later, who knows where he went, but his arms are full of rolls of bandages and snake oil, “A bottle for everyone.” He smiles, then his expression falters as he pauses, “Where is Scout?”

“Je ne sais pas.”

Scout’s been wary of the rolling storm clouds in the sky. They were rare, and they did a good job at ensuring that all sorts of zombies and other paranormal freaks didn’t creep up on the trains. However, Scout’s luck falls with them. Over the years, he’s been struck multiple times, and whilst he’s been able to recover from each one without too much of a problem, it isn’t the sort of thing that keeps your mind steady. He still felt every ounce of his strength get drawn from him in a flash, his eyes and mouth burn, his hair charred. 

The first time it had happened, he had his ma there to help him recover - his brothers, too. Even the mysterious man he’d never met in the camp, who’d paid anything his ma couldn’t afford. In fact, everything. If that mysterious benefactor was still out there, all Scout could wonder is why he didn’t save his ma.

So storms reminded him of better days, what of it? He didn’t like the idea of being struck down whilst on the deck, setting it alight. He also didn’t like the idea of everyone else looking at him like he was - what - pathetic? He wasn’t pathetic. He’d killed a man. But he was aware he was the youngest, so there wasn’t any escaping it.

But it’s nighttime soon, and he doesn’t want to keep the others waiting. Before he can stand up from the shelter of one of the building’s patios, something is thrown over him.

This is it. The first thing he thinks. I’m getting kidnapped.

“It might not do a good job, but it can’t be worse than your hat.” Medic mutters. Scout pulls the white jacket up from over his eyes and meets the gaze of the doctor.

“Hey, uh, thanks.” Scout doesn’t all too mind this arrangement.

The two head to the train as the rain starts. In the distance, thunder rolls across the sands. And then again, closer. He pulls himself up onto the deck and quickly designates himself a seat in the conductor’s chair. Nobody could convince him to stay outside during this night. Plus, the cabin was warmer due to the fuel vent. Scout’s more surprised he doesn’t take the opportunity more, but he prefers shooting anyways.

It seems that Soldier doesn’t mind the rain, meanwhile Medic and Spy are sitting directly next to him in the conductor’s cabin on the floor as Medic pulls his jacket back on. Geez, does he need an audience?

“We’re ready to go?”

“Ja.”
“Yes.”
“Oui.”

I don’t know what half of them meant. But Scout pushes the lever regardless.

There’s eyes on him. It makes his skin crawl. How’s he gotten out of confrontation before? Talking.

“So, uh, we’ve all got a story, right?” He keeps his eyes fixed on the plume of smoke emanating from the front of the steam train. Nobody says anything, Scout tries again, “You guys know I come from up North. Yeah, uh, Boston.”

“You’ve travelled far.” Spy comments.

“Yeah, well, when I found out Mexico was a safe haven, I figured I should go, y’know? Make a life for myself, a real life.”

Medic readjusts one of his gloves, pulling it higher up his arm. “I’ve heard stories about the, uh…”

“Strongholds?”
“Ja.”

“Oh, they’re like these big camps. Think… an Outpost, right, but larger. Big walls, one or two gates, thousands of people. I was there with my ma, my brothers. We all had a role to play, right? I’d stay up late on the watchtowers cause I had a ‘keen eye’ and I’d look out for anything incoming. They called me Scout, eventually, and the name stuck. It helps, cause uh, nobody really shares their real names down here, do they?”

“Many people save their identities for when society is rebuilt. Perhaps they were criminals, or filthy rich when the virus came.”

Never really thought about it like that before. “So what were you doing before the apocalypse?”

“Ach, I’ve always been a doctor. I studied in Germany,” So that’s where he’s from. “But moved to Amerika a little while later. I had heard of good job opportunities.”

“Bet you had a real shock, huh?”

“Oh, yes. Suddenly, it was as if all of my qualifications meant nothing. But it’s changed, hasn’t it?” Scout looks at the distance dial. If he’s made several round trips, he’s obviously been seen as useful. “Not many doctors survived the apocalypse, anyways. I suppose they were too busy studying the zombies.”

“You haven’t?”

“Once dead, yes.”

“... huh. How about you, Soldier?” Scout knows he’s just behind him on the deck, getting pelted with rain, but he has no idea if he’s heard him. “Soldier?”

“I worked with the greatest military genius of our time, Captain Prescott, at Fort Constitution.” I’ve heard about the disaster, sure. But what… actually happened? “Our last orders were to guard this incoming shipment of barrels of whatever the hell until some carrier would take them to a port further South. But I suppose one of our newest recruits had made a mistake, opening up one of the barrels. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of yelling.” Soldier pauses. “Zombies.” He growls through gritted teeth. “Every single one of the men I worked alongside had gotten infected, including Prescott.” He spits onto the ground, as if to spit on the memory.

Spy turns his head to look at Soldier, “You were present for the first ever zombies, Soldier.” The man doesn’t respond.

The next few hours pass by aggravatingly slowly, but eventually the rain lets up. Medic and Soldier are asleep on the deck, each of them holding a weapon pressed to his chest. Scout finds it strange how little Medic chooses to attack, but he supposes their roles have switched due to the thunderstorm.

The crack of lightning in the sky beyond reminds Scout that it’s not safe outside of the cabin.

Spy’s still awake, sleepless for who knows how long. He stands beside Scout, looking out into the desert with a cigarette in hand.

“You, uh, never told your story.” Scout chuckles awkwardly, “I’m just curious.”

“You mentioned your mother,” Spy takes a pull from his cigarette, looking down at Scout, “What came of her?”

“Oh, she…” Why’s he gotta ask that? Scout’s mouth snaps shut at the memory, “Yeah, well, the camp got infiltrated. Whole bunch’a people died. Including her. That’s when I left, y’know? To go to Mexico, reach safety.”

Spy’s eyes flicker with sympathy. Scout’s never seen that before. “I also used to live in a Stronghold.” Another pull of the cigarette, “It also fell.”
“Hey, we might’ve been from the same one. Was it flat country?”
“Non.”
“Aw, man. Well, I’m assuming you’re headed to Mexico as well, aren’t ya?”

“I have other plans.” Spy looks down at Scout, “I can take over, now. You need to rest.”

“Uh… yeah, but the lightning’s…”
“We’ll swap places.”

Scout nods, slowly the train as he hops out of the seat and sits on the floor, leaning on the metal wall and looking out into the desert as they begin to move forward.

Spy mutters softly, “I do wish you the best for Mexico, Scout.”
“You’re really not going there?”
He smiles wistfully, “They may not like me there.”
“They’re letting all sorts of people in, not just Americans.”

There’s a long pause in which Spy sighs before he looks at Scout, “You’ll need sleep, for whatever tomorrow may bring.”

For once in his life, Scout doesn’t need to be told twice.

Chapter Text

Her train had carried her through the worst of it.

Through all the gunfire, from the outlaws that had attempted to rob her. She held the brain-in-a-jar close to her chest, scrunching her eyes shut until the sound of hoofbeats had faded into the background. She wiped her tears from her face with a bloodied hand.

From the werewolves she’d fought the previous night, each vapid snarl sending a wave of terror coursing through her body. Would she end up as Helen did? She couldn’t kill them. She barely had an idea of what to do, apart from what her boss had done. Helen’s last gift to her, if it was a gift at all, were these bottles simply labelled ‘Holy Water’. Helen never struck her as the religious type, or maybe she’d spent every Sunday Mass plotting on how to torture her assistant?

She’d only seen Holy Water again the day before, when she’d taken refuge in a church after a horde of zombies had ripped at her clothes, trying to get to her. She’d sent a prayer, and it was answered in the form of a thunderstorm, sending all zombies lurching away. She stumbled out of the church, fell to the sands gripping the bottle and the crucifixes, and wept up at the sky.

Miss Pauling slows her train as she enters the fourth outpost, directly in the spot a train moving out had taken. She doesn’t think too much of the glimpses of the party she sees on board as the train in front grows smaller and smaller. 

That can’t be Scout. She lets out a deep breath, all to herself. I’ve changed so much since then.

She turns her head slightly, just to catch glimpses of the other survivors and parties wandering around the area. What catches her eye is the woman working at the Trading Outpost, her brown hair trimmed over her brow, tall and muscled, buying up werewolf carcasses for plenty of money. She’s never considered this kind of job before, working in an Outpost. Less people had made it to Fourth, and whoever did had the wealth in supplies to show for it. She could make some real money here, maybe working at the Gunsmith’s.

She turns her head over her shoulder. Gold, silver, in all forms. Werewolf carcasses, outlaw carcasses. She had the means to start a new life here, doing honest work. No more being looked down on, maybe.

Pauling tentatively steps out of her seat and hauls the arm of a werewolf carcass over her shoulder. If anything could motivate her to lug three of these things across an Outpost, it was her motivation to become someone else.

Three werewolves gone, three outlaws to the Sheriff’s, and all of her gold handed straight to the lovely lady who’d let her know her dress was caked in zombie gore.

Pauling, for once, hadn’t felt all too embarrassed. Wasn’t it a sign that she’d been through Hell? She’s a survivor. It was only then that she’d focused her senses and realised, once again, she was going to throw up.

She buys herself a lovely set of buffalo-wool chaps, a belt, a shirt that she assumes is for a young boy in the way it sits so neatly on her, and a bandana she ties around her collar. Her dress is still burning outside of the Outpost when she takes a look at herself in the glass window of one of the buildings. She looks… a little menacing, doesn’t she? 

If not for the… hm. She slowly raises her hand to her head and pulls out each of the pins. Her hair falls to her shoulders bunch by bunch, and she combs the smaller pins out with her fingers. She hasn’t seen herself like this in a long time; undone. The hairpins, they’d been gifts from a long-gone family she hadn’t seen in years. As menacing as she wants to be, she finds her fingers gripping them tightly into her palm. She pockets them, and turns away to sell off her train.

The bidding goes just about as expected - people desperate to get to Mexico who hated their parties scramble to yell prices her way. Pauling, from the empty deck, looks down on the crowd.

Is this how Helen felt? She’d been present at every auction, selling off the laboratories she’d cleared out. What did they have?

Books on old myths, from what she’d seen of the library.

Pauling ends up selling the train to a large, burly gentleman with an accent she didn’t recognise, and had obviously decided his bare torso could handle the desert heat. He’d hopped up on the deck as the crowd dissipated and asked her a few questions about the train.

“What was she good for?”
Nothing, she almost killed me. “The train? Uh, she’s a newer model, survived plenty without too much damage. Werewolves, zombies, outlaws-”

“Ain’t that bloody fantastic? She’s gonna get me a few unicorn carcasses.” 

“... unicorn?”
The man grins, dipping his hat, his teeth barely visible through his moustache, “Ha! Of course, Miss. They’re rare, very rare, but I’ve seen ‘em. Keep an eye out for the herds on the sands, you can spot them from a mile away. White hide, shiny mane…”
Miss Pauling steps away, avoiding eye contact as she descends the ladder, letting the man drive off. “I-I will, thanks.”

She stares at the departing train.

A hand touches her shoulder, and Miss Pauling whisks around to meet the gaze, or lack thereof, of a man wearing goggles.

“Ma’am, forgive me if it’s none of my business,” He speaks gently, readjusting his hat with one hand, “But a train like that’s worth a fortune.”

“I sold it,” Miss Pauling starts, “To the highest bidder, of course. I know how things work.”
“Nobody sells a fine train like that unless, ah, ya ran into an issue of sorts.” The man looks over at a train, a group of people working to refuel it. “Either way, how’d you like to make some money?”
Miss Pauling raises an eyebrow, “How so?”
The man smiles. He smiles. “Help us sell some of our loot, and you get a share. We’re hoping to make this stop quick, and we’ll need more than four pairs of hands.” As she glances at the man’s other hand, she notices that it’s not there. Before she can make any sort of acknowledging expression, the man adds, “Three and a half.”

“I…” Pauling glances again behind the man to his party. They’ve finished refuelling, and they’re dragging down some general loot. Bodies. Not zombie bodies, human carcasses. Helen had alerted her to the potential of sending the bodies of outlaws, bandits, whatever to the Sheriff’s offices in each outpost. To Pauling it had been something foreign still, something so far removed from her reality. But then again, so had the idea of the apocalypse those many years ago. These people had obviously killed before, and a younger version of her would have shied away entirely from the idea of co-operating with criminals.

There’s barely a law anymore.

A man strewn in bandages, some patches of linen more bloodied than the others, misses the last rung of the ladder and collapses onto the sands with a thud. His compatriots - the large man bearing armour Pauling couldn’t fathom the origins of, and a shorter figure covered in large, loose clothes - spare him a glance as he calls out that he’s alright in an accent she was only familiar with. Helen had hired people from all over the globe for her operation, and Pauling wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been one of them.

The others she wasn’t so sure about. The large man, European. The little guy with the bandana and oversized hat didn’t say anything at all, only a muffled acknowledgement of what was going on. They didn’t seem… scary, despite everything.

“I can help, sure.”

“Let’s get introductions out of the way,” The Texan pats her shoulder lightly before pointing at the group, “I’m Engineer, conductor of this here beauty. The big guy, Heavy,” Go figure, “Big hat, Pyro,” Are their eyes red? “And our pal who’s just had the fall, Demo.”

Pauling finds herself staring at Demo - was it rude to stare? Lawless lands shouldn’t make for bad manners. She clears her throat, but before she can speak Engineer pipes up again, “Don’t s’pose you have a name?”

‘Miss Pauling’ almost rolls off her tongue after years of having to introduce herself to countless of Helen’s subordinates. It’s a name that belongs to an assistant, an awkward girl trying her best despite the cards dealt to her. It’s a name that follows her on every formal signature, every little piece of documentation that proves her allegiance to Helen’s growing empire.

“Florence. Flo, actually.” Her hands twist around each other for the briefest split second before she pulls herself together, “I’ll help you guys, then.”

Engineer flashes her a grin before turning to the train and calling, “Y’all meet our new helpin’ hand, Flo!”

Suddenly she’s under a spotlight, like in those large opera theatres she’d trailed her way into. Then they all smile, at least she assumes Pyro’s little mmrmph is a happy one rather than a ‘get this woman away from me’. She takes a deep breath and waves, before walking over to grab the first outlaw body from the deck.

The weight of it almost drags her to her knees, but Demo perks up and lurches forward to grab the body’s legs before Flo - Flo - tumbles onto the sands.

He chuckles softly, then looks Flo - Flo, not Miss Pauling - in the eyes, “Aye, they can weigh as much as a boulder at times,” Demo readjusts his grip and flashes her a grin, “Makes ye wonder what they’ve been eatin’ while we all starve.”

They don’t know.

Flo smiles, “Maybe it’s the horses?” Demo laughs as they carry the first body to the Sheriff’s office. Flo glances back at the train. No more bodies, thankfully, but a whole lot of junk. She’d take a hundred splinters over the feeling of coagulated blood on her hand.

“What’s a lass like ye doin’ in a place like this? Ae assumed ye’d be all comfortable inna Stronghold up north. But Ae guess that’s a loaded question?”

Flo’s fingers dig into bloodied cloth and cold flesh for a moment, “I… I think I’m going to settle down here. Outposts are just as safe, aren’t they?”

“Until the ammo in those turrets run out.” Demo mutters as he begins to climb the steps to the Sheriff’s office, “Ye don’t have plans tae go to Mexico like everyone else?”

“Oh, I guess I did. I don’t have…” Anyone , “A train anymore.”

The conversation takes a pause as they make the trade to the Sheriff, who eyes them both curiously. A man covered in bloodied bandages and a woman in men’s clothing turning in a dead outlaw who obviously didn’t die peacefully. Flo anxiously awaits the Sheriff’s response, and breathes a sigh of relief as he shrugs and passes over a bag of cash. The two head back out into the searing sunlight.

“Ae’ll see what Ae can do about that fer ye,” She assumes Demo is attempting to wink, but the bandages over half his face don’t allow for much room for interpretation.

Flo pauses, “Wait, what? No, no, you don’t have to do anything.” She waves her hands, obviously uselessly as Demo makes a start towards Engineer again. “I-I don’t…”

She’s left standing a little uselessly as she watches Demo and Engineer from across the sands talk to each other in hushed tones. 

“Demo is man of many words,” Heavy is hauling a large bundle of rope over his shoulder, and a wheel in one hand he passes over to Flo, “And often not enough thought. What did he say?”

She feels like she’s being dragged around in a thousand directions, and she barely computes the fact that she’s rolling a wheel over to the Trading Post to sell it before responding, “Nothing, nothing.” I don’t want to cause any issues here. They seem so happy. “Something about outlaws?” Not a lie.

Heavy snorts, “We found body a great distance from the rails, on horizon. Attached to horse by stirrup still, injured horse. We did not murder.” Flo looks up at Heavy, surprised, and he continues, “So many zombies, what should bring two humans to fight?”

“I know, right?” Flo scoffs with a smile, “I-I just think that if we all banded together we could make a difference. No more zombies, no more…” They killed Helen. “Of the other creatures. We’re in charge of the future of, well, everyone, aren’t we?”

A dark blue eye meets Flo’s, the other pale with blindness. The helmet obscures much of Heavy’s features, but she can see a smile grow on his face, “You are smart girl, very useful in times like these.”

“Smart? No, I’m sure other people have thought the same thing.” She stammers, but pauses to raise an eyebrow, “Haven’t they?”

“I have been using rails for years. Have not heard something similar before.”

What has society come to, then?

Flo sells the wheel. It doesn’t go for much, much like everything else classed as ‘junk’ nowadays, but as she goes to pass the cash over to Heavy he declines.

“You have train, no? You must support yourself.”

Why are these people so nice? It’s a foreign feeling that wraps around Flo’s limbs as she pulls her hand away from being outstretched, but she breaks herself free as she thrusts the cash back into Heavy’s chest.

“I don’t have a train. I-I’m not going to Mexico. I don’t want to take advantage of your Engineer’s train either.”

“Sasha is my train.” Heavy mutters, glancing over to the white cowboy hat a little ways away from them, still trapped in conversation with Demo. Flo’s heart lurches as she realises they’re smiling her way, waving even.

It’s nighttime, and her hands fall uselessly to her sides. The light of the train does nothing to reveal the masses of shadow tearing Helen apart. 

“Y’alright over there?” Engineer tilts his head as he calls out, “Heavy, check if the poor girl’s got heat stroke.”

As the iron-clad man nears her, probably to press a hand to her forehead, Flo shakes her head, “I’m fine, please. I don’t…” What was that? “I’m okay, please. Is there anything else I can do for you?” She glances up at Heavy for a moment. After all, it was his train she was helping. 

The Russian doesn’t respond, instead he beckons her closer to the train - at least out of the way of the other people in the outpost - and sits her down in the shade of Sasha . What a beautiful name.

“You should not be in wasteland,” Heavy mutters, “You deserve better than this, ah… ticking time bomb.”
He’s so tall that the sunlight hits him from over the shadows cast by the deck of his train. Flo doesn’t even know why she let herself sit down on the sands. She should be doing anything else.

“Sasha is my train,” Heavy glances pointedly at Engineer, who chuckles sheepishly, “But… you are valuable conductor. And you have plenty of experience. Do you think we need more help?”

Engineer takes off his hat as he paces over and crouches beside her, hat placed firmly against his chest, “What I think… is that you need help just as much as we do. I’ve seen that look in yer eye before, it isn’t pretty. The last thing you need is to be stuck out here any longer than ya need to. Tell me, Flo, have you ever held a gun before?”

“I have a revolver, uh…” Flo rifles through her pockets. It’s refreshing to have pockets, actually. She pulls out the revolver and presents it to Engineer. 

He puts his hat back on and takes the gun from her hand, inspecting it closely. “I trust that you can shoot, miss, but this pretty little thing looks like it jams quite a bit. And if it hasn’t, it’s gonna start to. What I want you to do is buy a new one from the Gunsmith, and you’re gonna get yourself a good bit of ammo to go with it. A fresh start. How’s that?”

“I can do that.” Flo understands how to follow an order. God knows she can perform any instructed task to a T if she’s given a description. Her only noteworthy thought was that it was weird to hear an instruction from anyone but Helen, and from such a warm tone of voice.

It’s not that Helen was cursed to be cold towards me. Engineer smiles and stands back up, She never put the effort in.

The new revolver in her hand feels lighter. Not light, lighter , and it’s smooth and all the mechanisms shift like sand as she toys with it. Not a toy. She’d watched a gun like this shred monsters. Why did Helen haunt her? Would she continue to?

It’s only as she’s buying the ammo for her pristine new gun when she realises she’s going back onto a train. More desert sands. More buildings filled with the undead. Outlaws. Towns. Werewolves. 

Flo shoves the revolver into its holster and forces herself out of the door and back into the sunlight that suffocates her as she returns to Sasha.

From the deck, Engineer smiles down at her. The others look expectant, like they’re itching for some sort of reaction from her. Something, anything. Maybe a speech.

“Let’s go?” Flo winces awkwardly.

Good enough for them. Engineer and Heavy help her up even though she could definitely get up the ladder herself, and Demo cheers for her as much as he can before he’s given a ‘shh’ look. Pyro pats the spot next to them - Oh God, I haven’t spoken to them yet - and Flo takes a seat on the deck.

And so the Sasha departs from the Fourth Outpost in the afternoon.

The sunset paints the wasteland all shades of pink and blue. With the breeze ruffling through his clothes and cooling his face - hot with what he hopes isn't the beginning of an infection - he sighs softly. Despite regular-enough applications of that mysterious snake oil, his left eye still shows him nothing but the unending night sky. A billion stars, fading in and out of existence instantaneously and some not at all. If he were a smarter man, he'd alert his party to his situation and plan ahead. But Demo, no matter how much he's been through, can't bring himself to make another conversation about himself. The new guy, he is. Barely.

Flo sits near the end of the deck, having decided that apparently sleep wasn't going to do her any good. The Scotsman's been in her position. Stirling could never return to the same town as it had once been. With shaky legs, My eye’s not workin’, how'll Ae be any good withoot an eye? , he stands up and moves to the end of the deck. To join her, so she'll acclimate better than he ever did, to talk. 

Before he can think any more on his plan, Flo's arm shoots out across his legs and stops him from moving. She looks up with wide eyes behind her spectacles, “What are you doing?” She hisses, though not angrily. She looks confused. Worried?

“What did Ae do?” Demo steps back.

“You almost walked off the train.” Flo gestures to the end of the deck.

That can't be right. Demo looks to the end of the deck and it's miles away, certainly. Could stretch on till the horizon even. But when he looks to Flo, her other hand on the wooden planks, her fingertips curl over the edge. Demo decides to use the railing as a general marker for where he should be, and plants himself onto the floor again. 

“Are you okay?” Flo looks his way, and her arms curl around her knees. “You're not sick, are you?” 

Something's wrong with me. “Nah, never. Been through too much in this fookin’ apocalypse ta let a disease get ta me.” He grins. Something's wrong with me.

Flo smiles half-heartedly before looking out to the sands again. Demo is taken aback by how close the sands look. The train was never this low, was it? Flo sighs, “Okay, I was just… checking. Why'd you come over? I-I'm just curious.”

Demo leans back, leans his head back to look at the sky. Stars are beginning to show, but it's nothing like the ones on his left. How beautiful that would be.

“Ae wanna know yer story, lass. Yer obviously from money, right?”

“Money?” Flo splutters, “Money? No, no, I'm not.” Defensive.

“Well, those chaps ye got there don't go fer cheap. ‘Specially nowadays.” Demo can't help but grin. For as much as he's blundered in the past, he fashions himself a detective when it comes to reading people. Or maybe he's got it all wrong.

“Fine, yes, these were expensive.” The woman looks a little disgruntled by what he's pointed out, and continues to turn her face away from his admittedly smug expression, “It's only because I managed to find one of those laboratories.”

From a few meters away, mid-sketching away at their little book, Pyro looks up. Despite the nighttime, their eyes are glowing with intrigue at the direction the conversation's taken.

Demo raises an eyebrow, “Laboratory, ye say?”

“You know, where they keep all of the, um…” Her voice trails off. Demo waits patiently for her to come back to her senses. Ae know what that's like. “I found gold bars, silver, a-a brain in a jar, if you'd believe that? And this… table. It had these metal restraints.”

Pyro isn't looking at Demo anymore. Their eyes are fixed on Flo. 

“Anythin’ else? Ae’ve only ever passed the laboratories. Never… been in one.” He lies through his teeth. Whatever these laboratories were, obviously there was a history.

“A painting.” Flo shrugs, “Of a lovely candid landscape. Trees, fields, very quaint.”

Pyro shuts their eyes, before suddenly standing up and shuffling over to the conductor's cabin to sit beside Engie. Demo shoots them a sympathetic look, as much as he can muster before he puts on a smile again for Flo.

“Surely ye traveled with someone, right? Before we ran into ye.”

“I met another party eventually. I think at the second outpost? Well, I only really spoke to one of them, but I saw his group.” She chuckles, “He was really nice, actually, helped me fuel my train.”

Demo shuts his eyes. Only one eye shows stars. “Aye, Ae know that type. Cocky, right? Real bairn. But they never let ye down.” There's no point in asking, surely, but conversation is conversation. “Did ye catch his name?”

The woman smiles softly as she looks back at Demo, “Sure, yeah, something like Scout?”

“Scout? Ae know ‘im too!” Demo beams, then crumbles into a heavy cackle, “He’s alive, they're all alive?” They're out there. They made it. They're on these tracks.

“You know Scout?” Flo’s smile widens, and she giggles, “Oh, I don't know how many I saw. Two neat-looking men-”

“Medic and Spy!” Demo feels a pain in his chest from laughing.

“And this messed-up looking guy-”

“Soldier!” Either a sunless haze has hit the sands, or he really is crying. “They're all alive! Aye, that's the greatest news Ae could've gotten. Ye hear me? The greatest news!” Demo runs the side of his hands over his eyes. No tears. Dinnae cry right now . “My party’s alive and well!”

“They're your party?” Flo gestures to the others. Pyro is getting patted on the head by Engie, Heavy is writing in a journal in the soft firelight. Despite the low lighting, Demo can almost see his eyelids wrinkling into a small smile. “I thought these guys…”

“These lot are the wonderful, wonderful generous crew bringing me to them!” Demo presses his cool hands against his eyes, “My party’s alive, Ae cannae believe it, fer fook’s sake!” 

“They mean a lot to you, don't they?”

“Ye never had a party?”

“Uh…” Flo pats her knees for a moment in a thoughtful tempo, “No, not really.” After a short break in which Demo can almost sense regret, she speaks up again, “Oh, right, the zombie!”

“A zombie, ye say? Ae dinnae if ye noticed, but there’s quite a few out here-”

She groans, but Demo spots the smile on her face, “Not the zombies, there’s… gosh, let me remember. I already warned Scout, so I guess he’s told your party by now. I-I ran into this, um, guy who’s part zombie.” Heavy stops writing, but doesn’t look up from his journal. “I don’t know how dangerous he can be yet. He showed, um, signs of infection but he wasn’t… attacking or anything. He had a train, he’s on the tracks.”

“A zombie with a train. Ye don’t hear that every day now, do ye? D’ye think he’d be any danger to us?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know-”

“He will be.” Heavy interrupts Flo, but shoots her an apologetic look for a moment before steeling himself. He sighs with a weight Demo couldn’t have seen coming. Out of all the people who’d know, why him? “I travelled with him. Good man, useful to party. Three years ago was blood moon, and train was swarmed. Vampires, werewolves, zombies. Everything. We fought well, but… he got bit,” Heavy shuts his journal, wraps the leather strap around it tightly, “And then attempted to attack me. He is danger to us.”

“Do ye think we’d run inta him?”

“I can only pray we do not. One zombie slips through cracks, we all die.”

“Ye didn’t get bit, did ye?”

“I did not let him get close to me. After vampires, and werewolves,” Heavy presses a finger to the wild scar over one of his eyes, “I did not let him get close to me, did not know he is still alive. I should not have spared his life.”

Flo leans forward a little, “But he’s still part human, isn’t he?”

“He carries infection. I cannot bear to lose another person in this world.” With that, Heavy stands up to join Engie and Pyro in the conductor’s cabin.

“Is he okay?” Flo taps Demo on the shoulder, as he turns back to her, he realises she looks actually worried. Ae cannae blame her for that, as if Ae’m not curious about whatever the hell that was. “He was attacked by werewolves?” She speaks softly, eyes wide.

“Ae dinnae know much about that, lass, Ae won’t lie to ye. Ae only got here a couple’a days ago. Heavy’s talking aboot things frem years back.” Demo shrugs, “Never ran inta a werewolf myself, either.”

“What was your party like, then?” Flo looks out behind the train, fingers curling into the wool of her chaps, “You really like them, don’t you? Sorry for all the, um, questions. It’s my first time travelling with a group. I guess I want to know everything there is to know about, um, the dynamics, yeah.”

No werewolf talk, then. “Aye, Ae was only with them fer a few days too. Would ye believe that me, Scout ’n’ Soldier met in the Sheriff’s at First?” Demo chuckles, “Right bunch’a fightin’ bastards, they were. We were let out the mornin’ after, and Medic swooped right in ta get us ta Mexico on ‘is train. Spy came in a few hours later. It would’a been three days before we’d actually set off , so we got ta talkin’.”

