Chapter Text
"You're a little vandal bitch."
"Am I, Michael?"
It was a repeated conversation, one that they had every time Gavin found something to write with in an abandoned place, when the two of them would stop for long enough for Michael to watch Gavin write something on the wall. This time, like many others, Gavin was responding to others who'd left their mark on the walls of the abandoned subway station. Michael watched with unfounded curiosity as Gavin wrote on the wall with the permanent marker underneath another survivor's message.
"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't think so. Why don't you write something fucking useful for a change?" His tone was the usual fake-annoyed, though in reality, he didn't mind. It was a form of communication, almost like a forum. It also gave their lives some sort of odd normalcy.
"Like what?" Gavin didn't turn away from what he was writing. Michael crouched down to get a better look at what he was responding to. Some idiot had written 'I hate zombies'. It was almost laughable to think that someone had taken time out of their day to write something so useless and obvious. Below, a fight had ensued in the form of writing, and Gavin was finishing up writing 'I love zombies' in large, red letters. Some people really never changed, and Gavin was one of those people. Michael just shook his head.
"Let's keep going. We should get in hiding by nightfall," Michael told him, eyeing the messages on the wall Gavin had already read over. Sure enough, some of them were useful. Michael particularly appreciated the one that had a list of all the places WHO patrolled and when. "Wait. Give me the marker."
Silently, Michael sprawled 'Fuck WHO. Thanks for the info." And the two of them were on their way.
…
World Health Organization Infected Persons Report Form
Name of infected person: Free, Gavin D.
Route of infected person: Heading towards Chicago blockade
Date tested: August 1st, infection tested as positive and recently infected
Projected turn date: No later than August 4 th
Notes: Defiant and violent. Easily identifiable by accent. Traveling with non-carrier Jones, Michael V. High priority.
…
September 23 rd , 2016
Journal entry 1100
Things are looking up. Probably. Gav can walk. We decided to at least cover a little bit of ground today. He said he'd tell me when he was in too much pain to walk. He didn't. He's an idiot. We've decided to stay in a shelter that seems mostly intact. Gonna try to radio Griffon tomorrow and see if she can help. We're still in the subway system. Maybe we'll get out tomorrow if we can walk far enough. I don't think it's smart to go above ground for long.
…
October 1 st , 2016
Journal entry 1105
Gav seems to be feeling better. We're finally out of the subway system and on the outskirts of Chicago. Gav can walk pretty far now, but I'm still being careful. Haven't been able to radio Griffon or anyone yet, but the drop-off site should have a transmission site and maybe some penicillin, too. They said they had a smallpox outbreak and needed vaccines to prevent it, so I only hope they aren't totally overrun with it. I don't think it'd be a good idea for either of us to catch something like that.
Gav told me today 'I was trying to think of a good sun joke, and then it dawned on me'. I think I'm going to start writing down every bad joke he tells me so I can show everyone at home. Barbara will be ecstatic.
…
"I think I hate being underground."
Gavin broke the silence around them, his voice echoing around the wreckage of the overpass highway leading into the city. It had only been what seemed like five minutes since Michael had last yelled at him for tripping and falling down a particularly large piece of cement that had fallen down, giving himself a huge gash on his forehead. Really, traveling with him was more like constantly having to take care of a child. It was a mild inconvenience, though. Michael had never seriously entertained the thought of leaving him for dead, and not only because traveling alone would be a shitty life.
"Yeah? Why's that?" Michael stopped walking, glancing up at the half-gone green road sign above the decimated highway. They were almost inner-city. Unsurprisingly, Chicago was just as shitty as it'd been back before everything had gone to shit. Factories and broken-down apartments still lined the city limits, just as ugly as they had been before. It was no surprise. Gavin, however was shocked at how different it was from the remnants of Austin. Michael wondered why WHO even bothered with this place. 'World Health Organization' his ass.
