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Chapter Text

He didn't know how long he had been alone. Darting behind abandoned cars, listening to the gargling sounds of the Cranks as they roamed the empty streets, looking for their next meals. There was no living, breathing human in sight, and Thomas almost felt like he was the last person walking on earth that hadn't been infected by the virus yet. The last person who wouldn't, and couldn't, get infected by the horrifying disease that had killed millions and billions of people worldwide.

Though, he knew that wasn't true. He couldn't be the last person on earth. WICKED's complex was right there, looming over the destroyed city and sticking out like a sore thumb. They were still there, still apparently striving for a cure. They'd been testing on him, prodding him with needles, taking his blood before he'd finally managed to get out. He'd escaped with Teresa, the two of them fleeing into the abandoned city of Denver with their hands intertwined and their hearts exploding out of their chests. The brisk feeling of freedom had been an eye opener, and ever since then, and on that very day he realised that he would be running away from things for the rest of his life, and that the world was far, far past being saved.

But that had been days, or even weeks ago. Months. Teresa was gone, back at WICKED for all he knew, playing as their little lab rat as she left Thomas for dead. Now, he was alone, barely managing to find food for himself, being too scared to even think about leaving the city's boarders.

Thomas hoped that he would never, ever see Teresa again. If he did, he didn't know what he'd do.

Though it was Teresa who always found safe hideouts. It was always Teresa who found stashes of food, weapons, everything. Teresa was smart, and Thomas valued that. But now she was gone, and he was lost like an idiot. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what time or day it was, he barely knew who he was anymore. He was tired, he was hungry, his whole body ached. Sometimes, he wished he would fall asleep and never wake up. It would be easier that way.

He'd been bitten before, right in the left side of his stomach. He had panicked, he had sobbed, he had thought the end was coming. But when he expected to spiral into insanity, the wound begun to heal instead, and he was fine. He was completely fine.

Is that why WICKED was testing him? Because he could survive the bite? That he could survive the virus that had taken the lives of so many people across the world?

He didn't deserve it, though. He knew he didn't.

But there was no time to dwell on his depressing thoughts as he rushed from vehicle to vehicle, his eyes glancing over at the Cranks nearby every few seconds. They were preoccupied, bent down and eating what wasn't hard determine as a body. Thomas had only caught a glance, and he was ready to throw up whatever he had left in his stomach. What had once been a human was now just a heap of red, saggy flesh for the Cranks to feed on.

His time dodging Cranks had gone pretty well as he moved throughout the city, desperate to find food or just somewhere safe to stay. Every store he'd found was completely looted, the only food left being the moldy vegetables and fruits stacked into old freezers. The smell was almost as bad as the Cranks.

He'd managed to find a decent torch, though, in the very back storeroom of one of the stores he came across. It was right there, sitting on the flimsy wooden table, as if it was asking him to take it. He did, of course, stuffing it into his backpack as he made his way out of the store.

That had been just over two hours ago, he hoped, as he glanced up at the sky. It looked reasonably light, so he took that as confirmation in wasn't going to get dark just yet, and that he still had more time.

He hoped he had more time.

The Cranks were always more active at night, the whole city filled with them. Wherever he went, he would always hear the gargling. The screams. The shrieks they made when they spotted something new to eat, or the sounds of their throats when their bodies jerked. It was a hollow sound, like they were gasping for air but choking on it instead. He'd never really thought as Cranks as the zombies he would see in movies. Everyone had told him it was a real, zombie apocalypse, the day when the disease first spread. He hadn't believed it at the time, but would anyone? Would anyone believe that their favourite book or movie or tv series was becoming a real, scarring event? Could the world have possibly been prepared to be overrun by dead, or undead, humans?

The thoughts were in and out of his head in a flash, his stomach rumbling painfully. He hadn't eaten for almost two days, and he could feel himself getting weaker and weaker. His feet hurt, his legs hurt, his head hurt, and he just wanted to collapse somewhere and die.

Sometime during his car hopping in search of another store, the rumbling of a vehicle engine filled his ears. He stopped in his tracks, ducking behind the truck in horror. He knew that sound, he knew exactly who they were.

He slid down the side of the truck, ignoring the way the peeling paint flaked off of the door. He pulled his backpack off of his shoulders, rummaging through it until he found his gun. He'd snagged it from WICKED during his and Teresa's escape, though he was quickly running out of ammunition. He didn't know where to get it from, either, and he was beginning to stress. The gun was like a safety blanket for Thomas, and he knew for a fact that he'd be dead if he didn't have it to protect himself.

It wasn't just from the Cranks, but it was from other people too. Everyone seemed to want to kill him, since he is by himself, and steal his supplies. Everyone he saw always had their guns cocked, or their knives out, pointing it at him and demanding he empty his backpack. Thomas saw the posters of himself and Teresa scattered around the city, and he had slowly connected the dots as people constantly attacked him. Though, none of them sold him out to WICKED, which confused him nonetheless. Ever since Teresa left him, he'd been looted almost three times, though each time his gun had been left behind. He didn't know why they didn't just capture him and keep him until WICKED did their daily rounds of the city, searching for their lost lab rats. Or rat, since Teresa had gone running back like a dog with it's tail between it's legs. Thomas had always ripped up any poster he saw of himself and his friend, making sure to throw it as far as he could.

The rumbling was getting louder, as was the sound of Thomas' heart pounding aggressively in his chest. He gripped the gun, almost expecting somebody to pop out from beside the truck he was braced against, whether it be a Crank or a human. His only hope was that it wasn't a WICKED guard. Then he would be in deep shit.

He rested his head against the truck, inhaling deeply as the vehicle engine got louder and louder. It was coming in his direction. Of course it was, everything bad in the world always seemed to happen to Thomas. He was born immune without even knowing it, and then the apocalypse came along and his parents died from the virus they called the Flare, and he was left alone in the big, two storey house he'd grown up in. He'd lasted a day alone before WICKED swooped in and took him away. He never figured out how they knew his parents were dead.

At first, Thomas had thought that WICKED was good, and that they had a cure. It only took him a few weeks to realise what they were doing wasn't right, and that he had to get out as soon as possible. Then he met Teresa.

He didn't know that then, when befriending her would end so badly. He would never thought he would have gotten abandoned by the girl he had loved.

It took them two years to find a way to escape.

The vehicle was close. A street or so away, Thomas wondered. He was sat there, silent, his heavy breathing being the only thing breaking the silence. That was until he heard the gargle and splutter from a Crank. It was near him, he could hear it, but he didn't know where. The sound continued as he stayed put, gun cocked and ready to shoot. He knew it would draw attention to himself, and that the WICKED guards in their truck would scoop him up in a flash. They'd been patrolling the city every day since Thomas and Teresa broke out, and he'd even noticed they were beginning to branch out of the city and down to the small and equally destroyed towns nearby. He had no clue how he had lasted this long.

Thomas felt the instinct to run build up inside of his chest, the gargling getting closer and closer. But he still couldn't see the fucking Crank. The sound sounded as though it was underwater, distant but close at the same time, and he could hear faint thuds coming from somewhere near him, and he then found himself looking at his reflection in one of the only still-standing windows. It was pitch black on the other side, covered in dirt and grime, and he couldn't see what exactly was inside. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear things. The gargling and thudding was messing with his head, and he was beginning to feel anxiety spiral through his body more than ever before as the engine's sounds got louder and louder. He swore he could see the window moving in rhythm with the thuds, but he had wiped the thought away. He knew that would be a bad move.

Within seconds, voices were in earshot. They were closer than Thomas had originally thought, and his heart began to pick up the pace the more and more he could make out the sentences spoken from the WICKED guards.

"Janson won't let us back in if we come back without them." One of them had been saying, worry etched into his tone. Their voices sounded rather distant and radio like, and Thomas just knew they were wearing those creepy masks. Thomas ignored the growl of the Crank which was still nearby, though he still had no idea where it was hiding or why it was waiting. The thudding had picked up, louder and more rapid. Like the Crank was desperate. "It's been going on too long. They're either dead or out of the city already. It's been too long, they would have fled by now."

"What's so special about them, anyways?" A new voice.

"They're immunes, dipshit." Another new voice.

They were driving past him. He could hear the rumble over the Crank's sounds and the distant thudding, which had distracted him momentarily. That was until that disgusting, dirt covered window directly in front of him smashed, a spray of glass raining down on Thomas and cutting his skin in the process. He didn't have enough time to run before a Crank was careering towards him, the black like substance raining down on him along with the glass as the thing screamed and wailed. Thomas was in shock for a few seconds, staring, finger unmoving on the trigger. Sad enough for him, he waited a few seconds too long.

The Crank was on top of him.

He yelled, kicking and flailing as the Crank jumped down onto him. Somehow, he'd managed to kick the thing off of him, before raising his gun at it's jerking body. It stood back up, turning around and staring at him with it's black eyes. Before Thomas thought of the consequences, he shot. The Crank's body fell to the floor, black blood seeping out of the gaping hole in it's forehead. Thomas could see the black spider web like veins all over the things body, along with the missing patches of hair and ripped clothes. The Crank had moved so fast, and Thomas was left bewildered at the thought. Usually, they were slow. Like they were dragging themselves along instead of walking.

He didn't have the time to stare any longer before he remembered the WICKED vehicle. Without thinking, he bolted. He grabbed his backpack on the way, hauling it onto his shoulders as he ran. Immediately he heard voices and thundering footsteps after him, and the sound of the launchers as they got loaded. Before he knew it, he was being shot at, the electric shots landing all around him as he dodged debris, running down the street as if his life depended on it. He was not going back to that WICKED compound.

Once he reached the end of the street, he turned left without thinking. The shots echoed around him, the sounds of the launchers reloading coming after. He dove into what used to be a store, knowing that the guards hadn't turned the corner just yet, and that they wouldn't have seen him. He crashed into a shelf, his head bashing into the metal with a sickening thud. He crumbled, the world spinning for a few seconds, before hauling himself back up and running deeper into the store. This time he tripped, but he didn't trip over an inanimate object like a shelf, or upturned flooring. He had tripped over a body.

He stared while kicking his legs, pushing his own body along the tiles until his back met with the wall. He sat there, listening, waiting for one of the WICKED guards to come charging in and shoot him. He was going to end up going back to the compound, and he already knew it. He could hear their yelling, he could hear their footsteps as they ran past, the launchers reloading. He could see their shadows through the dirty but smashed windows, the light shining through the store disappearing and reappearing as they ran past.

