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You watch Simon and Amelia drive off with something close to gratitude. Not quite, though. Because you’re high up. Far away. Slowly, as you stand there and try to catch your breath, your surroundings filter in: sun-dappled, familiar woods. Worn paths you’ve taken a hundred times. A place that shouldn't feel this threatening, but it does, each tree staring down at you. The leaves, whispering. Even the mud, even the grass knows what you did.
You take a deep, shaky breath. You can do this. The bramble-thick path towards Abel stretches wide. You can go home. Don't really have a choice.
You have to go home, Five.
Fingers clenched into fists, you manage to drag yourself forward through the forest at a half-walk, half-jog, trying to ease the terrible cement feeling in your belly with every step. But it doesn't work. Of course it doesn’t.
You’re ten minutes out from Abel when the trees start to thin. The dread draped over you grows in size and weight. The sunlight gets bigger, and the sky is opening up, and for a fleeting second, you’re afraid that it knows too. The sun. That it will burn you alive right then and there—but it doesn’t. Your body stays your body, stays un-blazed, and it still happened.
It. It pushes right to the edge of your thoughts when you see Abel in the distance, the radio tower the first thing that catches your eye. Moonchild. She made you—she—
You pinch the skin between your thumb and your ring finger hard enough to snap the thought in half. You stare at Abel instead and how it looms. Shit. Has Abel ever loomed? Mostly, it’s been a welcoming sight. A safe-haven that offered relief, a warm hand, and a soft blanket. Now, though, the walls are large and imposing. You can almost feel the barbed wire snagging at you.
Snap out of it. It’s Abel. They won’t …
You don’t know that, because you’re closer, and you can see the damage the zombies did to the gates, and to the radio tower and to the people who live there. People. Your stomach clenches as everyone's faces of traitor, of horror, of monster, Five, you're a monster bubble up to the surface. Most of you wants to run. Most of you is lost back in the ocean, floating among the debris.
But the part that doesn’t want to run, the part of you that's kept you alive all these years says: no. You can't break or flee or drown. You owe Abel after what you did, and they’d want you to show your face. So keep going.
You continue your long walk forward.
Two minutes until you reach Abel. One, if you're fast. Twenty seconds if you were running. But you're not. You're not running.
Three more steps and the sound of the gates raising breaks through the air. That sound stops you dead-cold. The swamp of dread grows to near-unbearable levels, and you can’t hear anything except your own shallow breathing.
I can’t face them after everything I did. I can’t.
Except you don’t have a choice. Ahead of you, three figures step out of the gates. Even from here, you can tell: Janine, Maxine, and Sam.
That last, still-surviving part of you keeps your legs shuffling forward.
You get to where they are. Everything inside you stops. Heartbeat pausing. You keep your eyes glued to the mud on their shoes.
They hate me. Have to. These gates are as far as I get.
“Runner Five. It's good to see you.” Dr Myers, with her carefully soft voice. You keep your eyes down. On the mud. “Looks like you lost your headset. How are you feeling?”
Translation: Are you mind-controlled and going to try to kill us all again, Five?
By some miracle, you manage to find your voice: “I'm. I'm not under her control. That stuff Simon gave me broke it. No necrosis—just hallucinations. Ed made it off the flotilla. He wanted me to tell you that, and…” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence, because you can’t, and because you can feel Sam’s presence with your whole body. With a final, Herculean act of strength you force your gaze up to meet his. His eyes are confused, and relieved, and a little bit broken.
Fuck.
Your mouth moves without your permission. “I'm sorry. I know it's pointless, but I am so fucking sorry, God—”
Warm arms surround you and pull you in. Sam hugs you so tightly you suck in a big, gasping breath, part of you wanting to pull back because you know you don’t deserve his kindness, you know it, but you can’t convince your body to move. The scared little kid inside you leans into his warmth. You'll take anything you can get.
Selfish.
None of this makes sense. But arms are around you. Sam's here. For some reason.
“It's—It'll be okay, Five. We’ll make it okay,” he says, all tired. All soft. When he pulls back and away, you stare at him. He's here. You're here. That counts for something, right?
Does it, Five? Count? Are you here?
There's a sudden whisper at the back of your head that sounds way too close to Moonchild. You lurch back. Janine's saying something but you can’t hear her, because even now, even here, hearing Moonchild’s voice again—oh, god. Your brain tugs towards that still-fresh feeling of your insides painted with gold, of breakneck freedom, of wholeness her control gave you. It spikes through you, and for a split second you want it. You long, desperately, for her.
You monster, you.
You take another step back from your friends. This whole thing is pointless. Coming back. You clearly can't be forgiven, and you shouldn’t be, and some part of you misses it. Even after—
A hand brushes your shoulder. “Hey. It’s alright. We ... We understand that none of this was your fault."
You're inside Abel. When did they decide that? They didn't kick you out.
It makes you feel worse.
"—working on repairing the damage, but we've trained for this, and done it before." Janine's voice. There's mud on the cuffs of her pants. Or is that blood? Damage?