“What kind of names are these?”

“What kinda name is yers? It’s too late in the apocalypse fer real names. Ae guess the lot of us are savin’ our identities for Mexico.”

“Should I have done that?”

“Nah, Ae wouldn’t worry too much.” Flo doesn’t speak for a moment, and Demo feels the need to speak. Say anything, really. “My name’s Tavish. Dinnae call me that in front of the others, though. Cannae let them know Ae’m goin’ soft or anythin’.” She gives only a soft murmur of acknowledgment, “Ae hope ye don’t mind me askin’ more about my party. How's Scout?”

“He’s sweet.” That’s a smile Ae’ve never seen from her. “He offered to buy me some stuff, but I declined.”

“Aye, so he fashions himself a gentleman now?” 

“How was he like with you?”

“Loud, feisty.” He shrugs, “He never offered ta buy anythin’ fer us, if that means anythin’ ta ye.”

Flo stumbles over a few sentences, reorganising them in her head before responding, “Well, uh, it was nice of him. That’s all. You know his trains right ahead of us, right? You’ll be reunited with them soon.”

“And Ae cannae wait fer it.” Demo cranes his head back again. Two eyes of a billion stars. “It’s late, ye gotta go ta sleep. Ae’ll be takin’ night watch, Ae s’pose.”

“It was nice talking to you,” Flo stands up and brushes herself off, shoots Demo a smile, “Goodnight, Demo.” 

The sunset is gone now, only the lowest purple left on the horizon. 

He blinks slowly, and for a moment he’s cheers-ing with his party on the deck of the Archimedes. Spy brandishes his first ever almost-smile (never a full one with him), Scout is chattering on about how great Mexico will be, Medic comments on his previous travels as he stocks bandages and snake oil. 

Soldier turns to him, “I never thought Mexico would be the last stand for humanity.”

“If we dinnae kill all them zombies first, o’course.”
“ That’s what I like to hear, soldier! We’ll be unstoppable!” Soldier claps a hand over Demo’s back before the others cheer again.

Demo crosses his arms across his chest. The sands stretch out for miles, but they’re also so close. Whatever happened with that kick to his head, his eye’s out, and the thought burns with a low anxiety in his stomach. What would it have been like if Ae stayed on the train?

Chapter Text

It’s the large towns that get to him. The idea of these buildings, once inhabited, now desolate. Populated by zombies, the undead. Aren’t I the same? He’d find it easier to reconcile with his situation if it weren’t for the likes of two wonderfully stupid members of the party he’d found himself a part of, who’d probably shoot him if they found out his identity.

Scout. Good for money, a fantastic shot, but unless it’s a store or a woman he’s utterly useless in social situations and would have better suited the strongholds rather than a total survival situation. The strongholds, of course, before they started to collapse. For a moment, his shoes are standing in the pool of blood belonging to the woman in red.

My undead is manufactured.

Soldier. With the only man even capable of understanding what goes on in that brute’s head gone, he’s almost a liability. Almost. For all of his violence and stupidity, he was still a military man. Trained to take orders, good with most forms of combat - weapon or not. 

However, a facet of that man I cannot tolerate, Spy turns to look over his shoulder for a moment, is that he never falls asleep.

Leaning on the railing and staring out through the gap between it and the sheet metal he’d so crudely placed those days before, Soldier clutches his gun to his chest and stares out into the distance. The desert is empty this time of night, and there’s nothing interesting to look at beyond the odd rock or two. This does not prevent Soldier from keeping guard every night. At least I have a reason not to sleep. 

But there’s a reason, isn’t there? Soldier had lost every single one of his regiment in a zombie attack in the night. He’d watched the undead scale impossible heights and crash down to attack those he had called friends. He is sick, a matter of the brain and not the body. I hope to God I do not see him become infected. What a fight that would be.

If he will not sleep, I should put him to use.

“Soldier, I see a town. I don’t suppose you’ll appreciate shooting at something? Kill a few zombies?” It’s like coaxing a dog to play. 

“Who’ll guard the train?” Soldier calls back. He’s the only one he trusts.

“The wind is blowing behind us,” One of Spy’s gloved fingers taps on the lever over and over, “They won’t smell our friends.” Friends, the word tastes sour, “And if we make it quick, we’ll be able to get them a breakfast of gold and silver from the bank.”

The breeze ruffling the loose straps of Soldier’s hat slows as the train grinds to a halt. The man turns to look at Spy, as much as he can despite the hat pulled low over his eyes, and for a briefest moment Spy can feel a tension in the air as Soldier approaches. I will not be performing a duel on the deck of this train. “I w-”

“You will pull your weight,” Soldier grits his teeth, “We make a push to the bank together, do you hear me?” He climbs over the rail and lands on the sands with a thud, waiting for Spy to join him. “We don’t leave each other’s sight.”

Spy climbs down with a little more grace, “I did not think you were suspicious of me.” 

“Do I have any reason to be?” They’re at eye level now, and Soldier grips his shotgun close to his chest.

“Non, you…” As Spy speaks, Soldier begins to make his way over to the town, “... don’t.”

He’s not smart enough for mind games, is he? Have I miscalculated? 

Spy wraps his fingers around the dagger in his pocket.

If this man is even capable of tricking me, then Scout must be a mastermind.

Spy can just barely spot the spire of a church towering over the abandoned town, the scent of rot and coagulated blood hitting him in the face being enough to make him gag. It was one of the things he had to get used to as a- Je ne peux pas vivre comme ça. Je ne vis plus du tout. Je suis un tueur. Le Mexique ne m'accueillera pas. Spy grips his dagger a little tighter as he catches up to Soldier. He does not know. I do not know.

“All we need to do is find the mayor. The zombie of the mayor, it will hold the code to the vaults. We do not need to kill more than we need to, and it will make this trip much quicker.”

“The other buildings will have ammo.” Soldier mutters, “Everyone’s running low, except you.”

“I favour close combat.”

“Medic wasted supplies on fixing that bullet to your face.”

“Excuse me, would you rather he’d let me die?”

“Excuse you, you shouldn’t have been shot at all!” Soldier growls, stopping in his tracks to face Spy. Advance on him, even. “If it weren’t for the snake oil, you’d be dead. Dead!”

He’s right. The thought settles in his chest, there is no self-preservation left in me. “Then I will do better. You were shot too, weren’t you?”

“Two bullets that would have killed Scout.”

“Fine, then we’re as wrong as each other. Whatever we get from the bank will go towards repaying Medic, have it your way.” 

Soldier grunts as he backs away and continues trudging towards the town. Meeting people where they’re at has always been Medic’s skill, hailing from years of conversations with a multitude of people. Or perhaps Soldier is just difficult. However, as Spy trails a little behind Soldier he notices that despite the unending paranoia of this man who supposedly doesn’t trust him, there is no attempt to ensure Spy won’t stab him in the back. No back glances, no conversation, no more ‘passive’ aggression (he’d never be passive about it).

So his behaviour doesn’t come from distrust. The sound of sand underfoot is grating. Give me something to work with.

The two reach the outskirts of the town, and Spy pulls out his revolver to fire at the first zombies that lurch their way, but puts it away and goes to grab his dagger.

It's more than the party I want to wake up.

One slash across the jugular each, something quick and easy. He practically doesn't need to think about it.

“We don’t need more fuel.” Spy comments as Soldier crouches to inspect the body, “You’ll know the mayor zombie when you see it. It’ll wear very formal clothes, typically a hat.”

“You can see right now?” Soldier tilts his head up to look at Spy. Not at him, right past him.

Merde, it’s nighttime. “No. Just in case there’s a light around here.” With that, Spy continues walking into the town’s main street.

How long had it been since he’d been in a place like this? Wide roads, carriages every few metres, the buildings that were haphazardly put together and only looked pretty from the front. Before he’d been sent up north by that horrid woman, he’d quite liked the idea of a life in a town like this, where nobody would come looking for him. Of course, he had nothing to run from before he was turned. 

He shoots a hand out to prevent Soldier from walking face-first into one of the wooden walls, but of course the man pushes through his grip and slams his forehead into the building. Soldier stumbles back with a grimace, his own hand pushing his hat back to feel over the scrape. Spy tilts his head as he gives the man some space. 

His eyes are blue. So are his, so are everyone else’s. But in the night, where Soldier can’t see and assumes Spy can’t, it feels like information Spy shouldn’t have. 

It was my job to have information I shouldn’t. Oh, how the past few years have changed him.

And then Soldier’s eyes narrow, and with one of his rough, calloused hands he pulls his hat back over his face.

Spy can’t tell if there’s a light available in the town, at least a torch to give his night vision the slightest bit of cover in front of the most dangerous member of the party. The main street is a swathe of light blues and greens to him, nothing warm and bright to signify a light source.

“Do you see anything?” Spy speaks quietly.

“That building, there,” An old furniture store, one of the letters hanging onto the display by a single nail, swaying slightly. Furnᴉture. Spy is almost surprised that Soldier is capable of keeping a low profile, even if he can’t see the zombies crowding around the porch of the building. “I see lantern light.” As Soldier readies his shotgun, Spy pushes it away. So much for low profile.

“You cannot be that crazy as to blindly shoot a gun in a town of who knows how many zombies?”

Soldier bares his teeth for a second, his lip twitching before he pulls a shovel out from his belt, underneath his tattered military uniform. “It was your idea to make this quick, Frenchie.”

Spy scoffs, “I will not take criticisms right now, we have a bank to rob.” He shakes his head, “I’ll get the lantern, you play lookout. Call if anything goes wrong.” With a dismissive hand wave, he makes a move across the street to the furnᴉture store.

He doesn’t need a lookout. He’s the only one who can see those shambling pale-green messes lingering about. Soldier didn’t even have to be here. This could have been done solo. A wave of regret seeps into Spy’s system as he swiftly dispatches one zombie with a dagger to the neck, and lets it fall flat on the sand. The second zombie that approaches him puts up more of a fight, but nothing that Spy would squeal at, lest the oaf on watch would start a real problem. It takes four slightly messy stabs to send zombie two to eternal peace. They were humans. Spy only hopes that he doesn’t look like them one day.

If there are any benefits to being a- je suis mort, je suis vraiment mort- was the noticeable increase to his energy during the night, which was always favoured when it came to these kinds of situations. Though most of his nights so far in the apocalypse had been spent hitching rides on various trains and disappearing to avoid the inevitable questions, he did favour the nights where he’d get out of the conductor’s cabin and go on a lovely walk. Even if said walks included more killing, but green blood on his hands always felt more fulfilling than red. 

So the two zombies left near the furnᴉture store died quickly at his hand. His blade, even.

The one thing that still ties me to that wretched woman is the disease and this knife.

Spy pushes the door open and paces over to the lantern lying miserable on the floor, discarded.

At least the knife does me some good.

Lamplight illuminates Spy on his way back to Soldier, but as he returns he realises that the man isn’t… there anymore. The very clear spot in which he’d told Soldier to stay put is vacant.

My eyes must deceive me, the man didn’t take an order. So much for a dog.

But Spy hasn’t heard gunshots… yet, so at least Soldier didn’t leave his common sense behind. 

The walk around town gives him the faintest moment to think. Most nights do, but for once he isn’t disturbed by the snoring of his party or fuel levels.

Most of the zombies don’t look his way as he walks, and those that do don’t make a break for it to clamp their jaws around his limbs. Spy had heard that they’re most drawn to blood, and he supposes that he doesn’t have a favourable kind anymore.

If he imagines it’s daytime, and if he imagines the zombies are humans, and if he imagines it isn’t the apocalypse, the town is nice. Lots of buildings, a lovely view of the towering rocks in the horizon, the lingering heat of the daytime in the air. 

In another life, he paces the path he takes with the love of his life’s hand on his arm and their boy up ahead, his face pressed against the glass of the gun stores. The love of his life will tell him that he’s too young to get one, but Spy would get him one by his next birthday and teach him how to shoot. They’d finally have a completed family picture, with the help of one of those cameras Spy can see in the window of a derelict building.

I was promised power. I lost everything.

I need to smoke.

As his beloved tinderbox sparks up a flame to his cigarette, the bright light surrounding him forces a sigh into the air. If only he’d handed the funny little contraption over to Soldier, they wouldn’t be separated right now. Spy’s only consolation is that Soldier would’ve found a way to break it within three seconds and caused a series of withdrawals so catastrophic I’d end up killing everyone.

The first plumes of smoke flow into the air when the sound of crunching bones can be made evident to Spy. He isn’t dead, Dieu merci. He shakes off the feeling of relief as he approaches the source of the noise. It’s from behind one of the buildings, opposite the rail tracks in the distance. Spy rounds a corner to several zombie corpses dotted across the sands, and Soldier dispatching one more pinned under his boot. His shovel is dug into the gargling throat of a zombie and Soldier only drives it deeper until the zombie goes quiet.

“What is this?” Spy brandishes the lantern, his other hand sweeping over the corpses, “What happened to lookout?”

“You said we needed to find the mayor zombie for the vault code.” Soldier also points to the corpses, “Did I?”

Unfortunately, and Spy hates it, one of the decapitated zombies is the mayor that they were looking for. Spy passes Soldier the lantern - anything to get that grimy shovel out of his hands - and walks over to rifle his hands through the body’s pockets for the note containing the code.

“What made you think that wandering off into the night would do you any good?” Spy mutters. His gloved fingers trace a piece of paper and he pulls it out. A number, perfect. He stands up, “I had our best interests in mind.”

“Waiting around and doing nothing like a sissy?” Soldier scoffs, “It is my sworn duty as a true American to eliminate these scum one at a time! You only made my job more difficult with the no-gun nonsense.”

“So you wouldn’t get swarmed-”

“You coward-”

“The bank is over there.” Spy’s voice sharpens significantly as he gestures to the red brick building beside the church with a wave of his cigarette. I will not let this man interrupt me. After a brief moment of no response, he adds, “Kill as many zombies as you like. Please, I invite you.”

If Soldier is following, Spy doesn’t care. He doesn’t look back, no slowed footsteps to glance behind him, and he doesn’t try to use his all-powerful (the word is bitter in his mind) enhanced senses to check on him.

There's only a slightly horrifying thought that passes through his mind next.

It would be easy to get rid of him now.

Soldier is uncooperative. He's argumentative, losing his mind, wracked with a mental torment unique to him only. A liability.

It appears his only positive on the team is the damage he's willing to take in the form of the healed bullet wounds across his body and all the scars from the years prior. 

Spy saw him in the firefight against the outlaws, throwing Scout out of the way to take the bullets himself and, with just as much intensity, fire back. What had Spy done? Get shot? Almost gotten Medic killed?

It was a matter of vantage points. We were at a disadvantage.

The feeling of his blade crunching into the tendons of the outlaw’s neck, his gritted teeth visible through the bullet he'd taken to the face, he'd already felt animalistic. Soldier was something more than.

The damage fuels him.

Spy shakes his head to himself as he takes another quick puff from his cigarette, standing before the bank. Red brick, big wooden sign labelling the building, money symbols in the windows. Back in his home country, banks are a much more… elegant structure of marble and white stone. This is rustic. Maybe Spy wouldn't have adapted so easily to this sort of territory.

But his fingers twitch over a hand that isn't there, and the sound of his boy is closer than he expects.

The bank door is wide open, actually ripped off of its hinges by perhaps zombies or previous looters. Though Spy is tempted to believe this is a waste of time, he remembers that he found the code to unlock the looming vault door in front of him, nobody else. The treasure is safe. This isn't useless.

62554. Scrawled messily on a scrap piece of paper, perhaps from a ledger. Torn in a hurry, from what Spy can deduce from the way the paper is jagged on it's edges. Written in a hurry, too. Either noted down by a man who did not expect to be given so much responsibility, or someone too eager to access it. Either way, dead. Gone. 

If Mexico does have a cure, Spy prays it doesn't bring back the dead. He has too much to answer for.

The vault door is a threatening-looking circular plate of steel taking up the left half of the back wall, with a six-spoke handle correlating to a number starting from one onwards. Above the spokes, a darker metal points downwards to the hand, and Spy guesses that it's what dictates the numbers chosen. 

Through years of detective work and assassinations and plots, he's never been one to crack a vault before. The silence eats at him, and the soft click of each internal clock might as well be a gunshot. Besides, he has a code. 

A fact of life that Spy refuses to come to terms with is his weight class. Whilst Medic and Soldier are more powerful and can throw a punch, Spy and Scout are relegated to their weaponry. Spy’s luck falls in his ability to use his advanced senses to his advantage, and his expertise with a blade and revolver. However, no matter how much Spy would like to pretend, he cannot find a non-embarrassing way to push or pull the spokes of the vault handle to the corresponding numbers of the code without looking like a complete and utter imbecile.

A part of him does want to call Soldier over and have him enter the code. An overwhelming part of Spy, actually. Get this done and over with.

But another part of Spy craves this sort of independence. It reminds him of his old life, but without all the order-taking and psychological torment. A cheap challenge, he may call it.

But is it really?

There's a reason he needs to loot the bank. If Medic does get everyone to Mexico, and Spy prays he does, Spy cannot go with them. He will only infiltrate another safe haven. He will only cause damage. 

It's easy to live here, mostly. With all the zombies, outlaws and werewolves about, nobody bats an eye towards the well-kept and polite man smoking in the shade. The urge to feed has mostly been numbed, except for the soft ache in his chest when he sees the blood pouring from wounds. Or is it sympathy? Spy has never looked into it.

With all the money he can gather, he can support himself in Medic's absence. Apply snake oil to himself, go where he likes, move at night without suspicions from the closest to him. 

Freedom, the word is sweet. Finally, freedom.

He feels over the spokes of the vault handle, and glances back at the code. 62554. The metal point signifying the number chosen is between 3 and 4, so Spy decides to pull instead of push it. His heels dig into the wooden floorboards, and with a low grunt he puts his whole body into yanking the spoke till it hits 6.

What Spy expects is for it to take strength. What Spy doesn't expect is the vile, grating shrieking of metal against metal as the handle slowly - painfully slowly - turns under his grip.

I suppose it's a security mechanism. Spy readjusts his grip on the handle before pulling the next spoke down. 

As the 6 spoke falls under the metal point, Spy can hear a soft click. First one down. 

The rest are more brutal. 

It was cruel of whoever designed and set the code for the vault to make the handle so difficult to maneuver, and especially to make the numbers so far apart. After 2 locks into place, Spy has to take a brief break before going all the way back to 5. He doesn't even know how on Earth to get the second 5, and accidentally pulls it to 6.

Time to start over.

He deduces that he should be able to reset what he's entered by entering two more numbers, and goes through the task again. A weight settles in his chest for a moment, something unnerving. He pauses to listen out for anything, but it's only footsteps. Soldier doesn't tend to pace so much.

Double 5. He pushes the spoke slightly, then pulls it back. Click. Time for 4.

The vault swings open, and Spy lets out the smallest sigh of relief before stepping into the small room. It takes up the entire back section of the building, heaped with gold and silver bars across the ground. He even spots a pretty silver watch lying about. Everything seems to have been placed rather messily, as if the people rushed to hoard their wealth before their end of days. Well, if nobody came back for it…

Spy immediately pockets all that he can, but gold bars weigh a substantial amount. With his pockets full, he reaches for his bag (pristine, unused. The first step to building trust is having nothing to hide) and starts filling it too. 

As he slings the bag over his shoulder, he almost buckles under the weight of it. The strength needed to prevent himself from keeling over does not distract him, however, from the sound of footsteps entering the bank.

“Soldier, I have the-”

A low growl emanates from the lobby of the bank, and then the stench of rot and sickness hits him. Spy lets the bag fall to the ground with a hefty clang before reaching for his blade.

I've weighed myself down. The gold and silver in his pockets slow his movements as he turns to look beyond the vault door and meets the white-eyed gaze of a zombie. With a quick stab into the throat, the body crumples to the ground and Spy turns to grab the bag and leave, but not yet.

Another zombie sifts through the doorway. And another. The grotesque gurgling floods Spy's ears and he silently walks back to stab the first, when yet another zombie enters the bank.

They had no issue with me before. Then Spy's heart (if he still has one) drops. The vault door. Spy curses as he dispatches another zombie.

I must have lured them in here with all the noise.

Spy can hear how many there are outside, their scent so strong it makes his stomach turn. Earlier in the night, there'd been barely any at all about. They must have been hiding in the other buildings, of course they were.

Do I call out for Soldier?

Spy tries to concentrate, hone his senses onto any even footsteps outside, but the zombies are everything right now. He stabs another in the jugular, but now there's so many that it can't be handled one at a time.

It might get him killed, but Spy pulls out his revolver and starts shooting. If he can at least make it out of the building, he'll be good to escape.

Où est Soldier? Je ne peux pas gérer ça seul.

Gunshots ring in the small building, and Spy grits his teeth as new zombies trail in, stumbling over their fallen comrades. Headshot after headshot, some more point blank to Spy's growing fear. Teeth snap shut closer and closer to his extended arm, and he finds that he has to take more steps back to further the distance.

In the fog that is his senses, all festering and decomposed, a clear order is barked out;

“Get inside the vault, now!”

It cuts through the air like a knife, and Spy is inclined to follow the command despite the haze that is his mind at that moment. He clears enough of the zombies to safely back into the vault and shut the door with a harsh bang. He glances at the bag of valuables on the ground, and then back at the door. Spy assumes that the zombies can't figure out the spokes of the door. Then again, he's seen them spring out of nowhere to jump him. 

One of his shaking hands reaches up as he takes a longer puff from his cigarette, exhaling slowly as an attempt to calm himse-

BOOM.

His vision goes white as dust is sent up into the air, down from the ceiling, and the walls tremor against his back. The shockwave sends Spy to his feet, and in his blindness the first thing he reaches for is his pocket watch. Something cool, smooth, to ground him.

Pardonne-moi. Dieu, pardonne-moi pour tout ce que j'ai fait. 

Spy coughs once, and doesn't stop as he has to force the thick cloud of dust from his lungs. As his vision returns, he shields his eyes from the particles stabbing him with one hand and only coughs harder. 

“Are you all right, soldier?” Footsteps crunch over debris on the ground, seemingly out of nowhere.

If this is an angel, it sounds very American.

A shoe nudges his ribcage, and Spy looks up. It's Soldier's filthy boot attached to an undamaged body harbouring a smug grin.

“I said: are you alright, soldier?”

How did he…?

Spy glances behind him. The back wall of the lobby that was not taken up by the vault door was wooden panels, of course. Whatever Soldier did, it burst the wall with ease. 

“The…” Spy pauses to cough again, but the dust is slowly clearing, “The zombies-”

“I blew them up.”

Spy's face twists into a look of confusion, “What?”

“I found some dynamite in one of the buildings. I saw you were getting swarmed.”

“Why would you…?”

“Explode them?” Soldier extends a hand down to Spy. He takes it gingerly and stands himself up, “Because they're zombies, and you're not.”

It's as if Spy has picked a lock, the realization that hits him.

Soldier isn't aggressive because he's a fool. He's aggressive because he can't bear to lose anyone else.

The Fort Constitution disaster was bad enough, and Soldier had been the sole survivor of the ordeal. After Demo's sacrifice, Soldier had become reckless and a danger.

His energy isn't put into being a nuisance, it's put into protecting what he's got. He's not just a survivor, but a survivalist.

“Thank you.” The words leave Spy's mouth quicker than he'd like.

Soldier grins, and reaches for the bag of gold and silver, “It's what I do.” To Spy’s slight jealousy, the man swings the bag over his shoulder with ease and exits the vault through the blasted wall.

They step over the shredded amalgamations of bodies and into the…

Sunlight. Merde.

Spy hopes that Soldier doesn't mind him lagging behind slightly under the warm glow of dawn. His body is neatly covered, but his face still catches light. What's first a mild itching sensation slowly turns into a searing burn across his face; excruciating to the point where ignoring it is impossible but if he makes a sprint towards the shade of the train, Soldier would see it and gun him down on the spot.

However, Soldier isn't exactly in a hurry, and when he glances to Spy at the sound of him stopping, the world freezes.

Soldier's bright blue eyes meet Spy's and it's in the daylight where the man knows they're revealed. Spy's hand twitches over where he stores his blade.

He'll try to kill me. So many have.

He needs to protect humanity.

I'm unhuman, I'm dead. 

Soldier slowly, painfully slowly, steps towards Spy until he's at arm’s length.

Please don't make me do this.

“You're burning up.” His voice is that sickening tone of surprise that typically comes before a punch to the face.

Spy can't focus on him through the smoke his skin is throwing up, and for the third time in the last few hours accepts his fate.

A shadow is thrown over his face, and Spy tenses. Then the smoke clears, and he reaches a hand to tip the hat up over his eyes.

Soldier's eyes are wide - they always are, Spy's noticed - but he doesn't look at all as murderous as he was expecting. It's strange seeing his full face in the daylight. There's no more response from Soldier as he turns around and continues walking back to the train.

Spy readjusts Soldier’s hat on his head and follows him.

Fifth Outpost, Sniper pretends like he can still feel the breeze on his face despite his destroyed nerves, Where dreams go to die.

Whilst the first four had been bustling with people and full of conversations to be had, there was a sizable contrast now. Less people, much less. Maybe one or two on the sands. Sniper swallows the saliva forming in his mouth before it can distract him from what he needs to do. 

Two towns prior, he’d gathered a large amount of bandages and other supplies that would have benefitted anybody else, but not him.

There's a certain ache that grows in his chest every time he realises he'd be better off selling some of his loot rather than using it. Only a few years ago, he'd have patched himself up nice and proper before getting back out into the fight, but medicine cannot save him anymore. He barely needs ammo when zombies don't look his way, and the stray vampires and werewolves on the wasteland wander past him.

All he can afford to do anymore is cover his wounds, sell his shit, and move on.

I'll be the richest cunt north of the Rio Grande at this rate, he chuckles to himself as he slows the train, what a life that will be.

Ten years ago, rich meant estates and land and prosperity. Underlings to serve one's every need and to never go hungry.

As wealthy as Sniper is, the hunger eats him instead, and he grinds his teeth together at the scent of living flesh. 

Another chuckle to himself, albeit colder and bitter. Old habits die hard, I s'pose.

The train comes to a screeching halt, the rickety bastard he'd named the Huntsman after multiple fateful encounters with running over whatever traipses onto the tracks before it. Once slicked with gore and multiple unidentifiable limbs, now washed clean by a thunderstorm a few nights prior. As pretty as a picture.

Sniper pushes himself out of his seat and stumbles for a moment before steadying himself on the control board of the train. Never felt this weak before in my life. But that's a recurring thought, obviously, as his physical state only declines further. 

He bundles the bandages and ammo tightly into his arms and hops off of the deck, a beeline directly to the Trading Outpost. My favorite place in the world, that is. Practically free money. 

Another train pulls into the Outpost, and Sniper mutters some faint curse under his breath as the stench of flowing blood hits him again, but stronger. Can't afford a freak out. Not here, not now.

The last time he'd had what he'd consider a ‘freak out’, he'd been attacked by one he'd considered a friend. 

Therefore, no friends, no freak outs. 

Simple as that.

“Hey, hey!” A grating voice hits Sniper's ear canals with the force of a bullet, “Ya seriously sellin’ all the good stuff?” Sniper turns his head slightly. Oh, piss off.

The little freak from Third, the one who'd decided to micromanage his business at the Trading Outpost. He's walking towards Sniper, all confident and arrogant. 

“Again? You?” The freak scoffs, “Oh my God, there's people out there who could use the bandages, ya moron!”

“Piss off, ankle-biter.” Sniper growls, “Can't help that you're desperate, now, can I? Everything I sell goes straight back to the shops. So you,” He doesn't bother looking at the train that he points to, “And your little tracking mission can buy it all back up and move on. How's that?”

“What, ya think we're followin’ you or somethin'?” Ankle-biter chuckles half-heartedly. That's my thing, ya brat. “We're tryna get ta Mexico like everyone else, dumbass. You're just in our way.”

“In your way, is that right?” Sniper forces himself to stand tall, even though his body calls to curl up and rest. Or, to Sniper's malicious delight, to shred this little freak into pieces. “I've been on these tracks for years. Shootin’ zombies longer than you've been able to walk, I reckon.”

Ankle-biter furrows his brow, balls his hands into fists, “I ain't that young-”

“But a spot a’respect for your elders might do ya some good.” The half-zombie can't help but grin. It’s unabashedly smug, and he revels in how he can see the cogs turn in Ankle-biter’s little head. 

As Sniper turns to, y’know, sell his loot, the freak speaks up again.

“I’ve seen people die horribly out there,” Lucky them, “People who could use all that stuff you've got. Now I-I ain't askin’ for donations, but not everyone's got the money to save their skin out here. How much money do ya really need?” 

“Don't have a party, mate. Got nobody to use these on.” Sniper shrugs.

“You're not gonna use them on yourself? Are ya crazy?” Ankle-biter takes a breath and shakes his head, “You're sellin’ shit that could’a saved someone!”

Another figure approaches the two, and Sniper guesses he's part of Ankle-biter's party.