Maybe he had made it out. Maybe he had gotten away.

The thought was completely lost when he heard glass smashing. He could see the guard, creeping into the room with his launcher cocked in front of him, ready to fire. Thomas was screwed.

He sat there, as still as he could be, inhaling unevenly through his nose as the guard got closer and closer. It was over. He was going back. He was going to see Teresa again.

When the guard found him, he was close, staring through the black mask they all seemed to wear. Launcher in Thomas' face, ready to shoot the electricity to stun him. To take him back to WICKED where he would be used as a human blood bag.

Thomas could see the twitch of the guard's finger on the trigger. He could hear the other guards radioing through his walkie-talkie. Just before the guard could pull the trigger, Thomas had a bad idea.

He launched himself forwards, arms outstretched, pushing the launcher away from him just as the guard pulled the trigger. He heard swearing, before Thomas yanked the launcher out of the guard's hands with force he didn't know he had. His hands slipped, the launcher skidding across the tiles and away from the both of them. Thomas took this as his turn to run.

Though, before he could even get himself off of the floor, the guard was literally tackling him while talking into his radio. Thomas screamed, knowing for a fact that all this noise would be attracting Cranks from anywhere and everywhere. Thomas could use them for a distraction to get away. He didn't know why, or how, the Cranks hadn't come charging to the sounds of the launchers, noise being the one thing that Cranks responded to instantly.

There were some Cranks who couldn't see, there were some who couldn't smell. The ones who were unfortunate to have none, were the ones who roamed around aimlessly until they died. The ones who were gifted with both, were the ones Thomas always looked out for. Those types of Cranks were always the strongest out of the latter.

The guard slammed him back against the wall, Thomas' head taking another painful beating as the guard held him there. Thomas screamed again, louder and more desperate this time, thrashing against the guard's hands as he tried to free himself. Tears were forming in his eyes the more he panicked and the more the guard radioed to the others, and he began to thrash and scream harder than he had ever had to do in his lifetime.

"Help me!" He screamed somewhere amongst the incoherent words coming from his mouth, in case anyone around would help him. He knew they'd all be hiding from WICKED, so no one was going to save him. Except maybe the Cranks.

"Shut up!" The guard behind the mask yelled, hands leaving Thomas' chest to wrap around his neck. Thomas gasped, panic filling him more than ever before as his airways were cut off, and all that was leaving his mouth was pained wheezes. The tears ran over his cheeks the instant the hands came around his neck, his own arms reaching up in attempt to pull the guard's hands off of his neck. It was no use. "Hurry up before I kill him."

Thomas's eyes got incredibly wider when he heard exactly what the guard had said. He went to inhale, but the air didn't make it to his lungs. He felt his head going light, the world around him going dizzy as he was close to passing out. Or dying, he didn't know.

But before he could reach that stage, a gunshot was ringing out and the guard's hands were falling from his neck. The guard's whole body was falling away from him.

Thomas gasped, welcoming the air as if it was water as he keeled over, crying, gaping, and overall terrified. His backpack was heavy on his back, the hope that he had put his gun away after shooting the Crank. He didn't remember putting it back in his backpack.

Before he could fully collect himself and check for the safety of his gun, hands were grabbing him. He panicked, flailing, strangled coughs leaving his mouth as he attempted to push the person away. He could now feel the stings all over his body from where the glass had rained on him, knowing for a fact that there would have been glass lodged inside of his skin.

But that was another worry as he tried to fight off the person wrapping their arms around him.

"Get... get off me." He whispered, his voice almost completely gone. It was broken, wheezy, and he felt as though he had zero energy left in him.

"Calm down, man, I just saved your life. We have to go now, his friends won't be too far behind." The person said, and Thomas didn't have time to look up at the stranger before he was being yanked into the back of the store and out of some back door. Was this how the stranger got in without his knowledge?

"Help... help." Thomas found himself whispering as his arm was thrown over the stranger's shoulder, and his feet were left to drag along the ground as his brain fell in and out of consciousness.

"You're fine, you're fine." He heard from the stranger, who seemed to be running at full speed. "Just try to stay awake, alright, Greenie?"

Greenie?

Thomas didn't have time to dwell, focusing on forcing his eyes to stay open.

He wasn't going back there.

Chapter Text

It had felt like he had been getting dragged around by this stranger for hours. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, his feet dragging along the pavement as the person holding him up ran, surprisingly still managing to hold Thomas' dead weight.

Thomas had let himself get pulled around, hoping he was being dragged away from danger, his backpack uncomfortable on his shoulders. At this thought of his backpack, the alarm bells inside of his brain went off all at once.

Thomas pushed himself away from the stranger, catching them off guard. He tried to walk, though his knees buckled and he ended up falling to the ground within seconds, pain spreading throughout his kneecaps. He coughed, his chest heaving as he yanked on his backpack straps, forcing the deadweight off of his shoulders in a panic he didn't realise was coming. The stranger was grabbing at him, talking to him, trying to pull him back up. Thomas threw their arms off, pulling the heavy bag into his lap yanked the zips open, revealing the contents inside.

Maybe the stranger would forget about saving him and steal his things instead. Thomas ignored the thought, tearing through his bag looking for his gun. He threw all sorts of things out of his bag, the torch he'd found, the few t-shirts he'd taken before fleeing from WICKED. He threw out his matted old teddy bear, which he hated himself for still carrying around, searching desperately for the one thing that had kept him alive all of this time.

"Come on, we have to get out of here!" The stranger was yelling at him, and Thomas could see him gathering everything Thomas was hurling out of his bag and trying to shove it back at him. "We can find whatever you're looking for later, we need to get out of here!"

"My gun!" Thomas wailed, his voice breaking in multiple places. It wasn't in the main compartment of his backpack. He turned to the small pocket on the front, where he would usually keep the object, hoping that maybe he had thrown it in there in his haste to get away from the WICKED guards. Though, the chances were slim.

When it wasn't there, Thomas began to feel himself get hysterical. He needed his gun.

Before he could continue the useless searching through his now empty backpack, the stranger snatched the thing out of his hands. Thomas flinched, now taking this time to actually look at who had saved his life. He looked a little older than Thomas, and was obviously much more buff. No wonder he had the strength to hold Thomas up for so long.

He was stuffing Thomas's belongings back in the backpack, before putting it on his own shoulders. He was looting him.

But to Thomas' surprise, the boy stood up, yanking Thomas up by the arm and slinging it around his shoulders once again. "We can get you a new one. We have plenty where we're staying. But right now, we have to go."

Thomas took the boy's word for it, this time trying to contribute by using his legs more. Though, this didn't last long as he began to feel like he was about to faint. He felt himself slump, his head falling into the stranger's shoulder as he failed to keep his head up. He was tired. So tired. He was fucking exhausted.

He felt his body sag completely, the boy's arm around his waist tightening dramatically and hauling him back up. "Come on, man, you can make it. We're only a few minutes away."

"Tired." Thomas whispered, his eyes drooping as the world spun around him.

"I know, I know. It's not far, you're gonna be fine, you unfortunate shank."

Shank?

Thomas had no time to think about the strange word before the stranger's pace picked up suddenly, and they were no longer surrounded by buildings. When had they gotten here? Had he blacked out?

Everything was hurting. His feet were burning from where they were dragging along the ground, his arm hurt from being in the same place for such a long time. The bite in his side was aching, and Thomas suspected that the wound had reopened. It had only been a few weeks ago since that one shit of a Crank had attacked him, and it usually took only a few days to go insane. His head hurt, his throat hurt, his everything just hurt.

It was getting darker, too. Had it really been that long?

"How... how long has it been?" Thomas whispered, mostly to himself, but the boy seemed to hear him nonetheless.

"It's only been fifteen minutes or so. We're just outside of Denver." The boy was puffing, and Thomas was beginning to feel bad. "We're almost here."

"Where?"

He never got an answer. Though, his eyes closed without his permission, and he felt everything disappear for just a few seconds. When his eyes opened once again, he was being dragged down a stairwell. The boy was still there, holding onto him as he careered down the stairs at such speed Thomas felt himself panic, the thought of rolling down old rickety stairs not being what he wanted right now. To Thomas's luck, they made it to the bottom, and now Thomas was faced with an old wooden door. The Asian boy was banging on the door so aggressively the whole thing was shaking, and Thomas had a faint worry that the wood was going to cave in and snap. While the whole scene was happening in front of him, he could feel himself slipping from the stranger's grip. But before he could, Thomas noticed the door being swung open and words were being said.

"Minho why the bloody hell are you so- who is this?" This voice was new. They had an accent.

Thomas didn't hear the reply before he felt himself slip away. He fell into the wall, his head yet again hitting another hard surface as his body slid down sideways, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Exhaustion took over all his senses as the two people rushed over to him, one grabbing at his face. This scared him, and without thinking he screamed. It was a strangled, breathless scream, and he used the little energy he had left to try and swat the hands away. His eyes were squeezed shut, not wanting to see who was touching him. He could hear them talking over his cries, and to Thomas's horror, another voice joined in.

"What the hell is going on out here?" The newer voice said, and Thomas immediately tensed with fear. At this, he thrashed violently, tensing when his head smacked the wall once again. He was left dazed, his eyes opening against his will as black dots clouded his vision, his mind feeling light as his eyes met brown ones. He jumped at this contact, feeling his eyes widen as the person stared right back at him, fear swirling around the irises.

"Who is this? Minho, if I hear that you haven't fucking checked him for the Flare I'm going to feed you to the infected. I also specifically said this was a food run, not a rescue mission."

Infected? Thomas had always been told they were called Cranks. But this was the last thought on his mind as he tried to find the boy who owned the voice, his eyes moving so slowly he feared they were actually about to fall out of his head.

Silence. During this crisp silence, Thomas realised that he was whimpering, uncomfortable sounds leaving his mouth as he forced himself not to cry. He couldn't cry in front of these people, they would leave him out to die in a heartbeat. The weak ones were always tossed out of groups, he'd seen it happen before.

The person with brown eyes and blonde hair was turning his head around, as if checking for wounds. Checking for bites.

Then someone was grabbing at his legs. He felt his eyes well up with tears against his will, trying to kick the person away. The were rolling up his pant legs to the thigh, and Thomas suddenly felt exposed, definitely not feeling comfortable with his legs on show. His eyes darted around, resting on the Asian boy who had saved him. He looked guilty, meeting Thomas's eye, and Thomas already knew that he trusted him more than the others.