Gavin took Michael's stopping as a sign to rest, sitting down on a fallen piece of cement that jutted up from the wreckage. "I like the sun much better 's all."
Michael couldn't agree more. Underground was safe, though. Both of them knew that all-too-well. They could safely travel along abandoned subway routes without the constant threat of violent militants keeping them 'in check'. Anyone outside the city limits was ordered to be detained or shot on site, which turned out to be a problem for the two of them. Though Gavin was more skilled with that crossbow than Michael would ever be with a firearm, they had a place to be and someone to meet and a time limit on getting there, so traveling underground proved to be the quickest and safest route. It was an unspoken understanding that they'd be traveling underground on the way back, too, no matter how much they both hated it.
"We're almost to the drop off site, aren't we?" Gavin glanced away, towards the towering buildings that still stood amongst the reminders of a better time that both of them still remembered clearly. "It's just inside the city, innit? We could be there by tomorrow."
"Yeah, if you hurried the fuck up and stopped hurting yourself every two steps," Michael's hostility was clearly for show. Even if looking after him was a giant pain in the fucking ass, Gavin wasn't a useless companion. He couldn't shoot any type of firearm for his life, but goddamn he was painfully accurate and quick with his crossbow, something that Michael had been shocked to discover, given the fact that he'd been horrible shooting anything in video games, back when they'd still produced content for the internet. He wasn't useless and his company wasn't completely unbearable.
Gavin took the hint, getting up again and continuing to follow Michael in his path through the wreckage, trailing only a couple steps behind him despite recent injuries. He spoke again shortly after getting to his feet, and Michael knew he didn't like the silence, "Do you think they bombed here, too?"
"They bombed everywhere. Why else would we be walking around on what used to be a highway?"
"Do you think it worked here?"
Michael turned and fixed Gavin with a look of disbelief, "It didn't work anywhere, Gav. Not Austin, not New York, and definitely not here."
Michael preferred Gavin over anyone else for a variety of reasons. For one, he could defend himself. He also had a larger understanding of scientific things than most survivors did—which, again, was a surprise. But most of all, he was interesting to talk to. Not much mattered to Gavin. There wasn't a lot that he could actually be bothered to deal with. As a result, he ended up as someone who accepted what was and didn't live in constant fear of Infected. He was the person who'd probably adapted the fastest, because Gavin simply couldn't be bothered with the question of 'how to get things back to normal?' when it'd been clear to him that things would never be the same. Because of this, he wasn't someone who constantly dwelled in the past. He wasn't obsessed with going back to how things were, but he was instead interested in the 'how' and 'why' things were how they were. It made him a lot easier to talk with than someone who constantly reminisced about their past lives.
For a moment, they picked their way around the wreckage in silence, carefully avoiding sharp edges of concrete and wires that could still be charged. And then, "Sun's going down. Drop off can wait until tomorrow, can't it? We've been walking all day."
Gavin didn't complain often, and when he did, it was usually a sign that he was hiding some serious pain. Given what had happened just a few weeks ago, that wasn't all that odd. Wordlessly, Michael nodded, and began looking for someplace safe to stay.
…
September 30 th , 2016
Entry 334
Spores
We travelled through another hospital today. Everything was abandoned and nothing was out of the ordinary at first glance. Michael looked for pain medication and I wandered around and found the laboratory. I've included pages of the medical journals I found. They describe the early research of the infection, before it infected a large amount of people. This is the earliest research I've found so far. I'd like to look further into this, since they immediately labeled it as dangerous and complex. It's also noteworthy that it was noticed quickly that it was constantly mutating and growing. Like other sources I've seen, it reports that it was first found in primates.
The testing room in the lab had some really heavy spores, too. Probably the heaviest I've ever seen. It was hard for even me to breathe in, since the air was so thick with them. I looked at one under a microscope and it looks larger and more mutated than other spores. It's most likely older. I've included a drawing of what it looks like below.