And then Sniper guesses again.

The wind is thrown against his face in the midst of a blood moon, and he can feel the chill on his skin. It’s as if the air is full to the brim with the sound of howling, hissing, the feeling of blood underfoot, and Sniper is struggling to reload his rifle under the dark red light from above.

His companion beside him shoves a shotgun into his hand, and Sniper protests against using a gun he's not specialized with.

“Ach, Sniper, just shoot already!” A sharp order from the conductor’s cabin over the cacophony, “Now! Jetzt!”

Sniper’s gaze doesn't leave the face of the man as he approaches. He doesn't do much of anything, as the sounds of Ankle-biter shouting to get his attention fade into the background.

“Sniper?” Medic is just as astonished. The half-zombie blinks back to reality, “You're alive?”

“Hey, doc.” Sniper looks over the man. No noticeable changes in the past three years, save for the new gray hairs and maybe growing more muscular, though he can't tell from under the lab coat. 

Ankle-biter glances between the two, “Ya know each other?” 

But before he can say anything more, Medic waves dismissively in his face, “Go refuel this man's train, Scout.” Course his name’s some bullshit like that. “The General Store is on the other side of the tracks.” Scout trots off, and the Outpost feels vastly more empty.

“You're alive, doc.” Sniper cannot help it, staring across Medic’s face and trying to not seem like a creep, “You didn't die?”

“Nein, I… I thought I was the only survivor. Where’s Heavy? Is he-”

Fuck. “No, no, he's… I don't know where he went after that night.”

Though Sniper can practically smell the disappointment on Medic, the doctor shakes his head, “No matter, at least you're alive. Are you well? How have you been?”

Yeah, mate, doin’ fantastic. Ever tried the human flesh diet? Doing wonders for my skin.

“I've been better.”

Sniper turns away, it's mostly a force of habit after years of having to avoid getting noticed by randoms in each Outpost. Unfortunately for him, that's when Medic takes note of the bandages and ammo in his arms.

“You need help, don't you?”

“Help? No, I'm just… It's a surplus.” Of course he's still the only guy who'll freak me out in the entire wasteland.

Medic's face contorts into an unimpressed frown, “Maybe we should have a talk.” A brief pause, “After you're done selling your equipment, natürlich.” At least he isn't bossing me about.

The shade of the Trading Outpost would provide Sniper with more relief if his body hadn't rotted to the point where he could still sense pain rather than simple weakness. He tips his hat low across his face as he makes the sale, and shoves the cash into his pockets. He stops himself, just for a moment, before continuing but slower. 

What the hell does Medic want from me? Bloody great reunion so far.

If it's about Heavy, Medic can hear all about how he decided Sniper wasn't worth saving. If it's about anything else…

The two end up behind one of the buildings, in the narrow alleyway parting it from the stone walls of the Outpost.

“So…” Medic tries a few sentences out wordlessly before settling, “You're obviously doing well on your own.”

“Yeah, I've been doing great.” Sniper shrugs, “Lots of looting, lots of shooting-”

“You're a zombie.”

Sniper freezes. The word could have been a bullet between his eyes for all he cares. Despite the sudden tension in the air, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t get angry, doesn’t crack a joke. He just stands there, shoulders squared and jaw clenched tight. “…Half,” He mutters finally, tone razor-sharp in a way he hadn’t heard from his lips in a long time. “I’m a half-zombie.”

“Half-zombie it is, then.” Medic exhales softly as he looks over Sniper’s expression, “Mein lieber Freund, I do not intend to hurt you. We've only just reunited, I only want to talk.” The doctor clasps his gloved hands together in front of him. No weapon.

“Who the fuck told ya I'm a zom- half-zombie?” So much for not getting angry.

“Language. Nobody told me.” Medic slowly approaches Sniper, “You're covered in zombie blood, and you look sickly. When did you get bitten?” His voice is soft, comforting. If I cry…

“Three years ago.” 

“The night that… Oh mein Gott, you haven't turned yet?” Medic takes off his glove to press a hand to Sniper's face. If it were anyone, and Sniper means anyone else, they would have a face full of bullets, but Medic is a doctor. Three years apart hasn't altered the trust in the man.

“I don't know why, or how, or what, I just haven't.” Medic's hand presses against Sniper’s forehead and he comes to the sickly realization that nobody's touched him since the blood moon night. “Who was I supposed to tell, huh? The Sheriff, so I'll get executed? Random strangers, so I get a bounty on my head?” 

“I do not blame you for keeping it a secret.” Medic shakes his head at whatever temperature Sniper's skin is. Could be either boiling or frozen, he can't tell, “I do not blame you for anything. I… I can see that you haven't… fed yet.” As Medic puts his gloves back on, he gestures to the gaping bone-deep wound on his arm that's only barely covered in bandages anymore. Sniper hadn't noticed them falling away.

Medic shakes his head, “I suppose by now you must know that only a doctor can cure your wounds.”

“Yeah,” Sniper mutters under his breath, avoiding eye contact. His gaze is fixed on the wound on his arm, “Yeah, I know that. Didn't want to hurt anyone, I promise that I haven't either.”

“I trust you, Sniper. You have a good head on your shoulders.” The doctor begins pacing a little, “Therefore, I have a proposition. You can decline, and I won't bother you about it again. But please, just hear me out.”

“What do you want from me?”

“There's someone in my party who I feel like you'd benefit from speaking to.” Sniper meets Medic's eye again, “You're not… entirely human anymore, from what I know about zombies. I-I have ein Freund on my train, he's…” Medic chuckles, “For a lack of a better term, he's… not human either.” There's more of us? “For the sake of his privacy, I won't tell you who, but… please. You can join me again on the Archimedes, I have the same train, and you won't need to suffer.” 

“I'm not someone you need to pity, doc. Bein’ a zombie hasn't broken my aim.” Sniper grins for a moment, then it falls, “I've killed people, Medic. You don't need to invite me to join you ‘cause ya think I'm gonna run into trouble on my own.”

“Mein lieber Freund, it was two days ago when I looked a man younger than Scout in the eyes and shot him square in the head.” He hasn't lost the psycho factor. “I can handle myself on my own too. But my party? It gives me purpose, ja?”

“How'd'ya know it'll give me purpose?”

“Because I saw you working alongside Heavy that night,” Don’t even mention his fuckin’ name in front of me. “You have an instinct to protect, don't you? Plus, your wounds. If you keep damaging yourself, you'll die.” No, I won't. “I am the only doctor I've seen down here. I may be the only one capable of mending your wounds, unless you were to…”

“Eat a person.” Or a zombie, for that matter. Any human or human-esque flesh is game. However, Sniper prides himself on the fact that he hasn't stooped that low.

“Precisely. And I know you don't want to do that, so let me help you.”

The offer seems a little too good to be true, and Sniper starts pacing himself. Medic is help incarnate. He knows this, he knows that Medic helped him in the past. 

But if Heavy had been able to reject his call for help and turned to fighting him in a split second, who says Medic won't do the same?

There's someone else who isn't human on that train. Now that's enticing. Years of taking every route of the tracks apart from the main Eight Outpost System in an effort to avoid every living being imaginable had probably done more damage than the gaping wounds across his body that he can't feel. Medic heals his body, social interaction heals his mind.

This does not inhibit the hundreds of small anxieties in his mind. What if Sniper kills the humans? What if Medic regrets everything?

For all Sniper knows, he's walking into a trap. A non-human could be anything ranging between a horse and a werewolf. Three years apart is a long time. If Sniper could have turned into the most dangerous person on the wasteland, what could Medic have become?

He shakes his head, “I don't know.”

“I think you do.”

Dusk is an unfamiliar deep red, and Sniper leans on the railing beside the conductor’s cabin as the train catches speed out of a small station.

“You lot ever seen weather like this?” He cranes his head up to the sky, dark clouds gathering overhead, “D’you think it's an omen?”

“Blood moon, nothing to worry about if we keep moving.” Heavy glances at the fuel dial, only half-way but enough to get them away from anything that decides to chase.

“Funny how we all ended up so far from home, just for an apocalypse to hit us.”

Medic chuckles, “This is not the practical use of my knowledge I expected from Amerika, no.”

“Shame there isn't a route up to Alaska for you, Heavy. Bering Strait route, right?”

The large man smiles softly, his blue eyes glinting, “We fight so much down here, I do not want to see what north is like.”

“Boston's fallen, did ya hear? Vampire infestations. Blimey, can't believe we live in a day and age where we have to worry about vampires.” 

The doctor turns his head, “We already have cannibals, no? What's the difference?”

“When a cannibal eats someone, they die. With vampires, they just get back up again and start biting. Same with zombies. Wouldn't be surprised if werewolves operate the same.”

“Nein, they must be manufactured. They're more common in the south, with all the laboratories. Plus, you can't turn a man into a dog, I'm sure of it.”

“Really?” Sniper gestures to Heavy, “We've got proof they've managed it with bears.”

It's such a shitty joke, Sniper realises after he's said it. So why did they laugh?

Sniper's chest warms at the sound of kind company.

Snap back to reality, fucks sake. He's staring. 

“I'll have to meet your party first.” Sniper takes a breath, “Just to get my footing, really.” 

Medic claps his hand together, “Perfekt. First, ahem, may I see your wounds?”

There's a precise method to applying snake oil to wounds to achieve certain and predictable results. While most humans only need a few swipes of it across gashes and such, since their bodies will regenerate whatever's left wrong, a zombie body does not regenerate as such and will either rely on professional help or other external sources such as ingesting human or adjacent flesh. 

Medic's method begins at whatever tissue is least affected on the outskirts of the wound, slicing it open with his scalpel in a precise movement. The doctor looks fascinated at Sniper's lack of reaction to the incision, but his face is solid as he watches the green blood well up. 

“I assume your heart isn't working as it… should.”

“Haven't had a heartbeat in years.”

“Oh, I've been waiting for a moment like this my whole life.”

Snake oil, Sniper narrows his eyes at the glass bottle that Medic brings out from his bag, hasn’t changed since the last time I touched it.

Medic dips the scalpel into the oil, then presses it to the new incision. Not directly onto the core of the wound, but the outskirts of the necrotic flesh, where the body can still pretend it’s alive. The moment the snake oil touches the new wound, it fizzes like hot metal in water, and Sniper feels it; a slow, unnatural knitting of muscle to muscle, like his body’s finally following instructions from three years ago.

And the larger wound - the one that was being healed in the first place - Sniper can see the edges of it begin to crawl into each other.

“It’s-”

“It will not heal you entirely. Only your physical wounds, your mind…” Medic makes another incision adjacent to the wound and repeats the motions, “Tell me, what has the infection done to your mind?”

The majority of it isn’t hunger, it’s the pattern. Faces blurred together, the clockwork ticking in the back of his mind a countdown to when he’ll lunge, the constant fear that burns in his chest that he’ll get caught.

Sniper hasn’t eaten a human, no he hasn’t and he’s proud of that.

But he dreams in teeth and gore and wakes up to an emptiness in stomach and mind. Three years of a skull-splitting loneliness he assumed would be his forever. Seeing people he might have befriended as prey, and anyone he might not have befriended as a target. His first run-in with Ankle-biter, for instance. He’d threatened the kid, something feasible for a rough, solo survivor of the apocalypse. But there was something genuine behind it, and Sniper couldn’t deny that he’d had to distract himself from making a real attempt on the kid’s life.

“It made me paranoid.” He forces the words out, “That people are gonna kill me, so I gotta make myself a threat first.”

“And you believe it’s a symptom of the virus?”

Of course I fucking don’t, mate. “What else could it be?”

“Getting bitten must have been traumatic, no?”

Sniper hits the sands with a thud, and for a moment he can’t get a bearing on his location in the fog of dark red.

“Sniper, you need to shoot!” A large hand yanks him to his feet, and Sniper sways as he gets his footing. The shotgun is forced into his hands again.

“Whuh-” Sniper tips his hat back, and turns to the tracks. The Archimedes - beautiful thing - is far in the distance now. The wasteland is still filled with the screeches of all things unholy, and his fingers tighten on the shotgun, “He’s leaving without us-”

A shot rings out from somewhere behind him, and Sniper turns to look up at Heavy as he fires at a werewolf in the distance, “Shoot!” He sounds desperate, “Please, shoot!”

Sniper picks his target; the pale and bloodied face of a vampire that the blood moon makes evident. He raises the shotgun and fires. Now it’s face is just bloodied, and it collapses to the ground.

The south was meant to lead to freedom. 

As Sniper begins loading in new rounds to shoot at an incoming werewolf - only visible by the red glowing of its eyes in the distance - he looks up at Heavy again, “We- We need to go after him! He can’t just leave us like that!”

“We left Doktor with four vampires on deck to deal with, he has enough troubles of his own!” Several shots ring out, but less and less shapes can be spotted in the vicinity.

Sniper aims the shotgun for the werewolf’s chest, letting the bullets spray indiscriminately. They must be manufactured. “Why the hell did you throw yourself off the deck as well? You should be fighting alongside him!”

“Because you deserve saving too!” Heavy growls through gritted teeth as he reloads his shotgun urgently, “Keep shooting, кенгуру!”

Blood pounds in Sniper’s head, but he’s acquainted with shooting enough that a shotgun doesn’t entirely throw him off, though he’d prefer precision in a combat situation such as this. Bullets spray, he doesn’t do spray but if he hadn’t lost his rifle earlier he could be wiping out these things in seconds. Heavy’s better at this than him - it’s not a source of jealousy but pride in his partymate - but it’s a joint effort to quiet the cacophony.

Soon the werewolves with their gnashing teeth and bright red eyes are gone. The pale faces and hissing of the vampires are gone. What is left, however, are the clusters of zombies neither of them can quite point out until they’ve shot blindly enough to hear the bodies hit the ground. 

And by then it’s been an hour of this. Between Heavy losing ammo and Sniper still reeling from the lack of sleep, it’s a real fight to reach morning.

Sniper collapses to the ground, and for a moment he’s convinced his body’s given up on keeping him conscious, and then he hears a low gurgle in his ear which kicks in that ‘jam a knife into their neck’ reflex he’s been accustomed to over the past few years of apocalypse.

He feels his blade sink into flesh. Good, he takes a deep breath before beginning to push the body off of him. Teeth sink into his jaw.

Time freezes. It’s not a feeling Sniper’s felt before that moment, and not one he’d like to feel again. In that brief moment, he’s able to focus on everything. The clouds in the sky, they look like a painting of some kind he must have seen once upon a time. That deep red, could there be a pigment to match? In the dim lighting, Heavy hasn’t looked at him yet. Not in ignorance, in trust. He doesn’t expect Sniper to currently be covered in the green sludge that powers a zombie, no less to have it’s jaws clamped into the underside of his face. The skin of his cheek breaks under the pressure of the zombie’s bite, still immensely powerful even though Sniper’s twists the blade desperate in its throat.

Time unfreezes. Sniper throws the body to the side and stands up. No. It’s happening. No, no, this wasn’t meant to happen. He looks at Heavy, expecting some kind of hunger. There isn’t any. His chest reels with emotion instead. I was meant to go home.

“Heavy,” Sniper’s voice shakes, but the man doesn’t turn. He reaches out to grab the sleeve of his friend’s shirt, “Heavy, I-” His legs quake underneath him, they always did in the worst times.

“What?” The bear of a man looks over at him for a moment, studying his face. And then he actually studies his face, “Вы, должно быть, шутите-”

Heavy steps back instinctively, but Sniper doesn’t notice at first. 

His vision pulses at the edges, his chest rising and falling in shorter, shallower breaths. The bite burns like the sun had crawled under his skin. It’s not pain, not like he’d expect from a regular wound. It feels… wrong. Everything does. He clutches his side and tries to steady himself.

“I just need-” His mouth is dry, his voice hoarse. His tongue runs over the bite marks across the inside of his cheek, expecting the taste of iron and- No, no. That’s not right. Sour, rot. He takes another step toward Heavy. He flinches, and Sniper pauses. The movement had been subtle - a twitch of the shoulder, one foot sliding back into a steadier stance - but Sniper's trained to notice that kind of thing.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” His speech follows that of his discarded shotgun - blind, aimless. “I swear, mate, I’m not-”

He reaches out again, but now it’s not just desperation. His hand trembles too hard, fingers clenching into his palm- I can't feel it- his eyes won’t focus. He can smell Heavy now. Not in the typical way, like he's used to. In the way that the wolves that trail along the tracks do, and what do they smell? Sweat, gunpowder, the iron and copper and life of Heavy's blood. Why can I smell all of that? His gaze lingers too long on Heavy’s neck. There’s a pulse there, powerful with fear.

Fear. Sniper stumbles. He's afraid of me. The marksman tries to catch himself, but ends up lurching forward.

In a blur of motion Sniper would've caught better before infection, his wrist is caught in a grip that he can sense is threatening to shatter his bones. But no pain. Quickly, his arm yanked away and twisted behind his back. It happens so fast his feet briefly leave the ground, and his chest slams into the sands, breath knocked clean out of him.

Heavy’s voice, low and… no, betrayed. “You were going to bite me.”

“No! No, Heavy, I wasn’t! Please, mate, listen to me!”

But he’s shouting now, and shouting never works with Heavy. The man’s calm has vanished, replaced by something frigid and overwhelmingly studying. He lets go and backs away, eyes never leaving Sniper’s mouth. Or maybe the wound that's sliced into his cheek. Or maybe the thick, dark green blood smattered around his face. Or is that my blood now? 

Sniper feels it then, the warmth on his lip, and reaches up. His wound is still bleeding like a fountain and he wipes at his mouth like he’s trying to erase what just happened. His hand comes away, green. I was meant to go home.

“I was asking for help.” He growls, but it comes out cracked like a wounded dog's last snarl. 

Heavy doesn’t reply. The silhouette of his friend- no- in the red night sky heaves with a sigh. Of what, disappointment? I'm disappointed too. Fear, maybe? Or, if Sniper puts himself into Heavy's shoes, a brief moment to take in and remember a friend's face. And then Heavy turns, and walks.

“Sniper,” A bullet hits his brain. No it doesn't. Medic is looking up from his little surgery. “You know I cannot help you properly if you do not talk.”

“It wasn't much of anything really, getting bitten.” The doctor doesn't look like he believes that. Sniper shrugs casually, “I killed the zombie that did it. Maybe it had some weird form of the disease that didn't turn me completely? Shame it's been three years, you might have liked to study it.”

“I would, yes.” Medic pulls out some bandages. Sniper hadn't even noticed how good the wound on his arm looked now, as if it hadn't happened at all. It feels strange in a way, appearing so normal again. “These are just as a safety measure. You can tell the others it was a gunshot wound, or perhaps a wolf bit you.”

“If you want them to learn anythin’ about me, they'd doubt that I'd let some dog close enough to land a bite on me.”

“Ach, so you're warming up to the idea of working in a party again?” The doctor grins, tying up the end of the bandages neatly.

“No, no, I…” Sniper's voice trails off, his expression falters, and he chuckles softly. He smiles, even. “Got me there, didn't ya? Well, maybe I am. Anythin’ else worth examinin’? Or am I good to go?”

As if on cue, the two startle at the sound of a small explosion somewhere in the main centre of the Outpost, and the old friends give each other bewildered glances.

Medic readjusts his glasses, “Let's find out whether it was Scout or Soldier, shall we?” 

“My bet's on Ankle-biter.” 

The two re-emerge into the blazing heat of the ever-present desert sun which is being briefly blotted out every so often by a thick plume of smoke emerging from the Huntsman's conductor's cabin. Scout and a grizzled man in a battered uniform - that's the Soldier, probably - are inspecting it from the other side of the deck. Soldier is laughing raucously, slapping his knee and all sorts of signs of enjoyment at the matter. Meanwhile, Scout looks positively frazzled, his front stained with coal dust from head to toe. 

He offers Medic, and then Sniper an awkward smile, “Man, this train's old, huh?”

“Nein, Scout, the fuel compartment's exploded!” The doctor yells, “Get off of the deck, right now, both of you!”

The Huntsman, Sniper's rock through all of his endeavors and journeys and trips. Nights spent on deck surrounded by loot, looking up at the stars with his only friend, now broken. He'd gotten the train for free, after nobody had bid on it at his first auction. Slow, but sturdy. Who knew all it would take is one absolute brat to wreck it?

“Guess I have no choice, then.” Sniper's gaze follows the dark cloud into the sky, “Was this a plot to force me to join you or what, doc?”

“I wish Scout could coordinate something like this so well. No, it was entirely a mistake, I apologise.”

“Hm.” Over the flooding scent of blood around him, he shuts his eyes and takes in the grit of the coal dust. “No need for ‘sorry's’, mate, I'll be fine.” 

“We may have to derail your train outside of the Outpost.” 

“Probably no glorious way around saying goodbye to her, is there?” Sniper opens his eyes, and looks to the Huntsman again, “Yeah, never was one for glorious.”

It takes about an hour before the train's been stripped clean of all it's worth with the help of Medic's party, the lovely train lying on its side half a mile out of the Fifth Outpost on the sand. She's still throwing up smoke, and from Sniper's position at the far end of the Archimedes’ deck, he waves back.

Goodnight, darlin’.

It's a smooth ride from there, which Sniper doesn't expect. Considering the age of the train, he assumes it would be all creaky and rickety, and not luxurious and powerful. He supposes it's Medic's doing, doting on something to keep his mind busy.

The introductions to his new party are… a little awkward.

Ankle-biter, despite everything so far, has been relatively polite. Or maybe its the embarrassment of arguing with a good friend of his superior, twice at that. Sure, he asks odd questions about Sniper's background (certainly none that Sniper's given a proper answer to), but he feels a reciprocated sense of embarrassment at the realization that Scout isn't particularly bad. Just… troubled. Too young for all of this.

Soldier's a bold, brash and increasingly violent man. Nonsensical at times, in a way that Sniper can only really attribute to a mental problem that would have had the man relocated to an asylum a decade ago. However, behind those maniacal blue eyes holds a brain with innumerable accounts of military feats and personal recollections of attacks during his time serving in the army. If this is the non-human Medic had told him about, wouldn't it be ironic? After all, most of Sniper's worries previously had been getting shot by whatever's left of the military that serve within the Outposts. Soldier smiles at him in a way that makes Sniper desperately not want to see him angry, if it means watching that manic face bear utter rage.

Medic's eyes are fixed on the back of Sniper's head, and he knows this. He chooses to ignore this.

The last, more elusive member of Medic's party is a man Sniper's only caught glimpses of when the sunlight isn't so unbearable and nobody is talking his ear off. Clean, fresh, moves like clockwork. A large cowboy hat on, despite the shade that shelters the driver's seat as the train pushes onward. The man wears gloves, a suit of all things. In whatever low words Sniper can make out - foreign too. Spy, he's called. 

And that's not the most notable thing either. What really catches Sniper's curiosity is the fact that despite every urge to shred, bite, tear into his companions, Spy appears to be exempt from the laws of his brain. If his sense of smell acts as a way to sense life, Spy is not present. 

Sniper looks over his shoulder briefly, his gaze shooting right past Medic to land on Spy. To his surprise, the man who looks cold is looking back at him too.

How nobody could sense this was not his guess to make, it seems. Through every urge to feed, every pool of blood sending shockwaves through his limbs, there is a sense of unending revulsion that roils in the bottom of Spy's stomach every time he catches a glimpse at the newcomer. If human blood is the sharp, clean lines of ink on paper, Sniper's is harsh, cruel, messy charcoal that threatens to ruin the piece. 

The man that looks dead, looking right back at him is enough to spark curiosity, however. Surprises are a given on this crew, and his morning had been spent at the mercy of a man he'd convinced himself was a traitor-to-be. But this was new and riveting, was it not? For all he expected of Medic, he certainly didn't think a pet zombie would be on the table, though he behaves and acts not unlike a typical human. If not for the odd manner of being utterly unsocialised to the point of not speaking for quite some time whenever he's put on the spot.

Docteur, you have outdone yourself. Spy narrows his eyes at Sniper, You have totally surprised me.

Spy briefly remembers his argument with Soldier over his defenses, all the way back at the second Outpost. Through all the cacophony, he'd purposefully ignored Scout's interaction with the young woman across the tracks for some time. With his hearing constantly in overdrive, he'd heard everything from Soldier shouting to sand collapsing under the feet of any passerby on the sands. However, it was very interesting, however, to check in on Scout's little meet-cute just in time to hear the charming Madame Pauling's warning.

There's a zombie going to Mexico.

Spy's gaze flits over Sniper's form. Disheveled, ill. Undead.

Not only is this man a zombie, but a famous zombie. Does this train need any more trouble?

Chapter Text

Miss Pauling paces the long hallways of one of the many estates under Helen’s name. It’s a partial comfort to her that not only do the people serving under the woman fear her, but also that they don’t even know her name. As far as Miss Pauling knows, Helen is a word spoken in late-night walks in the gardens and over piles of papers and plans that she only briefly glances over in hopes of not overstepping her boundary as simply an assistant.

Not that she doesn’t have her questions, of course. For example, where the money came from to build such beautiful houses like these; Albuera wood tossed around so lightly as to make up the floors, walls, ceilings with intricate carvings as low as the skirting boards. Marble, white and polished, obviously a vast importing process on the outside. And glass, so clear and refined and everywhere. Miss Pauling had never seen a skylight until working under Helen’s command, and she quite likes the serenity of the cloudless night sky above her.

But there are more questions than simply the process of construction. Questions without words that spiral in Miss Pauling’s mind whenever she heeds her boss’s call in the lavish, lamplit study. Walls lined with books, diagrams, ledgers. A great clock over the plush chair where Helen finds herself. It ticks slightly out of rhythm. No matter. The window behind her shows a sprawling view of neat gardens, trimmed to the edge of a forest.

Miss Pauling tries a few sentences over, wordless on her lips, until one springs out to her immediate disdain;

“Why werewolves?”

“I beg your pardon?” Helen does not look up immediately. When she does, it is with that same measured poise, as if she’d been expecting the question. Her pen pauses mid-sentence, a single drop of ink pooling at the tip.

“I-I couldn’t help but notice some of the books you’ve been studying.” Miss Pauling’s hands clasp behind her back. She forces herself not to shift around too much, too awkwardly. “Folklore, old texts. There are so many creatures to choose from - fairies, dragons, vampires,” Helen’s eyes narrow, “But you always come back to werewolves. I was wondering why.”

Helen places the pen carefully on its stand. Her chair creaks slightly as she leans forward. It echoes around the room - the building. No matter. “You know I have reason to keep my operations private, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course. I apologize.”

“But you’ve been working diligently, I suppose. It wouldn’t hurt to spare some information.” Helen smiles - she smiles - and Miss Pauling fears she may keel over any moment, “Isn’t it fascinating how quickly a man can turn into a beast?”

She swallows nervously, “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“In the Dark Ages, they believed it was divine judgement, or perhaps Satanic allegiance. But I don’t believe in a God. I don’t believe that werewolves existed, either.”

“So why do you study them?”

Helen’s smile widens, too wide. No matter. Her eyes turn cold - they’re always cold - but her smile remains. Miss Pauling sees it now, the clock hands behind her boss spinning backward, further out of rhythm.

“Because with time, they will.”

Blood blooms across Her chest. A stain that spreads too fast, impossibly fast, soaking the fabric of her bodice and trailing down to the floor. Her smile never falters.

“Flo?”

Blood reaches Miss Pauling’s shoes. She stumbles back. Beyond the window, beyond the gardens, a distant howl.

“Flo, we’re nearly there.”
The first thing she feels is the ever-present sun hitting her face, before she finally opens her eyes. Pyro is prodding her awake, while Demo stands over her.

“Ye alright, lass?”

Flo runs a shaking hand through her hair, taking a deep breath. “We’re at Fifth already?” She chooses her battle.

“Aye, Engie knows how to make a train run quicker. Doesn’he?” Demo chuckles, turning his head over his shoulder to the shadowed cabin, where a chuckles resounds.

“That’s right, partner. Fifth Outpost coming up, prepare to lug everything around for the next hour!”

Flo lets out a small, but not disappointed groan at the sight of last night’s spoils of war. Three mangled, battered furred bodies line the opposite side of the deck, tied to the railing to prevent them from slipping off as the Sascha bounds ever forward.

‘Spoils of war’ is a little bit of an exaggeration, really. The entire party spent the earlier hours of the morning hooting and hollering to draw the creatures onto the tracks, only to promptly strike them dead with the force of a train at full speed. They’d let out those ear-splitting howls, then they died. No silence followed, either, with everyone congratulating each other on the masterful tactic. And Flo smiled, she’d laughed with the others, let Demo throw a hug around her and then it was back to the rest of her well-needed sleep. 

Too many nights left without sleep had left her fatigued, but she’d never announce that to a party of skilled adventurers. What she’d never announce either, are the nightmares that haunt her.

The stone walls of the outposts would be miserable at any other era of Flo’s life, but now they resounded hope and wealth as each detail became more visible upon approaching. She stands by the front, ignoring the bodies and beaming in the red-hot sun. 

“How much do werewolves sell for?” She turns to Engie. He’d been the one to quickly coordinate running over the creatures, after all. She'd already sold plenty of them way back at the Third Outpost, but the economical gears still turn in her head from her old life and prepare for some sort of possible price changes.