He jumped when his pant legs were yanked right back down, and someone grabbed at his jacket. He braced himself for it, forcing himself to relax and just let it play out. He was going to get kicked out, the boy who had saved him would get fed to the Cranks, and Thomas was going to die from exhaustion. They were going to find the bite on his side and everything was going to end.

But the bite had healed up, right? It had happened weeks ago, maybe they would understand?

His shirt was lifted next, and he heard a strong inhale from the one who had lifted his shirt. He was dark skinned, older than him, and Thomas immediately felt intimidated. Thomas tried to curl into himself, he tried to pull his knees to his chest. But the dark skinned boy shoved his legs back down, eyes trained on the disgusting bite in Thomas's flesh.

It had looked worse.

"What is this, Minho? What does this look like to you?"

Who was Minho? The dark skinned boy was looking at the Asian one, and Thomas slowly connected the dots. Minho. Minho had been the one who saved his life from WICKED? Minho was the one who dragged him all the way here?

"He was getting strangled- he didn't show any signs!" The stranger, who now was known as Minho, exclaimed, meeting Thomas' eyes with worry. "Look at him, Alby! He's as innocent as a shucking kitten!"

The dark skinned boy, Alby was his name, stared right at Thomas. Alby stared at him, eyes unforgiving and angry, and immediately Thomas began to panic once again. The tears resurfaced as did the fear, and immediately Thomas turned to Minho. Pleading. The hands were still on his face, tight, though not as tight as the guard's grip had been on his throat. It was almost comforting. He also noticed that Minho still had his backpack on his shoulders, and the memory of his missing gun came into his head. His gun.

"I know that face." Alby had said, and Thomas's mind went straight to WICKED. "You're the one who escaped with the girl. You're the one whose face is all over Denver city. You're one of the immunes, aren't you?"

"Good. We can take you back to WICKED, where you belong."

Thomas froze. He froze completely, his chest beginning to clench in horror. He couldn't go back there. The tears finally overflowed down his cheeks as his brain began to shut down, the crushing fear of going back to WICKED and seeing Teresa again making him terrified.

He broke. He had started crying. He was showing weakness.

"No, Alby." The accented voice.

"They've been looking for him for a month! They've almost found us because of him and that girl!" Teresa. "Once he goes back, they'll stop looking and we won't have to leave!"

"No, Alby." The voice repeated, firm and confident. Thomas felt his head go light again, the world beginning to spin so suddenly he was caught off guard once again. His stomach was rumbling, this throat was begging for water, and his eyes were begging for rest. The tears were still slipping down his cheeks, the undeniable fear of going back to WICKED fresh in his mind. He couldn't stop the tears even if he tried.

"Are you testing my authority, Newt?"

"Look at him, Alby. He's terrified, he's beaten, and he's immune. If he's immune, the bite's not going to effect him. Look at it, Alby. It's an older wound. He would have gone insane by now." Minho.

"I don't care! We have too many people here already, and now that you haven't brought any food back for us, we have little food!" Alby.

"There was no food left in any of the stores I got to find, Alby. No time, either, since the WICKED soldiers were prowling the city more than usual. I shot one, aren't you proud?"

Listening to the whole conversation was exhausting Thomas. He let his eyes close, he let a breath leave his lips as he felt sleep coming. He wanted to sleep, and maybe never wake up. He would wake up alone, in the middle of the city, or even on an examination table in the WICKED compound. Maybe Teresa would be his doctor, taking his blood in little tubes and sending it off to be tested. He would wake up alone, and alone was all he would ever be.

Even before the end of the world he had been alone. He had no friends, no siblings. Just his parents. And even though they were his whole world, they were never enough to keep him happy.

And as he watched them spiral into madness, his only friends were being ripped away from him.

The sound of the three boys arguing above him slowly turned into an echo, and he felt sleep finally take over his mind. His thoughts drifted into nothing, and his mind fell into a coarse of nightmares and fitful sleep.

The last thing he saw was a blonde with brown eyes staring into his, creased with fear, shaking Thomas's head. Was he trying to keep Thomas from sleeping?

He never got to find out.

Chapter Text

Thomas was in class.

English class was boring, and it honestly made Thomas want to die. He had always done badly in school, and at the age of fourteen, it was only going to get worse. He knew that, his parents knew that, but he didn't care. His parents did, though. They always cared for him.

He was sitting in the back left corner of the room, pretending to write his essay but was really doodling random things, when he noticed the girl in front of him. Her name was Natalia. She was a pretty girl, but a right bitch. She was coughing quite horridly, her whole body shuddering the more she coughed. Everyone was looking at her now, including Thomas himself. He knew there was a sickness going around, the flu or something, so maybe she had that? He scooted back in his chair a little, as if that would make a difference to the possibility of him catching her sickness.

She was spreading her germs to the whole class. Knowing Thomas's luck, he would end up with a worse case of whatever she had. His life just loved to do that to him.

He glanced at the other students in the room, eyes pausing on one particular boy sitting next to him, his mouth hanging open and deep bags under his eyes. Thomas had never talked to this boy before, and he didn't know his name either. But what he did notice, was the blood leaking onto his white school shirt. Thomas raised his eyebrows, the wound clearly underneath the shirt and had somehow opened up and begun to bleed. The boy looked exhausted, his dark eyes focused on Natalia as she whooped and coughed in front of Thomas, and for a few seconds Thomas thought he could see a thin line of black on the boy's lips.

Before he could stare for longer, the boy licked his lips and the black line of liquid was gone. Strange.

Thomas decided to ignore it, instead turning back to Natalia in front of him. The teacher had now gone up to her, the teacher he couldn't remember the name of, and asked if she was okay. Thomas saw that Natalia shook her head no, before standing up and began collecting her things. As if Natalia felt Thomas' stare, she turned around, and Thomas almost jumped from the sight of her eyes. They were bloodshot, though her irises were dark and the same deep bags the boy had underneath them. She didn't look... normal.

Then she was gone and out the door, and the room fell back into the uncomfortable silence. Aside from the heavy breathing from the boy beside him.

He sat there for the rest of the essay, handing in his page of drawings, trying to ignore that heavy, wet breathing next to him. The teacher shook her head in disappointment when he had brought his meant-to-be essay, and before she could ask Thomas to stay back for a talk, Thomas heard the noise of somebody vomiting. He turned toward the disgusting sound, spotting that same boy up the back of the room, vomiting up his supposed breakfast. Although it didn't look like food. It was black and slimy looking, and he could now also hear crashes and screams from outside, setting off the alarm bells inside his mind. Something was wrong.

Thomas took this as his chance to get out of there, books in hand as he bolted. He moved throughout the streams of students, making way for the exit. It was chaos, and no one seemed to be going to their classes. Everyone seemed to be running. He could hear the screams, girls and boys alike, as people ran in all different directions, books dropping to the floor as kids fled. What was going on? Was there a school shooting or something?

He couldn't hear any gunshots, and he didn't see anyone out of uniform aside from teachers.

And that's when he heard it. A scream, or a wail, that was different from all the others. Everyone around him turned to the sound, including himself, and his eyes almost fell out of his head when he saw it. It was a person, indeed, in a school uniform, their long hair draped over their shoulders. But they weren't normal. Their skin was covered in filth, sickly black veins spread all across their skin like spider webs. Their eyes were pitch black, black substance dripping out of their mouth. This person was a girl, but she didn't look normal in the slightest. He now came to notice that there was patches of hair missing on her head, leaving dark red welts behind. It was as though she had ripped out her own hair, which just added on to the hysteria going on inside Thomas's mind.

People screamed. Thomas was unmoving, staring at the girl as she stood there, dark eyes surveying him. Well, he thought it was him she was looking at. She was heaving, her chest moving up and down as she breathed, her almost black eyes staring at the crowd that had formed. He was amongst the crowd, watching, eyes wide and mouth agape. What was wrong with her? What was wrong with her face? What was wrong with her eyes?

Thomas barely wanted to recall that he had seen the same sort of thing with the boy and Natalia in class, but they hadn't looked like this. This girl looked completely insane.

Before he could ask anyone around him, she lunged. Her moves were jerky, and a wail emitted her lips. Thomas backed up in horror as she got closer and closer to him, the people around him fleeing instantly. Thomas watched as she latched onto someone, a boy, in a lower grade than him. He had been too slow to move, and the girl was on him within seconds. To Thomas' utter horror, she bit him. She literally bit the kid, right in the neck, causing a pained wail to leave the boy.

Thomas took his chance. His books dropped from his hands, and he ran. He pushed past people, running directly for the exit. As was everyone else in the whole hallway, which just caused a big traffic jam.

He noticed some people on the floor, propped up against the wall, friends crowded around them. Thomas could see the veins, the eyes, the skin. Something wasn't right. There was people around him with the same look, running with him, trying to escape. Once Thomas finally reached the exit, he spilled out onto the grass, tripping over somebody's foot. He scrambled, looking around, watching as students and teachers alike fled. He was confused. Many of the people he saw looked completely fine, but then there was the ones who had blood splattered across them, obvious wounds in their necks, their sides, their legs. They had all looked like bites.

And then he saw his car. His mother was inside, waving at him desperately. Thomas heaved himself off of the grass, bolting in the direction of his car. There was shocked tears running down his cheeks as he threw the door open, getting inside and slamming the door within seconds. His mother was also crying, her makeup running down his cheeks as she checked him, making sure he was okay. Then she pretty much floored it, speeding out of the parking lot and in the direction of their home.

How had she known what was going on? Had she been waiting to pick him up? Did she know that this was going to happen?

"What's happening?" He asked, his voice quivering.

"I don't know, sweetheart. It's happening everywhere." His mother answered, and Thomas could see how hard she was gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles white. "Nobody knows what's happening. People are going insane, biting others, attacking others. It was on the television, and I could hear things happening outside. I got notified by your school that something was wrong., and that I needed to pick you up."

Her voice was shaking terribly, and Thomas vaguely thought that maybe she actually did know this was coming. Was the world ending or something?

"Why do they look like that?" Thomas went on to ask, and he had never received an answer.

On their way home, he could see people packing. He could see others, black veins, blood, roaming the streets as though they had lost their purpose to live.