Michael was angry that I wouldn't let him look. Didn't want to take the chance of him breathing any of that in, even with a mask on. Will report more if I find any odd Infected near the hospital.
…
September 30 th , 2016
Entry 335
Spores (continued)
Found our way out of the hospital after a scare today. We encountered a new Infected today, like I thought we might. I managed to get a good look at it before it went mad. Seems like this guy has been here since before the beginning. More than three years. From what I could see of remnants of clothing, it looked like some sort of patient or test subject. Could be either or, though Michael suggested patient, while I'm guessing test subject. We ended up betting over it. Anyways, it looked pretty ravished by fever, which I thought disappeared after the infection takes over. It was making this constant crying noise from inside its chambers. I've never heard an Infected make such a human noise. It was honestly a bit creepy.
It's face was in a later stage of deformation than any other infected I've seen. There were busted welts all over its skin, and the fungus growing on what had once been a face. Like others I've seen that've been infected for ~2 years, this one had welts and fungus-y shit growing over its eyes. It was obviously blind and agitated, from the crying noises. Michael then knocked over a cart and startled it. It suddenly went mad, lunging at us and nearly breaking the glass of the room it was in. We got out of there pretty quick.
The crying reminds me of the Witch.
…
"What do you write about in there?"
The question surprised Michael and he glanced up from writing in his journal, penning a short entry about what'd gone on today, the header of the entry reading October 1st. He wrote nearly every day, and had since Griffon had suggested that it might help ease some of his guilt and anxiety. He'd been shocked when venting his feelings out had helped immensely and he'd just never stopped. Gavin often watched, lying propped up on the floor-bed they had set up, and Michael didn't mind. There wasn't anything really private between them, anyways.
"You watch me write. You should know," He went back to writing, finishing off his first sentence.
"Well. You know. I don't read it. I just like to watch you write. I read once that watching someone write is calming."
Michael didn't pause to look back at him, "Is it?" He didn't recall when Gavin had started watching him write or why, just like he didn't remember when a lot of other things between them started.
"Yeah, sure. I wouldn't sit here and watch if it wasn't. What do you write about?" He asked again, and Michael stopped for a moment, thinking of a way to phrase it. He wrote about a lot of things, and varied from writing about what was happening to what he thought about what was going on. His journal entries had gotten shorter over the years, as his guilt began to ease and he started to get used to things, but he still wrote the occasional long entry when he worried too much about something. He'd learned over time how to start talking to people, as well, and that sometimes took the place of writing out his thoughts and emotions
"Lots of things. What happens, what I worry about, where we go, you," That covered most of the topics. Michael jotted down a couple more words. "All the stupid jokes you tell me. You should write in yours more."
He already knew the answer to that. Gavin said it anyways. "Nah. I never know what to write. I've had that thing for over two years now and I've only about a hundred entries in there."
"You write in your science journal all the time," Michael pointed at the book at Gavin's side of the bed, one that he often saw him writing in at night.
"That's different. I don't have to sort out what I'm thinking when I'm writing in that. It's easier."
Michael bit back the reply that was on the edge of his lips. He'd had that conversation before with Gavin, and it never ended well. It started as soon as Michael said the words 'it could help' and ended when Gavin got so frustrated in denying whatever he thought Michael was implying that his voice was straining as he shouted and yelled and it was Michael who had to tell him to keep it down. That conversation had been left alone a year ago, and Michael treaded lightly around it. There were times, though, like right now, that both of them knew that it was right there, hanging over them in the air as neither one of them spoke the words.
"Look," Gavin was the first to break off eye contact, glancing away from Michael. "I'll do it if you want me to."
"Hey, no," He shook his head, fixing him with a serious look. "You have to want to do it. If just watching me is enough, then that's fine. Don't be a fucking idiot and say shit like that. I don't want you to do anything just because I want you to. I swear to god, you're dumb as dicks sometimes."