“About $50, Miss.” He slows the train into the Outpost, then shrugs, “With three of them, we’ve got plenty to spend on ammo, supplies, whatever we need.” So the prices haven't dropped. Eight years ago, she would have been noting this down to pass onto her boss.

“What would we need?”

“Bandages, let’s say. Snake oil if we’re really feelin’ fancy.”

Flo’s eyes light up at the familiar words. She’d arrived with Helen once to a facility that was constructing a cure-all medicine. The term ‘snake oil’ had been thrown around once or twice, perhaps a joke between the chemists. She’d never done her own digging into what it was, however, and it was exceptionally rare for Flo to enter any of Helen’s laboratories let alone learn anything beyond eavesdropping.

How much of this - all of this - is she connected to?

“And snake oil… works?” Flo raises an eyebrow. She finds that she’s not beyond feigning cluelessness anymore, “I thought it was just shrink nonsense.” 

“Oh, it works, trust me. You wanna tell her, Demo?”

Flo turns her head to face Demo, leaning over the railing casually as Sascha begins to stop. The wind hits his clothing in a way that makes him look quite heroic. He’s dropped all the bandages now, his wounded eye on show, paler in comparison and slightly off-focus. He starts a little at Engie’s spot. Put on the spot, been there.

She’d seen first-hand that obviously something was not quite right with it, having to haul him away from walking straight off the back of the deck, and then watching him stare so vacantly around him. 

She frowns a little, but Demo only smiles, “Yeah, Ae’m right as rain.” Nothing else. Flo’s frown deepens. An itch grows in the back of her mind to ask him herself. After all, they’d shared their real names with each other, and from what she could tell that meant a sign of trust, but that would have to wait.

Heavy takes a deep breath before hauling a werewolf over one shoulder. Pyro shuffles around, helping to pull another over his other shoulder. “Thank you, маленький Молотов.” He smiles softly, but he isn’t sure if the helmet he wears would make that too evident. 

Regardless, Pyro chirps in response and goes to grab the third werewolf. Though Heavy could, without trouble too, carry the third, he lets Pyro help take some weight off of him. Their footsteps are smaller, stuttering deeper into the sand with the extra mass pulling them down.

The werewolf the mysterious little fellow carries shifts as they move, eyes parted slightly to reveal that horrid red glow and jaws ajar. It’s nose wrinkles slightly. He’d killed ten of the things in one night, years back. Who knew that all he had to tell his beloved was to keep pushing forward, strike them down, crush them. The old, nagging grief strikes his chest again, a stronger blow than any physical attack.

Он еще жив?

At some point as they walk across the Outpost to the Trading Post, Pyro trips, and Heavy yanks them upright. The corpse they carry, it jostles as Pyro starts walking again, and one of it’s thick, furred arm thuds against Pyro’s side like it had meant to grab them. That eye, it bores into Heavy’s. Ужасно.

They reach the Trading Post, the typical open-style building with bolted-down tables and some general price listings on the wall behind. A trader leans on the counter inside, unimpressed, his eyes sweeping over the bloodied bodies now dumped in front of him. His brow lifts, faintly skeptical.

Then, without warning, pain shoots right through Heavy’s forearm. The werewolf’s jaws clamp down harder, teeth screeching against the metal of his bracer. Heavy snarls, moving on instinct to grab his shotgun. Suddenly, the werewolf jerks back, lets go of him, and lunges at Pyro instead.

Claws rake through the fabrics that make up the impossible amount of layers they wear. Pyro yelps and lurches backwards, reaching for a molotov at their belt.

“No!” Heavy barks.

He tackles the beast before it can spring onto Pyro and slams it into the sand. It thrashes beneath him wildly, it's hot breath reeking of blood and… химикаты? Pyro recovers quickly, stomping one of their thick boots down on its chest. The beast’s heart is pounding hard enough that Heavy can feel its blood coursing through its body through contact alone. He has no doubts Pyro can feel it too, as they press their weight further onto the werewolf’s chest.

Heavy clamps its jaws shut with one massive white-knuckled hand and draws his shotgun with the other from its holster in an awkward flow of movement. Before the werewolf can make another attempt to escape, Heavy jams the sawed-off barrel under its chin and fires.

Blood sprays across the sands, a miserable crown to the finally-limp body.

Heavy, panting raggedly, checks over his bracer. Eight small dents press into the metal, two of the deeper ones represent the monster’s vile canines.

“You were about to use molotov?” He snaps, turning his head up to an oblivious Pyro, “Set entire building on fire? And our money?”

Pyro babbles something explanatory in response from under their mask, completely unintelligible. Heavy reaches over to yank the mask down, but Pyro ducks away with a squeak and waves him away with an even more frustratingly muffled response.

Heavy takes a deep breath, letting the adrenaline seep out of his system a little, “Spend your fifty dollars how you like.” He drags the corpse up off the floor and shoves it back across the counter. The trader doesn’t say a word and hands over the bills with trembling fingers. “Thought beast was dead. I’m sorry, Pyro.”

Pyro, to his surprise, isn’t sulking or shaking. In fact, they look completely unbothered by the events that had just taken place. They squeal as their share of the money’s handed over to them, pressing the bills up to their chest for a moment before making a mad dash for the General Store. 

Чтобы раздобыть побольше Молотовых, я полагаю. Fifty dollars, and they’ll burn us all alive.

“So you’ve driven a train before, you say, Miss?” Engie grins down at Flo, who’s sitting quite awkwardly in the conductor’s seat, “D’you know what model?”

“Gosh, no, it was just a train I had access to. But, when I put it up for auction, it felt like everybody wanted it, you know? This…” Flo scans the front deck, with all its dials and digits and little signals, “Is a little bit more advanced. What model is this?” She looks up at the conductor with a faint smile. I do not know enough about trains. How the hell did I make it as far as I did?

“Not a clue.” Flo blinks in surprise. I thought he knew all about trains. “Heavy might know. It’s his train, after all.” Engie gestures to each little thing on the dial board, “That’s the time. 4pm right now, so we’ll probably set off around 5 if I do a good enough job at teachin’ ya everything.” He chuckles, mostly to himself, “And that’s our distance.” He points to the six digits, just over 850,000.

“I thought it was only 80,000 miles to Mexico, why does it say-”

“I believe that Heavy’s story to tell, Miss. And that’s our fuel. We’re about half-way, so we’ll get to the next outpost just fine, but we’ll need to buy more coal there or we’re no better than a limp pony after. And if you’ve driven a train before, you know what the lever does.”

Flo’s just happy to have a normal conversation, even if it’s more of an educational tutorial into how trains actually work and not just ‘pull lever, go forward’, which was as much as she knew on her old train. It was her idea to learn properly, anyway. As possibly the least equipped member of the party, she made the decision to at least be a worthy back-up driver for any future problems that may arise, even if Engie has a way around the machinery that makes it run smoother than a whistle and overwhelmingly faster.

Back-track. She isn’t poorly equipped by any means. She’d seen how anything that wasn’t a zombie shies away from the crucifixes that she keeps stored away, and if it’s anything like the possibly renamed ‘Holy Water’... She’s just fine. Her thumb runs absentmindedly over the cork of one of the bottles in her pocket. Helen must have had a contingency in place, after all.

Pyro scrambles onto the deck, and the two of them turn to look at the curious little thing as several bottles spill out from their hands and onto the wooden panels. Instead of corks, they're topped off with a thick roll of cloth that sticks out slightly.

Engie lets out a low whistle, “That's a lot of big damage you've got there. You sure ya won't explode yourself?”

Pyro shakes their head and stands up to brush themselves off, before crouching down to pick up every bottle and store them away. Then, from under one or maybe two of their jackets, they pull out a few unlit torches. Their body language reads ‘proud to contribute’.

“Won't we attract more trouble with those?” Flo glances at Engie.

“Nah, the monsters tend to keep away.” No, they don't, she wants to retort, but the words stay simmering in her throat. Torches didn't save Helen, she's glad they didn't, but a different sort of ache rises in her chest at the idea of this group being torn apart. “Let me light those for you.”

He takes the torches and crouches by the fuel compartment, turning them every so often like he were roasting meat on a spit. It doesn't take long for the cloth-covered ends to go up in flames, and Engie quickly withdraws them with a chuckle. Clearly, he didn't expect them to already be covered in something more flammable.

“Here ya go.” He hands over the bundle to Pyro, who looks up at the flames with something possibly akin to admiration. Their eyes are a soft red in the glow. “How about you go help them set it up?” Engie stands back up and pats Flo on the back. “Normally we'd get our friend Demo on the defenses, but… sure wouldn't help to have more back-up.”

“Where is he right now?”

Pyro points towards the General Store, and Flo nods slowly. She stands up out of the seat, the spot quickly replaced with Engie.

She'd set up torches before, back on the old train. This can't be difficult. Two on either end of the back of the railings seems common-sense enough for her. Pyro gently passes over each torch as Flo ties them down, and even helps tighten the knots. It's only then that Flo really internalizes that she's never had a one on one interaction with them before. Thick, gloved hands that itch to prod every tangible surface with curiosity, a larger-than-fit hat swept low over their eyes and coal dust smattered on every feasible patch of their clothing. 

There's something to be questioned in their complete, obvious obsession with the torches, the molotovs, how they perch near the fuel compartment besides Engie for comfort. For all their limited (or maybe not, I have no idea) vocabulary, they're remarkably good at listening and understanding orders. Flo hadn't even asked for another piece of rope to tie the second torch down, and as she reached to grab more, Pyro had placed just enough into her hand that she didn't need to break focus. 

Soon, all six torches line the railings neatly on each side, and the two of them sit on the edge of the deck together. Flo steals glances at their notebook, charcoal doodles of buildings, towns, rock formations that even she recognized. One doodle, a laboratory, catches her eye but Pyro swiftly flips the page to begin another piece.

Unlike Helen with her fountain pen, there's nothing delicate about the broad-then-shaky strokes of charcoal that grow across the page. For the first few minutes, the drawing might as well have been nothing but dulling the edge of the charcoal for later use, but the large shapes break down into smaller ones, and then she recognizes it.

A werewolf. With its wild, wide eyes and sharp teeth. It's fur sticks out at strange angles, limbs contorted slightly. Claws, longer than she'd seen before, but perhaps an artistic liberty. Pyro looks up at Flo, and then points to the drawing. 

“It's a nice drawing.” She smiles softly. What else do I even say? “You're talented.”

Pyro prods the drawing again, a little more purposefully.

“I don't know what you mean.” Flo frowns, “Should I ask Engie?”

They nod, and only then does she turn her head to the other side of the train. “I think Pyro's trying to tell me something. Could you possibly, um, translate?”  

The conductor doesn’t even turn his head, only calls back, “They're telling you their story, Miss.” Pyro nods at that, “Maybe you should share yours.” They nod again.

My story? It's all aching and fear. Abandoning a simple life to live up to an impossible standard.

She turns back to Pyro, her voice a little lower as she stumbles over a few words. They tilt their head slightly. “I, uh, used to work for a woman. She was rich, powerful. I was her assistant, actually.” They lean a little closer, curious. “She owned, well, a lot of things. Farms, companies, portions of this railroad, other organisations. She died, actually, a few days ago.” Flo points at the drawing of the werewolf, “They got her. I'm lucky I survived.”

Pyro looks down at their drawing, and slowly back up to meet her eyes. They raise a thumb, then a thumbs-down, alternating. 

“Oh, no, no, it's… good. I think. She wasn't…” Helen shoots one werewolf point-blank, then another. “She wasn't good. Come here, let me show you.” Flo reaches for the sketchbook, and flips a few pages back to the laboratory doodle. Pyro tenses, and she almost regrets her decision but decides it's worth getting her point out there.

“She made these,” Flo speaks softly, “And she's dead now. So are all of the people working there.” 

Her friend - friend - relaxes, and then they nod. They take back the sketchbook and close it, looking off into the desert behind the train, outside of the Outpost. She studies them for a short while, before taking out one of the small bottles labelled ‘HOLY WATER’. A white liquid, foggy.

“The buildings, they produced these. I don’t know why, but I think I’ll figure it out.” It’s refreshing to have someone to discuss things freely with.

But in the same split-second it takes for Pyro to take a look at the bottle, they immediately jump to their feet in a feat of athletic ability she had never seen before, and scurry off to sit beside Engie.

It's a little awkward, isn't it? Sitting alone all of a sudden. When Heavy returns from restocking ammo, he simply passes over a few cartridges to Flo before distributing the rest between himself, Engie, Pyro (Flo has yet to see them use a gun) and setting aside a portion for the disappeared Demo.

Or not. Demo leans against the deck, legs crossed over each other with heels digging into the sands. 

“Are you okay?” Flo turns to look down at him.

“Ae think me eye's not workin’.” He mutters. “Dinnae why Ae'm tellin’ ye this, but Ae am.” 

“I don't think I know what you mean.”

“Cannae see shit out o’ it. How'm'Ae s’pposed to shoot a gun like this?” Demo shrugs, “Well, Ae've got a plan, anyway. Forget this. Ae'm fine.” He turns and climbs onto the deck.

“What's the plan?” But Demo doesn't stop moving. He walks straight to the front of the train to pick up his ammo, and shoves the cartridges into his pocket. 

Flo's gaze follows him. Tavish, the word still doesn't settle as familiar to her, despite everything, God, please have a good plan.

Completely able-bodied people had fallen easily to everything the wasteland had to offer, that was nothing new to Flo whatsoever, but the idea of losing half of her vision and having to keep on going was, well, less than appetising. She already feels less than useless with all limbs and organs intact.

The rest of their downtime is spent in small conversation. Heavy teaches her how to quickly reload a pistol, and how to hold it properly. Demo steals glances at the bottles that clink together somewhere under Pyro's clothes, and Engie snorts in amusement at the sight.

“Miss, you wanna take us out of here?” The conductor beams, and Flo starts at the sudden call. 

“Oh, sure.” She takes her place at the driver's seat, looking over the dial board. Everything in order. She nods to herself, as if there's anything really to be read. It's moreso to look intuitive than anything. She pulls the lever, and jolts back at the hefty force of movement, and immediately lets go.

“Only a little at a time, Flo. Imagine you've been standin’ still for hours,” I can imagine, sure, “And then breaking out into a sprint. Seen people destroy the tiny mechanisms in their trains with what you've done.”

A twinge of red colours her cheeks, but Engie pats her shoulder, “C’mon, you're doin’ just fine. Let's try again.”

There we go, Sascha begins running forward smoothly, like it does with Engie but slowly. What the hell is his trick?

“I see train ahead.” Heavy comments from Flo's blind spot on the other side of the cabin. Demo runs up beside him, looking out. His eyes widen slightly.

“On the tracks?” Her voice raises in a panic. Before she lets go of the lever again, Engie places his hand over the lever to keep it in place.

“Derailed.” Heavy adds, as if it were obvious.

“D'you think Heavy would let us crash into another train?” The conductor - or am I? - looks down at Flo as she takes hold of the lever again. “See, now I know you weren't in a proper party before we came along.” 

“I tried not to make it obvious.”

“When you have someone checking your blind spot, you know you can trust them. You control everythin’ here, right? The rest of us are passengers, free to get stranded out here. Plus, if there was another train up ahead, Heavy'd probably have jumped out by now.”

“No.” The Russian mutters, “I die with Sascha.”

“Sure. Keep goin’, Miss, let's take a look at the train.”

Heavy gestures to Flo when she should slow down, and she follows the order. Trust.

Demo's the first to leap off the train, long before it's stopped. He tosses himself over the railing and scrambles to inspect the derailed train, despite everyone's shouts following him. Sascha slows to a stop, and Flo stands up to watch him in the growing darkness. Her heartbeat shakes her body, as she looks out to the train. It's laid down on its side parallel to the tracks, half buried in the windswept sands.

“It cannae be!” Demo yells back at everyone, “D'ye think somethin’ happened ta my party?”

Heavy bristles, “No, Защита!” Someone's obviously not over him hurling himself into the desert. There's still a flare of panic in his gaze, that shows even in his pale eye. 

Flo recognises the tension in the air, one of worry and a shame towards someone doing anything but what they should. She’s been there before, in Demo’s shoes, way back when she started working for Helen. Something akin to being not understood by the others, but in her case there was no attempt from her superior to understand why the ex-sheltered girl might not understand every single fucking social cue- She takes a breath.

And what did I need from everyone back then?

Someone to speak my language.

“Demo!” Flo feels the eyes on her as she calls out to him, “You're the defenses guy, right?” Demo sways slightly.

Engie turns to Pyro and mutters under his breath, “You didn't let him drink, did you?” The masked little thing shrugs. 

“Demo, look!” Flo calls again, “We've got barbed wire all over our railings! Sheet metal, further back! I… I don't see any over there! Do you?”

Demo stumbles around the train, until he emerges on the other side, “No!” 

“A-And I'm guessing nothing gets through your defenses?” 

“Ae'd like ta see anythin’ try!” He roars.

“Then it's not your train!” Flo leans forward slightly, “If you're right about your… your skills, they can't have died!” 

Demo’s silhouette on the sands freezes, and he backs away from the shadow of the wreckage.

“So they’re still ahead of us, we’ll catch up to them. Come back, Demo.” She keeps her voice steady. Stern, even. Despite being a very new arrival, the tone comes naturally to her, not unlike a schoolteacher.

“Aye, guess ye may be right.” Demo sounds dejected in a way that makes Flo’s heart twist a little in pity, but judging by the low growl Heavy lets out in frustration, there isn’t much room for emotion. He returns to the train, boots on the wooden boards in a slow pace, not a word to be added.

He really thought his friends had died. Flo can barely tolerate one loss, if she were to imagine four she mig

ht faint. Not like she hasn’t already.

“You could’ve been killed,” Heavy mutters as Demo passes him, “Jumping out of train like that.”

“Would’nae be the first time.” And Demo doesn’t meet his eye.

And before Heavy can respond - presumably something sharp - Flo grabs his arm and shoots him a look. It’s barely anything to us, this is everything to him.

And Heavy stays quiet.

Sascha is once again plunged into a silence, awkward and a little painful even. Flo’s head aches with a little shame at ordering around grown men who should know better, but a little thought at the back of her head knows it was probably necessary. It felt good to have people listen to her, actually. Perhaps it’s a symptom of a deep-seated rage at her ex-employer, or one of the few pleasantries of being a lady (untrue; as soon as zombies became common all sense of chivalry threw itself out of the window. It was not easy to get used to).

Am I going to become power hungry? It’s certainly something to think about, really. But Flo has a feeling that a few successful conversations does not equate to having enough money to fund the end of days.

“Well, it’s gettin’ late. Why don’t we stay here for tonight?” Engie breaks the silence, but it’s more like smashing a window with a hammer. All heads turn to him, and one by one everyone mumbles an agreement.

Pyro settles next to Engie next to the fuel vent, and Demo’s quick to pass out right in front of them. In one of his hands, Flo catches a glimpse of something red. She wants to believe it’s not one of the red bottles Pyro harbours with passion and that Demo is not drunk, and so she believes it. The last thing she needs is another reason to worry about him.

“You should sleep,” Heavy surveys the horizon.

“I don’t know.” Flo sighs, “I’ve got too much on my mind, maybe I should take the first shift?”

The bear of a man turns his head slightly towards Flo, the light from the torches bouncing off of his armour, his one white eye. “Then I shall keep watch with you.”

“Thank you.” Even as she wishes she could be alone to think, it’s probably safer. Definitely safer, even though she’s not sure what she brings to the table out of the two. It seems that Heavy’s proficient in all the typical forms of combat, built like a bastion and as fortified as one at that. Flo hasn’t even been able to test the Holy Water on anything, and that eats away at her. A pistol is fine, but everyone can shoot a gun these days. 

Talk, Flo. Just talk. “Demo’s been, um, jumpy lately. Kinda secretive too-”

“Skittish, like rat.” Heavy doesn’t look at her, but his body stiffens just enough for her to notice.

“He hasn’t said anything to you?” Flo catches herself, “I mean, I just assumed he might have mentioned something to… anyone?”

There’s a brief pause. “No, but I observe. He is becoming distant.” Heavy sighs as he points it out, “I do not know why. But if he does not tell, I do not know.”

Part of Flo really does not want to say this, she’s a woman of her word after all, but the fact of the matter is that Demo is struggling and Heavy wants to - I assume he wants to - help him, something has to be said. “He went blind. Gosh, no, not blind, just his left eye. Like you did. I noticed it before he told me, he nearly walked off of the train a few nights ago. I don’t know why he told me in particular, but he said he had… a plan?”

There’s a longer pause. “And he didn’t think to tell me?” Heavy turns to look at Flo fully. He gestures to his left eye - also blind - and then the other before making a gesture that reads is he stupid? 

“Maybe he’s ashamed. He… he might feel useless?” Hey, me too. “Regardless, it’s all theory for now. I haven’t had the chance to speak to him fully about it.”

“When you lose vision in one eye,” Heavy takes a pause to think, “You lose depth perception. You do not know what that means. Let me, hmm...” He hums a little, “Think of painting. You touch canvas, everything is flat. See rock in distance?” Heavy points at a silhouette in the horizon, “To me, close enough to touch. To you?”

Flo stays quiet to let Heavy finish, before she realises she’s being beckoned to speak, “Oh, me? That’s… that’s miles away.”

“Da. To us, everything… flat. Distance can be anything from miles away to in front of our faces. You cannot trust solid ground, you must guess what world looks like.”

“I think I understand, yeah. Don’t tell him I said anything, okay? I don’t want him to think I’m against him.” You cannot trust solid ground. Demo’s smiles hadn’t reached his eyes all day, not even as they ran over the werewolves that morning. Flo forces herself to try to imagine the world through his eye, and it is a little difficult, but the pieces stitch together a little. The wind in her hair, the howling in the distance, and everything is flat. 

The werewolves keep howling, and Heavy grabs her arm, “They’re getting closer.”

“What?” Flo snaps herself out of thought with a shake of her head, “Do we run them over again?” It had been fun, and certainly made her feel better about the fear of them that makes her legs collapse from underneath her. 

“No, they’re behind the train.”

“Drive the train backwards?”

Heavy gives Flo a stern look - so that’s how it feels - and walks to the end of the deck to stare out into the dark desert.

The wind picks up again, throwing Flo’s hair out of her face as she heads to join Heavy’s side. “Maybe they’re just wolves?” But judging the way he moves, the way he doesn’t move, her stomach sinks. When Heavy reaches over his shoulder to grab his shotgun, that’s when Flo knows for sure what’s going on. She rifles through her pockets to pull out her revolver, she runs her thumb over the smooth, clean metal.

A night like this not so long ago, a torchlit train with someone she cared about and werewolves nearby, her hand would have gone to a near-empty rusted old thing that couldn’t do much of anything. Now, she’s sure she doesn’t want to let anyone on this train die. 

Engie curls into Pyro, his hat tipped low. Pyro leans into his chest, twitching though asleep. Demo’s sprawled out across the deck, one hand still clutching the red something, but his fingers are loose now. Everyone’s asleep.

From the start, they’ve been kind to her, all of them.

“Please don’t let them get too close to the train,” It’s a plea to nothing but the sand and moon, not something Heavy can exactly will to be with a snap of his fingers. Flo’s legs take on that familiar shaking that she’s grown a little too cosy to. The edges of her vision blur.

“I can’t see anything. You?” Heavy gestures to the distance with his shotgun.

Fighting back the urge to drop to the ground and cover her face with her hands, Flo squints out into the distance. Four pairs of red dots in the shadows curl in and around each other - a pack. “Th-There, four. How do we lure them away?” 

She raises her pistol, to which Heavy grabs her wrist. “Don’t shoot,” He speaks firmly, surely, “Not until they’re closer. We will not waste bullets, I spent good money on them.”

The torches crackle somewhere beside Flo, taking up the noise she needs to hear out the incoming footsteps. She lowers her pistol, eyeing Heavy carefully as she turns back. 

The gnashing of teeth, low growls, slow blinking act as a shield between her and the reality of the situation. We won’t die. How does she look from a distance? Is the imaginary onlooker just as distraught as she was? Are they falling to the sands and fainting like a little girl? 

No they aren’t. Without warning, Flo raises her pistol again and fires into the shadows. A sickening dark liquid shoots into the yellow arc surrounding the train. “I’m not letting them anywhere near me.” She interrupts herself as she fires another bullet. 

She supposes that Heavy has taken her disobedience as signal, and he shoots at the first black shape that rapidly approaches, sending it back into the dark. No words are shared between them as the bullets practically throw themselves into the bodies of the sickening creatures.

For a brief moment the prospect of having woken up the rest of the party flickers in her mind like the last embers of a nightlight, and she shakes it off with another pointed shot at a pair of red eyes.

“You took matters into your own hands.” Heavy mutters before another gunshot rings in their ears. His mouth curls in a small smile, “Good.”

Flo takes a deep breath. The shaking in her legs ceases almost instantaneously, along with the dark ring around her peripherals. To an alarming degree, as she finds that she can only find herself fixed on the targets and firing like clockwork.

The bullets stop flying - at least on her end - and she drags her gaze down to reload her revolver. As each bullet slots into the cylinder, new gunfire replaces her absence. Lifting her head, Engie grits his teeth as he reloads in one swift motion and lets his shotgun loose once more on the werewolves.

“Jus’ as I was gettin’ some real good shut-eye.” He rumbles, but offers Flo a polite smile, “You just keep shootin’, Miss.”

As Flo’s fingers reach into her pocket for the last bullet, she brushes against the cork of the Holy Water buried deep under everything else she has stored. The werewolves don’t seem to be getting any closer, and she doesn’t exactly have a good throwing arm. So she stands up to start firing, but in the same moment she’s shoved out of the way.

“Cover ye ears, e’erybody!” Demo steadies her in one arm, and with the other he hurls a red object into the sand. A molotov would have exploded up in flames, but this one’s flame is small, and fizzles out. Flo (and the others for that matter) covers her ears with a curious look at Demo’s wide grin.

A BANG! that hits Flo’s skeleton like the bludgeoning of a sledgehammer resounds in the desert, and she instinctively shuts her eyes tight against the white light that blinks out of existence just as soon as it appeared.

Then, Demo howls in a laughter to a calibre of pure, unbridled schadenfreude. Flo opens her eyes slowly, carefully to the sight of the pool of blood and teeth and sinew on the sands that she could’ve sworn hadn’t been there prior to Demo’s entrance. Flo delicately removes her hands from her ears. One finds its fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle of Holy Water in her pocket. My chance… 

“I see ya got yer hands on some dynamite, son.” Engie turns to look at Demo. “Yer lucky you didn’t mess up them tracks behind us.”

With the last few moments of raucous laughter, Demo responds. “Nae, Ae used ta work in the Stirling mines. Ae ken me way around a good stick o’ dynamite. All the measurements, the timings-”

A snarl of unconstrained animalistic rage mixed with the sudden thudding of determined claws against the ground, a bloodied werewolf sprints towards the train. 

Flo has never seen one in this state before - skin sloughing off of unfathomably large musculature. 

My chance.

Before shotguns can be raised, before another stick of dynamite is thrown, the cork of the Holy Water is thrown off and the bottle smashed onto the ground ahead of the beast.

The liquid sprays up into the air, sinking deep into the bloodstained welts of the werewolf. A sinister white fog curls around the creature, followed by a loud sizzling and a series of pained cries as it falls to the ground, writhing, curling in on itself. Where muscles were exposed, now the bones lay bare, and the werewolf dies.

The silence that follows is not one of cheer, like it had been in the morning. Despite Flo’s grin at finally finding her freedom in defending her life, the others eye her with long looks of a shock deeply concerned. If she wasn’t certain she was still herself, she would’ve assumed she’d just turned into a ball of flames. That would be a shock worth understanding.

“What was that?” Heavy is always the first to speak in times of true disbelief. “What did you just use?”

“Holy Water.” All eyes on me. “It’s not harmful to humans, I swear.”

“Are ye sure?” Demo’s hand finally slides off of her shoulder.

Engie butts in, gesturing with his hand for everyone to settle down, “We’re just asking, ‘cause… I dunno if ya noticed, um…” He points to the exposed shoulderblade and ribcage of the corpse on the sands. The sizzling still hasn’t stopped, slowly eating away at more of the flesh, “Water ain’t s’posed to do that.”

Flo brings out a second bottle of Holy Water, holding it up for everyone to see. “Not water, Holy Water. I don’t know what it is, what it’s made out of, but I…” The version of me prior to meeting these people should stay dead. “I heard that some factories were producing it. I wanted to test a theory, and it… worked. I killed the werewolf.”

“Ae didnae get enough sleep fer this.” Demo rubs his eyes, “So ye’ve got mystical werewolf-killin’ juice?”

“Um, yeah.” She winces. Gotta meet him where he’s at. “It’s totally harmless to us.” Flo uncorks the second bottle, letting a little pour onto her skin. The others do careen forwards to stop her, but the water drops gently onto the deck of the train, and pools onto the wooden boards.

“I-I don’t understand.” Heavy eyes the bottle with a suspicious gleam that gives the outward signs that he plans to steer clear of the concoction.