When they reached his house, his father was waiting outside. Immediately, he got out the car, running and leaping into his father's arms. Thomas was confused, he was scared, and he just wanted it all to end. Despite his age, his father had picked him up, Thomas wrapping his legs around his waist as he had always done as a child as his father carried him inside their house. It was as though he was protecting Thomas from the horrors happening in the outside world, and that was the only thing that could provide him with comfort. The girl's face was etched into his mind, and he was beginning to think that it was never going to leave.

His father sat down, Thomas in his lap. He gently forced Thomas to look at him, cupping his face, smiling with teary eyes. Thomas was a wreck, shaking as he made eye contact with his father.

"It's going to be okay. Everything is going to be just fine, you hear me?"

And that's when everything turned to black.

Thomas awoke with a yell, shooting up into a seated position. He was sweating, his head ached, and he was overall confused. The dream was horrifying, Thomas never having the chance to actually remember what happened. His parents had died and he whisked away by WICKED within a day, and he never had any time to process anything. His time had been taken up by becoming their test subject without even knowing.

Subject A2, they always called him. Only one woman had called him by his real name. Dr Paige. Thomas had liked her, for the whole two years he was there, until he broke free with Teresa. Thomas found himself never wanting to think about the woman again.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, he looked around. He was inside some sort of living room, though it was missing the television. There was no windows, and the only light was being provided by the one, singular light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He looked down at himself, seeing that he was lying on a couch. It was a torn up couch, but it was comfortable nonetheless.

When he looked up to look around more, his eyes met someone else. He jumped when he made eye contact with a blonde boy sitting across from him, staring at him as though he was just discovering his entire life story. Thomas stared right back, confused, no recollection of who this boy was. He remembered the Asian boy, Minho, killing that WICKED guard and saving his life, he remembered the dark skinned boy, Alby, wanting to send him back to the WICKED compound after seeing the bite. He remembered the hands on his face, but he didn't remember the face of the blonde boy.

He definitely wasn't in the WICKED compound. Instead, he felt like he was inside some sort of basement.

"Rise and shine." That voice. The accent. He'd heard that voice before. Was he the third boy that was with Alby and Minho?

Thomas turned his head, eyes meeting with the blonde boy's ones once again. He was smirking, though not as if he was mocking Thomas. It was more a caring smirk, if that made any sense.

"You were out for a long time. Minho carried you in here like a bloody bride. It was quite a sight. Alby was having none of it, but Minho, he completely ignored him. I can't believe it."

Minho. The one who saved him. "Who are you?"

The boy smiled. "The name's Newt, Greenie."

Newt. Okay. The blonde boy's name was Newt. But what did Greenie mean? He faintly remembered Minho using the same term sometime during his rescue.

"What does Greenie mean?" Thomas found himself asking, cringing at his cracking voice. His throat still hurt, and at the feeling, he raised his hand to feel where the guard had choked him. It hurt to touch, and he knew for a fact that he was bruised.

"Newbie. We were bored when we came up with it, and it's kind of like our own little code language now." Newt answered, that calm smile still on his face. Thomas faintly wondered why he looked so strangely calm. "I've seen you on the posters, Subject A2, correct?"

Thomas stared blankly at Newt, wondering why or how exactly he remembered that. It was on the posters, sure, but he hadn't expected Newt to have looked hard enough to remember. Thomas didn't even want to remember his number, and what it meant. He was just a little pathetic test subject.

"Minho, Brenda and I have been waiting for you and the girl to show up at some point." Newt continued, that same look still on his face. It was almost fond. "Subjects A1 and A2. Where is she, anyways? We thought she would have turned up not long after Minho brought you back."

Thomas felt his heart sink at the thought of Teresa and what she had done to him. "She's gone."

Newt's face fell a little. "Dead?"

Thomas shook his head. "Gone. She's not coming back."

Newt nodded, before that same, warm smile lit up his face again. "So what's your name then, Subject A2? Or is that your name? If so, we need to give you a real buggin' name."

"Thomas."

"Ahh, alright. Well then, Tommy, we better get some food in you before you die. Frypan was stressing a whole bloody lot about it while you were knocked out. You shoulda' seen him." Newt continued, standing as he was speaking. Thomas tried not to think too hard about the nickname. At least it wasn't what Teresa used to call him. "You've been out for almost two days. Alby's still waiting for you to turn into an infected, but we all know that's not happening."

Thomas's father's face flashed over his memory at that very moment. Thomas' chest clenched painfully, his throat burning as he broke eye contact with Newt. He looked down at his now shaking hands, the faces of the kids at school and then his parents flashing through his head. It had almost been three years and he still couldn't escape it. The dream had made memories resurface that he wanted so desperately to forget.

He had wanted to think the end of the world had made him stronger. But really, every day, he was breaking more and more. He was weak.

Without Thomas's knowledge, Newt had moved in front of him. He was crouching, looking up at Thomas, a sad look in his eye. "Are you feeling alright, Tommy?"

Emotionally, no. Physically, no.

Thomas settled for shaking his head, fingers fiddling with each other as he tried to stop the emotions surfacing. Knowing that his gun was gone, he felt weaker than ever. He had been trying to forget that the only thing that had kept him alive over the past month was left in the city somewhere, most likely behind that truck after the Crank attacked him. How careless of him to drop it. How had he done that without noticing?

"What's the problem? Are you feeling unwell, or is it mentally?" Newt asked him, tearing him out of his thoughts of his gun.

Thomas knew that Newt was asking if he felt any of the symptoms of infection. The three boys had seen the bite wound in his side, and even knowing that he was immune, they hadn't seemed to have trusted him very much. Where was the others, anyways? Where was Minho? Where was Alby?

Thomas was kind of grateful that Alby wasn't there.

"Mentally." Thomas whispered, not wanting to strain his voice any longer. Newt smiled sadly, before patting his shoulder comfortingly. It was almost as though he understood what Thomas was going through, as if he had felt the same way once before. Thomas returned the smile, before Newt pulled away and gestured for him to stand. When he did, he almost toppled into a heap on the floor, his legs feeling like jelly. He also felt the need to go to the bathroom, but he decided to ignore that feeling for a little while longer.

Newt caught him, before Thomas was whisked through a small, open door before he froze. In the next room was a tiny kitchen and a small dining table. Around that dining table was new, unfamiliar faces, and he instantly wanted to back out. He didn't see Minho, he didn't see Alby. There were around five or less people staring at him, all of their eyes showing the same emotion. Fear, anger, and confusion. How could so many people live in such a small space?

"Trust you, Newt, to waste our food on the Munie." Thomas met eyes with the one speaking, who was glaring at him so intensely he started stepping back, not feeling comforted in the slightest at the hand at the small of his back. Newt's, he supposed. He hoped.

"Oh, slim it Gally." What kind of names were these? Newt, Minho, Alby... and Gally?

"Where's Minho?" Thomas whispered, not being so sure why he was asking for Minho. Minho had saved his life, therefore he trusted him.

"He's out getting supplies with Alby." Newt told him, before turning back to Gally. "We did the same thing for you when we found you half dead, Gally, so don't be up here gettin' cocky, shank."

Gally seemed to back down at that, his face softening only slightly. Thomas watched the exchange with wide eyes, before he was once again distracted by Newt's voice.

"Frypan, please get some food for Tommy here." Newt said to someone else, completely ignoring the angry boys comment. Thomas stuck close to Newt as he was led over to small kitchen space, watching as another dark skinned boy that apparently went by the name of Frypan served some sort of meal, full of things Thomas had only dreamed of eating. He stared at the plate in his hands for a few seconds, before looking up at Newt. Newt smiled encouraging at him, somewhat making him feel a little less off edge.

So, swallowing any doubts and fear, Thomas began to eat.

Chapter Text

After Thomas had stuffed his face with the little food that Frypan had provided with him, he'd gone straight back to the couch and crashed. His mind was fuzzy, his limbs were like jelly as he laid down, staring up at the concrete ceiling. He still needed the bathroom, but he couldn't find it in himself to care right at that moment. He felt like he could sleep for a year.

He knew he would care if he accidentally wet himself, but he didn't dwell on the thought as he forced sleep to overcome him. He felt uncomfortable here, in this strange and small basement with so many people he didn't know, and they all seemed to dislike him. Aside from Newt, who had been nothing but kind since he woke up. Frypan wasn't too bad either, since he gave Thomas food, but he had also not given Thomas one of those glares everyone in the basement seemed to be giving him.

Minho and Alby still hadn't returned. Thomas wanted to see Minho, he wanted to thank him. But he was scared to see Alby. The other boy was intimidating, and Thomas was scared for the second encounter that was soon to come.

He had fallen asleep on the thought. When he woke up again, he awoke to yelling. He shot up in fear, eyes darting as his head swung around looking for any sign of danger. When a particularly loud yell erupted throughout the basement, he stood up in panic, slowly stepping around the couch and backing into the wall. The angry yells were just on the other side of the wall, and Thomas soon came to recognise Newt's voice somewhere during the screaming match, though he couldn't understand what he had said.

He let himself slide, ignoring the aggressive need to piss, squeezing his eyes shut as he forced himself to hold it, and to ignore everything that was happening. It would be over soon.

Hold it, hold it, hold it.

"WOULD YOU SLINTHEADS JUST SHUT. UP." A voice rang out over them all, and Thomas vaguely recognised it. But he couldn't find it in himself to care.

He needed to fucking piss.

"We have to take him back- we don't have enough room!" A voice Thomas had never heard before. But that was the least of his worries when he realised who, and what, they were talking about. They were talking about him. No, they were fighting about him. Thomas resisted the urge to scream in frustration.

"What do you mean we don't have enough bloody room? We have a spare-" Newt.

"That was Ben's bed." Alby's voice.

"Ben's gone, Alby, and nothing is going to bring him back. It's been a year since he got bitten, he's gone. I'm sorry to say this, shank, but he's not coming back. Christ, Alby, you let Gally live with us no worries!" Minho's voice.

It seemed as everyone had calmed down, the yelling being silenced for a few minutes as Minho, Newt and Alby argued. It had distracted him from the uncomfortable feeling of his bladder almost exploding, but as soon as the next words echoed over the basement, Thomas felt his heart drop.

"We're taking him back to WICKED. He obviously has something to do with the cure for the infected, so if you want to live longer, Newt, Minho, we have to send him back. Then we don't have to leave here, and we can live here till the cure is found." Alby was still yelling, his voice laced with anger and distaste. "Gally was different. He didn't belong to WICKED."