Then Gavin smiled and Michael was about to ask him what was so fucking funny when he laughed and said, "Sounds like we're talking about some other activity entirely, doesn't it?"
Michael then proceeded to throw his leather-bound journal at him and beat him with his own pillow.
Later, though, Michael came back from a small adventure to find more blankets for the cold October night and found Gavin staring blankly at his own journal, and he left again, leaving him to his own devices for a while to sort out whatever went on in that head of his. He returned to find him in the same spot, now with a few crumpled papers at his feet and only a few sentences jotted down. Michael suggested they go to bed and Gavin was quicker than usual to agree.
…
October 1 st , 2016
Entry 117
Lost a bet to Michael the other day. I owe him the dick money when we get home now. I think this is the fifth time it's changed hands during this trip.
Science journal is coming along nicely. Michael says I should write in this one more, though I don't understand the point. He won't tell me directly if he wants me to or not. It's frustrating.
…
It was amazing how fast things could change.
Amazing how a person could go from working their dream job and being surrounded by their best friends to hiding, panicked and terrified as an infection took hold of the entire world. Amazing, how he could go from hanging out with friends to holding a gun to one of their heads, hesitating to pull the trigger as he wondered if they were still in there, or if the infection had already killed them. It had literally happened in one night, and that night had started with a party at the office celebrating the company's birthday and had ended with Gavin forcibly dragging him, kicking and screaming, to a safe-house Michael didn't believe he belonged in.
Sometimes, he wondered if Gavin still had nightmares about the night, when he had pulled the trigger when Michael couldn't, putting a bullet straight through the skull of someone who'd been their friend. He wondered how much Gavin thought about the past and how much he missed it. He rarely spoke about, sometimes laughing in an almost nostalgic way whenever he came across someone who'd written 'I miss the internet' on a wall, usually near a graffiti argument or referencing something that'd been said a lot in forums. Michael would never know what it was like to be in Gavin's head, but sometimes he could take guesses, and the only conclusions that he came up with were that it must be hard for him. After all, he'd been the quickest to adapt, and thus, the only person who hadn't hesitated with the thought of 'what if this person is still in there?' when that fateful night had arrived. By the end of that night, Gavin had ended up with a lot of familiar blood on his hands.
"How'd you do it?" Michael remembered asking him one night. He hadn't expected an answer.
"I knew those people. They weren't in there anymore. And if they were, they were suffering."
And that had been the first and last time Gavin had ever spoken about it.
No one had ever held it against him. The reason a lot of people had gotten infected or died was because of the refusal or hesitance to kill their loved ones, or the shell that had once held them. Gavin had been one of the smart ones. He hadn't hesitated. He'd recognized the threat and hadn't gone through the shock of it. He'd been the one to kill the sick things that had once been their friends, and he'd saved a lot of people by not hesitating in doing so.
Michael had been told he suffered from survivor's guilt. He often wondered if Gavin did, as well.
"Don't you miss how things used to be?!" Another survivor had once shouted at Gavin during an argument with him, clearly fed up with his carefree attitude.
"Bloody hell, maybe if you people stopped thinking about that so much you'd actually get something done for once!"
And that was when they'd stopped traveling during drop-offs with other survivors. Gavin didn't get along well with them. Michael wondered if it was because he felt bad about not being able to save the loved ones the other survivors talked about so much. After all, Gavin had been the one to pull the trigger when Michael couldn't.
It was amazing how fast things could change.
Anyone who couldn't adapt was left for dead. It wasn't a choice of those around them, but a necessity. With the way things were, no one could lag behind. Things happened fast. They were placed under martial law. Gavin tried desperately to get back to England or contact his overseas family. Michael stayed put in Austin. The day all hope was lost was the day the explosions started, and the day Gavin's flight was supposed to be. The airport was determined to be a breeding ground overrun with the infection, and it was one of the first places bombed out in an attempt to eradicate it. Michael still remembered the first few weeks well—all the confusion, the orders given by the military keeping them under control, the anger, and the grief. He remembered being evacuated and having to stay with the Ramseys, and how in the middle of the night, a soldier came banging at the door with orders to detain all foreigners. He remembered thinking how it wasn't fair, how none of this was fair.