“I don’t either.” Flo beams, “But it works, so I think I like my chances with keeping it around. For, uh, emergencies of course.”

“Emergencies.” Heavy rolls the word over his tongue, “Fine. It does not harm Sascha or party. Keep it. Just… warn us next time.”

“Like Demo warned us?”

“He’ll hear what I have to say in the morning.” Demo slowly steps away from the conversation, and Heavy shoots him a glare, “Or maybe now.” The two walk over beside the conductor’s cabin to begin a very detailed lecture on how to operate as a team and not have everyone exploded.

Flo lets out a little chuckle to herself. My chance. It’s cathartic, really, to be in possession of a large quantity of items that easily incinerate the same beings that tore apart her employer. Karmic retribution, maybe. She crouches on the ground, unable to stifle the growing laughter of relief and absolute cleansing of her self-esteem. She covers her eyes with one hand. In the darkness, for the first time, she doesn’t see the bloodied remnants of the woman who owned her.

“I know those factories,” Engie interrupts her moment, “The ones where you say the Holy Water was made.”

“You do?”

“If it came from the factories, it ain’t nothin’ but trouble. Best keep it for emergencies. Don’t go throwin’ it around whenever you like. The woman who headed that operation is a sick bastard.”

Flo cranes her head up to look at Engie, “What?”

“D’you happen to know her? They call her the Administrator down here.”

Miss Pauling stands idly outside of the door to a meeting room. She stares at the wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Inside that room, Helen discusses progress in making a- and then all voices are lowered. The conspiracy whistles past Miss Pauling’s head.

“No, I don’t.” Flo forces her voice not to shake. She runs a hand through her hair with a giggle, “What kind of name is ‘the Administrator’ anyway?”

Engie smiles, “Exactly what I’ve always thought.” He walks back to where he’d been before the gunfire awoke him, sleeping at his seat with his hat tipped over his head.

Heavy and Demo are still locked in stern conversation. Demo laughs off everything said, proposing his new contributions to the party. Heavy pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

And Pyro’s eyes stay locked onto Flo’s.

Chapter Text

The long-lost rattle of train wheels over the tracks was once a feeling that would have lulled Sniper to sleep - warm under the protection of whoever’s on night watch, or maybe he’d be the content man staring at the stars overhead - but now it only serves to keep him bristling in an uncomfortably suffocating embrace. Surrounded by the red-hot scent of blood in the bodies of blissfully unaware figures, Sniper clutches his rifle firmly to his chest. It had become a habit that had bloomed over his years solitary to keep a weapon close enough to fire up his cranium if he found he could not control himself any longer.

He glances at the digits of the Archimedes’ dialboard, scanning until his half-rotting eyes land on a time. 1:00am. Sniper bites back the urge to leap off of the deck and make a break for it.

But he’s not a prisoner here, Medic had gladly invited him. Sniper chose to join, chose to join, chose to join and that had sealed his fate.

His fingers gently run over the trigger of his rifle, a self-soothing gesture that only serves to remind himself that the bullets have a 50/50 chance of landing squarely in the head of the beholder.

Sniper abruptly stands before he has time to think of what to do.

Scout sleeps sprawled across a section of the deck closer to the conductor’s cabin, his hat tipped low over his eyes, bandana bunched in one of his fists, one of his boots threatening to fall off and go hurtling down the tracks, never to be seen again.

Medic, prim and proper as ever, sleeps leaning upright against the railing of the moving train. His glasses are tucked away inside his jacket, probably the same inside pocket as he used to do back in the day. If Sniper remembers well, the upper one closest to the centre. He isn’t sure why he remembers such a detail.

Soldier leans on Medic’s unmoving shoulder, mouth ajar, snoring impossibly loudly from lips dotted with scars. Sniper’s familiar with the trophy prizes of drunken brawls. Soldier keeps his arms crossed tightly across his chest, over the battered blue uniform of a service he’d been long discharged from. A military man.

Soldier is loud, boisterous.

He’ll kill me.

And Spy drives the train through the nights, calm and quite formal even as no eyes should reasonably be watching. He wears suits, even this late into the apocalypse, where most men have resorted to even the most bloodied and dusty rags as fit for clothing. Sniper looks down at his clothes, and can only imagine that his cheeks are coloured in, what, embarrassment?

I haven’t got anythin’ to prove to him.

Except that Sniper is normal. Except that Sniper is a friend. Except that Sniper doesn’t feel the urge to rip their three compatriots into rotting amalgamations of what they once were.

He uneasily shifts his weight to his other foot, letting out a small creak in the wooden boards that coaxes Spy to angle his head slightly. In the dark, Sniper can just make out one blue eye trying to make an opinion out of him.

“You should sleep, mate.” Sniper doesn’t mean to sound so unsure, but he never knows what to do when put on the spot. “It’s late. I can take over.”

In the cold voice of a man planning out the rest of the conversation, “Don’t you need to sleep too, ami?”

Ami. Weirdo.

“Been out here so long, I only need a few hours’ sleep.”

“Scared of the zombies?”

Sniper’s thumb runs over the trigger of his rifle. 50/50 sounds like good odds. “Excuse me?” He lets out a little scoff, before stepping closer as to avoid waking the others, “What did you say to me?”

“It’s the end of days, non? Everyone’s afraid of zombies nowadays.” Spy keeps his gaze fixed on Sniper’s, two bright blue eyes seizing his entire body still. “And werewolves, and vampires.”

Fuckin’ weasel.

“I’m not afraid of anything out here, mate. We’ve got worse where I’m from.”

“I was not aware that in your country you could turn into a spider within a moment’s notice.”

“What are you getting at ‘ere?” Sniper leans down. The sickly feeling of shame washes over him when he realises this is the closest he’s been to a new person since becoming infected. Where he’d expect to get overwhelmed with the urge to sink his teeth into something, he finds himself quite clear-in-mind. Spy carries no scent of blood, Sniper has to keep reminding himself of this fact.

“Everyone has something to be afraid of. I was simply asking what you were afraid of.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sniper nods dismissively, “I’m afraid of becomin’ a stuck-up little wanker like you, proddin’ around a stranger’s business. Who gave you the right to be askin’ these questions? What are you afraid of, since we’re gettin’ all personal?”

Spy shrugs, and looks back out onto the deserts before the train. He wears a small smirk on his face. “Zombies, like everyone else.”

Sniper grits his teeth, then shoves his hands into his pockets and pulls away, “Bullet to the skull kills ‘em like everyone else.”

The other end of the train makes for a much easier morning.

By the time the sun has risen, the rest of the party have started to come to. 

First it was Medic, prying himself away from Soldier in a way that wouldn't immediately wake him - though Sniper is tempted to believe he wouldn't rouse if a cluster of vampires had descended onto the train. Medic nods politely at Sniper, offering a little wave of ‘hey, you didn't make a run for it!’ that Sniper doesn't even find patronizing, and goes to Spy to receive updates on the nighttime happenings.

Then Soldier awoke as he slipped from where Medic had balanced him, smacking his face directly into the nails in which the railing is rooted to the deck. He lets out a grumble of frustration, before going to nudge awake someone who isn't there. He stands up, eyeing Spy and Medic's discussion, jumps up to join - or maybe interrupt - them.

The last to wake is Scout, who looks like he could have been dead in the moments prior to Soldier kicking him in the ribs around 10am and sends him rolling to the other side of the deck by Sniper's feet.

“Hey, what was that for?” Scout sits up, and adjusts his boot to fit.

“If I had the means, I'd be doing the Reveille! You should feel lucky!” Soldier barks. “Get up, maggot!”

Scout stands to his feet gingerly, rubbing his side. He unwraps his bandana from over his hand and ties it around the back of his neck.

“Wow, y’really are lucky. He could've done a uniform check.” Sniper mutters, shooting the kid a smile.

“Or asked me to march ‘round the deck for an hour, huh?” Scout grins back. He almost seems like a normal person, and not the weird little freak who destroyed the Huntsman.

“What's ‘is deal then?” Sniper leans back on the railing.

“He, uh, used to be in the military,” No, really? “And his base… got a lot of zombies in it. We- We met at the First Outpost, and he became great friends with our old friend Demo but Demo jumped off the train to save us from some… outlaws and Soldier's just gotten more, I dunno, weird about everythin’? Paranoid, yeah.”

He's gonna kill me. “Right. So he's crazy.”

“I think Medic's scarier. Should've seen him the other day, killed a guy younger than me.” 

Sniper's gaze strikes the back of Medic's jacket. His head is lowered to speak to Spy, patiently and taking his time despite Soldier standing directly next to them. Medic keeps one finger raised to keep Soldier at bay, before speaking to him.

Medic used to be his world, how things have changed. 

“Killed a man, y'say?” Sniper mutters, “Sounds like ‘im alright.” 

No it doesn't.

A full moon shines above the three, and Medic has finally taken a break from driving the train to sit on the deck beside Heavy. Sniper glances their way, an awkward flush running up his face before returning his gaze to the woodland to which he owes his night watch. But his name is called, the name nobody calls him by, and he's beckoned to sit with the two. He rests his head on Heavy's shoulder and listens to Medic discuss a kind future for them.

Scout raises an eyebrow, “He's always been like that? I thought he went insane recently.”

“Nah, he's always been full of crazy ideas. Guess he just never got around to makin’ them real.” 

Medic chuckles as he speaks to Soldier, before offering a kind word and dismissing him from conversation. Soldier bristles a little bit, and returns back to Sniper and Scout's conversation. Scout shies away a little, as if expecting another blow. As Soldier raises a hand…

“How do you guys feel about, eh, raidin’ a town? We can get supplies, uh, ammo too! You guys like shootin’ shit, right? I know you do, Soldier!” Scout stammers out in a rapid succession of saving face.

Soldier grins, one of the wild, almost animalistic ones Sniper's never seen on another man, and his hand turns to a thumbs up, “Great idea, private! Not a better way to spend the morning!” 

“That's if Medic agrees to it.” Sniper raises an eyebrow.

“We outnumber the vote! If we are the last bastion of my beautiful country, then we must uphold democracy!” With that, Soldier pulls out his shotgun and begins swiping it ‘clean’ with an old rag, singing some old military melody.

Scout and Sniper exchange a glance. Then another. Slowly but surely, they begin to laugh between themselves, and Sniper gestures for Scout to talk to Medic about the idea.

The Archimedes slows to a halt at the abandoned station of a long-dead town. Sniper's run these routes before, he knows everything he has to do, but this time there's the thought that eats away at the back of his brain. What if I fuck up here?

It's different alone. Especially in his case. In and out, practically. The zombies pay him no mind unless he makes any loud noises, which he's more than practiced enough to not do. Shove ammo into his bag, return to the Huntsman, disappear into the distance.

This time there's people, people with things like blood and medical needs and loud noises.

So, of course, Sniper has to fit into the crowd and not stick out like a sore thumb but what personality does he take on?

He can't be the only one who's noticed Scout's incessant bitching about bandages, but he certainly doesn't want to just rampage around like the madman Soldier. Medic is probably the most efficient then, but zombies would still be on his tail regardless. I hate the concept, but sticking to Spy might be my best bet.

If he really doesn't carry bloodscent, zombies shouldn't be after him. And that'll be a-okay for me. 

As they prepare to disembark, Soldier passes Spy his hat. Scout's the first to explain it, “Yeah, I guess he has a habit of losing it. I dunno, never seen it, but Spy holds onto it for him.” 

Long, tangled mess of hair deliberately cut to avoid getting in the way of his sickeningly bright blue eyes, Soldier waves enthusiastically before hopping onto the platform of the station and inspecting what he can of the town.

“Mayor, right there.” Soldier raises his shotgun to point at the little figure in the distance shambling about in a ripped-up suit, “I will provide backup to whoever will break into the bank, the rest will loot the town. Am I clear, men?” 

The party nods in succession, and Scout raises a hand, “I'll take bank duty!”

“Because you don't want to be around the zombies?” Spy raises an eyebrow, “I'll take the bank.”

“Hey, pal, we're all tryna get to Mexico here! And you're always trying to kill somethin’, so I thought you'd feel more comfortable stabbin’ the shit outta a zombie or two. Am I wrong?”

Mexico. Sniper awkwardly glances at the others, and he finds that the rest are doing the same. A safe haven, so he hears, but only for those who are uninfected. Sniper is a perfect example of someone who should not be going to Mexico - and he hasn't planned on it since the fateful blood moon. 

What he isn't so sure of is why the others seem so awkward. Spy looks off into the distance wistfully, Soldier shifts about uneasily, and Medic urges everyone to get their act together with a small cough.

Scout sighs, “Okay, okay, fine, we won't go to Mexico right away. We still gotta wait for Demo anyway, I get it. Geez, are we gonna kill these zombies or what? I'm still breakin’ into that bank either way. See ya.” He steps onto the platform and walks down the steps into the main road of the town.

It's theatrical how he does things, like he's trying to impress an audience. Maybe swinging his revolver by the trigger before shooting the nearest zombie down makes the ladies swoon, but with a group of old men it doesn't have nearly enough charm.

“So…” Medic clasps his hands together, “None of us are going to Mexico.”

“I will not desert my country in a time of need! I took an oath! My plans are to see to it that no zombie or werewolf or vampire makes it beyond that fateful bridge!” Soldier salutes to nobody.

“Ja, that's… honorable.” The doctor takes a deep breath, “I know about the two of you. I understand your reasons, just keep up appearances, please. Unlike us, Scout has no future here. We'll talk to him about our plans later.” Medic follows Scout into the town, and Soldier trails behind them.

Before Spy can even attempt to make a remark, or maybe express an apology for his behaviour in the early morning, Sniper walks off to begin looting the town.

Working in a team is weird. Things that he'd never look twice at are now things he needs to purposefully search for and store away. Upon entering his first building, a dilapidated house, he almost walks right past a lantern set neatly upon a table.

Pretty little thing, we could set it up on the far end of the deck.

Then his hands reach for a roll of barbed wire, looping it around the clothed section of his arm so as to not purposefully jam it painlessly into his skin and get caught with green blood pouring down his fingers.

Sniper eyes a small stockpile of bandages in the corner. Maybe Scout's bitching was effective, because Sniper finds that he wants to bring them back, impress the group or whatever. 

Impress them.

He doubts he'll get a round of applause, but it's still a big step from thinking purely about himself.

Shotgun shells are stacked on the table of the next building. He's sure they're usable on any old shotgun, so maybe Soldier would appreciate them.

A jolt of unease twitches his fingers as he reaches for the cartridges as his body reminds him of what Soldier had said earlier, about killing the zombies. Could Sniper really risk practically handing over his death like that? He gingerly picks up one cartridge, absentmindedly reading the label. I've made worse mistakes. He muses, before shoving the boxes into his pockets. 

Gunshots begin to ring out on the other side of town, rapid fire presumably from Scout. Then a large blast - Soldier.

Sniper continues to pace around the building, piecing together the story of the old family that must have lived here. And then he realises that if his two partymates were shooting at something, they probably wouldn't mind back-up. 

With a hurried rush, Sniper leaves the house and follows the main road of the town in the direction of the bank he'd seen from the train deck. Lo and behold, Scout and Soldier are firing at a group of zombies trying desperately to get close to them. 

Sniper pulls out his rifle and raises it to his cheek, takes a shot at the zombie that's attempting to lunge at Soldier, letting it crumple to the floor before rushing to reload and fire at the next.

Several rounds, and an atmosphere smelling thoroughly of gunpowder, and the zombies have finally ceased their onslaught. Sniper jogs over to the bank-raiding team and waves, “Hope they weren't too much trouble, you both alright?”

Soldier grins, “Never better!”

“You're bleeding…” Sniper reaches over to inspect a cut on the survivalist's arm, “Don't tell me it was a zombie.” His jaw clenches shut. Bite. His jaw clenches tighter.

“Nah,” Scout shrugs, “He whacked himself with his shovel. Luckily… we got this bad boy,” He waves a small piece of paper at Sniper, scrawled on it a series of numbers.

“Glad ya got the code. Stay outta trouble, yeah?”

“You bet.” Scout gives a thumbs up before running into the bank.

Soldier looks up at Sniper in an expectant silence, only for the half-zombie to realize he'd been holding onto his arm the entire time.

“Sorry.” As he lets go, Soldier pulls away, and sends a streak of blood over Sniper's palm and it feels like fire burning his skin.

Soldier nods and walks away, and Sniper doesn't move.

His hand stays limp at his side, but he forces it to face upward to look at it. Human blood. Right there. Right… there. Insistent that once dried, the marionette strings in his head trying to force him to lap it up like a dog will disappear, Sniper wipes his palm viciously against his jeans and tries to find something else to do.

Sniper sets down his bag in an alleyway, the persistent pressure on his shoulder becoming unbearable (maybe not everything is worth bringing back to the train?). As he opens it to chuck some things out, he meets eyes with a shadowed figure at the other end of the gap between buildings.

“What do you want now?”

It shifts slightly, and Sniper can just barely spot the glint of a revolver in its hand.

Reflexes don’t wear down so easily. Sniper lunges for the gun, but not before a bullet tears through his shoulder. Weasel.

His fingers curl around the revolver and he forces the figure back into the open with the force of his body, toppling it onto the sunwashed sands.

Where he wanted to meet a pair of blue eyes, he finds rotted brown, and the gurgling of the body beneath him proves to be most unexpected for the situation. Sniper clutches the bleeding bullet wound at his shoulder in an attempt to staunch the bleeding, and backs away.

Another gun-wielding zombie. Sniper shakily reaches for the blade driven deep into his pockets.

I thought this was impossible.

His calloused fingers meet the handle.

Zombies, they’re barely beyond stumbling about.

The sun reflects off the blade into Sniper’s eye for a brief moment.

When did they learn how to use weapons?

The revolver is flung away as his boot stamps down on the zombie’s wrist.

I can’t let this go.

Sniper rests a knee on the zombie’s chest, eyeing it.

“You don’t need to hurt me.”

It sounds so stupid to say it out loud, to say to the things the world fears and wants to rid the world of. Sniper’s eyes travel across the sands, making sure he’s alone with this zombie. He adjusts his grip on the knife and clears the hair out of the creature’s face.

“I-I know what you’re going through. Ya probably smelling the human blood on me. It isn’t mine, and I’m not gonna direct you to any if ya want a meal. But if you can hold a gun,” Then you’re just like me, “You’re a threat.”

The zombie stills for a moment, slowly tilting its head up to Sniper’s and holding his gaze. Its unpinned hand raises to clutch the cloth at Sniper’s chest.

“Don’t attack me or I’ll slice you up nice and proper, yeah? Do you understand me?”

The zombie pulls Sniper down and clamps its jaws down onto his neck with a growl so savage that he realises exactly the type of monster he could have been if only he gave in. Green blood pours down Sniper’s front, and he gives into the pain. He closes his eyes with the knowledge that he’s free.

No he doesn’t.

Before the zombie can twitch closer, Sniper’s blade is driven deep into its jugular and it writhes and curls in on itself in pain until it finally slumps underneath him.

It takes effort to pull the blade out of white-dead flesh with the amount of pain shooting out of his opposite arm, and he leans back on the corpse, panting heavily.

The shock, the horror, the naivety of wishing the zombie were someone like him had completely distracted himself from the shock, the horror, the naivety of letting a bullet into his body. With blood seeping through his clothes, his breath rattles and creaks.

He tosses the blade away for a moment, using his usable hand to grab the chest of the zombie and shake it viciously.

“Why couldn’t ya just play nice?” The undersides of his vision press with tears, “All I needed was a conversation.” He collapses his head down onto the zombie’s chest, “I-I could’a helped ya. Fuckin’ halfwit.” His eyes close tightly. Very quietly, “Could’a been friends. Friends.”

The zombie touches his shoulder, and as Sniper lurches upright he meets the gaze of Soldier.

The survivalist’s eyes are wide, as if he didn’t quite expect to see the newcomer on the train sob over the body of apocalypse fodder, but his eyes travel to the revolver.

“You learn to shoot them before they shoot you.” He says simply.

“Why do they use guns?” Tears continue pouring down Sniper’s cheeks, and he feels like the biggest coward in the world at that moment.

Soldier’s teeth grit in that all-too-familiar practice of reliving a long memory before he responds, “Wish I knew, private. They were everywhere, back at Fort Constitution.” His bright blue eyes scour Sniper’s form before he promptly prods the limp arm. Before he can take notice of the green blood stain surrounding it, or maybe he already has, Sniper leans against Soldier’s leg and sobs further.

“Hate them.” He spits out, “Hate them, hate them, hate them. I hate zombies, I-I hate them.”

Sniper finds himself slumping to the ground in the process of speaking, and when he gets the energy to even slightly look up, Soldier is walking away back into the town.

The half-zombie rolls onto the sands, staring up at the royal blue sky overhead. Not a cloud in sight.

He expects to be killed by tonight. That’s the only honour he feels befitting of his situation. Between being the outcast and the stark-contrast odd one out he finds a place in lingering in the background and avoiding the rest. If he had the energy, he’d run into the desert to escape his fate, but for now he grasps for some kind of solace at the end of this.

It’s clear that Soldier is a fighter, a killer and ready to dispatch him at a moment’s notice should Sniper ever bare his teeth. Can he really be blamed? To lose an entire base’s worth of people, comrades overnight is enough to make an impact on anyone’s life. Sniper doesn’t blame the future Soldier for his actions and agrees with him that maybe things are to end this way.

Another bolt of pain radiates across his chest, a lightning strike that feels like barbed wire coiling, coiling ever tighter over his muscles and wound around his ribs. His fingers loosen around the blade, and he shuts his eyes.

If there was ever a death for Sniper…

Heavy shoots him dead on the blood moon, sparing him no grievance before trailing after the Archimedes. He’ll tell Medic of what happened wholly and truly and the two mutter about how it had to be this way.

I’m dyin’.
The words won’t form on his lips as much as he tries to force it, force it, try to speak.

I’m gonna die.

It takes more strength to shift his foot than it would take to push a train. 

Carrying the weight of the sky, Sniper rolls his body to the side and meets the bared flesh of the zombie.

A bullet strikes his chest, the memory of meeting Medic and Heavy at the train station to escape the beginnings of the vampire panic.

His body recoils as another bullet hits him, rotted teeth digging into his face.

The firing squad lets loose now. Meeting eyes with the girl across the First Outpost, her eyes clawing at his skin. Seeing the train pass by in the distance, only half-recognising it. Wishing it was his. Nights spent on the Huntsman, the smell of rotting flesh everywhere. Medic dragging him behind the buildings in an Outpost and tending to him so gently he would have cried.

I can’t find the strength to cry anymore.

A small pool of saliva forms beneath his chin, the only cooling aspect under the sun. The zombie beside him glows.

Forgive me for what I’m about to do.

Scout huffs under the weight of the gold and silver in his bag. It was easy enough to break into the bank, especially with Soldier watching the door. He’d disappeared at some point at the sound of an all-too-common gunshot which, if Scout even has a standing in this conversation, would not have distracted him, surely. Money, riches, that’s what makes the world go round. He’d learned that years ago.

Now if only he knew exactly why Soldier had disappeared so promptly, he’d be more forgiving of being basically left to the zombies as a fun snack, despite none appearing.

I think we cleared them all.

He whistles a tune on his way back to the train, but through the gaps in the buildings he spots the group and pauses to inspect the scene.

Spy standing over a body, providing as much shade as possible despite his, err, thin frame of sorts. Soldier leans on his shovel and nods in thought as Medic, kneeling over the body, describes something Scout can’t hear.

“Hey, uh, what’s happened?” Scout eases through the gaps between the dilapidated houses and jogs towards the group, but freezes at the sight.

Sniper, smeared from head to toe in zombie blood, out cold and shivering so powerfully Scout can hear it shift the sands underneath him. His eyes are closed, his lips agape and jaw lopsided on the sands. His hands clasp around each other through the tremors, a little prayer. Bandages are bound over his shoulder, but the blood continues to seep through.

“He’ll be fine, Scout.” With all the distracted tones of a man struggling to figure out what exactly to do, “Soldier, help Scout get the loot back to the train.”

“No,” Soldier gruffly responds, “I’m not leaving until he’s awake.”

“Please,” Medic looks up at him exasperatedly, “Just do what I say. Don’t- Don’t make a scene. Go. Jetzt, go!” He barks.

Scout’s never seen Soldier look so outwardly offended, but he recoils and storms away past him. For a moment, he considers the concept of following the survivalist, but finds himself rooted to the spot. The body, with all the blood and concern surrounding it.

His fingers curl into the bloodied dress of his mother for a moment, a small area of quiet in the midst of the chaos and collapse outside. He looks up at the man in the doorway, only a split second of eye contact before he disappears. His brothers are gone now, never to be heard from again. His father is long dead, so he hears. And his ma is dead.

“Where’s the snake oil?” Scout grits his teeth. Spy and Medic look up at him, “Yeah, yeah, keep pilin’ bandages on him and keep lettin’ him bleed out, great fuckin’ idea, what happened to bein’ the smart guys? Where’s the fuckin’ snake oil?” 

Spy ashes his cigarette on the sands, “Scout, no. He-”

“Oh, oh yeah, I don’t wanna hear it from ya. Act as cool as ya like, he’s gonna die if we don’t-”

“Go back to the train.” Medic stands up, steps over the body and blocks it from Scout’s view as he approaches. “He will be fine.” Lowering his tone now, “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? Do you think that lowly of me?” Medic chuckles, “Spy is all the assistance I need. Now go and help Soldier, don’t leave the train until we get back.”

“Doc, why’re ya actin’ like I’m not makin’ sense? I’m… I’m just worried about him.”

“Ja, we all are. Just go, shoo,” Medic begins to walk back to Sniper’s body, dismissively waving in Scout’s direction.

Scout takes a step back, steeling himself to say something, anything to feel involved. But as quickly as he tenses, he gives up and walks away.

“You were harsh.”

“I know, I know, but neither of us know how much our friend wants to say about his matters. He lives a difficult life already, the least we can do is spare him some privacy.”

The bandages are unwinding off my arm.

“Cher Seigneur, the wound is healed already.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it without snake oil.” 

Fingers are pressing into my skin.

“Will he appreciate my presence here?”

“Ha, no, but you’re the only assistant I’d ask for in this situation. Have you ever experienced something similar?”

“No.”

“I may have misjudged your similarities. Anywho, I believe our friend is waking up.”

Through his eyelids, he can recognise the moment his shade disappears and the burn of the sun hits his face again. Coughing and spluttering ensue for a few moments, clearing the sand out of his mouth. He sits bolt upright, before a hand presses to his chest gently.

“Sniper, please, you can lay down. You’re okay.”

He goes to rub his eyes, but in his hand is placed a cloth. 

“Your hands are covered in sand, ami. Unless you’d prefer to be blind?”

Weasel. He uses the cloth to press against his eyes for a moment, before opening them and looking around. He can feel the distinct flaking of dried blood across his chin, and for a moment he fears he’s at the blood moon. But Medic is smiling and waving, so this can’t be it.

“What happened?” Sniper murmurs groggily, going to rub his eyes again, “I-I don’t remember.”

“You were injured,” Medic brushes his clothes of sand, “I assume you-”

Sniper forces himself towards the zombie corpse, pushing back the urge to vomit from the fear and press his teeth into the flesh. My only way out. The tears flow freely now. If I throw up, I die.

“No. No, don’t tell me.” Sniper leans forward, running his fingers through his hair, “I know what happened.” He eyes Medic, the deep-seated urge to make a break for it curling into his limbs, “I’m not gonna hurt ya, I promise.”

“I know. You’re a good man, I trust you, Sniper.” One gloved hand touches his cheek, and Sniper’s stomach flips over, “Let’s get you back to the train, ja?”

“... yeah.”

Spy helps Sniper get to his feet, and as much as he wants to spit in the man’s face he finds himself offering a small smile and a nod of gratitude, before Medic swoops in to support his other side and begin walking to the train.

Why’s weasel here?

“Why are you here?” Sniper lolls his head to the side slightly, trying to get a good look at Spy’s face.

“Medic wanted me to help.”

Medic grins, “No, you wanted to help.”

“Because Soldier would find a way to kill you within five seconds.”

“And?”

Spy stiffens as much as he can within the scope of having to walk someplace, and he sighs, “I am in a similar position.”

Ya don’t bleed green and I don’t see fur stickin’ outta ya clothes. What does that leave me?
“Right. Fair ‘nough. Uh, thanks.”

“Pas de problème.”

The train appears in the distance, and Sniper gives out a little sigh of relief at the prospect of getting to sit on the train and ignore the world for the time being. It seeps the energy out of him once again, and in his head he laughs out loud as Spy’s legs buckle momentarily beneath him to keep him upright, but in actuality he finds himself forcing his legs to move again. Something about sparing these two from more trouble lifts another weight in his chest - a trust unfurling in him that he doesn’t want to think about. At least not now.

The two help him onto the deck, where Soldier rushes to inspect him. “We’ll get new clothes for him at the next outpost. What a mess.” In his tone Sniper finds more sympathy than judgment.

“Sorry.”

“No, you fought well, private. Keep yourself prepared for the next enemy.” Soldier claps Sniper across the back, but is shoved out of the way by Scout.