"We're not sending him back. He can sleep in my bloody bed, I don't care. We're not sending him back to that horrible place." Newt. "If you could accept someone like Gally, you can accept Tommy. We're leaving tomorrow, and that's that."

"Who's the leader here, slinthead?" Alby snapped in return, and Thomas heard a flew collective sighs.

"Oh how cute, you already have a nickname for him." Gally.

"Slim it, Gally. No one was talking to you." Newt.

"He's staying." Minho's voice, this time. "The poor kid was getting shucking choked to death by one of those WICKED guys, and I know for a fact that nothing inside that place is sunshine and rainbows."

Thomas could feel the scream rising in his throat. He wanted it all to be over.

"Do you want a cure?" Alby had roared out so aggressively Thomas had flinched, and this brought on the tidal waves of emotions. The need to piss was forgotten as he felt the anger and fear building and building, before he let it out in a loud, screeching wail as he threw his hands over his ears, trying to block out the conversation happening just on the other side of the wall.

He'd rested his head back on the wall when he'd finished yelling, tears sliding smoothly down his cheeks as the sound of footsteps filled his ears, before Newt's face came into his view. It was a face of panic and concern, and Thomas watched as Minho came in right after, presumably not looking where he was going as he rammed right into Newt's back, sending them both stumbling for a few seconds.

Newt disregarded the clash instantly as he rushed over to Thomas, crouching down and began speaking words Thomas could no longer understand. Minho was on his other side, and Thomas could see in the corner of his eye that he was looking him up and down as Newt's hand came to gently slap his cheek, probably trying to gain Thomas's attention.

He sat like that, emotionless, wishing that he had Teresa here. He hated her, but he missed her. He also missed his goddamn gun. His only safety on this god forsaken planet. Teresa had once been his rock, but she was gone and she had betrayed him. She most likely hated him for not going with her, and Thomas knew that he would never forgive her himself. But he was almost wishing for something familiar to put him at ease.

The thought of her forced Thomas out of his dazed, emotionless state, before sound returned to his ears and he was able to think clearly. Newt's constant strings of words came surging at him all at once, causing his eyes to move to the worried Newt who was now holding his face, the gentle slapping having stopped. Thomas could see other figures in the room, standing in the doorway and watching, and suddenly Thomas felt self conscious.

It was just then, at that exact moment, where Thomas realised something.

And it seemed to be at that exact moment, the the angry boy who possessed the name of Gally seemed to realise too.

"Oh my god, the shank pissed himself!"

Thomas looked down at himself in horror, only now just beginning to feel the warm feeling as he spotted the dark patch spread across the front of his pants. His cheeks burned red as embarrassment took over him, more tears threatening to fall. God, he knew this was going to happen. That was why Minho had been looking at him like that.

Oh god, he'd humiliated himself in front of the person who had saved his life. He'd fucking wet himself in front of everyone. Newt, Minho, Alby, motherfucking Gally. He wasn't two anymore, he was sixteen, and he'd pissed himself! In front of eight strangers!

There was laughter. They were laughing at him.

"The poor shuck actually wet himself, oh this is gold." Still Gally. But Thomas could hear other laughs meddling with his, and all he wanted was for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He turned away from Gally's laughing face, eyes meeting with Newt's soon after. He was already looking at Thomas, biting his lip as his eyebrows creased in worry and pity. His hand had fallen to Thomas's shoulder and was rubbing slightly, as if meaning to comfort him. There was no humour in his eyes, or on his face.

Next Thomas turned to Minho, expecting to see the humour in his eyes. Except, he saw nothing but remorse, and he could feel the comforting hand Minho had rested on his shaking wrist.

"I can't believe it, Minho, you brought in a literal baby."

"Would you just slim it for one goddamn minute, Gally?" He heard Newt snap, and Thomas flinched at the raised voice. He was hoping that Newt didn't notice, but of course everything was against Thomas's favour today and Newt had turned to him in slight horror. "Sorry, sorry Tommy. I didn't mean to scare you."

Thomas didn't react.

"Alright everyone, clear out." Alby. Since when did Alby do things in Thomas's defence? "You have things to do. Things to pack up, so let's go! We're leaving tomorrow slintheads, and I'd rather you not waste your time on this shank."

"Slim it Alby." He hears Newt whisper, and Thomas knows that it wasn't meant to be heard by Alby himself. "Alright, Tommy, why don't we get you cleaned up then?"

"Newt-" Alby had started, but was soon cut of by Minho.

"No Alby."

"We need the water-"

"Would you liked to be covered in your own piss all day? How would you feel?" Minho continued, his voice so loud it made Thomas flinch away, just as he had with Newt. Minho noticed, just like Newt had, he apologised immediately. "Sorry, Thomas."

Thomas's head fell down in shame at the words that had fallen from Minho's mouth, now being forced to stare down at his own embarrassment. Why did everything horrible always happen to him? Couldn't he have just asked Newt where the toilet actually was? He was sure they had one.

"That's what I shuckin' thought." Newt mumbled, and Thomas now presumed that Alby had left the room. "Alright, up you get."

Thomas had cringed when he stood. He leant on Newt for support, his legs feeling like jelly once again as one of his arms was being held by Minho, also keeping him upright. When Minho had raised his arm higher, Thomas felt an unfamiliar pain in his side. He cringed again, though he ignored it and let Newt and Minho drag him throughout the small basement like building, trying not to notice the stares from the other people. He also came to notice that there was a girl here, too, that he hadn't noticed before. She had short hair, and he hated to think that maybe he had mistaken her for a boy.

She gave him sad eyes. Thomas didn't react, dropping his head back down.

And then he was in an even smaller space. He looked around, noticing the rather disgusting looking toilet with a sink next to it, and a small shower opposite. The shower was grimy, but it was better than none. Thomas hadn't had a shower since he'd broken out from WICKED.

He was told to sit down on the closed toilet lid, so he did just that. The dampness in his pants was uncomfortable, and it was beginning to irritate him.

"Do you have another pair of pants? In that backpack you brought?" Newt asked him leaning against the shower door as Minho stood in the doorway. Thomas shook his head. He hadn't had enough time to gather pants when they'd been fleeing. "Okay. You can borrow some of Minho's, then."

Thomas looked to Minho, who nodded in confirmation before turning and disappearing. Thomas couldn't help but feel bad.

"Don't feel bad, it happens." Newt said to him, his voice warm. It was as if he had literally been reading Thomas's thoughts. "Once you have a shower and some more food, you'll feel heaps better."

Thomas valued the words.

"Sorry." He squeaked, his voice even worse since he'd let out that one scream. He hadn't recovered from being choked yet, and he knew that him screaming like that had just made it a whole lot worse.

"Don't apologise, Tommy. It's not your fault."

Thomas just nodded. Minho came back just at that point, folded pants in his hands.

Thomas took them gratefully, manning to smile only slightly at Minho in thanks. Minho nodded.

Newt proceeded to tell him how to work the different knobs, which had actually been rather confusing from the ones at WICKED, and soon Newt and Minho were gone and the door was closed, and Thomas was cleaning weeks of grime along with his own piss. Even though the water wasn't as warm as it could have been, it was enough. He hadn't felt the luxuries of a shower for too long.

After finishing up in the shower, he dried himself off with the small towel he had been provided and dressed himself. Minho's pants were baggy on him, but they were oddly comfortable. He'd put the same shirt on he'd been wearing before, and was soon left standing in front of the door. He didn't want to face them again. Especially Alby and Gally. The latter of people seemed to be older than him, especially one of the boys. Well, he was more of a man actually. Newt looked only a year or so older than him, the same with Minho.

After minutes of standing there and procrastinating, he finally reached out for the knob and pushed the door open. He peeked around the door, spotting non-other than Gally seated at the tiny dining table, seemingly staring off into space with that permanent scowl on his face. Or, he was until he caught sight of Thomas. The other boy's face broke out into pure amusement.

"Oh, hey there. What's it like pissing yourself in front of a bunch of strangers?"

Thomas didn't answer. He shoved his hands in his pockets, walking in the direction he thought was the living room he'd been literally living in. He didn't even know how long he'd been sleeping for at a time, and he didn't even know how many days he'd been stuck in this basement.

"Don't talk? Sure." Gally continued, smirking coldly at him. "I bet you will be when you're trying to talk us out of sending you back to WICKED."

Thomas stared at the other boy for a few seconds, before he tried to move into the living room. Gally was talking before he even took a step in the direction.

"Do you even realise what time it is?" Gally asked him, and Thomas shook his head. "It's two in the morning you shank. You're keeping everyone awake. Apparently we're moving out of here today, too, thanks to you."

Thomas continued to ignore him, trying to push past him into the open door. He was met with Gally's chest, and fear was beginning to creep up on him as Gally continued speaking.

"I vote on sending you to WICKED. So does the rest of us, apart from Newt, Minho and Brenda. I don't understand, why they all find you so worthy of coming with us." There was venom in his tone, and Thomas knew that Gally knew he was getting to him. He pushed again. "You're one of the freaks. One of the ones who can dodge the zombie virus. Yes, Alby told me about that bite in your shank stomach."

Before Thomas could even try to retaliate, Gally's mouth was running again.

"You're a freak. A freak who belongs with WICKED. You're their property, Subject A2."

Did everyone in this damned household know his number? Had they really studied his poster than intently?

"Does your buggin' mouth ever stop moving?" Newt. Gally only smirked, only now backing down, keeping dead eye contact with Thomas. "The whole bloody lot of us can hear you. Aside from Minho, he's dead to the world. I only held off on beating your buggin' head in because I needed to hear what your hypocritical, shuck mouth has to say."

"Oh come on, Newt, he's a Munie. If we take him to WICKED, we'll all be fine on living here. We won't have to move because of this pathetic excuse of a Greenie."

Was Gally indirectly calling him a pathetic waste of a human? Probably.

"Slim it. For all you know, you could be Immune too. I could be, even bloody Alby could be. We don't know that." Newt said, his tone harsh. Thomas found himself shrinking toward the wall as both Gally and Newt neared each other, so close that Thomas could pretty much see the anger radiation off of the both of them. "If we took him back to WICKED, they could bloody take us to. They could test on us and find out if we're immune or not. If by chances we are, we won't be getting back out, and soon we'll be their property. They're going to find us here either way, and that's why we have to leave as soon as possible."