"Your interrogation techniques are bloody brutal," Was all Gavin said when he was shoved through the door a couple days later by the same soldier who'd detained him, his face bruised and bleeding. "Could've been a bit less rough there, lad."
He'd been hit on the back of the head for that comment, un-handcuffed and left in the Ramsey's care yet again, and still, no one was sure how he'd avoided getting deported or shot. He never talked about what happened when he'd been detained, or how he'd somehow talked the military into letting him go. They learned later that Barbara had also been detained that night, but let go in the same way. Michael couldn't shake the suspicion that Gavin had something to do with that.
Things really started to change from there. The remainder of the company stuck together. People started to adapt. The infection got worse, branching off and mutating. Michael lost contact with his family in New Jersey, and to his knowledge, Gavin never heard a single word from his. Strict martial law was enforced. WHO, the World Health Organization, became the governing force, partnering up with the UN for armed forces. People weren't let outside city limits. A cure was found, and then found to do jack shit to cure anything. He remembered listening to the announcements on the radio about how 'the cure was found to be ineffective in humans' and how that had surprised no one. Food was rationed. People were constantly angry. Groups formed, disbanded, and fought. It was anarchy.
It was amazing how things changed so quickly.
Three years. It'd been just over three years since that night when it all started. All around cities and back alleys were the painted words 'It's not a flu!', serving as a constant reminder of how it all started. They'd been told it was a simple flu. A strain of the bird flu or whatever bullshit they'd put on the news. Next thing they knew, people were convulsing, their heartbeats and most brain activity stopping dead, their eyes going insane, the infection taking them over. For lack of a better word, they were zombies, though not the type in video games, when that'd been the biggest game fad. Exposure to the fungus was deadly. Breathing it in could infect a person almost immediately. The first stage was symptoms of a flu, a rash where the exposure or bite had been, which slowly spread until the fever overtook and killed that person, the rash creating a disgusting, disfigured shell of a person.
But that wasn't what Michael considered their worst enemy. It was humanity. People. People were—maniacs, to say the least. Survival took over in times like this. People were dangerous. And power was something everyone strove for in this reality. It wasn't just stragglers and loners Michael considered enemies. It was other survivors. It was the military. It was anyone he hadn't met before all this started. Things were different. Things had changed.
Maybe they'd changed, as well. Michael liked to think not, but when faced with it, he couldn't deny it. Gavin was still the annoying idiot he'd always been and Michael was still the easy-to-anger person he'd always been. Things had changed, though, as time went on. The two of them played into the power game that had become necessary for survival, but Michael liked to think it was different, that they still held onto some sort of humanity. The biggest evidence for that was the fact that they worked together, not alone, and with no ulterior motives. By now, people who did things like they did usually worked alone or with another person only when forced to do so. Regular socialization was a strange occurrence, and the constant conversations Gavin and Michael carried on were an extremely rare sight in others. It was mostly everyone for themself, which had resulted in people caring about no one but themselves.
It was amazing to think about how much had changed.
It was a materialistic society. More ration cards meant more power. More firearms meant more power. More medicine meant more power. And people were willing to give a lot for dangerous jobs.
If Michael made a list about everything that reminded him that he was still human, Gavin's companionship would be on it. So would the fact that he wasn't doing these drop-offs for himself. The company had always been more than a place to work. It'd been a family. And because of that, there was no way he could abandon them. Things got bad. Rations were low. The military was doing jack shit about the spores that polluted the air of many buildings and the rise of Infected. Infections of influenza and other things that had been common at one point broke out. Things were bad, no one could do anything about it, and Gavin had been convincing.