“I thought you were gonna die!” He yelps, “This freak wouldn’t let me see ya properly!” A finger pointing straight to Medic. “What happened? Why were you on the floor?”

“Got shot,” Sniper shrugs, then lets himself free from his friends’ grasps and sets himself down onto the floor.

Scout immediately crouches beside him, “Oh, first time? You get used to it. Seriously, I’ve been shot, like, a thousand times. I dunno how I’m still alive.”

“Because I’m here, dummkopf,” Medic sits beside Sniper, and Spy moves off to the front of the train. He passes the hat back to Soldier, who places it firmly back upon his head.

The train journey to the sixth outpost is peaceful, for once. The rattle of train wheels rocks Sniper in and out of consciousness as he slowly recovers from his ordeal. Spikes of anxiety shoot up his skull every so often, the idea of having done the second to worst thing he could have done in his situation. But he looks at the group, chatting about the most minute topics and somehow starting arguments over them, and a small smile stays on his face. Even if he wasn’t safe in the past, he’s safe now and that feels ever so slightly more important than fearing the world is out to get him. 

Archimedes slows into the gates of the outpost sometime in the early evening, Sniper’s eyes can’t quite focus on the numbers on the dialboard from so far away. The party disembark in their own time, the first being Scout who practically leaps over the barbed wire on the railing in order to sell the bank’s loot. Medic refuels the train for a moment, lumps of coal from his misadventures in town at hand, before stepping down the ladder to look around In a stark contrast to the morning, for whatever reason, Scout turns his head to Soldier and waves him over to split the money.

“He’s the one who called for Medic.” Spy paces around the deck. In his slim suit, shined shoes and completely formal poise at all moments, the large cowboy hat over his head in the slow-dying sunlight of the sunset brings Sniper to stifle a chuckle.

But then Sniper really digests the words.

“Why’d he do that? I thought he’d be the one to kill me.”

“His mind works in mysterious ways. Assuming that he’s still searching for someone to be totally loyal to, now that the military’s turned to mindless murder, I believe he’s fighting to keep everyone here alive despite his, how do you say… desire to kill anything non-human.”

“So d’ya think he’s figured me out?”

“He’s smarter than he lets on. He figured me out.” Spy flicks his cigarette away and sits down on the deck beside Sniper, immediately going to light another one.

“And, uh… you’re a vampire.”

A long drag of his cigarette, Spy leans back and exhales slowly, “Yes.”

“Ya don’t seem to be drinkin’ anyone’s blood, or maybe I haven’t noticed yet.”

“I’ve had my fill. Only Medic and Soldier know. I suppose I can trust you to keep quiet about this for Scout. He has his opinions on people like me already, I don’t want to cause any more damage.”

“Damage?”

“If I remember correctly, he’s the last survivor of the Boston incident.” Spy ashes his cigarette onto the sands behind the deck. “Vampires managed to break into the Stronghold there - a, eh, camp similar to the Outposts, but bigger, more self-sufficient. They infected some people, killed the rest…” He sighs, “He lost his mother.”

“He told you that?”

Their eyes meet for a solid few moments. If Spy’s gaze could become more chilling, Sniper would freeze over despite the desert heat and thaw out over the next couple of days.

“Right.” Spoken in a half-breath, Sniper’s hand runs over his face as a reset button, “Right. I won’t tell ‘im. Got it.”

The quiet becomes more pressuring, and his hands wring around each other in an attempt to get the weight of the conversation off of him.

“Is Medic still usin’ cocaine? Cor, I remember his withdrawals. Me and our, uh, friend had to distract him all the time otherwise he’d start goin’ crazy.”

“He’s clean now. Sometimes he thinks about it, but I think the supplies have dried up the past few years.”

“Probably why he wants to go to Mexico, find more.” Sniper grins. It isn’t returned. “He says it gave him a clear head, would you believe that?”

“This train is full of vices, it seems.”

“Scout mentioned someone else this morning. Demo, right?” Spy nods, “What’s his story? Where’s he gone?”

“Last we saw, he threw himself right off the back of our train to save us from some bandits chasing us out of First Outpost. He fought well.”

“He survived?”

“If only I knew. He could be alive, but the bandits outnumbered us and he faced them head-on. He was drunk when it happened. The others… they have their hopes for him, that he survived. Personally, I’m preparing for the more realistic option.”

“That he’s flattened by the tracks thousands of miles behind us.”

“Precisely.”

“People survive the worst things all the time, yeah? If we’re talkin’ realistic, I shouldn’t be alive right now. I should be long-dead and used for fuel by more desperate trains. I don’t know why I’m here, but I think I’m havin’ a pretty good time bein’ alive. Let's hope he feels the same.”

“I didn’t take you for the optimistic type.”

“Definitely not, but not everythin’ realistic has to be all gloomy.”

Spy doesn’t respond, and for once Sniper doesn’t care too much about the opinion placed on him. The vampire’s gaze travels past Sniper, to the new footsteps on the deck. Soldier tosses Sniper a box, and when he catches and inspects it, he finds a cartridge of rifle ammo.

“If we’re the last of this proud nation, we best stay well-protected! It’ll take more ammo than this to save the country!” He throws a few more boxes Sniper’s way.

If a flush could climb up his face, it would. I don’t need to be doted over, don’t say that in front of Spy. But he smiles back, “Thanks, mate!”

“You are welcome, private!” Soldier gives a little salute and a warm grin. He’s sweet when he isn’t attacking people.

The next to return is Scout, wheezing as he tries to haul something onto the deck. He tries again to pull it up, but to no avail. 

“Do you need help?” Sniper and Spy share a glance.

“Nah, nah, I… uh, I got this.” Scout chuckles and once again makes an attempt. Naturally, it doesn’t work.

Soldier hops off of the train and out of view, and the only sign of him is tossing two metallic objects onto the deck to the reaction of a very embarrassed Scout.

“Maxim guns!” Soldier climbs back onto the floorboards and begins to pace. “Men, may I introduce you to the grandest piece of military machinery of all time?” He sits one of the guns upright.

Stood up on a tripod stand, with a bronze sheen to the barrel and a dull steel to the receiver and cylinder, it’s such a foreign object to lay eyes upon that Sniper raises an eyebrow.

“How in God’s name Scout found two of these is beyond me, but we must remember that luck is everything!” 

“Why did you buy two?” Spy takes another drag of his cigarette.

Scout shrugs, “Well, uh, they looked cool and two is better than one.”

“Is this the person deciding our arsenal?”

“More importantly!” Soldier interrupts, “These are weapons of mass destruction! This beauty fires 600 rounds a minute! It can, and will, tear through any hordes of whatever disgusting filth we come across!”

“Is it precise?” Sniper leans forward slightly.

“Absolutely! In the apocalypse, crowd control is necessary!”

“S’pose that makes sense, yeah.”

“I will place this on top of the train!” Soldier picks up the Maxim gun as if it were any other sort of weapon, to the disgruntlement of Scout, and walks off to find the most optimal position for it.

Sniper, Spy and Scout’s gazes follow him, before awkwardly trying to regain their posture.

“So… d’you guys think he likes it?” Sniper looks between the two.

“Nah, bet he’s secretly gonna tear it apart when we aren’t lookin’.” Scout grins, but then it falters a little bit. “Uh, when Medic’s back I gotta make an announcement, okay? Just warnin’ ya.”

“He’s coming over now.” Spy flicks away his cigarette. “I think he bought new clothes for Sniper.”

Sniper tilts his head over to some of the buildings, his eyes catching sight of Medic. Folded over one arm, Sniper can distinctly spot denim and cloth. “Yeah, I’ll get that out the way now. Give me a second.” He stands up, wobbling slightly which he can probably attribute to the fact that he hasn’t stood up in a few hours. He slips off of the train and meets Medic in the middle.

“You look better now. You have colour in your face, if you’d believe that.” Medic grins, then presents the clothes, “Maybe they’re less torn up than you’re used to,” Sniper would take offense, but he remembers the state of his wardrobe when he first met Medic, “But I hope you prefer them clean rather than, um…” He gestures to Sniper’s front, and he looks down at the green and black stains across his shirt down to his boots. 

“Yeah, I get it. Thank you, Medic. I’ll be back in a moment, yeah?”

Ducking behind all of the houses, leaning against the stone walls of the outpost, Sniper looks at the clothes through the barest lamplight in the distance. They’re clean, they don’t show signs of blood or injury, no bullet wounds, no slashes in the fabric, no tears.

A part of him doesn’t like the idea of this change. His clothes had been with him for years, since the blood moon, since before that. To let go of them feels as if he’d lose a part of his identity.

Maybe he could keep his old clothes, store them away and keep them close to his heart. Then the aching, overwhelming flood of cheer strikes his body at the thought of starting anew. He doesn’t want to keep memories of being lonely and miserable on his person, and the part of him that thinks he needs it is getting easier to ignore as he rolls the thought over in his head.

Sniper buries his old clothes in the sand and leaves the outskirts of the outpost anew. His clothes aren’t to draw attention and fear anymore, but to be… normal. He certainly feels normal.

Scout and Medic smile at him as he approaches the train, while Spy and Soldier argue about why the hell he put the Maxim gun directly atop the conductor’s cabin. But the two slowly look his way, and Soldier gives a thumbs-up of approval. And if this is what Spy calls a smile, Sniper will have to take it.

So this is what recovery feels like.

Once on the deck, he does a spin, then laughs a little, “It, uh, it feels good.” 

“Oh, I’m sure.” Spy scans his clothes, then nods. “Let’s not distract ourselves. Scout, you wanted to say something?”

“Uh, yeah.” Scout steps into the circle as Sniper ducks out of it, “Ahem. Look, guys, I know you’re not going to Mexico. I overheard you all from the train, anyone could’a figured it out. All I wanna know is why? Don’t you guys wanna be where it’s safe, where they’re workin’ on a cure? I-I don’t get it. I thought we were all tryin’ to get to Mexico, move on from there, be happy an’ stuff. You’re tellin’ me that you’d really rather stay here?”

Nobody says anything, not yet.

“Look, I’ll be fine there on my own. There’s no vampires or zombies or werewolves, that’s all that matters to me. But you guys? Seriously? Are ya kiddin’ me? Sniper almost died earlier today and we’re actin’ like that’s totally okay?”

As Sniper goes to speak, Medic clutches his wrist, beckoning him to stay quiet.

“I-I lost my entire family, travelled across the country on my own, and the least I’m askin’ for is that you guys just tell me why we can’t all be okay.” Scout stops for a moment and takes a deep breath, “You piss me off, all of you, so much. But I don’t have a family anymore, you guys are the closest I have a-and… fuck, do I need ta spell it out? I’m gonna miss you, all’a you. Is it so bad that I just want all of us to be happy?” 

“You’ve got a good heart, but I have a country to protect.” Soldier places a hand on Scout’s shoulder, “If it means living on the battlefield, I’ll do it. That oath was sealed the day I watched my fellow militarymen get torn apart.”

“The people here need a doctor. I may be the only one left that hasn’t been infected due to exposure to the virus.” Medic sighs.

Spy and Sniper glance at each other.

“They offered to help me.” Medic continues, “They’re going to protect me, make sure I’m safe as I conduct my field research.”

“Medic?” Scout pulls away from Soldier’s grasp, “Do ya seriously believe I’m that stupid? I-I don’t know what’s goin’ on but I know there’s reasons they’re not going to Mexico and I know it’s personal. Spy told me himself.”

“All I said was that Mexico wouldn’t want me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can read through that! I know what you are and- and I don’t hate you for it or anythin’ but you could have been honest. Does everyone else know you’re a vampire?”

Spy dismissively shakes his head and scoffs, “Yes, yes they do.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because you’re the only human that escaped the biggest vampire attack in history. It was for your own good.”

“My own good? How’m I s’posed believe that!”

“Spy,” Medic calls, “You’re only making the situation worse for him.” He sighs, “Yes, we kept the secret from you. I apologise, it was my idea for Spy to keep it secret. If he chose to tell the others, that’s his choice to make, but I knew that he’d only be put in danger if he put the information out into the world. I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone about him.”

“Don’t cover for me, Docteur. It was only that Soldier caught me burning up, I never told him.” Soldier nods, “And Sniper would understand my situation because he’s a zombie.”

“Let’s not drag me into this.” Sniper bristles, “I’m not a zombie, I’m a half-zombie. I can control myself, I don’t hurt people. Spy, just apologise to him. He’s hurt.”

Scout chuckles, but it’s venomous in nature, “Oh, and did everyone know Sniper was a half-whatever the fuck aswell?”

“Yeah.”

“More secrets bein’ kept from me, fantastic. Why do I even try anymore?”

Sniper groans, “No, Scout, it’s not that you’re bein’ kept in the dark or anything. Okay, maybe it’s ‘cause I’m new here, maybe I don’t know the dynamics quite right, but you’re the one here with the most to lose. You’ve lost ya family, but you’ve also got a whole life ahead of ya, the most out of anyone here.” He looks around at the others, “I kept my secret to save my own skin. Nobody really wants to be around a zombie, as much as the zombie is nice. I never told anyone my secret, people just… figured it out. If the same goes for Spy, then it’s not a secret held against ya, Scout, it’s to protect ya and we don’t wanna give you reasons to be afraid more than you probably already are. We’re supportin’ you ‘til you get to Mexico, I know that much. We want the best for you.”

There’s a glow of recognition that courses through Scout’s bright blue eyes as Sniper speaks, as if coming to a realisation and its subsequent embarrassment. It’s not that Sniper can blame him, of course he can’t. If Scout had been kept in the dark any longer, maybe the ticking time bomb would have led to another person leaving the crew. And, if Sniper’s judgment serves him well, maybe the rest of the party wouldn’t have been so good at handling that either. He has a feeling that not one but two people haunting their story wouldn’t benefit them. Sniper has his fair share of ghosts.

He finds that the group, everyone, is staring at him. A past version of him would duck away and curl up and wish for death at this moment, but this version stands straighter, “Well, we all want to help him, don’t we?” And the group nods.

“One civilian saved is more than none, son.” 

“You need to live for your family.”

“We’ll make sure you have a good life there.”

“I-I’m still pissed off at you guys, so don’t try give me a hug or anythin’, but… I wish I was just told all’a this sooner. The last outpost is coming up an’ I wasn’t preparin’ to lose you before I get to Mexico.”

“I think we all know how it feels to lose people unexpectedly,” Medic looks over at Sniper, eyes searching. Sniper pauses for a moment, but continues again, “Especially you. We aren’t leavin’ without a goodbye. We can agree on that, yeah?”

Another round of agreement passes, and Medic clears his throat, “Then I believe it’s better to get my intentions out of the way now. At the next outpost, I’ll pass over ownership of the train to Spy, and I’ll stay behind in hopes that our friend Demo is on the same route as us. I do believe he was aiming to join us along the whole journey, and I have no doubts that he’s been trying to catch up with us.”

Soldier alerts at that moment, “I’ll be with you! It’s in bad faith to leave any man behind! In fact,” He squints in thought, “If I can find us horses, we can get a headstart now!”

“Or,” Spy starts pacing, “We could all join you in waiting at Seventh. I believe we - with the exception of Sniper - would all like to see him again. We can wait a day or two, that should give him ample time to reappear and would shorten what’s left of Scout’s journey.” He looks at the young man, “How do you feel about the plan?”

“It gives us more time, so I ain’t complainin’.” Scout shrugs, “Let’s do it.”

Now, Sniper understands why he’s not part of this conversation. As far as he knows, Demo is an alcoholic who risked his life for the group, and that’s something he respects, but he’s never met the man. He obviously doesn’t carry the same fondness that the others do, but maybe that’s okay. Watching them all slowly recover from the day is something that he finds makes him feel better - so maybe he can work in a team after all.

Chapter Text

I can kill them.

Flo’s hand tightens over the lever.

Everything she’s made, I can destroy.

The other circles the cork of a bottle of Holy Water.

I can take it back.

She closes her eyes.

I can take it all back.

“You’ve passed by three buildings so far, miss.” An unimportant voice sounds from behind her.

“What, really?” Bewildered, Flo shakes her head back to reality and turns to look behind her in the seat.

As her days spent in this living nightmare grow, her thoughts become more of a safe haven than most places around her - and it’s a habit to unlearn. She gives an apologetic, nervous smile to the rest of her party. 

Demo is smiling back, not a care in the world.

Heavy, though clearly concerned, nods in understanding.

And Pyro remains unmoving as they had been since the night before.

“Sorry!” She calls back, then turns to the man beside her, “I-I don’t think I got enough sleep. Maybe you should take over. You’re better at this.”

And I’m better at killing those monsters.

She freezes a little.

Don’t get too overconfident. You’re barely able to handle the revolver.

“Always actin’ like I’m gonna snap at ya.” Engie chuckles, “C’mon, get up. We can talk, if ya like.”

Talk. “Yeah, talk. That’ll be better for me, I think.” Flo stands up from the seat and, like clockwork, her mentor takes her place.

He settles into the seat with all the little noises of a man too old for an uncushioned seat, and Flo stifles a small chuckle at how human the sight is. She’s back at the dinner table with her family, preparing to tell them about her new job.

“So, what would ya like to talk about?”

“I’ve been curious about your arm, actually. Not if it’s too much trouble, uh, of course.”

Engie grins, “A zombie bit it, so I had it amputated.”

The vision appears in her head and she winces, “Really?”

“Or a werewolf tore it off. Maybe some barbed wire cut too deep.” He shrugs.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Flo winces again, this time deeper and she turns her head away.

“You want to know all about other people, don’t’cha? You spend a lot of ya free time studyin’ the rest of us, I see it clear as day, but ya see…” Engie readjusts his hat steady as the wind threatens to knock it off, “Bonds between people are like, uh, a trade. Ya gotta give part of yourself up first, hm? So how’s about you tell me what’s obviously been botherin’ ya and I might let ya in on some of this good ol’ information I’ve been keepin’. Maybe it’ll be about my arm, maybe it’ll be about our little friend you’ve managed to piss off.”

“I really frightened Pyro that badly?” We were getting along so well.

“Honestly, never seen ‘em like this. That Holy Water ya got is some dangerous stuff.” It doesn’t hurt us. “So, tell me what’s goin’ on with you, miss, and I’ll enlighten ya in return.”

Where to start? “I lied to you last night.” Bad start, “About the Administrator. I-I shouldn’t have lied, sure, but I’m still recovering from what happened to her and it was scary and-”

“Settle down. She ain’t gonna claw ya down to Hell from up here.” This is a different kind of Hell.

The tension leaves her shoulders - she doesn’t know when it built up. “You’re not surprised that I lied?”

“Ya learn to read people after so many years out an’ about. Hah, I remember being just as clueless as you in the beginnin’. Nah, that ain’t the point, you go on right ahead with what you were ‘bout to say.”

Flo lets out a deep breath and sits down beside Engie, legs clutched to her chest, “I was her assistant. You’d think that would mean I’d be someone important, high up in the ranks of her- her bullshit or whatever but I barely knew what was going on. I-I knew about the factories, and the railroads, and maybe the werewolves and vampires. But it was all so surface-level. I just thought she was going crazy, and I was willing to go along with it. I got paid well, and you know I wouldn’t have gotten paid at any other office or estate. I only worked with her to save my own skin, escape my circumstances. I was the first in my family to hold one hundred dollars in my hands, you know? 

“And- And the Administrator was kind, at least at first. She let me call her Helen, sometimes, when I’d accompany her on late-night walks. I was the only other person allowed in her study, I got to meet her business partners. Never really learnt the business exactly. She bought up so many companies, buildings, organisations, people. She bought me. My loyalty, my patience, everything. But I guess that price kept rising, eventually I was done with her, I think she knew it.

“The last night I ever spent with her, I broke down. I smashed up a statue she wanted me to bring back to her and sell. While I was busy crying, some werewolves tracked down the train, I suppose. I still don’t know what to make of it. They killed her in front of me, and I was right there. They didn’t look my way, not a single one. I fainted, not proud of that, but I did and when I woke up there wasn’t a scratch on me. It’s like they targeted her.

“You know, that night… with all those monsters on deck… she was the only one who saw me. I-I was so far away, I was in the dark, she couldn’t have- but she made eye contact with me. She saw me. It’s impossible. I was too scared to make a noise but it’s like she knew I was right there.

“And that’s the most I ever felt recognised by her.”

Engie grins - the half-smile he always does - and for a moment Flo wonders if all of her words had been kept inside her thoughts and she’d accidentally left the space between them empty, “So the crazy bitch really did it. Turned herself into a vampire, like she said she was gunna.”

Vampire. “You knew her that well?” Vampire.

“That dishonour went to my father, Fred Conagher of Conagher Railroads. Ring a bell?”

Oh no. “Your family-” No. “The tracks-” Flo stills. At this moment, the entire world is Dell Conagher looking down at her, “The trains- no.” I need to run. “That… that can’t be right.”

“I thought I recognised you from somewhere, miss.” I need to run. “All them parties, meetings. I never forget a face, do I? And I thought I was losin’ my spark, heh. But you’re in no danger, miss,” Yes I am. “I know exactly the kinda role ya played in the scheme of things. You did nothin’ wrong.”

I hate this. “She’s a vampire.” Flo finds herself unable to speak quite right, like her jaw’s threatening to clamp shut forever, “She was a vampire.”

“Right you are.” Engie chuckles in a way that she doesn’t quite understand, as if he’s totally okay despite the earlier comments. He can’t be. “It’s a virus in its own right. She took it upon herself to be patient zero, didn’t she?, so she could choose who she wanted to be her own little elite task force. Now there’s thousands of the things across the country. Guess some things are outta her control. A lot of things, really.” Me.

“What are vampires like?”

“Huntin’ after a whole diagnosis criteria, huh? Well, let’s see what I remember.” He scratches the back of his neck, “It heightens ya senses, don’t it?” I wouldn’t know. “They see in the dark, smell ya from miles out. Heh, and they’re fast. Like lightning, wouldn’t’cha know it? Split second, and they’re right in front of ya. I hear they can dodge bullets, if they really put their mind to it. So I s’pose they’re on par with werewolves, like everyone says. 

“There’s the top vampires, the earliest ones, the ones Helen chose herself; they’re the ones with their heads straight. Basically indistinguishable from us livin’ folk. Then, down the line, as the virus slowly trickles down through the population, they become somethin’ savage. But people think it’s the savage ones they need’ta be ‘fraid of, that ain’t true. It’s them human-like ones, they’re the threats. One of them leaked into Boston, and the city fell overnight.”

“... why didn’t she turn me?”

“I think she saw the same girl I met a few days ago. The difference is she didn’t want to give her the opportunity to hold her own.” Engie pats Flo’s shoulder, and in that moment the fear seeps out of her. “Now, I don’t like that Holy Water business, you know that much. But if it works better for ya than the shiny revolver I paid for, then hey,” He shrugs, “I’m still proud of ya.”

“It’s a lot to get used to.”

“Holy Water? I bet.”

“No, people being proud of me. It feels like I’ve spent my whole life chasing this, and just as I give up it’s just… thrown my way.” Flo places a hand over her heart. Racing, surely, if she could focus beyond the growing ache in her throat. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Well, miss, all ya had to do was survive. I ain’t a religious man by any means but I do believe in rewards for good work, wherever it may come from.”

That’s enough to make anyone cry.

Flo turns her head to look down the deck to the little group she’s found herself in.

Heavy’s got years of experience in fighting, but he congratulated me on taking initiative against the werewolves last night. He was the first to worry when I poured the Holy Water over my hand, I saw the fear in his eyes - for me. And he recognises my smarts, when has anyone done that? He’s losing to Demo at cards, and he’s still having fun. He’s smiling. When did I ever learn to notice that through the helmet?

And Demo - Tavish, even - chose me to be his closest confidante. The first time he spoke to me, he made me really laugh out loud in a way I hadn’t done in, what, years? He’s gentle, kind, even if I’m in a completely different state of mind. I saw the way he listened to me when he jumped off the train, the way his face changed the moment I spoke to him in a way he could grasp. It must be difficult to be sober after so long being drunk, especially when losing half your vision. Half-asleep and throwing dynamite into a pack of werewolves, he still made sure I was okay. Nobody puts me at the forefront like he does.

But I wish I wasn’t the focus of Pyro’s fears right now. If I could have a wish granted, it would be to understand them. Why are they scared of me? Why are they angry, even? We did a great job setting up the torches and our little conversation meant a lot to me - even if it did end with them walking off. God, let them speak to me.

“I need to know about Pyro. I want to make things right between us, and I can’t do that if I don’t know enough about them, why I hurt them the way I did. There’s only so much I can understand about them, and it’s not enough to make things better.”

“You care that much?”

How long can I keep these wounds festering? “Just… just let me be someone worth being proud of. That’s all I want.”

Engie takes a long pause, and Flo almost considers the conversation over until he sighs, “You’re on a good path, miss. Let’s keep our voices down.”

Flo sits down beside Heavy. Half as a windbreaker, half to spark up friendly conversation. Something refreshing, something to keep her mind from trailing down someone else’s history. He has a notebook, not one she’s seen before, since when did he have one? And he’s writing, somehow, through the beating winds.

“You keep a journal?” She smiles, “Not like it’s unusual. I had one, once. What do you write about?”

“Ah, all sorts.” Heavy chuckles, and presents Flo the pages. Completely unintelligible, she throws a raised eyebrow his way. “It’s Russian.” She exhales in relief. I’m not going crazy. 

“So that’s where you’re from?”

“Da. I write, uh, letters to my family at home. Not for sending, no, to present when I return. To them, I may not be alive right now. These are to show what I’ve been doing.”

Family. The word is foreign. “You have a family? Tell me about them.”

“My father was sent to work in Nerchinsk mines, far east of Russia - Siberia. With him, we were brought over too. Моя мама, my sisters.” He shuts his eyes, “My father did not survive, but we stayed. Where else could we go? But I made sure we had a, uh, good life. A little cabin, all to ourselves. A good life, yes.”

Flo gently touches his arm, “I’m sorry-”

“No, don’t. Hah, I’m proud of what I’ve done. I left to raise money, only for a few months. But then the zombies, the werewolves, vampires.”

“Things are changing,” She smiles, smiles with a hope that she didn’t even think was possible - not for someone like her. But it’s not for herself, it’s for Heavy and she’s not half-dead inside, “We’re so close to freedom.”

“You remind me of my sisters. Bright-eyed, as they say. Strong-willed, too.”

And then the knife twists. “I’m not… strong.”

“I see how you fight. Tact, da? They’re all the same. Yana, Bronislava, Zhanna. Maybe they’d like you, or maybe they’d see you as a threat to their intelligence.”

Flo squints a little, tilts her head, “Oh?”

“No, no,” Heavy offers a hearty laugh, “This is compliment! That means you are really good, заяц.”

“Oh, oh right. Of course.” Naturally, having the assumption that his family would dislike me is a compliment. “Did you get the chance to speak to Demo? About the, um..” Flo isn’t sure how to word it without sounding crazy. 

Did you get the chance to get up in his face and yell at him about how you’re the superior half-blind guy? 

She raises a finger to her eye.

“He’s coming to terms with it.” Heavy closes his journal and tucks it away in his bag, “It’s not easy journey for anyone. He will struggle for long time, I did too, but…” He scoffs, “See how it made me stronger? The same will go for him. Even if I still think he is stupid.”

“Demo, he’s not… stupid. He has people out there that he misses, so do you. So do I, maybe, but I-I’m coming to terms with it. It’s a journey in and of itself, right? Grief, loss, missing people. I might not see my family ever again - I don’t even know if they’re alive, it’s been years - and he might not see his friends again. I don’t want to speak badly of your person, but haven’t you considered the same for your situation?”

Heavy stills, “No. He’s alive. The most dangerous doctor there is, he’s killed people I’d have wished mercy on, he’s strong. I know he’s alive.”

“He’s with Demo’s party, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re all with the first person to show me any amount of kindness in a long time. So I guess all three of us are tracking that train. Don’t you find any solidarity in that? We can share our hope, if you’d like.”

“Haha, you have way with words, Miss.”

“Well, it’s been a decade since I’ve spoken to reasonable people. It’s probably been stored somewhere in my head for a long time.”

“Or maybe you are speaking from the heart.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

The train slows with all the grace of a strangled hen, all squeaks and creaks, and Demo looks up from his card game - something cheap and easy, a remnant of a gambling man - and glances at Pyro. Maybe they don’t understand the rules, or maybe they’re the greatest prodigy to ever hit the sands, but Demo finds all of his tactics beat under the steeled and watchful eye of his friend. 

“Yer good at this, lad. But we’ll pick up after, yea? Cannae be lettin’ ye get too cocky, can we?”

Pyro giggles somewhere under their bandanas, a hand raised to where their mouth might be, but Demo’s so lost on Pyro’s identity that they might as well have their face all jumbled up under there.

They stand up to trudge over to the fuel compartment of the train, and Demo quickly grabs their hand, “Hey, why don’t Ae? How aboot ye ge’ me some o’ that dynamite that made quick work o’ last night’s gala, eh? Ae know yer stacked wi’ cash under there, ye ain’t foolin’ me. Ae’ll go refuel fer ye.”