"Oh really. Does this shank here prove anything? Does this really happen, Tommy?"

Thomas cringed at the use of the nickname this time. It only sounded right coming from Newt.

Pushing the thought aside, Thomas nodded. Newt had gotten it pretty much spot on, apart from the fact that the people who weren't immune were also tested on. Thomas had seen it, a year or so ago, when he got too curious and began to wander around the halls. He had stumbled across one of the labs he had no idea had existed, and inside were three or so Cranks behind a glass window. There were people testing somebody on one of the beds, in the middle of the room, their skin covered in the black webs. This person was infected.

He had been spotted and ushered away in seconds. Thomas had never forgotten the sight he had seen that day.

He also remembered his friend. Aris. Aris had told him what had happened to his own friends, who weren't immune. They hadn't been tested on and were thrown right out of the WICKED compound, and Aris hadn't seen them since. For all he knew they were dead. They would have been Cranks by now.

Thomas hadn't seen him since they escaped. He'd had tried to get Aris out, but as they were running, a bundle of electricity struck his friend right in the back. That was the last time Thomas saw Aris's face, crumpled in pain as the guards had dragged him away. Teresa had forced him to run.

He hadn't looked back.

"They either test on you or throw you right back out." Thomas stated, voice wobbling and breaking. But he didn't care. The embarrassment of what he'd done was still lingering, but he forced it away as he watched Gally's expressions.

"Exactly." Newt continued, arms crossed as he stared at Gally. "Don't you forget how we brought you in, half dead, almost starved.. Don't you bloody forget how we let you stay, and gave you everything you ever needed. Now let us do this for Tommy."

"Whatever, you delusional shucks." Gally snapped, nudging Newt in the chest slightly before shoving past, disappearing into the living room. Newt turned to Thomas with a sigh, before gesturing for him to follow. Thomas did just that.

"Sorry about him. The bugger is just ungrateful and doesn't like sharing his things. Come on, let's get some sleep then."

Thomas just nodded, before following Newt. They entered the living room that Thomas had first woken up in, and to his shock, there was another door he hadn't even seen before. It was wide open, swinging slightly as if it had been yanked back with some sort of force. Gally, probably, since he wasn't anywhere else in the room.

Thomas hesitated when he spotted his backpack by the tattered couch, sitting there wide open. Knowing that he'd lost his gun was enough, but they had gone through his bag?

Thomas was just able to see the head of his teddy bear sticking out from the top of the bag. He ignored it, following Newt into the eerily quiet room, only now just spotting the bodies that laid in rather poorly made beds. He spotted Minho, in the far corner, spread out like a starfish, mouth hanging open. He later spotted Frypan and the girl, and Gally, who was sitting and staring holes through the side of his head. Even in the darkness Thomas could tell the other boy was glaring hard. Why couldn't Thomas just sleep on the couch like he had been before?

The thought had been forgotten when Newt began to whisper, stopping by the bed right next to Minho's. Thomas could hear his obnoxious snoring now, which was going to be a pain when he's trying to go to sleep. Maybe he could just go back to the couch?

"These lousy shucks won't let you sleep in Ben's bed, so you'll have to sleep with me. It'll be much better than that destroyed couch Alby refuses to let us throw out." He started, and Thomas didn't react. Ben had gotten bitten, he'd heard. He'd rather sleep on the couch than in a tiny room with strangers "Hope that's alright, if ya don't mind cuddling."

Thomas let a smile quirk at his lips, but he knew Newt wouldn't be able to see it through the darkness. He ignored everything he was thinking, deciding to just go along with it. "It's fine."

"Slintheads." He heard the insult, or what he presumed was an insult, from Gally, who had now laid down. Thomas ignored him, silently obeying Newt's gestures to get on the bed. He moved right up to the wall, staring at it as the cold concrete touched his bare arms. He hadn't thought to put on his jacket, and now he was regretting it.

He felt Newt get in beside him, and soon a thin blanket was being pulled up to his shoulders. "Sorry, it's a tight fit."

Thomas didn't answer. More so, he couldn't answer, because as soon as his head hit the pillow and the thin blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, he was asleep.

Chapter Text

Thomas woke up crying.

The memories were now fresh in his mind as his eyes roamed around the room, the space beside him empty where he vaguely remember Newt had been laying. The blanket had been pulled right to his chin, and he was feeling unbelievably warm. Despite the blanket being rather thin, he was warmer than he had been in weeks. Though, he couldn't bring himself to feel happy as the tears rolled silently down his cheeks, the burning of his eyes beginning to feel irritating. He wiped his eyes, becoming frustrated in his tired mindset, wiping the warm droplets off of his cheeks.

He sat up, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders as he looked over the empty beds around him. There was no one else in the room, all the beds vacant. It also looked like they had been stripped of any blankets or sheets or anything of the sort, and there was nothing in the room that resembled people living and sleeping here. The gross, decaying mattresses were now exposed, and Thomas fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at the sight, knowing that he's probably sitting on something exactly like those ones. He sat there in silence, debating what to do with himself, wondering slightly if they had left him behind with the dirty mattresses. He didn't know what time or day it was, and honestly he wanted to fall back asleep and forget that he even met these strange people. And that he hadn't pissed himself like a toddler.

He knew the embarrassment wouldn't go away for some time. Would it ever go away?

He sighed, wiping his eyes as he stood, pulling the thin blanket around his shoulders for no apparent reason as he dragged himself across the small room, in the direction of the door. He was still half asleep, barely noticing his eyes drooping closed as he reached for the handle, only to miss and fall forwards, accidentally head butting the door instead. He was stunned for a few seconds, his tired brain trying to catch up with his actions and what had just happened. Before his mind could even comprehend what was going on, the door he had been trying to open was opening by itself and more light was filling the cramped space.

On instinct, he backed away, stumbling over his own feet as though there was some kind of threat on the other side of the wood. He was put to rest instantly when his eyes found Newt's. His eyes then moved to what Newt was holding, only to find that it was his backpack. It was zipped shut, still presumably full of his items, he hoped, though instantly his mind retreated to his gun. He had to go back for it. He had to find it, he couldn't protect himself.

"Afternoon, Greenie." Newt was saying, smiling only slightly. He looked troubled, somewhat tense. "What was that buggin' noise? And why do you have that around your shoulders?"

"I.. I... um." Thomas stuttered, trying to come up with some sort of explanation as to why and how he had head butted the door. He had forgotten he'd still had the blanket wrapped around him, too.

"Alright don't stress out, c'mon. I was just about to wake you, we're leaving pretty much right now. You sleep deeper than bloody Minho, which is saying something." Newt went on, having spared Thomas from replying. "And still, you look like you're ready to collapse."

Thomas didn't reply, taking his backpack when it was offered. He hugged the thing to his chest, ignoring the feeling of loss at his gun. It had been there ever since he'd discovered it missing, and he knew he wouldn't be put to rest until he found it. Newt stared at him for a few seconds as this all went on inside his head, some sort of calculation in his eyes, before it was gone and he was ushering Thomas out of the stuffy bedroom and through the small basement. He basically forced him to sit down, dumping a bowl of what seemed to be soup in front of him. It looked edible, and Thomas could only hope it was.

He stared at the bowl blankly for a few seconds, keeping his backpack clutched to his chest as Newt righted the blanket on his shoulders. Thomas's heart ached painfully when the action had violently reminded him of his mother, and how she had always done that do him the when he was sick. He couldn't think clearly, his mind just a foggy mess as he tried to comprehend what was going on, along with the bad memories seeping into his thought process.

"C'mon, Tommy, we gotta go." Newt spoke up, breaking Thomas out of his foggy state. Newt sounded desperate, so he took it in himself to at least force the food into his stomach. He had told himself he wasn't hungry, and that he would have to force it, but he knew he was lying to himself. He was starving.

As though his body was moving on it's own accord, he moved one arm from where it was wrapped around his backpack and grabbed the spoon, shovelling the food into his mouth as fast as he good. Hunger had become the best of him, and as soon as he started he couldn't stop. When he choked on one particularly quick spoonful, Newt was speaking again. "Jesus, slow the bloody hell down before you choke."

"Sorry." Thomas whispered, not looking up as he scraped the remains from the bowl.

"Don't bloody stress about it." Newt had said to him quite harshly, but Thomas could tell that Newt was stressing out about something himself, hence his creased eyebrows. He suspected that it was himself takin too long to eat when they needed to go. He didn't even know where they were going.

He finished the rest off as fast as he could, before watching Newt as he took the bowl and dumped it into the sink, disregarding it instantly. Thomas was now just beginning to notice how everything that had made this place look like a home was gone, and it now just looked like some prison. A boring, colourless prison. Like WICKED.

"How'd you find this place?" Thomas found himself asking before he could stop himself, forcing this muscles to cooperate as he lifted himself from the chair. He pulled the blanket off of his shoulders, pulling his backpack over his shoulders instead. He watched Newt as he gathered some small objects Thomas couldn't really see, stuffing them in his pockets before turning back to him.

"Been here for just a few months. There used to be others, we found their bodies. No one knows what bloody happened to them, but it wasn't the Flare. Moved their bodies out and made home here." Newt explained, and all Thomas could do was nod, too overwhelmed and tired to reply. "Don't think it's your bloody fault we're moving out, we've been planning for a while. Had more of us, but they trekked off on their own. Slintheads."

With that, Newt was turning and gesturing for Thomas to follow. Thomas kept a tight hold on the blanket, not really knowing if Newt wanted it or not, but decided to bring it anyways. He watched as Newt opened another door before disappearing up a flight of stairs. Thomas vaguely recognised the stairwell, but he didn't have any time to ponder as Newt was hurrying him on. He could tell how Newt was stressing by his tense shoulders, and the extra use of the word bloody. He didn't know Newt well at all, but he could tell he was worrying about something already.

He followed close after Newt, squinting at the harsh light suddenly bursting into view. He stumbled, still half asleep as he tried catching himself. He heard a snigger from someone who wasn't Newt, but knowing exactly who it might of been.He forced himself to ignore it, righting himself as he stepped onto the Earth. He was on edge, head swivelling back and forth in worry of Cranks. He didn't have his gun, and he didn't even know if these people had guns. Aside from Minho, of course.