"It's illegal and dangerous. I'm not going, and I'm not letting you go," He'd told Gavin the first time he came to him with the offer someone had given him.
"People are starving and sick, Michael. It's a lot of ration cards."
Gavin put on a good show of being an idiot, but in reality, he was manipulative and had an impeccable talent of convincing others, and there was no way to argue the simple points he brought up. Besides, there was no way to stop him when he had his mind set on something, and Michael wasn't about to let him go alone. The first time had been rough—they were supposed to take a message just beyond the city barricade and deal with anyone who didn't comply. Michael hadn't known what that meant at the time, and Gavin wouldn't tell him the message, but the first time he saw Gavin shoot an arrow through someone's chest without even flinching, he understood what was going on and what Gavin was willing to give for the survival of those he cared about. That first time was messy and confusing, and now, two years later, things always went a lot better.
That first job had been a strange one, too. Usually, they just traveled to different cities to drop off medicine, messages, or ammunition. They barely ever got a 'take out whoever doesn't like it' type of thing. The pay was good, too. Within the rest of the company, there was always more than enough to go around, and they had protection, as well, since they'd made friends in the right places through this. It'd become second nature—traveling from city to city and back home, dealing with the military and loners, but even the fact that it came so naturally was strange to think about. After all, they'd gone from playing games and making videos for a living to, well, this.
What was this? Michael didn't exactly know, but he liked to think he was doing something important. He was definitely helping people, most of the time, at least. And it wasn't the worst thing. Sometimes he'd bitch and moan about it, but it was actually a lot more enjoyable and exciting than living under martial law. Not being allowed to leave the city was, to say the least, extremely boring. That was probably part of the reason Gavin had wanted to do this sort of stuff in the first place. Michael knew from experience that Gavin hated being forcibly cooped up anywhere, and he was quick to get stir-crazy. It was nice to be able to travel and go where they wanted, without curfew or limits to where they could go, or even without soldiers around any corner. As much as he bitched about things, this was probably the most preferable way of living.
Things had changed, but definitely not everything.
This was their first time headed to Chicago. They were set to drop off medication they'd had to take from an abandoned hospital after a little community recently had a smallpox scare. They had a set way of doing things. Gavin did whatever negotiating was necessary with both the military and the people they were meeting. Michael usually hid out somewhere above with some sort of firearm in case something went awry and Gavin got cornered or overwhelmed. Things usually worked out pretty well unless someone brought out a scanner for infection, which was how things got bad a couple weeks back, pushing their drop-off date further back. Turned out, people in the Midwest did not like convincing British men who refused to be scanned. That was unsurprising, really.
Tonight happened to be one of those sleepless nights. Those had been happening a lot lately. With Gavin injured, Michael worried a lot. It wasn't that they had to slow down. That was fine. Their time limit was still about a week away. It was the fact that Michael knew next to nothing about medicine. He didn't know what to do if there was an infection or if it wasn't healing properly. They'd gotten really lucky health-wise so far, until now. It was stressful, especially since Gavin didn't talk about himself a whole lot, leaving Michael to guess when he was in pain.
Things had changed between them in the three years, too. Michael wasn't sure how to describe it or the relationship they had, but things had changed.
Gavin slept curled up against Michael's back, his head resting in the nape of his neck, the stench of antiseptic filling up the room still, though not as strong as before. His barely functioning watch let him know it was nearly three in the morning, and that he should probably get to sleep if he wanted to be functional tomorrow. He could feel Gavin's breath against his skin, and it was comforting but did nothing to sooth his nerves. The same thing that had happened a few weeks ago could very well happen again, and the thought of that wouldn't leave his mind. He let his eyes close, a memory filtering back to him of the day he'd found out about what Gavin was constantly hiding.
A year and a half ago
'What the fuck is this?!' He could still remember screaming at Gavin in shock, shoving him away, furious and suddenly tempted to punch him in the goddamned face. He had snatched his arm, digging his nails in just below the rash that Michael had seen too many times before, but never on Gavin. "Is this why you fucking tested positive?!"