And they giggle again, waving Demo off their hand and nodding.

Coal, that was Demo’s trade once upon a time. Sterling mines, his last stand. It’s where he learnt how to properly use explosives, his skin and clothes stained black with dust and grit. His hands touch the familiar lumps of rich, dark ore, and he tosses it up in the air to gauge its weight. A miscalculation occurs when he tries to catch it, of course (still not used to that eye?), and the rock shatters on the ground.

“Eh, it’s still coal.” Engie looks his way, “Just gotta shovel it in with a duster, huh?”

Demo plants himself back onto the ground to work on refuelling, “Ae, uh, actually wanted ta talk te ye.” 

“What about, partner? Got hours lefta daytime to chat.”

“What’s yer future lookin’ like?”

The conductor grins, the chilling half-smile that Demo would find easier to ignore if he were piss drunk, “Well, I don’t know. See, I’m workin’ as a conductor for hire. People pay me good money, I make sure their train gets them wherever they need to go as they lounge about an’ shoot shit. That’s why Heavy found me, and you crawled right on in after. My future, if all goes well, means another round of this up-and-down so I’ll have enough money to afford me an’ Pyro a nice life somewhere warm, cosy and safe, hm?” The thought seems to calm him down a little bit, a small huff coming from his lips, “And how about you?”

“Ae dinnae shit about what te expect from after this. Been out here so long, y’see, makes me wonder if Ae can adjust te a normal life. Course, Ae can go home an’ get back to work, or Ae can live in Mexico an’ start anew, but where’s te fun in that, eh? In my little perfect world, Ae see my friends again, we find somethin’ similar te this after we get out o’ here.”

“Y’like shooting and killin’ shit.”

“Ae wouldnae put it like that…”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I see where ya comin’ from, actually. But for me, I just want my country back. I’ve got a company to run, hopefully, if everythin’ recovers nice and easy.”

“Got yerself a fortune, eh?” The words are bitter. 

“All of these tracks we’ve been cruisin’ over, the past three Outposts. I happen to be the sole heir of the family that built ‘em.”

What does Demo inherit? Vices, illness, a hoof to the eye, bullets to his ribs. Beyond that, beyond everything, a dilapidated shack in a Scottish mining town.

Pyro hauls themselves over the deck of the Sasha, in their arms clutched multiple hefty sticks of dynamite that spill out as they stand up.

Demo glances up at Engie and smiles, “Aye, that’s a lot’a value right there.”

The sun sets on a cool evening, the wind buffeting the layers of cloth on the little figure standing on the high walls of the Sixth Outpost. Or maybe it’s the Seventh. Maybe everyone is back at Second, and Demo is setting up defenses. The world keeps spinning, spinning, spinning, and the silhouette over the sands isn’t quite sure when it will slow.

Days and nights meld into each other now, no matter. They’re the same anyways. Bright eyes survey the dark sands when no-one else can see what’s out there. Clever hands help tie torches to the railing of the train. A keen mind listens to every task.

Each sunset, each time their friends comment on difficulty seeing, each night watch, they’re flooded with a tension and brittle that they can’t shake off, can’t shake off, can’t shake off. 

First it was the night in which the train had ploughed through a horde of-

Then it was Friend hurling the chemicals at the-

They look up at the sky. It wasn’t a night too different from this, was it? But warmer, warmer, warmer.

They don’t feel the same way they usually do around this hour. Maybe it's the normal side of them, clinging to the clothes of their old life and begging for return. Maybe it’s acceptance in the form of an exhaustion, an exhaustion, an exhaustion of dealing with the consistent torment biting and scratching under their skin.

Then the needle hits their neck.

A dimly lit room. The soft glow of an oil lamp overhead, the brick walls and the paintings. The paintings are of countrysides, meadows, and they’re placed in front of the figure on the table to stare at for the weeks gone past. Seven or eight men, each equipped with a revolver in case they were to do anything, stare at them intently, waiting for a reaction. Their eyes are wide, horrified, jaws agape. The figure asks questions, and they go unanswered as the men swiftly write notes. Then the figure begs to be done with everything, and the men reach for their guns in fear. Then the figure cries, and finds they can’t. They are swiftly shut up.

The cold metal shackles on their limbs, torso, neck, sat up on a leaning table. Electructions. Flesh burnt off. Teeth pulled out. All for the sake of studying them, and they cannot begin to wonder why. 

Night falls, and in the nearest reflection of a grimy window, their eyes meet glowing red. They snarl in fear.

Dreams take place in the paintings. Sometimes they walk through the wildflowers to a shiny creek. On other occasions they look up at the beautiful sunlight cast through the gaps in the treeline. 

This time, they sit in a wheat field and read a book made up of words they don’t understand - words mixed and matched in places they’re sure they aren’t meant to be - but they can’t say for certain. The weather is the colour of the oil lamp. Not burning like when the men let their skin slough off their face, nor freezing like the daytime. They don’t know the word for this. So it’s the colour orange, cast across the field and lighting their book.

And the colour gets brighter, dazzling across their body. They shut their eyes contentedly, a long-gone smile taking over their face. After a moment, they decide to lay back, but as they go to shut their book the words begin to take shape. The letters spell 

“Fire!” A man yells out from across the factory floor, “He’s gonna burn us alive in here!” He runs to the nearest window from the door and breaks it open with a statue. As he climbs out, a gunshot rings out and he slumps to the ground outside.

The rest of the men stumble over each other to gather notebooks, guns, gold and silver before attempting to make their escape. One man rushes to break open the door, but it doesn’t budge. The flickers of fire slip between the doors and catch his sleeve, so he abandons his shirt on the nearest table. One man reaches his body through the broken window to avenge his comrade, and he’s shot dead as he shows his face outside.

In all the commotion, the panic that they can smell in thick fumes, they find that no man is sparing more than a glance at them.

A man, from the desk directly beside their table, shovels a large pile of gold into his bag and doesn’t even regard them despite the howling. Another catches alight from the fire breaking through the open window now, and falls to the ground with screams. 

And their subject keeps begging to be let go, to be given a chance to escape. 

“He wasn’t supposed to know this location!” Another man yells out, reaching for his revolver, “Who let the information go?”

Before anyone can answer, the man points the gun at his nearest colleague and shoots him without a second thought. The second nearest man reaches for his own gun, and points it under his jaw to give himself a quicker ending.

“I said, who let the information go?” The murderer points his gun at the rest of his colleagues as they continue scrambling after their belongings and for a way out. The man who took the gold falls to the ground, his head in a pool of blood. The murderer quickly grabs his bag and starts yelling at the others.

And then the doors burst open, letting in a beam of flames that reach the ceiling before the fire settles back to searing the walls outside. In enters a shadow, a long shadow that climbs up the subject’s body as the silhouette storms the building.

The murderer is shot dead. Then, whatever compatriots he had left.

Their subject can only stare and whine as each shot rings in the air, sensitive ears pinning back and lips peeling back to reveal the gaps in their teeth - the most pitiful snarl they’ve ever let out. Their eyes shut tightly, their limbs taut in a primal fear. The urge to bite, the urge to claw and maul, the urge to feel flesh - anything to be safe. Anything to be safe from this.

A section of the building somewhere to their left collapses, and the subject turns their head away as the crash vibrates the ground.

One of their arms falls limp to their side, a revulsion coursing through their body, and then one of their legs is freed from the cold metal clamps.

“I’m gettin’ ya outta here, y’hear?” A voice calls beside them, and their other arm is let free, “Don’t go bitin’ me the first chance you get.”

”I don’t want to bite.” 

Their limbs are freed from the shackles, and the subject revels in being able to finally, finally stretch their limbs. The last metal clasp is over their head, and they feel the hot breath of the newcomer on their face.

“Open your eyes for me.” The man continues attempting to wrench the clasps open.

The subject opens their eyes. The man wears simple clothes, nothing like the men here. Over his eyes, a thick pair of goggles to shield him from the smoke, and a bandana across his face to protect his lungs.

“Once this is off ya, what you’re gonna do is,” The man points to the exit. A wall of flames waves back, “Run on right through there. Don’t stop. I’ll see you outside, okay? Or you can keep on running, whatever suits you.”

The clasp across the subject’s head is torn apart, and they fall to the ground in a mess of gray limbs. “Go!”

And the subject runs. Clawed hands and feet thump against the ground, tail swishing behind them, eyes bright and fearful. The wall of fire outside of the door licks at their fur, and they skid to a halt at the sight. Don’t stop. The subject’s hackles rise, and they turn to look at the man.

He smiles. Nobody smiles here.

That’s all the hope the subject needs to turn back around and storm through the fire.

It’s incinerating, it singes their skin and despite their tight-shut eyes, the world outside is a bright orange that threatens to weather into them like it had done before. Their hands are the first to meet blistering hot sands that crumble beneath their weight, and as the heat melts into the subject's limbs, they finally break out into the oil-lamp glow of the outside world. 

They slump less than gracefully onto the cooler sands, on their side, ribs heaving with all the smoke and ruthlessly fearful energy. They're alert now, and so, so tired.

In the distance on the horizon outside, they see impossibly tall rocks that arch into each other. Somewhat closer, the star-like glow of something being kept lit with small fires.

They glance at the factory for a brief moment, just in time for the man to rush out of the flames himself. He's carrying a bag - the same bag of gold that had been killed over, in one hand. When they go to see what he's carrying in the other, a window through to the flames is their only sight. 

The man stumbles over to the subject, and kneels beside them.

“See, you're fine,” He takes a pause to cough. “You're okay now. Poor thing, what have they done…”

The man reaches to touch their arm, decorated with scars of past experiments with pain tolerance, and the subject careens away. 

“I ain't gonna hurt ya. Just takin’ a look.” To make a point, the man takes the shotgun off of his belt and tosses it aside. It certainly helps with flattening their fur back to their skin.

They still shake and shimmer under the careful hand inspecting their wounds. The old knife wound driven deep into their side, the chemical burns on their chest that never healed quite right, and the hollowed nose that had been cut off in the earlier days. The shaved sections on their back where they'd been tested for fire resistance, the fur never growing back quite right. The cuts on their palms and feet. The wide-eyed and miserably wild eyes of red meeting only glass.

They find it easier to make eye contact this way, the way they'd been tortured previously for avoiding. 

“Those fellas in there wanted to turn you into a werewolf. Don't suppose that's how all of ‘em were born.” His smile is soft, kind, and understanding. Nobody understands them.

“But you didn't end up all that, did ya? You still understand me.” 

They nod.

“Can you speak?”

”I don't want to bite.” 

The man frowns, and reaches his hand down to tilt their head up, inspect their neck, “Your neck hasn't been messed with. I can see ya still got your tongue. But I'm afraid I don't understand you.” 

Friend.

The man sighs softly and stands up, “Come on with me, let's get you somewhere safe. There's all sorts of folk ‘round here that might not be so nice to you.” 

Nice.

The subject steadies themselves on four legs, then braces themselves to stand. It's weird, foreign, a contortion of limbs not quite suited to them anymore, and they stumble a little bit before being caught by one strong arm. 

“I'll lead ya there, c'mon.” His hand drops to hold theirs. Through all the aches and pains of being held firmly through tortured skin, the subject recognises some kind of freedom in the fact that there won't be any more.

And so they walk together in silence, occasionally accented by the subject's turning head to the factory as it burns to the ground. Orange meets red. 

“Y'like the fire? Don't blame ya, what a pretty sight that is.” The man chuckles to himself, before gesturing up to their destination. “Hop on board. We've got a train goin’, we'll get you far away from this place, hm? Sound good?”

The subject nods. They don't know what to expect from this, they don't know anything but the man who has been kind to them. So maybe they can follow an order. 

They climb the ladder on the back of the train, and sit on the deck as they wait for their friend to join them.

The train is lit with torches and other riches - statues of gold and silver, metal bars, ammo stacked neatly in the corners.

The man smiles at their curiosity, “Welcome to my train, it's not much but… it's home, right?”

The subject nods slowly, then gestures to the burning factory behind them. A canister inside somewhere explodes. They tilt their head.

“Why? Let's just say we've got a common enemy. I had my company taken from me, used to fund what the world is like today. The same woman who stole my livelihood is the woman who decided that you would be better as this, than whatever you were before.” The man frowns, then his face becomes rigid in a rage they didn't expect, “Her name is Helen. Don't you forget it.” 

Then he calms down with a huff, “Oh, and where are my manners? My name is Dell, okay? Are you, uh, able to introduce yourself?”

The subject shrugs.

“Can you write?”

The subject nods.

The man gives a thumbs up before walking to the other end of the train, and when he returns he presents a shard of coal. He sits down beside the subject and passes it to them.

Their name is cold and impassive. A relic of a distant time. They aren't even sure what it was - so long ago they'd last been called it.

They stare at the torches, deciding if it's even worth mentioning.

“Names don't mean anythin’ anymore these days. You can pick anythin’ ya like.” 

And the subject stares at the torches, eyes narrowing slightly. What is a name? Their vocabulary consists of chemical solutions and ways to hurt people.

“A fella who likes fire is called a pyromaniac, did ya know that?” 

The subject scrawls their name down accordingly, letters of their new beginning.

Chapter Text

The sky is grayer than usual, yet Scout finds himself standing on the highest ledge in the outpost. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, smoothing out the goosebumps of a cold morning wind.

He hasn’t noticed how empty the past few Outposts have been until now, running on empty in terms of people. No other trains have stopped in the tracks, and he’s pretty sure one person is in charge of manning the entire thing. He can’t blame people for being nervous, especially when the last outpost has apparently become the largest bandit camp for a thousand miles. Bandit town, they’ve called it. 

“You're not worried about Demo not showing up, are ya?” Scout turns his head to his friend.

“In situations like these, it's best to have faith.” Soldier mutters, “He can survive anything.”

Scout searches Soldier's face for a little while, eyes widening slightly at the concept of a normal conversation. I suppose he settles down when he thinks about what he's lost. Either way, he hasn’t seen Soldier this positive in a long time. Maybe it’s a sign.

“Ya haven't at least considered the idea? That he might be, uh…” He looks away, glancing back periodically. 

“Between the two of us, we've survived a lifetime of bullshit.” Soldier flashes a grin, not one particularly joyful either, “He's the only one outta the three of us who can find good folk anywhere.”

“Heh, yeah. I still think about when we first met. Y’know, back at the First Outpost.”

It's a hot day overhead, enough to make the walls on the other side of the outpost wave and flutter in the beating sun. 

Scout stands on one end, drinking from a tin of water. He's wide-eyed, eyes flickering between all of the people walking about with the gaze of a man not quite sure what to do. He's traveled far to get here, across the entire country after watching his city get torn to the ground. He's completely lost now that he's found his ticket out of the apocalypse, but he's hydrated.

Soldier stands in the shade of a building nearby. All sorts of threats wrack his mind as he looks over each and every person for suspicious activity. Maybe they're too flashy about their weapons - clearly an outlaw. Maybe they're distracting the general store worker as their party steals their cash - thieves. Or maybe it's the boy with the face of death trying to keep unnoticed - zombie.

So, obviously and without warning, Soldier rushes over to Scout and throws him to the ground, sparing no time to grab his shovel and show that greenblood what he deserves. But Scout wriggles free and punches Soldier across the face, the force throwing the shovel away. 

It's not long before the Sheriff is called, and the two are dragged into an empty cell for the night to prevent their actions spilling out into the crowd.

They sit on either side of the bench, unsure of what to say to each other, knowing that any word could instigate yet another fight.

An hour later, another man is thrown into the cell, and he sways slightly before collapsing onto the bench in-between the two.

“Aye, how's this? Gettin’ arrested fer ‘drunken behaviour’, fook's sake.” The man laughs, then looks to Scout, “Ah, ye too young fer drinkin’,” He gives a dismissive wave, then looks to Soldier, “You. Tell me Ae'm not insane, that the fookin’ Sheriff's a right cunt.”

Soldier grins, “Sounds like a complete and utter disregard of your rights!”

“Wait, hey! I'm old enough ta drink!” Scout yelps, and shifts closer to involve himself in conversation.

“Really now? Ye look aboot twelve, lad.”

“I'm twenty-six!” 

The man gives another laugh, shaking his body, “Now that's a good one. Wouldnae believe it if ye didn't tell me, hey? How's aboot this mister over here?” Demo lolls his head back to Soldier, “Got anythin’ ta tell the class? How'd a man like ye get locked up in ‘ere?” 

Soldier points a finger at Scout, “My impeccable judgement led me to believe that he was a zombie!”

Scout points at the dried nosebleed on his face, “My blood's red, asshole!”

“Mmm, there are many stages of infection.”

“Zombies, zombies, always zombies with these fookin’ people.” The man grumbles, “Have ye lot ever seen a skeleton? Right bastards they are.” He leans back, crossing his arms across his chest, “‘Sploded the most of them Ae could get a hold of. But they’re vicious, aren’t they? Well vicious, yeah. The Sterling mines incident, mmm. Maybe ye read it in the newspapers.”

Scout and Soldier share a quizzical look.

“Nah, ya gotta be lyin’. There’s- there’s zombies and werewolves and, uh, vampires. Outlaws too. But ya not convincin’ me there’s livin’ skeletons out there.”

“Believe what ye want, lad. Ae’m not ‘ere to convert ye.” The man raises a hand, “Gimme yer names, then. Dinnae how long Ae’m gonna be in ‘ere. Might as well make a few friends, eh?”

“They called me Scout on my way down here. Came from Boston, before it… y’know.”

Soldier’s face steels.

“Soldier. Straight from Fort Constitution.”

Scout’s eyes drop to the ground.

“Ae’m the last of the Sterling mines’ demolitions team, heh. Ye lot can call me Demo.” The man shuts his eyes, “Look at us, whole bunch’a last men standin’.” Demo smiles, it doesn’t look as happy as he’d like, “So maybe ye two can leave yer differences aside, eh? At least ‘til we’re outta this shitehole.”

The morning after, the three of them are chucked back out into the open Outpost together and find themselves sitting on the shady sands beside a train. Scout and Soldier eye the passers-by, making comments about the folk. A man hunting for a unicorn, the smoking man in the shadows, a conductor for hire.

Demo nurses his bottle between the two, occasionally defending the people they’re discussing. Everyone has a story, them especially. How’s anyone supposed to know the crazy man beating people up around the Outpost is doing it for the sake of the country? How’s anyone supposed to know the young man chatting up everyone he can find is trying to figure out what to do? They’re a whole herd of misfits, aren’t they? And now they’re being twats from all the way down on the ground.

“Hallo, people.” A silhouette approaches the three, “Are you looking for a train?”

Scout nearly jumps out of his skin, “Oh, us? Ah, uh, I don’t-”

“Well, you’ve all made yourselves quite comfortable under mine.” The silhouette responds.

“Aye, lookin’ fer transport ta Mexico.” Demo raises his bottle, “What’s yer price?”

“Oh, price?” A small chuckle, “Nein, no price, just protection. I’m only a doctor, after all.”

A doctor. The three on the ground glance at each other. There aren’t meant to be any doctors left, They’re supposed to be dead, infected or in Mexico.

“Any good party needs a doctor,” Soldier comments, “I vote to go.”

Scout leans forward, “Is Mexico really as safe as everyone’s sayin’? They’re really workin’ on a cure?”

“Well, ja, obviously.” The man shrugs like this is common sense, “All of these monsters will be gone soon.”

“Then I vote to leave!” The young man jumps to his feet and reaches a hand out to shake, “Pleasure doin’ business!”

“Kein Problem, you can call me Medic.”

As night falls, the four discuss their plans for the journey. Medic’s all medicines and ointments, Demo works with defenses, Soldier the damage and Scout the moneymaker. It’s enlightening, refreshing to talk to like-minded people, but eventually an intruder enters the deck.

Soldier pulls out his shotgun immediately, staring the man in the face, but Medic walks past him, “Und the last member of our crew arrives at last! I was wondering when you’d be back, Fledermaus.”

The two share a few words, heads close together, before Medic pats him on the back and turns around, “Everyone, please, meet Spy.”

“How’d you earn that name?” Soldier grunts.

“Old work,” Spy mutters as he walks to the front of the Archimedes, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke in his wake. Scout’s gaze follows him. “I was the best at my job, I assure you.”

“He’s also our conductor.” Medic beams with all the schadenfreude he can muster towards Soldier, “I trust we can all get along?”

“If these two start any shite,” Demo points at the doctor, “Ae’ll proper whack ‘em back in line, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re our conductor an’ all that, but we stick with Demo, yeah?” Scout flashes a grin at the Defense, “He’s our guy!”

Scout frowns, “You ever think it’d be different if he was still around?” 

“No use thinkin’ that way, son, the past’s done.” Soldier doesn’t look at him.

 “Yeah, well, maybe the past didn’t have ta suck so bad. Maybe there’d be less problems for all of us ta worry over.” Scout scoffs, but his voice comes out smaller, more miserable, more wrecked than intended.

Soldier’s jaw tenses, and he stares out at the dunes the same way he stares at a zombie before slamming its head off with a shovel. Scout is half tempted to careen away before a punch lands his chest.

Scout blurts it out before he can stop himself, “I mean, ya hate vampires. And zombies. Ya do. You’re tellin’ me you’re actually okay with them taggin’ along now? ‘Cause- ‘Cause that don’t sound like you.”

The survivalist tilts his head, one revealed eye cold under the brim of his hat. “I ain’t gotta like what they are. I just gotta know what they can do.”

“That’s it?” Scout pushes off the wall of the Outpost and begins pacing. “Ya not even the slightest bit freaked out? At all? Nada?”

“Son,” Soldier’s tone drops, and for once Scout feels a different kind of emotion towards him - maybe respect? “Demo risked his life to keep this train movin’, so we’d be safe. I ain’t about to waste that by pickin’ fights with the people keepin’ it goin’.” He pauses, “Medic says they’re good, and we’ve trusted him with our lives. That’s enough for any man to make exceptions.”

So there is a bit of humanity still left with him. Scout doesn’t know why it’s appeared now.

He finds himself glancing Spy’s way, Sniper does. Small looks, just to see how he behaves, the same searching eyes he sees on Spy whenever the others stray too far away. Two blue daggers, not all too different from the one he keeps tucked away in his pocket, and Sniper fashions himself quite the detective himself. 

And then they make eye contact, a penny-drop silence across the space on the floor of the Gunsmith’s. Sniper backs away to the nearest table, one hand reaching blindly behind him for any ammo to stare at instead.

“So now you use a revolver.”

As Sniper finally reads the information of the little box, he shuts his eyes. Fuck’s sake. “Nah, just… lookin’ around.” The quiet compresses his chest a bit too much to bear, “I’m stocked on ammo.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Are ya trying to start somethin’?” Sniper puts the ammo back on the table, “Seems like yer always on the knife’s edge of shootin’ me in the skull.”

“It’s a lot to get used to,” Spy exhales from his pipe, “Knowing you’re somewhere between us and them.”

Don’t do this shit, not now. “Excuse me?” 

“Us,” Spy gestures between the two in the store, “And them.” He sweeps his hand towards the door, where the others are no doubt wandering about. The tension seeps out of Sniper’s shoulders, slipping to the slight curl of his fingertips.

“Took a long time to get stable, I’ll tell ya that.” The half-zombie starts pacing the store, “Used to be a right wildcard out there. No aims, no purpose…”

“You found your purpose?”

Sniper shrugs, “I guess, yeah. I just want to see everythin’ through, y’know? Make sure everyone’s alive, kickin’ it back, regardless of where they’re at by the end of this.”

“And after they’ve all left? Ami, we’re all aware this group won’t last forever, no matter how many people we fatefully reunite with.”

“Hm.” The thought hadn’t come to mind, “Well, I don’t have anyone waitin’ on my glorious presence, so I think I’m happy to stick with the people I got. Don’t doubt I’m a rarity, either. Look at me, mister ‘key to the cure’. Bet you could say the same, huh?”

“We are not the same. I was designed to be an elite assassin, you were-” Spy catches himself before he starts another argument. Sniper finds that he prefers more casual conversation with the man. “You’ve been infected. Why you’re left with your senses, I don’t know. But we don’t know whether you’re infectious or not, and I’m sure the doctors in Mexico aren’t in the mood to take leaps of faith.”

“There’s more like me! Not- not like me, but left with some sense of mind. A zombie shot me with its own gun, that’s gotta mean somethin’. Most zombies, they’re just,” Sniper stretches his arms out, fingers splayed into the air, his jaw slack. I look like an idiot. He drops the charade. “Yeah? I’m a human, save for the green blood and the urges-” His teeth sink into rotting flesh. Sniper twitches, “And all the other stupid shit. Y’think if I was actually a zombie, I’d have been able to make it through all those outposts without being shot?”

Spy glances his way, but doesn’t have too much to say in response, “You make a good point.”

“When are ya gonna tell anyone about Boston?” The vampire takes a deep drag from his pipe, “Isn’t it crazy that all of our secrets are just… out there, and you’re still the mysterious man in the background?”

“Medic knows.”

“Big shocker, colour me surprised. He knows everythin’ about everyone to cross ‘is path. I mean the other lads, don’t they deserve ta know more about ya?”

“Scout will kill me.”

“I thought the same, once.”

“Non,” Spy swiftly makes his way over to Sniper, one hand shooting out to grab his collar, “Scout will kill me. My hand was forced, my actions led to the death of the only woman I’ve ever loved and he is the only survivor of the planned takedown of an entire city. His trust in us is already at threat.” Sniper presses a palm to his chest in an attempt to push him away, but Spy only tightens his grip, shaking him to stop the bullshit, “Medic is the only man I trust with this information, I have no idea why I let you in, but if you tell anyone, and I mean anyone, I will show you why I was chosen to raze that city to the ground and I will not spare you-”

“Fine, fine! Wasn’t gonna tell ‘im anyway. Christ, mate, let go of me.” The vampire drops his hand, “You’re severely overestimating how much I care. Keep ya secrets, I don’t have anyone to tell. I’m not exactly buddy-buddy with Scout either.”

“Then let’s put the topic to rest. It serves nothing.” Spy glances at one of the tables of the Gunsmith’s, and walks over to grab a few cartridges of revolver ammo. He sets the money down on the furthest table, presumably where the shopkeeper would be posted, and exits the building promptly.

Scout and Soldier are laughing with each other about something or other from high on the Outpost walls. They’re getting along just fine. 

He winds an older roll of bandage back together again as he kneels on the deck of his oldest friend, and he smiles to himself. It’s nice to have a train of friends again, of course it is. From all walks of life, he’s found a group of people he quite enjoys the company of - and that is good - but the ache in the back of his head starts drilling into his skull again. 

How much of this will go?
Medic had been at Bandit Town, once. People attempting to break through the outlaws and make it to the drawbridge across the Rio Grande. Of course, he’d fought, but not on the side he’s on now.

Am I leading them to their deaths? His brow furrows.

Footsteps make their way to the deck, and Medic looks up to meet the gaze of his friend, “Hallo.” It’s distracted, uncertain, “Do you think I have quite enough?” He gestures to the other bandages, bottles of snake oil, and gives a grin. Always good to be prepared.

It might not be enough.

“For Soldier, maybe.” Spy smiles, “Viens, come, I hear a train approaching.”

“Do you hear anyone on board?”

“I hear someone yelling about explosions.”

Medic shuts his eyes and sighs, “Let’s welcome our friend home.”

As the two step down onto the sands, Scout begins yelling, “I see a train! There’s a train comin’ in!”

Sniper looks up from cleaning his rifle on the steps leading up to the Gunsmith’s, and he walks over when Medic gestures for him to come with them. He stops at a distance, then circles around Spy to join the doctor’s side. Soldier doesn’t even bother with stairs on his way down from the walls, to everyone’s mute horror. He simply jumps down to the nearest roof and slides down till he lands on the ground.

“Was that necessary?” Medic clasps his fingers together.

“Absolutely.” Soldier walks past the group, straight to the large doors of the Outpost. He clings to his shotgun, but everyone can see him cautiously holster it in his belt. Medic and Spy glance at each other.

“He’s taking this quite seriously,” Spy murmurs.

Medic shakes his head, “He’s as worried as all of us,” He exhales softly.

The speck in the distance, dead on the tracks, slowly grows until the group are staring the engine straight in the face from just outside of the Outpost. Before anyone can call out a greeting, a man hops off of the train.

There’s a split second of silence, save for the wind beating their bodies. 

And then everyone cheers.

Chapter Text

Demo launches himself at the Soldier at a most frightening speed, the two thrown to the ground with the force. If it weren’t for the subsequent hug and cries of joy between the two, anyone would have assumed the lost-man-come-home had been infected, and this was just the next victim. 

The two excitedly paw at each other’s limbs, faces, clothes through half-sobs - a sound that billows across the sands to the approaching Archimedes’ party. After a few moments in which the two are uncharacteristically still, Soldier pulls out of the embrace and turns to their friends, “He’s alive!”

As if they couldn’t hear it, he repeats stronger, “He’s alive!”

The survivalist throws himself to his feet, and turns around to face Demo and reach out to offer a hand up. Gladly taken.

