Bill surfaces from a nightmare, a terrorscape of dead-eyed rabid cows and fields where nothing grows except for cornstalks that bleed when he cuts them--he always dreams of the farm when anxiety gets the best of him, a vestige of childhood spent with its borders as the sum whole of everything that can go wrong in the world--to the sound of lively conversation somewhere in the building. It’s a nonspecific hum of layered voices, suffusing in from the walls, coming from everywhere at once.
He pushes himself up, rubs at his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep but it can’t have been long; he feels worse now than before he lay down. His mouth feels gummy, his head cottony, and to complete the set, he could swear his skin has been coated in dried-on machine grease.
Stumbling, he finds his discarded pants on the floor, struggles into them. One leg sticks and he almost falls; his body feels like jelly.
It’d seemed like a good idea, hours ago, to sit up guarding Byron all night; Hollis seemed convinced Eddie had been bluffing, but he’s just a little less certain. But sitting by the bedside while his friend alternately frothed mindlessly and lay there like the dead had gotten to him after a while, had worn out his fresh resolve. It’s not just that it’d been hard to see him that way--though of course it had--but also the utter, complete helplessness of their position. What do you do for a wounded man except bandage his wounds? What do you do for a dead man except...
So when Hollis had come to relieve him at three in the morning, and he’d seen neither hide nor hair nor smokecloud of Eddie the entire time, he’d given in.
His window’s covered in bars outside and slats of wood inside, nailed up with meticulous neatness. There’s no light coming in between them, so either their building is now so completely covered in the bastards that they’re blocking the sun, or it’s still night.
“Hell,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Still night, he figures. What, one hour of sleep? Two? He’s not going to be any use to Byron like this, or to Hollis or Ursula or any of them. He should just go back to sleep, but...
But something drove him up to his feet, drove him to get up and stay up. Maybe the voices, maybe a hunch, a feeling. He feels his way to the light switch, throws it. Gives himself a few blinking seconds to adjust before braving the hallway.
Only to run headlong into Nelson, hand raised to knock, a collision made soft by how little energy either of them have. He still reels, apologizes. Steadies himself on the doorframe.
“They want you in the kitchen,” Nelson says, and his voice is cold, a little angry, which would confuse Bill if he wasn’t half-asleep and really lousy at those sorts of social subtleties anyway. He could tell you sixteen ways to detect it when a cow’s about to kick the stool out from under you but he can’t for the life of him work out what’s at play here.
Then Nelson moves past, down the hall towards his own room. “Surprise for you down there,” he adds over his shoulder, and this time it’s downright cruel, in a childish way that could almost be jealousy, or vindication.
Bill blinks in the hall light, works on putting it together. Then, suddenly: Eddie, his threat, Hollis looking dog tired himself when he sent Bill off to sleep, a surprise, oh god.
He’s down the hall faster than he can breathe, the steps at the end two at a time all the way down to the meeting room and then on into the kitchen, heart in his throat and going double time because what if he found a way around them what if he did it, what if his friend is on fire, is a pile of ash, is lying there with his head gone, with his skull split, Eddie laughing and laughing, what if--
Around the corner at a skid, and it’s only when three heads turn to look up at him from the kitchen table that he finally registers something his eyes had seen but his brain had not processed: the sicktable in the common area is empty now, the ropes shed around it in loose coils.
“Uhm. Hey?” Byron says, lifting one chewed up, mangled hand from the table in greeting.
part 7
Bill surfaces from a nightmare, a terrorscape of dead-eyed rabid cows and fields where nothing grows except for cornstalks that bleed when he cuts them--he always dreams of the farm when anxiety gets the best of him, a vestige of childhood spent with its borders as the sum whole of everything that can go wrong in the world--to the sound of lively conversation somewhere in the building. It’s a nonspecific hum of layered voices, suffusing in from the walls, coming from everywhere at once.
He pushes himself up, rubs at his eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep but it can’t have been long; he feels worse now than before he lay down. His mouth feels gummy, his head cottony, and to complete the set, he could swear his skin has been coated in dried-on machine grease.
Stumbling, he finds his discarded pants on the floor, struggles into them. One leg sticks and he almost falls; his body feels like jelly.
It’d seemed like a good idea, hours ago, to sit up guarding Byron all night; Hollis seemed convinced Eddie had been bluffing, but he’s just a little less certain. But sitting by the bedside while his friend alternately frothed mindlessly and lay there like the dead had gotten to him after a while, had worn out his fresh resolve. It’s not just that it’d been hard to see him that way--though of course it had--but also the utter, complete helplessness of their position. What do you do for a wounded man except bandage his wounds? What do you do for a dead man except...
So when Hollis had come to relieve him at three in the morning, and he’d seen neither hide nor hair nor smokecloud of Eddie the entire time, he’d given in.
His window’s covered in bars outside and slats of wood inside, nailed up with meticulous neatness. There’s no light coming in between them, so either their building is now so completely covered in the bastards that they’re blocking the sun, or it’s still night.
“Hell,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. Still night, he figures. What, one hour of sleep? Two? He’s not going to be any use to Byron like this, or to Hollis or Ursula or any of them. He should just go back to sleep, but...
But something drove him up to his feet, drove him to get up and stay up. Maybe the voices, maybe a hunch, a feeling. He feels his way to the light switch, throws it. Gives himself a few blinking seconds to adjust before braving the hallway.
Only to run headlong into Nelson, hand raised to knock, a collision made soft by how little energy either of them have. He still reels, apologizes. Steadies himself on the doorframe.
“They want you in the kitchen,” Nelson says, and his voice is cold, a little angry, which would confuse Bill if he wasn’t half-asleep and really lousy at those sorts of social subtleties anyway. He could tell you sixteen ways to detect it when a cow’s about to kick the stool out from under you but he can’t for the life of him work out what’s at play here.
Then Nelson moves past, down the hall towards his own room. “Surprise for you down there,” he adds over his shoulder, and this time it’s downright cruel, in a childish way that could almost be jealousy, or vindication.
Bill blinks in the hall light, works on putting it together. Then, suddenly: Eddie, his threat, Hollis looking dog tired himself when he sent Bill off to sleep, a surprise, oh god.
He’s down the hall faster than he can breathe, the steps at the end two at a time all the way down to the meeting room and then on into the kitchen, heart in his throat and going double time because what if he found a way around them what if he did it, what if his friend is on fire, is a pile of ash, is lying there with his head gone, with his skull split, Eddie laughing and laughing, what if--
Around the corner at a skid, and it’s only when three heads turn to look up at him from the kitchen table that he finally registers something his eyes had seen but his brain had not processed: the sicktable in the common area is empty now, the ropes shed around it in loose coils.
“Uhm. Hey?” Byron says, lifting one chewed up, mangled hand from the table in greeting.
*