With the new thoughts of Minho in his head, his eyes scanned the group. Thomas felt slight relief when his eyes rested on Minho, who was leant up against something that looked strangely like a car. Thomas felt his eyes almost fall out of his head when his eyes rested on the thing. It was some sort of truck, or van, and it was completely covered in camouflage paint. Where the hell would they have gotten something like this from? Last thing Thomas knew, there were no working cars left aside from the ones WICKED owned. The use of vehicles pretty much died with all the people. Or maybe, since Thomas had only been escaping WICKED for just over a month, he was an idiot and literally everyone was still using vehicles.

But he'd overheard Janson, or Ratman as he loved to call him, telling the guards to target the vehicles first instead of the Cranks. Thomas still didn't know why he would have made such a request.

How could they have hid this? WICKED would have for sure come searching these woods. And now that Thomas thought about it, how had they lasted so long without being found? How hadn't WICKED picked them up? He could see the old dirt roads, almost overgrown with trees but still visible. WICKED wasn't stupid, Ratman wasn't stupid, they would have come checking here.

"How?" Thomas whispered, ignoring the way his voice broke as he stared at the vehicle, thoughts of Ratman and WICKED circulating his mind as he tried to calculate everything inside of his head. He could feel all eyes on him, though he ignored them as he tried to fully take in the situation. His mind couldn't even process full sentences, too overwhelmed to think clearly, not having been in a working vehicle since that day at the school. Not even with WICKED had he been granted the chance explore outside of the walls, let alone getting the opportunity to ride in a car or truck or anything again.

"You decided to save a proper... Shank, Minho." This was a new voice, a voice that was deep and ragged, though sounded uncertain saying the word shank as though it were unfamiliar and out of context. Thomas immediately felt intimidated, despite the uncertainty. "Now, Newt, we respected your choice on letting this kid sleep, let alone stay with us, now we have to leave! WICKED'll be doing their rounds soon, and we all know how close they are to finding us. They've found the roads."

Thomas was almost expecting Alby to cut in, to give some leadership, since he was apparently the leader.

"We have to go, now. We'll explain later. Come on, get in." This was Newt this time, standing behind him slightly as Thomas tried to find the owner of the deep voice. Thomas ignored Newt's request, searching.

"Hurry up!" When Thomas finally matched the face to the voice, he was left confused why Alby was leader instead of this guy. This guy was definitely the oldest out of the group, while Alby seemed to be only a few years older than himself. The thought was temporary, the feeling of fear taking over the rest of his mind along with intimidation.

Thomas jumped when a hand nudged him, pushing between his shoulder blades to make him move. Thomas jumped at the harsh contact, only relaxing when he discovered that it was in fact Newt. He let himself be guided towards the vehicle, thanking Minho so quietly for opening the door he was sure the other boy hadn't heard him. Thomas hurried into the vehicle, sitting in the middle seats with his backpack in his lap, arms wrapped tight around it. Newt shuffled in beside him, shoving a bag of his own between his feet. He moved his eyes over to the person getting in next to him, glad to see that it was Minho and not Gally. The older man slid into the drivers seat, Alby next to him, and the rest clambered into the back seats. How could there be enough room?

Where had they even gotten the goddamn truck? It was sure to attract both Cranks and WICKED's attention. He pressed his knees against each other, refraining any contact with Newt or Minho as he watched the older man with wide eyes, arms squeezing around his backpack so tight they were beginning to hurt.

He'd jumped when the sound of the truck hit his ears, the rumble resembling the one of the vehicles WICKED used when they scoured the city for him. He suddenly felt claustrophobic, the sound of the rumbling engine being the only thing he could hear and focus on. He was still half asleep as it is, and knowing that he was letting strangers cart him around made the panic build in his chest, and everything was just becoming overwhelming once again. He knew he was pathetic, and that he was a pussy, but nothing was going to stop his brain going into overdrive. If the rumbling of the engine had been enough for his stomach to churn and his brain to freak, the feeling of the actual thing moving just made it worse.

Before he could attempt to hurl himself out of the truck, or car, he didn't know what the fuck it was, there was a hand resting on his wrist. Their grip was tight, tight enough to jump him out of his panicked daze as he found the eyes of Minho, who in turn was staring at him with a confused expression painted over his face. Thomas didin't know what to say, now beginning to notice Newt's presence behind him, almost literally being able to feel his eyes burning into the back of his head. Along with the people behind him, too. The vehicle was going fast, bouncing and jolting all over the place as he held eye contact with Minho, who still had his eyes locked with his.

"What's wrong?" Minho had asked, suddenly breaking the strong eye contact to look behind Thomas, presumably at Newt. His eyes were back within seconds, and Thomas slowly began to feel more intimidated by the second. And during one of those seconds, he had the sudden wish to have been choked by the WICKED guard instead of being in this car with strangers. At least he would have gone back to the compound, he would have maybe gotten to reunite with Aris. Even Teresa.

"What's wrong with the shuckface?" Someone else said behind him, Thomas barely being able to catch the words over the loud sound of the engine. He didn't recognise the voice. "Gonna piss his pants like a proper shank again?"

"Shut your hole, bloody hell." Newt's voice. There was a snigger.

"Come on, Tomboy, tell us what's shucking wrong." Minho was saying, and Thomas barely had the time to register the nickname before the vehicle was screeching to a halt and his body was lurching forwards. He narrowly missed flying through the middle of the two front seats, the grip around his backpack disappearing as his arms flew out for something to hold onto. The screeching of tires tore through his ears, before finally the hell ride was over and the truck had stopped.

Regaining his composure, he rested back against his seat with a puff of air leaving his lips. Everyone around him was doing the same, though when Thomas turned to look at Newt, he was looking out the window with his mouth agape and his eyes wide. Thomas turned to Minho, who was looking out his window, mirroring Newt's expression.

Curiosity overtook his fear as he craned his neck to see what they were looking at, and his eyes only widened slightly when his eyes rested on a Crank, standing in the middle of their path. It was nothing out of the ordinary, the thing staring, gargling and jerking with it's clothes half-ripped, half-hanging off of it's body. This Crank looked far past the gone, it's skin completely covered in black webs for veins and the black blood leaking out of it's mouth. Dark welts were covering it's skin along with the veins, chunks and chunks of hair missing from it's head. The Crank had once been a male, that much was obvious. Despite the Crank's attire, along with the welts, deep bite marks and cuts, it looked buff. Though slumped and jerky, the Crank was, or had once been, strong.

What confused him, was the eerie silence. Everyone seemed shocked, as though they recognised the undead thing standing in front of them. Thomas could hear the distant gargling from Cranks alike, though they were far away. Where had they been when they were getting into the vehicles? Cranks weren't smart, nor did they know how or when to wait to surprise their victims before attacking.

"Floor it." Someone whispered, their voice full of emotion and despair. "Floor it, Jorge, floor it."

Thomas didn't understand why they were all waiting around. The windows were open, no glass to wind up to close them. All it took was a Crank to climb up the door and stick it's head in, and Minho or Newt could get bitten. And for a split second, he wanted to be back in his warm bed at WICKED, where there were no Cranks to be scared of, just the needles he would be prodded with over and over, day after day.

"What are we waiting for?" Thomas whispered, mostly to himself, but Newt seemed to hear him.

"It's Ben." Ben? Thomas had heard the name. Ben had died, hadn't he?

"What?" Thomas went on, cursing himself instantly for pressing.

The Crank was now moving towards them.

"It's Ben, you shank." Gally's voice.

How could that... thing be their friend? How could they even recognise him? He barely looked human, and well, he wasn't, but Thomas knew he wouldn't recognise an old friend if they had been turned. How did they know this wasn't just some other Crank looking for a snack?

Without warning, the man stepped on it, and the truck roared into action and was careering towards the lone Crank in front of them. Thomas was launched back into his seat, as were Newt and Minho, and before he knew it there was the sickening thud of a body hitting the truck. It went on for a few seconds, and before Thomas knew it, they were driving along like nothing had even happened. It was silent, Thomas turning his head to give Newt a short glance, only to see his eyes welled with un-fallen tears. He moved his eyes to Minho, who in turn looked completely emotionless.

What had just happened?

Chapter Text

The trip seemed to go on forever. The others had begun to chat quietly after the initial horror that had happened with the Crank, or Ben as they seemed to call it, or him, and it was as though everything had returned to some strange sort of normal. Thomas kept silent, his heart pounding as Newt and Minho spoke across him, about something he couldn't understand or couldn't bring himself to hear.

He felt weird, he felt sick, he was tired. He could feel his eyes drooping, though every time he would get close to fading away into the land called sleep, the vehicle would jolt or someone would laugh, and he would be launched out of his sleepy state. He'd found himself accidentally leaning onto Newt's shoulder once, Minho's twice, having pulled himself up before any of them could say anything. He was scared, he wanted to go back to being on his own. He wanted his gun, but they were so far away from the city. They were so far away from WICKED. Every time his eyes would close, nightmares and memories from the place would cypher into his mind, taunting him, being abruptly cut off as he shot back into reality.

Had Thomas finally escaped them? Was he finally free?

He couldn't get his hopes up. Who knows, a drone, or a berg for Christ's sake, could be lurking in the air somewhere just waiting for him to appear. He'd never seen the bergs being used, but he'd heard them. Maybe the longer he stayed away, the more aggressive the other side became. Maybe WICKED was somehow following their truck, tracking their every movement since Minho saved him from that guard. Maybe they knew exactly what was going on and where they were going, and were already waiting for them to arrive. Where that was, Thomas didn't know, but he was hoping to God that they weren't. He was hoping they were still scouring the city for him instead.

What if these people were with them?

Thomas swallowed the thought in horror, not wanting to make himself more panicked than he already was.

They'd passed a handful of Cranks on their way, mostly within the forest. They were there, lurking around the trees, staring, some trying to get into the truck when they'd stopped so the man driving could have a small break. During his time in the small space, he'd learned that the man's name was Jorge. He intimidated Thomas, and this just added onto the overall fear he was feeling. At this moment, he just really wanted to see Aris again. He missed his friend, and despite the hatred he felt for her, he still missed Teresa too. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't let go of his feelings for her. But it was nowhere near as much as he missed Aris.

Somewhere during his thinking, he had almost drifted off again. He was jolted back into reality when the truck hit yet again another pothole, and he couldn't stop the low groan from leaving his throat. He wanted to pass out, so he could forget, so he could be in peace for at least a few hours. The embarrassment of wetting himself was still there, and he hated how there were the three people sitting behind him. He couldn't help but feel like their eyes were burning into the back of his head, especially Gally's. He was too overwhelmed to think clearly anymore, and he missed his fucking gun. It was probably out there, lying next to the Crank he'd shot, there and full of ammo for any passerby to snatch up.