He could remember that, too. A WHO troop had caught them and scanned them. He remembered the horror he'd felt when Gavin had scanned positive for infected. He remembered telling himself it was a false positive, and then feeling his heart drop when they scanned him again, testing positive again. He remembered the hushed whispers of the soldiers and then his own finger pulling the trigger as they took aim for his handcuffed best friend, killing both the soldiers and then running with Gavin in tow.
'But Michael—'
He also remembered being panicked and shoving Gavin around as soon as they got someplace safe, demanding an explanation, and then stopping dead in his tracks as soon as Gavin pushed up the sleeve of his shirt, showing Michael the rash and then tried to explain—
'Bullshit! You're a fucking idiot. You made a promise to me that you'd tell me if you ever got infected. Don't fucking tell me that's two weeks old. We both know no one lasts more than three days.'
And he should've realized it by looking at the rash itself. It looked old. It didn't look right. Gavin had never had the flu or the fever that preceded the complete takeover of the infection. It was two weeks old by that point. And to prove his point a day after their fight over it, Michael had watched Gavin breathe the fungal spores that clouded the air of a devastated building without any effects on him, when Michael had needed a gas mask. Now it was a year and a half later and Gavin's rash was still at the same stage as before.
There was only one explanation—whatever this infection did, Gavin was completely immune to it.
The problem was that he still tested positive.
Which had led to disaster a couple months ago. He'd been forcibly scanned, and Michael hadn't been quick enough. The test had been positive, and, as protocol, the soldier running the test shot to kill Gavin, missing badly as Gavin tried to run and putting a bullet into his leg, just below his hip, instead. It had definitely set them back about a month, and they'd only recently started traveling again, and even now it was hard for Gavin to walk too far. There were medical facilities around to treat him, sure—most hospitals had closed down but there were still some military-run medical clinics—but he couldn't be taken to any of those. Anyone who tested positive for Infected was shot on-site without any exceptions.
Another problem was that Gavin stuck out like a sore thumb. He had a heavy accent. When the infection had started, the government had suspected it had been biological warfare and rounded up anyone with a visa, a green card, or a passport and interrogated them. From there, they were either deported or, if they tested positive (which was before Gavin had become a carrier for it), killed to avoid spreading it to other parts of the world. Foreigners were almost completely unheard of. Gavin and Barbara were the only ones Michael had heard of who'd come back. Needless to say, Gavin's accent made him stick out. It was obvious he wasn't from here, and that made people, especially the military, watch him closer. It also made him subject to 'random' screenings, where he always found a way to bribe his way out of.
Michael couldn't shake the worry that the rest of the WHO troops around here had been alerted that there was a defiant pre-infected carrier on the loose who'd soon turn and wreak havoc. Part of him focused even more about the prospect that they'd figured out why Gavin, who'd been scanned positive many times, hadn't turned. He couldn't stop imagining footsteps stomping down the hallway of the abandoned hotel, coming to look for them. Michael had been sure to navigate them through dead subway tunnels and sewers that hadn't been used in years and anywhere else underground, but they had to be above ground for a bit, and despite how nice it was to be outside of damp, musty tunnels, it made Michael anxious. He felt vulnerable and out in the open now. It would be alright if it wasn't for the fact that they couldn't move very fast or agilely. They could usually take care of themselves out here, but it was a little hard when Gavin was injured. He could only hope that the drop-off group would offer some sort of help to them, but that seemed unlikely, given the fact that they'd traveled from Austin to give them smallpox vaccines. It didn't seem likely that they'd have much to help them with.
The room still stunk of the cleaning solution, despite it having been hours since treating him. It was an annoying scent, and Michael couldn't sleep, yet he was exhausted.