The damage. All around you. Nails, hammers, barbed wire, bandage kits. The feeling of eyes crawls all over you, but you don’t dare look back. Afraid of what you’ll find.
Arms around you. The scent of lavender fabric-softener and plaster. A voice you know right at your ear.
“Five, oh God, you're okay! I was so worried, I—”
That's Jody, isn't it? Has to be.
She steps back and looks at you and then you see it. The angry purple-yellow bruise on her jawbone that stretches all the way up to her temple. A swollen nose. A snapshot: her face red and broken, the cement of a statue behind her, and the knuckles on your hand throb white and hot and swollen.
That was me? I did that to her?
She's staring at you staring. Say something. Anything. "I'm so sorry, Jody, I didn't ... I couldn't ..."
She stops you there, placing a hand on a shoulder you don't feel. You want to run. Away from her. Keep her safe. “Hey. I know. It's … It's gonna be okay. We all know you didn't mean to do any of that, yeah? We’ll figure this out.”
You're in the hospital. When did you get to the hospital? Where'd Jody go? The smell of floor-cleaner and cotton clogs up your nose. A hint of burned plastic. Wait. Is something burning?
Janine and Sam are there. Something smells like burning. Does no one else notice? Maxine gestures at the two, clearing her throat: “Could we have some privacy, guys?”
“Oh. Right. Of course. Run every test you can, doctor.” Janine nods sharp and leaves the room, giving you some sort of look. You'll decipher it later. Now: that burning smell.
"Guys. I think something's burning. Can't you smell it?"
Maxine's brows pinch together. Sam looks back at you. He says: "Not that I can smell, no." Maxine shakes her head and puts a hand on your shoulder. They wouldn't lie to you. Everything must be fine. Nothing's on fire. Right?
Sam's almost out in the hallway when you re-focus on him. The thought of him behind that door and away from you is—fuck, it's intolerable: something sharp and needy tugs at your heart. “Wait, Sam, don't—” You cut yourself off. Who the hell am I to ask him that? I tried to—
“You want me to stay?” He asks, but it's not really a question because in two steps he's already back in the room and sitting down in a desk chair next to the bed. All you can do is give him a grateful nod. Can't look at him too long.
Dr. Myers nods as she gently removes your jacket, revealing your scratched up, bruised arms. “It's fine with me. All I'll be doing right now is taking some blood to run some tests on, and later we'll do a few brain scans. I'm sorry to have to do this right away, but the sooner we know you're safe, the better.”
You numbly hum in agreement, trying to keep your gaze focused on her, but you can't stop it from being pulled back towards Sam. Sam, with his bruised fingers—that was you, wasn't it? Like Jody —and his scuffed-up jacket. He's looking at you with so much worry—
No. You don't deserve him, or any of them, or any of their worry. Coming back was a mistake. They're being too kind. Shouldn't there at least be more questions? More mistrust and righteous anger? Why are they still here?
Maxine's talking. You can't hear her until you see the needle and the blue gloves, and then the skin of your neck turns blotched and red. The doc notices how your shoulders tense up. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. It's just … Needles. You know." Van Ark's next to you, with his big, loud laugh and your veins feel like fire, and your arm is one giant wasp-sting, and you can't see anything but the blurry screen of the treadmill. Running and burning. Running and collapsing.
Sam's weight sinks the bed next to you. He offers you a hand, palm up. There's no treadmill. No laughter.
“Hey. Just focus on me while Maxine does her thing, yeah?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay.” You interlace your fingers with his when you feel the pinch of the needle. Sam squeezes your hand. You focus on the feeling of his soft skin, and the way his hands are so much warmer than yours. You know you shouldn't do this to him, and you should pull away, but you're selfish with it.
Again.
There's a brain-scanner and Sam's gone. It's all metal and sticky plastic and wires. You're in a shower. Soap, scrub, lather, repeat. It starts to smell like burning plastic again. But nothing's on fire. Right? You're out of the shower, and Dr Myers gives you options. Some involve staying in the hospital if you think you can't cope, and others involve more space.
You choose space. Agree to therapy, maybe, or that you'll check in with her if things get too overwhelming. But deep down you know you can't do any of that. Won't. Her outstretched hand is impossible to accept right now because you’re still you, still the person on the flotilla, in Abel, whose hands–
You can't accept her help. Not that you tell Dr Myers that, of course.
Now. As you stand in the hallway: it's over. You’re safe and you’re clean. Moonchild can never take you under her control again. It's over. You stare at the sunlit window. The smell of burning plastic is getting thicker. The window's bright and easy. Her control was bright and it was easy. The wanting from the gates comes back: her mind-control was nothing like this, and nothing smelled like singed hair, and you didn't have to wonder if your friends would ever love you again because she loved you, and that's all you needed. Your brain wants that and it doesn't want this.
You bite into the inside of your lip until it stings. Stop thinking about it. About her. She's a monster. End of story.