Scout is next to fling himself in Demo’s general direction, faster than he’s ever bolted into danger. His head pressed firmly against his friend’s chest, his fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and he pulls away briefly, “Gawd, ya really are alive!” He squawks, “Not- Not like I was doubtin’ it or nothin’, it’s just- y’know, you’re alive!” His grin looks like it’ll split his face in half. Nobody’s ever seen something like this from him, but nobody was certain Demo was alive, either..

The doctor circles the interaction slowly, a clinical eye on the details of it all. 

“Oh, Demo, lieber Freund,” Medic tilts the man’s chin to the side for inspection, sure not to get in the way of his companions, “Your eye. What happened? Was it the…?” His voice shakes and it’s uncertain how long his eyes have been that wide with concern.

The dearly-returned man laughs, “Them feckin’ outlaws got me good, Ae’ll say that much! Took a kick frem a horse straight ta the socket, ha!” He prods his temple in a way that’s almost proud. Almost.

“But- But then Ae met my party,” Faces fall, “An’ they’ve been helpin’ me get ‘ere since!” He turns his body, absentmindedly swinging Scout nearly half to the ground until Spy - wherever he appeared from - drags him to his feet by the back of his shirt, “Aye, bring the train in! These lot are mine!” 

He spins back as the train rolls into the Outpost, “How’ve ye lot been? Feels like years, doesn’it?” He cackles again, “Tell me, please tell me how’ve ye been? Doin’ well? No- No trouble? Knowin’ ye, pro’ly some but- but nothin’ ye cannae handle, yeah?” 

A look of concern flashes across his face as he makes the most out of his own turn to study the others for injuries. The weakening smile, it’s not one they’ve ever seen written across his features before, but after his analysis he beams again..

“We’ve been doing great, soldier,” Soldier claps him across the back, “Better than ‘great’! We’ve faced outlaws, zombies-”

“In-fighting,” Medic cuts in, eyes following the incoming train.

“Soldier,” Spy relights his cigarette in the wake of the wind thrown up by the newcomers.

“Oh! Oh, right! We made a friend!” Scout sweeps a hand to the area behind him, “He calls himself Sniper and he’s good at all that long-range shootin’ shit we don’t like doin’!”

Shit. The half-zombie freezes up, his limbs tense under the watchful eye of a lovely reunion, “Hi.” He forces one hand to wave, an awkward, jerky motion, “Nice ta meet ya.”

“Hello!” Demo waves back, arm raised high, “Ae trust ye’ve been takin’ good care of ‘em?”

Shit. “‘Course, mate!” He grins on cue. It dies as soon as it’s formed.

The next to descend from the train is a shambling form made of cloth, bandanas, a poncho, layers upon layers as far as the eye can see. The form almost falls square on its face, before stumbling back to a stand and looking around curiously with, presumably, two eyes underneath the large hat on its, presumably, head. It straightens up, brushes itself off any sand or disrupted layers. Then they raise a triumphant thumb to Demo, who returns it. 

“That’s Pyro! Ae love that little guy, they work with fire!” He gestures for Pyro to come over, “An’ they’re right good at that, aren’t ye- Pyro!”

Without a second thought, the little form runs straight for Sniper. Every neuron in his brain urges him to duck away, hide, shoot the thing dead between the eyes, but he forces himself to stay as still as stone as they approach. Hunter’s instincts be damned. At a few feet, Pyro slows down and tentatively steps closer. Sniper stares the thing in the eyes, and after a moment he extends a stiff hand to shake. 

Pyro takes this as a sign, and begins to sniff the area around Sniper furiously, “Do they normally do this?” 

Demo shrugs. He looks just as bewildered.

It’s not even polite sniffing. The wardrobe disaster orbits Sniper with a keen nose, not unlike a bloodhound or beagle. The thick, larger-than-sized gloves prod older, healed wounds through clothing with a most curious body language. 

The half-zombie yelps as Pyro shoves their face directly into the healed exit wound of the bullet he’d taken a few days prior. “Oi!” He whirls around to bat Pyro away, which is when they scurry off with a muffled squeak to the call of a new man.

“Pyro! What the hell d’ya think you’re doin’?” 

The ladder, as much of it as Sniper can see at the back of the new train, trembles as two boots step down the rungs and land on the sands with a soft thud. Then the man makes himself known, walking into the open Outpost with one thumb tucked into his belt - casual. Two goggles catch the sunlight as he meets Sniper’s gaze, and the man raises the same hand in greeting, “Sorry ‘bout that! Ain’t had fresh faces in a long time, y’see?”

Can relate. “It’s no problem,” But his hands still twitch and shake at the feeling of being so absolutely investigated. Seen. His fingers straighten out his shirt again.

The man, instead of approaching him and prodding around all of his old wounds in clinical silence, gives another wave before walking to Demo and the rest of the group. He walks with some air of calm, command, like he’s been doing things like this for years. 

Sniper lets out a small sigh of relief through gritted teeth, but it isn’t enough to dissipate the tension in his shoulders. Nothing ever does. 

How many people does he have to meet? Talk to? Pretend to be fine around?

“They call me the Engineer.” The man stops a few feet away and crosses his arms. That’s obviously enough to draw some attention. “Been the one driving this pretty little thing down here from First.” 

“Your arm!” Of course it’s Scout that blurts out what everyone’s thinking before he can be stopped, and a skillfully quick hand from Spy promptly smacks him upside the head.

“Hey, hey, no need.” Engineer raises his arms, an attempt to keep the peace. One hand up, the other gone. “It’s gone, yeah? No use dwellin’ on it.” He crosses his arms again. This does not prevent Scout from curious stares, a head tilted. 

Eventually, the same skillful hand tilts his head up to meet the Engineer’s gaze - whatever it looks like under the goggles, “Eyes up, petit imbécile.”

This is when the Engineer gives in and lets out a little chuckle, “So… Who’s been drivin’ y’all down here?”

“Well, the train’s mine,” Medic places a hand on the vampire’s shoulder, “But our friend Spy has decided to be our conductor on our journey. Say hi, Spy.”

Spy raises a hand, expression unreadable, “Hello.”

It almost - almost - rises a chuckle out of Sniper, to see him get bossed around so openly. It’s dark, it’s funny, it’s just what he needed. But then he remembers the unspoken social hierarchy, what he is, who’s watching, and his body starts to suffocate itself on its own bile and he considers the possibility of leaving the situation entirely. Sit in the shade, even if the sky is cloudy today. He looks up, and he spots glimpses of sunlight between the gray, and maybe that’s a worthwhile excuse.

A new person (How many could there possibly be?) hops off the train, and within seconds is immediately caught sight of by Scout, to which he bounds over and begins chatting with all the grace of a bird shot uncleanly out the sky. Words that tumble over, twist into each other, now bow to neatly tie them together.

It’s only when the newcomer responds, her voice weary but still sharp, is when he realises she’s a woman. Oh. He didn’t consider that.

And he’s seen her before. Once, maybe twice. While wandering around towns that don’t exist anymore, or maybe he’d traded with her. Or maybe he was briefly stopping in an Outpost and caught a quick glance at her. 

Black hair, glasses, a dress in purple. Maybe his memory is fuzzy, but he remembers how neat, clean, put-together she’d been. A real robber baroness.

Now her hair flows down her back wind-tangled, the glasses sit a little lopsided on her nose and the dress is gone. In its place, a purple or blue - I’m losing colour vision - shirt and some oddly fresh fur chaps over loose, scuffed denim, buckled into place with a worn belt. She stands like she’s learnt that she’s allowed to take up space since the last time he’d seen her. For what reason is unclear. Sniper’s brow furrows. Lots of people have reasons to change.

“Miss Paulin’!” Scout practically squeals, “Didn’t think I’d see ya again! How- I mean, how are ya? It’s been so long, I didn’t think we’d talk again, didn’t think you’d be with our friend either! I thought you were still travelling with-”

“She’s dead.” 

Scout’s mouth shuts on the spot, and their conversation goes fully silent for a long, long moment. The woman shoves her hands in her pockets, looking up at Scout with a blank stare. Not cold, just not warm. They just hold a weight to them, one that doesn’t really leave. 

“Shit, she died? Oh, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Then the woman smiles, and she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, “That means you can call me Flo now.” For a moment she seems relieved, but Scout still looks a bit horrified.

“Uh, yeah, I had my time to grieve.” The smile doesn’t reach the eyes, “I don’t really care about it now.” She does. Every word is forced out of her lungs. Anyone can see right through it. She looks past Scout to briefly scan the group, she even offers Sniper a polite wave before turning back to her friend, “How have you been?”

“Ooh, formalities, uh…” Scout scratches the back of his neck, gesturing broadly to his group, “Soldier nearly died, Spy nearly died, Medic nearly died, Sniper nearly died and I’ve nearly died, like, way too many times. I’m still tryin’ ta get ta Mexico, so maybe I won’t have any more of this shit. You?”

“Same here,” She admits, “I’ve had enough werewolves to last a lifetime.”

“You’ve been dealin’ with werewolves?!” Scout yelps, springing back, “Like, actual ones? I knew they were real, duh, but how many?”

“We’re probably at a count of… twenty now?”

“Twenty three,” Engineer calls over his shoulder, then turns back to talk to Medic.

“Twenty three werewolves.” Flo repeats, clasping her hands together, “They get easier to deal with over time. You can run them over, that sorts them out quickly.” She shrugs, “Have to save ammo somehow.”

Scout looks positively starstruck, “You’re so cool.” 

The train creaks - their train, not Medic’s - a slow metallic groan that draws all eyes to attention. Presumably, the last member of the new crew descends from the ladder. He’s massive, the tallest man Sniper’s seen in a long time, but his body is obscured by heavy plates of scratched and sturdy armour.

Where the hell did he get that? Is Sniper’s first thought, cleanly followed by I don’t want to know.

The man, the metal, drops to the sands and trudges towards the larger group. In one hand, he holds a shotgun. He could have easily holstered it, yet he drops it clean onto the sand at the sight of the group. His hands are large, grizzled in scars over his knuckles, and he raises a hand. Not to the group, just to

Medic hasn’t frozen in place like this for a long time. His feet anchored to the ground, legs taut like bowstrings, his face searching, longing. Of course, the man has most of his features hidden, but nothing, nothing could make him forget what those eyes are, and who only they could belong to.

He’s thrown at least three vampires off of the train, their bodies tumbling off the deck like ragdolls, but his friends are still fighting behind him. Each breath, all he catches is blood and gunpowder and smoke. Burnt hair, chemicals, illness. There’s yelling, of course there is, and gunshots upon gunshots. Then there’s the sound of stumbling footsteps, followed by a shriek of pain that fades under the engine. 

A hand settles on his shoulder, firm, “I’m going after him.” 

Medic’s head doesn’t turn, it doesn’t need to. He knows who this is, he knows that there is trust. But as he processes the information, the cogs turn till they’re locked into place. Medic bites back a panicked gasp, but urgently turns his head regardless, “That was Sniper?” No. His voice is weak, disbelief tangled in the words he wished he never had to say.

“Do not stop train, keep going.” Heavy’s tone leaves no room left to argue, “We’ll head your way in morning.” 

No words leave Medic’s lips now, though so very desperately he wants to protest and beg. In all the distraction of a tormented mind, he only catches one last glimpse of dark blue eyes before the man throws himself off of the train after their friend.

“Meine Liebe,” His voice is strangled, “How long has it been?”

“Too long, моя любовь.” Heavy’s eyes wrinkle, a smile somewhere underneath the well-worn helmet, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Oh, I thought it would take at least another three years.” Medic forces a laugh through the disbelief, “It’s you.” This one’s real, “It’s really you! Come here!”

Heavy doesn’t need to be asked twice, immediately crossing the distance at an impressive speed to embrace the doctor, those same grizzled hands digging into the fabric as if it were sand to slip between his fingertips.
“I never stopped searching.”

“Me neither,” Medic’s gloved hands trace the skin between the helmet and chestplate, his head pressed against the ironclad’s shoulder, “Oh, where have you been?” He pulls away, not too far away, and examines Heavy’s face all that he can. 

His gaze flickers across metal and skin before his eyes widen in horror, “And your eye!”

Heavy takes a deep breath, his voice only a little strained with memory, “Just… just little scratch from werewolf. I healed well.”

“I see…” Medic leans closer, “You’ve changed so much.” One gloved hand reaches up to trail the old scar. And it’s true, he did heal well, or maybe the injury was from so long ago that it had no choice. 

“Three years is long time,” Heavy looks around to the gathered group a few feet away, smiling softly.

Engie and Demo are discussing all that they’ve faced to a wide-eyed Scout and Soldier, whilst Flo and Spy murmur to each other off to the side. Pyro sits by Engie’s feet, drawing away in their notebook. The clouds are clearing up, and the group are lit up by the first real rays of sunlight breaking through.

He lets out a quiet scoff somewhere under the helmet, as he finally takes in what this means, to be so close to freedom.

Then he stills. The disbelief sours in his chest. His fingers, once anchored, loosen from Medic’s body, and he steps away slowly.

“Why is he here?” His voice drops to a growl. Heavy raises a finger across the sands to one man, apart from the rest. “Моя любовь, don’t tell me he’s been travelling with you.”

Sniper stands rigid, one hand gripping his rifle. Whether to aim or surrender, unclear. His gaze flashes between the two, eyes slowly widening. He shrinks into himself, partially, and he looks like he’s leaning towards surrender.

That’s because Heavy has begun to approach him, determination set in each footstep, deliberate.

“He’s our friend!” Our - Medic, Scout, Soldier, Spy. 

Medic forces himself between Heavy and Sniper, one forearm pressed against Heavy’s wide chest in an attempt to stop him. Heavy doesn’t need to be told twice.

“He is zombie!”

“He’s our friend!” Our - Medic, Heavy. Medic hisses, leaning up slightly.

“He hasn’t hurt anyone,” The doctor’s hand drops down to grab Heavy’s arm in the space between the plates, his grip surprisingly tight for the moment, “I would not have let him stay if he did. You know that. Please, please, we’ll talk. We- We’ll set our stories straight, ja?” 

Medic grits his teeth, steeling himself, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but it’s not worth ruining our parties reuniting. Don’t hurt him.” With that, Medic lets go of his arm, and steps out of the way to let Heavy continue moving.

The years have changed the two. Sniper used to be daring, irresponsible. Heavy used to be warm, inviting. Now, despite the fact they’re nearly the same height, he looks so incredibly small in front of his old friend. The old friend crosses his arms. “You haven’t hurt anyone?”

“Hi, Heavy.” Sniper’s jaw tightens. He waits for a moment, but there isn’t a response. “No, I haven’t. It takes effort on bad days. On good days, I’m just like anyone else.” Again he waits, but there’s no response. 

He lets out a scoff, and his fingers drop from his rifle as he gestures to himself, “I don’t know why I’m not like all the others. But on the last day we were together, I never met to hurt ya. I need ya to believe me, Heavy, if you’ve ever believed anythin’ in your life. I’m good.”

“Do you understand why I did what I did?” Heavy finally responds, his fingers twitching at his sides. Maybe he regrets throwing his shotgun aside. “To see my кенгуру get bit - knowing I could have prevented it. I thought I’d lose you forever. That’s why I left you.” 

“You were scared,” Sniper answers softly, “I was scared, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t gonna hurt ya.”

Heavy lowers his head, and the helmet shadows his face, “I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry.” Neither of them had to say it, but the phrase spills out of the pair’s lips before they can stop themselves. 

The two freeze in place, and by the time they’ve borrowed any movement it happens again, “I’m sorry.”

The two meet each other’s gazes, and it doesn’t take long for them to exchange hopeful smiles. Then the two of them crumble, and trade tears.

The sun is red-hot once more, and Flo would be more comfortable with the typical if it weren’t for the freeze that she feels.

The others have set up a campsite in the middle of the Outpost - something to bring everyone together. The two of them had gotten weird looks for scurrying off together. Flo can ignore that.

One of her hands is clenched tightly over the arm of this man, dragging him swiftly into a more private, shadowed area of the Outpost. Once she’s sure they’re alone, she throws Spy against the wall.

“Is this really necessary?” Tobacco smoke is immediately thrown into her face.

“How are you alive?” Flo immediately demands, “I haven't seen you in years, the last I hear you're in Boston doing some… I don't know. Why are you here?” And then the more pressing question, “You're a vampire, aren't you?”

Spy looks down at her, silent for a moment as he takes another drag from his pipe, “I have a feeling I can't avoid that question.”

Flo doesn't humor him.

An awkward glance away, “Oui, I'm a vampire. How did you know?”

“Helen's top working dog is ordered to go to the biggest, safest, impenetrable fortress of survivors in the country. Within 24 hours, it's been taken over by vampires and nobody survives.”

“Ah, there was a survivor.”

“You don't count, you were the weapon.”

Spy's gaze freezes over. Flo doesn't react. He bites me and it's over. She narrows her eyes, He knows that.

“Scout survived.”

“Of all people, Scout?”

The first time, and only time before today she'd spoken to Scout, he'd been quite comfortable in the sunlight. No smoke pulling off of him, no discomfort, no fangs in his bright smile. Why did she put that to memory? In any case, not a vampire.

“I-I mean, I'm glad he survived, of course, I just… Stop. This is about you. Where have you been?”

“Peacefully travelling with a team of halfwits and psychopaths.” Spy shrugs, another drag of his pipe.

“Helen died just under a week ago.” Her voice is quick, clipped at the end, something that bursts out of her chest. The vampire’s stare at her changes - in what way, Flo doesn’t know. “I watched her die. I-I could have used the support.” Why did I say that?

He raises an eyebrow, “To save her?”

“No.” Flo shakes her head furiously, “No, no, you know what she was like more than anyone. I wanted her dead from the moment she cut me off from my family and stopped paying me the proper amount of money. Not to mention all the shit she put me through.” 

Her legs take on that ghostly form that threatens to bring her to the ground again, “I was- I was happy she died. I laughed at it.”

“You've… changed.” He doesn’t believe me. “I'm impressed.” I can almost believe that.

Flo can’t help but smile. The second ghost in her comes out as a laugh, “You. You are the only person who can actually say that, aren't you? You're the only one who really remembers.” Better matters to attend to. “Uh, Engie knew her too. Dell of the Conagher family?”

“Merde, you've been with a Conagher?” Spy raises both eyebrows, “He didn't try to kill you?”

“No, God no, he's really nice. Um, he's frightened me once or twice, but he's lovely. They consider me the scariest, if you'll believe me.” She takes a deep breath, “Cause of, uh, this.” Reaching into her pocket, she rummages around before pulling out a bottle of Holy Water.

Steeled, “... Where did you get that?”

“Holy Water?” Flo scoffs, “Knew that'd tick you off. They produced it in the factories, but they were distributed to townsfolk, I assume. I found these in a church.” She inspects the milky white liquid in the bottle, “It only works on werewolves, as far as I’m aware.”

“Non, that works on everything but humans.” Spy even shifts away. Flo forces herself to stop smiling, “Helen constructed it as a contingency.”

“What contingency?”

“Madame Pauling, she was behind the creation of every single non-human thing out here.” 

Oh, what the hell. “Don't call me that.”

“Fine, Florence.”

“Flo.”

“Fantastique. Flo.” 

“Right. Onto better topics; you can't… manufacture things like these. There's zombies, werewolves, vampires, apparently there's… skeletons?” Spy narrows his eyes, “No idea either. Not to mention that at the end of the line, we don't know what we're gonna have to deal with.”

“Bandit Town.”

“What?”

“She's been paying people to make sure that everyone trying to escape here will get slaughtered at the end. The Eight Outpost System is a funnel.”

“What would she even get out of that?”

Spy shrugs, “Je ne sais pas, money?”

“And when everyone's dead, and the money runs out?”

“I don't know.” He mutters in frustration, “Nobody knows. I know barely more than you do.”

“You weren't surprised she made werewolves! I only found out a day ago from Engie!”

“Flo, it is a miracle you have survived this long without realising this.” His hands shoot out to grip her shoulders, his voice low, “Neither of us were supposed to survive.”

Oh.

He continues, “We were both meant to die and cover her tracks. Why did she send one vampire to a city of people? Why did she only take you as ‘protection’ in a place teeming with all sorts of creatures who want to kill you? We were meant to die. We served our purpose to her. She took our families, she took our pay, she wanted us desperate and clinging to her. By all means, I thought you would be the first to realise that.”

“But I was loyal to her,” Don’t go back. “I did everything she asked.” Remember, you laughed when she died.

Spy’s hands slip from her, “You did things even I wouldn’t have done, ma chère. You were her weapon as much as I was, and you didn’t even know it.”

“I didn’t do anything.” It’s a desperate sound, and she’s determined not to let tears spill now. But somehow, it feels easier with an old friend. An old friend. She needs this.

“You transported all of her confidential documents, you delivered hit notes, you trailed her to every point of interest, you ensured that the apocalypse couldn’t be tied back to her. That is why she wanted you dead.” She’s the shield. Spy’s eyes drift away as the first tear rolls, “Many of those hits were sent to me. I would spend nights wondering if you were well - some of the letters slipped through my door extremely late in the night.” He’s the sword.

“Oh God, sleep was a rarity.” Flo wipes her cheek as the weak smile forms, “I wish I was a vampire, so I’d be more ready to go.”

“She wanted you weak.” Spy sighs. His eyes drift back to her, “But I can see that’s changed since. You have the Holy Water now.” That is the most pathetic excuse for a smile I’ve ever seen, but I’ll take it.

“It’ll hurt you if you touch a drop of it?”

“It will burn my hand off.” Now that is a real smile. “Would you like to join the others now? They must be wondering where we went.”

“Good call.” Flo wipes her cheek again, just to be sure, “Uh, what do we say?”

Spy pokes the bottle in her hand, “Maybe I’m a big fan of that and wanted to know how it works.”

She smiles back, “Got it. Come on.”

The two depart from their spot between the houses and the Outpost wall to find that it’s quite dark, and Spy guides her out of the area duly.

The group are still chatting, now surrounding a modest fire. Engie and Medic are chatting about their experiences out in the apocalypse, both sharing little stories. Most are embarrassing stories about Medic’s companions, and Heavy and Sniper protest half-heartedly from beside them.

It’s nice to be remembered.

Pyro and Scout are sitting on the other side of the fire, looking through their sketchbook. Scout points out the scenes he recognises from his own travels, and Pyro gives him a thumbs-up each time.

It’s nice to be recognised.

Demo and Soldier are sitting on the deck of the Archimedes. Flo knows the two of them are loud-mouthed and full of cheer, but their faces are inexplicably serious and even mournful. They were the first to be reunited truly, and she can see why their meeting had been long-expected. Their hands have found their way onto each other, still holding tight as they had done when they first saw each other in the morning. She doesn’t know what words are being passed between them, but the two pull themselves into a hug.

It’s nice to be loved.

Spy scoffs, another drag of his pipe, “They look happy.”

“Then let’s join them?”

Flo sits herself down beside Sniper. She doesn’t really know why. Oh, but she does. If this is the man she recognises, and he’s a zombie, and nobody’s pointed it out, then maybe it’s okay.

“Hey,” Sniper looks over her way. He has green eyes, the type to stare, “Doin’ okay?”

“Oh, yeah, for sure.” She smiles, “It’s nice to have a big group of people. I, uh, used to travel alone, so…”

“Cor, yeah, I know the feeling.” He rolls a shoulder, wincing as he does so, “Was travellin’ on my own for years, till I caught up with Medic and his troupe.” Sniper grins at his conversation with the others before turning more towards her, “I’ve never seen everyone around me so… normal. D’ya think it’s a sign? That everything's gonna be okay?”

“Well…” Flo’s eyes scan the group. Scout waves her way, she returns it. “From one lone traveller to another, this has to mean something, right? We’ve found our people, we’ve, uh, come to terms with things,” Saying too much. “I say we’ll be fine.”

Soldier and Demo eventually pull away from each other and hop down to the sands, and the two join the circle around the fire between Engie and Scout. Past the fire, Flo shoots Demo a curious look.

He doesn’t look quite right. His eye is a little wider, his limbs a little twitchier, his breathing shaky. Flo immediately frowns. As they meet eyes, Demo’s face flickers into a bright smile. She’ll have to talk to him later.

Engie sits up slightly, “Alright, now that everyone’s here…” He brushes his pants off any sand and stands up, “I figure everyone should be aware of what’ll happen tomorrow.”

All eyes on him. Flo and Demo share another look, now quizzical.

“We’re comin’ up on the end of the line, aren’t we? Mexico is only a few miles, uh, that way,” The conductor points to the exit gate of the Outpost, “And it’ll be a rough one, believe me.”

“So I’ll start with an introduction. My name is Dell Conagher, I’m a member of the Conagher family, we used to own the company that made these here railroads and Outposts all the way up to First. I know these tracks more than anyone else. Y’all are, uh, lucky to have me, heh.

“The Outposts so far have been sunshine and rainbows, I think we can all agree. But the Last, Eighth, is not. We’re all aware of the outlaws out here, the little shits who shoot at everyone on horseback, you know ‘em. See, they’ve made the Last Outpost their little safe haven. They call that place Bandit Town. It’s the only access point to the drawbridge that connects us to Mexico for miles, so we’re gonna have to fight them. What are our weapons?”

Revolvers, shotguns, a rifle, molotovs, dynamite, Holy Water.

“We have two maxim guns on hand,” Soldier throws a thumb behind him, to the Archimedes, “Haven’t had anything to make proper use of them so far.”

Engie readjusts his goggles and looks into the dark. So does everyone else. In the dark outside of the fire, the light reflects off of the bronze metal. “Well I’ll be…” He lets out a chuckle, “I’d be happy to handle one of them. Oh, they are coming with us.”

“I can take one too.” Heavy raises a hand. His grin is evident through the helmet, “They are beautiful.”

“Right! Heavy and I will take the maxims. Thank you very much, Soldier.” Engie grins.

“But the bandits aren’t the end of it. The drawbridge itself takes four hours to lower. It is big, I’ll tell y’all that. And it’s broken as hell. You stop spinnin’ that thing, you gotta get oil on all the gears on the other end.”

“That sounds like a design flaw.” Sniper mutters.

“It’s a preventative measure, I believe.” Medic glances his way, “Why else would someone stop turning the winch if not for getting killed? Think about it, anything that would kill them probably wouldn’t be welcome in Mexico.”

“What if the bandits have already tried?”

“They haven’t.” Spy paces the outskirts of the circle, “They’re under direct order not to touch it. They are only there to intercept anyone who tries.”

Scout raises a hand, “I thought bandits don’t listen to orders.”

“If they get paid enough, they do.”

“How do ya know that?”

Flo sits up, “I mean, well,” Think, think… “We would have heard if the drawbridge had broken, wouldn’t we? Everyone in every Outpost would be yelling about it.”

The others ponder the scenario, before each person slowly nods.

“Smart thinkin’,” Demo smiles. Flo doesn’t feel so good about defending Spy now. It’s a rotten lie, but if he’s smiling…

“Great.” Engie gives her a thumbs up, “I assume we’ll be taking both trains to Bandit Town?” Medic nods, “We’ll take both trains and stop them outside of the Outpost. Me and Heavy will stay behind to guard the trains with the maxim guns. If there’s any trouble, we can get the trains out of there with everyone on board. 

“The rest of you will go on ahead. Y’all will lure them out into the open, shoot ‘em dead, and Medic can help if anything goes bad. No explosives unless there’s a large crowd, we ain’t gonna deal with any unnecessary injuries,” A pointed look at Pyro and Demo, “Sniper, I trust you can pick the rest of ‘em off? They got watchmen on top of the walls, just for you.”

“Course,” He grins, “Best aim for miles right here.”

“Some of them will stay holed up in their little houses. We’ll need people to deal with them. Who’s quick?”

“Quick?” Scout looks up from his distraction - drawing little figures into the sand. They are not as good as Pyro’s. “I’m ya man! Faster than ya could say ‘Scout’s the fastest’!” 

Flo has no idea how long he’s been stuck in his own world. She only hopes he’s been paying attention to this incredibly important plan. Before she puts too much faith in him, he goes back to doodling.

“I can help him,” Flo raises her hand, “I’m good with a revolver.” Heavy nods in confirmation, and she feels lighter.

Engie’s turn to pace. “The outskirts are covered, the interior is covered, the houses are covered… I say we’re set. Once they’ve been cleared, we’ll move the trains in, and we can work on lowering the drawbridge. Sound like a plan?”

It’s a resounding yes from the group.

An odd feeling, it is. Years fearing for her life, under the boot of someone who wanted her dead, nights spent awake over and over until exhaustion, and now freedom is over the horizon. Quite literally, too. She wonders what Mexico is like, whether she could become a member of the research team for the cure.

The others have gone to sleep, and reasonably she should be too, but the sky looks so pretty tonight. The clouds are tinged a crimson colour, the moon a soft pink. It’s a beautiful phenomena, and the stars are so bright tonight.

Footsteps sound somewhere further ahead of the train, making their way past her to the end of the train. She shuts her eyes for the moment, an offer of anonymity for whoever’s passing. But the footsteps stop beside her, and a body sinks to the deck beside her. And a few moments later, snoring.

She opens her eyes and turns her head. Maybe he was more stressed than I thought, is what crosses her mind as she stares at Demo.