Survivor's guilt was something Michael still struggled with. It was getting better, though. However, watching Gavin get shot had brought on a new bout of it. That feeling of helplessness, of guilt over not doing anything when he could've, the feeling of 'it should have been me instead' had returned. He hadn't been there when he should've, and Gavin had gotten hurt because of it, and now his injury was all Michael could think about. Even though he seemed to be healing well, he still constantly worried over the prospect of a bacterial infection that could potentially be deadly.
He should've been ready. In their exchanges, their roles were clear and they were used to them. If Gavin couldn't talk his way out of something, Michael was supposed to be ready for a fight. It worked nearly every time. It wasn't like this was the first time Gavin had gotten cornered. It'd happened many times before, but this time—maybe it'd just happened too fast. Michael had been in a place he hadn't been able to see too well, and that soldier had been experienced and quick. Nevertheless, he still felt like he could've prevented it, and because of that, he kept replaying things in his head as he waited for sleep to come to him.
Behind him, he felt a shudder and a sudden jolt as Gavin startled himself awake. It was a common thing for Gavin to sleep fitfully, something Michael had just gotten used to over the years, and from time to time, he always wondered why Gavin could never sleep fully through the night. His only guess was nightmares, which Michael had summed it up to.
"You're still awake," It was a quiet statement muttered against the nape of Michael's neck. He felt Gavin relax against him again, free from whatever stress had startled him out of his sleep.
"'You're still awake'," Michael mocked in a hushed tone, copying Gavin's accent. "No shit I'm still awake. I can't sleep."
"Why?" Gavin sounded half asleep. He probably wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning or be able to carry it on for much longer. "'s because we're sleeping on the floor, innit?"
Michael almost felt like laughing because he swore Gavin always was ten times more British when he was barely awake. "No, I'm just stressed about tomorrow. Go back to sleep, shit-head."
And with that, Gavin laughed and nuzzled his shoulder, settling down with an arm thrown over him, and Michael thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to sleep now.
Sleeping was the biggest challenge they faced. It was a matter of finding the right place, somewhere that had to be safe from hunters, military, and infected, a place that was secure but also easy to get in and out of without much noise or trouble. They usually opted for abandoned hotels or high-rise apartments when they weren't underground, as they'd found that people were less likely to search a place with a lot of rooms than they were to search something like an abandoned house. Despite sleeping in a place that usually had furniture in it, they always slept on the floor. It was easier to pack things up quickly then, and left less of a footprint telling where they'd been.
Michael could only vaguely remember a time, back when they'd traveled with groups, when they slept apart. He also remembered that time as the time when nightmares badly plagued him and on nights when he couldn't sleep, he'd toss and turn and have no way of getting comfortable. There were a lot more sleepless nights back then, not just for him, but for Gavin, too. There were too many times to count when Michael would find Gavin away from the group, sitting up by himself, lost in whatever reality he lived in. Things were different now. Things were better.
Silently, Michael's hand found Gavin's arm around him. He pushed up the sleeve of the sweatshirt he slept in and traced the slightly scarred-over rash on his arm, just as he had many times before, as he thought about how odd it was that they'd made a life for themselves out here. His fingertips brushed over the scar tissue, and for a split second, the familiar anxiety that Gavin wasn't immune passed over him, and he had to remind himself again that it'd been a year and a half. He used to worry so much about that. Every day, he'd find himself panicking and looking to make sure that it wasn't getting any worse. He had a feeling he'd never be completely reassured.
So now Gavin had survived almost being killed or deported, being infected, and being shot. It was almost funny.
His hand settled over the rash on Gavin's arm after a few moments, and he had a lurking suspicion that his rhythmic movements on his skin had put him right back to sleep. Despite not being able to sleep well, Michael was comfortable, unlike the sleepless nights he'd spent before they broke off to travel alone. He'd be a bit slower than usual tomorrow from lack of sleep, but other than that, spending the night like this wasn't bad. Still, he tried to quiet his thoughts and willed sleep to come to him.
…