You run into Sam. Like, literally collide with him, your head down and hands shoved into pockets as you leave. He steadies you. “Whoa, hey. Everything go okay in there?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I'm immune to it." Can't meet his eyes. You aren't here, not really. Up, up and above. Hiding from—what you—what Moonchild made you—
You walk right on past him.
It's another day. Don't know what time it is. Sun's in the sky. You wander around near the pharmacy, the park. In a foggy stupor.
Dogs bark in the kennel. Trash-burning day so there's smoke in the air. Someone's next to you.
You look over, vision fuzzy. Dark hair and a frayed hoodie. Sam.
Wait. Why's he here? You were in the hospital. And then—your scratchy pillow. The soles of your feet burn and ache. Like you've been walking a long time.
“Hey, listen. Is there anything I can do?”
Sam. Talking. You're halfway through the park now. You stop, vocal chords stuck. Is there anything I can do? That's what he asked.
Kill me isn't the answer he wants. Even if that's the only thing you can think of. A kid sprints by you, yelling something loud, and it grates on your frayed nerves.
“Could we go somewhere quieter?"
“Yeah. Of course. I think the orchard should be empty by now.”
As you follow him through the rest of park, you catch glimpses of people still working on fences or on zombie-corpse clean-up, brooms in hand and hazmat suits neon-orange. They don't—don't look real. Plastic. It … Fuck, it’s sort of like those fractured hallucinations of Archie and of Sara. Their faces sneak up into your vision. You curl deeper into your own body. Seeing them again felt like a knife to the gut. Hearing and talking with them again brought out buried, old but never gone grief. What would they say if they were here? Would this be easier? Harder?
Sam stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Is here good?"
You're at the orchard. No kids yelling here.
You nod, because the place doesn't really matter. You just don't want to think about—what you—what Moonchild made you—
You're on the ground. Leaning against the sturdiest apple tree. Sam's by your side. Close, but not touching. You wish you had the strength to tell him to go away. To stop pretending he's forgiven you after you—
What did you do, Five?
The air hangs thick with the summer scents of honeysuckle and lemongrass. They're drowned out by that sickening smell of the molten plastic, metal, hair. The bark of the tree digs into your spine as you huddle deeper into yourself.
You—you—
Someone's blasting the radio in the distance, voices garbled. Sam's shoulder touches yours. Are you leaning into him, or is he leaning into you? Why is he still here? Why are you letting him comfort you? After ...
Abel—those ships—
Your fingers dig into the insides of your navy blue pocketed sweatshirt. The one that used to be Runner Eight's. Your hands haven't stopped shaking since you reached the woods. Have they ever stopped shaking?
You—
Sam asks if he can put an arm around you. Distantly, you can feel your whole body trembling, so you say yes. He shifts and you feel weight on your shoulders but you aren't sure if it's his arm or if it's the weight of something else.
What did you do, Five?
The ships are bright with fire and with ash. You're punching a code into a shiny keypad. The gun's cold in your hands. Blood drips onto a hardwood deck. Generators, she says. You know it's something worse, but you don't stop her. Lifeboat. Black smoke pouring into the sky, a ringing in your ears and the smell of charred flesh. Abel's gates.You break open her nose, and blood drips into her mouth. You can't stop smiling, and you hold back bright, bird-like laughter. You're gripping an axe, the splinter digging deeper into your palm. He's there and he has tears in his eyes, and he's touching your shoulder, and you're pressing your boot into his throat. The room goes red, gray, black. Sam's hurt. And all those people are—gone. All of them. Because of you.
Yet somehow, you're still here.
You press a hand over your mouth. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—it was you. All those lives. All of those people. Their blood's on your hands, soaking through your clothes, sticky in your hair. It was you, and Moonchild, and you. The stupor you've been in for however long subsides for a second. You're back down into your body.
Into the wreck.
The sobs make their way out of your throat, all heaving and choked.
“Sam. Sam. How many people did I—? And Abel, and you—!” You choke out, eyes welled hot. Words don't make sense, because what you did doesn't make sense, but it happened: they're dead. You were there. You did the killing.
The orange sun glimmers over Abel's wall. Sam pulls you closer. You lean into him and you know you shouldn't but you do, you do, because otherwise you have to face this alone. And there's no way in hell you'll survive this alone.
Selfish.
“It wasn't you. It was Moonchild. It was all her.”
“Does it matter? So many people are gone, and I couldn't stop it, and it's—"
You almost say it's so heavy, Sam, but Moonchild. She said it first. And you can't fucking sound like her, or be like her, or think about her. A blinding pressure builds behind your eyes, pushes under your skin, burrows deep into the middle of you.
“I'm here. I've got you.”
You shouldn't. You shouldn't.
When you don't—can't—reply, Sam just tightens his arm around your shoulders, leaning his cheek against your head. His presence is something in a senseless everything. And that has to count, selfish or not.
The sky fades into a lavender purple. You don't see it. Don't see anything at all anymore.
You stay there. You stay there. You just … stay there.