Too his shock, his head had fallen once again and his eyes had been closed. He was startled again, his head shooting up, eyes flying open.

"Jeez, Tommy, you're a bloody wreck." Newt's voice invaded his thoughts, making him jump out of yet again another daze. He blinked, head swivelling to see Newt, who was staring at him with slight amusement in his eyes. "You've done that over ten buggin' times, in n' out. It's kinda funny, but I don't want to be rude."

To Thomas's horror, he felt a grin tug at his lips. Since when was he smiling?

"Aw, see, you can smile." Newt continued, and Thomas lowered his gaze to his hands. He wiped the smile off of his face, watching his fingers as he laced them together over and over as if he were in a continuous loop. "Sleep, Tommy, you need it. Even if you've been sleeping since Minho brought ya back."

His eyes had been closing before he realised it, and he forced them to stay open. He felt like if he slept, he'd miss something, or they'd stop and dump him on the side of the road for the Cranks to feast on, and that he'd be too tired to fight back.

"C'mon, that can't be comfortable." Newt continued, and Thomas was confused on what he was talking about for a few seconds. "Just use one of us as a bloody pillow. We don't care."

Thomas lifted his head and just looked at Newt for a few seconds, then to Minho who was looking at him, though there was a blank expression on his face. He looked between the two, almost as if he were deciding whose shoulder he was going to sleep on. God, he was disgusting.

"What is going through that shuck head of yours, Tomboy?" Minho said when Thomas looked back at him for the third time. There was now a hint of amusement in his eyes, and all he could do was stare back, slowly blinking. He was barely awake anymore, his eyes drooping as he tried to focus on Minho's face. "Are you always this tired? How old are you, anyways?"

He stared at Minho for a few seconds longer before mumbling his reply. "Sixteen."

Minho nodded. Thomas would have asked how old he was, but he was interrupted by his own falling head. Why was he so goddamn tired? He swore he'd never been so tired in his entire life.

"Just go to sleep." Minho's voice echoed through his mind.

Thomas did just that.

He was running. Teresa was beside him, her hand clasped in his as they ran, her long black hair falling over her shoulders. Sirens and sounds of the bergs were surrounding them, echoing off of the city walls as they ran for their lives. Thomas was fatiguing fast, his heart pounding painfully n his chest as he willed his legs to keep moving. The sounds of Cranks were around them, too, and in the distance Thomas had seen them. The sirens were loud, blaring, echoing throughout the whole city. Thomas knew people miles away would be able to hear the commotion, including the Cranks.

Thomas had seen them lurking in the darkness, he had seen their diseased figures looming. Thomas had watched them for a split second, almost wanting to laugh at the things. They looked as though they were panicking, arms flailing in jerky movements as they moved around in circles, some even fighting with each other. Thomas had never seen that before. But all the Cranks looked in a state of such hysteria from the blaring sirens he wanted to join in and flail around with them. At this moment, he wished he were one of them and not himself. WICKED wasn't after them, they were after him. Suddenly, being an undead zombie didn't sound like such a bad idea.

Though, he was forced to ignore the thoughts when Teresa yanked him into an abandoned building, the two of them running deep into the abandoned store in hopes of escaping WICKED. They found themselves in a storeroom, huddled against each other, hands clasped tightly together as they awaited their fate. If the guards would find them.

"We left Aris behind." He had said, his voice ragged and tired. "We could have helped him."

"No. He was shocked, there was no way we were getting him out. We would have ended up just like him, Tom." Had been the girl's reply, and Thomas really hated to think that she was right. But nothing was curing the empty feeling from leaving his best friend behind in that hell of a building.

One day, he would get him out, and that was a promise.

There they for who knows how long, listening for signs of danger, listening for the footsteps.

They'd made it out. They'd escaped. Even though he didn't have Aris, he had Teresa.

Before he could turn to said girl, there was a sudden pounding on the storeroom door. Thomas's head shot up in horror, the sounds of the Crank on the other side only now just filling his ears. Had it been there the whole time? How could they have missed it? How long exactly had they been in there for?

Teresa had gone completely rigid beside him. Thomas stared at the door, watching as the thing moved and caved in more and more from the constant banging on the other side. He knew the door was already flimsy, but he knew now that it was definitely going to cave in. The Crank was going to get in. The Crank was going to eat them alive. Turn them. Infect them.

Just as Thomas had been thinking that exact thought, the door broke. The wood splintered and cracked, spraying out, little shards of wood landing on their huddled bodies as the Crank on the other side tore the thing apart. Clearly, this Crank was one of the stronger ones. And faster.

Both Thomas and Teresa backed away from the door, scooting back until they made it to the very end of the room. Thomas now turned to observe what they were dealing with, and his heart almost burst out of his when his eyes laid on the Crank. It was a Crank indeed, but he knew this Crank. He knew the hair, he knew the face. This Crank wasn't far past the gone, either.

Newt.

Newt was there, standing, staring. Black eyes, black veins, black fluid dripping out of his mouth. His clothes were destroyed, ripped in any possible place, and with a sickening realisation, Thomas realised Newt was going to kill them. Infect them. Turn them.

Newt lunged. He was screaming and gargling as he stumbled towards the two huddled figures on the floor. The movements were rather slow, but it was still utterly terrifying. Thomas found himself yelling, too.

And then, for just a moment, Thomas spotted movement behind the angry Crank he'd known as Newt. There was another one. Thomas recognised that face, too, from the few seconds he'd gotten before Newt was so close he could touch them. It was Minho's face, black eyes, black veins. He was almost past the gone.

But the thought laid dead in the front of his mind when Newt grabbed a hold of him, diseased hands clasping at his skin as he was yanked from Teresa and the wall. Newt was so strong, Thomas could hardly believe it. He also couldn't find it within himself to fight back. He'd left Aris behind, he'd left all the other kids they had been testing on behind. He deserved this.

And that's when she did it. Teresa was running past him, past Newt, past Minho, and was gone. Minho didn't even seem to spare her a glance, eyes dead set on Thomas. Thomas was crying.

Newt seemed to be staring at him through those black eyes, studying him, though Thomas didn't know how due to the state the other boy was in. He should have been eaten by now. Next, to his horror, Newt began to speak.

"This..." Gargle. "Is all y-y-your..." Jerk. "F-Fault!" He'd screamed the last word, so up in Thomas's face all he could see was those black, somehow focused, soulless eyes.

And before he knew it, they were attacking him.

He woke up crying, yet again.

He shot up, barely noticing that he was still in the truck, a shocked sob leaving his mouth as he tried to regain his composure. Everything in that nightmare had been memories until the pounding on that door. Until he saw Newt's face, and Minho's, covered with disease and infection. He and Teresa had survived that night without any Crank encounters, but in his nightmare, she had left him for dead.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks, fear gripping every muscle, every fibre in his body as he tried to find anything that was remotely familiar to him. No Aris, no Teresa. They weren't here.

Hands were grabbing his wrists, his arms, pushing him back into his chair when he'd tried to escape. He didn't know what he was trying to do, whether it be jumping out of the moving truck or what. He didn't know where to go.

"Calm down, Tommy, you're fine. Just a nightmare." Newt's voice.

Thomas whirled his head towards Newt. He had almost expected him to be covered in disease, clothes torn apart and black webs spiralling up his neck and into his face. He had almost expected to be looking into those black, dead eyes, but instead he was looking into the warm, brown ones he had seen so many times since he'd been saved. Newt was fine.

He turned to Minho next. He had expected the same, but was relieved to see that he looked fine. No disease, nothing. He breathed in deeply, letting it out slowly as he tried to regain his composure.

Nightmare.

He settled himself down, relaxing into the chair, wringing his hands together silently. He could feel all eyes on him, the truck jolting much more than before. "How long was I asleep?" He ended up asking, not looking up and keeping his eyes fixed on his hands. The tears had stopped, his eyes burning as they begged for sleep. He was still so goddamn tired.

"Barely twenty minutes." Newt replied. "But we're almost there, don't worry."

"Almost where?"

"You'll see."

And that was the last of their small chat. No one asked what the dream was about, no one spoke another word. He felt himself drifting away, sleepy tears welling in his eyes. Why was he still so tired? And why did he feel so sick?

He ignored it. He rested his head back, keeping his eyes closed, willing for sleep to come.

It did.

But he found himself dreaming the exact same dream. Everything memories until Teresa left him for dead, Newt and Minho as Cranks. Even the others were beginning to appear. It was getting worse and worse each time, and every time he woke up with a jolt. No one said anything to him, no one asked, and he was grateful for that. He could see Newt and Minho eyeing him every time he jolted out of his fitful sleep, but he just ignored them as he rested his head back and closed his eyes, only for it all to repeat.

It continued like that for the rest of the ride to wherever they were going.

They'd been in the car for hours, minimal breaks. Thomas was still hoping to Jesus that WICKED wasn't somehow tracking them, following them. Maybe they could be following some sort of tag they'd put in him? When he'd first gone there they'd done something to his neck, it had hurt. But he never asked, or looked into, what they'd done. Had they put some chip in him? A tracking chip?

No. They would've caught him by now. But there had to be something there.

He reached up, resting his hand around the back of his neck and felt the skin there. He could feel the scar jutting out of the skin, he could feel the bump. He'd never questioned it before. Why hadn't he questioned it before? He was such a fucking idiot, god he hated himself sometimes.

He then felt the front of his neck, cringing at the ache that began when he pressed too hard. How long had it been since he'd been choked? How long had it been since Teresa had left him for WICKED? How long had it been since Minho had dragged him back to that basement? How long had he been in this fucking truck?

He was angry, but he couldn't figure out why. Was it the nightmares? Teresa? WICKED? Hormones?

He didn't know. He was always asking himself questions he didn't have the answers too. He had always found himself asking continuous questions when he was at WICKED. He always found them never getting answered, and was always sent off back to his room. Or cell, which he had figured it was. He still didn't know.

Finally, he fell asleep on the thought, hand pressed around his neck as a soft sigh left his lips.

Chapter Text

When he'd woken up again, it wasn't to a nightmare, or the truck falling into a pothole. This time, it was someone shaking him. He peeled his eyes open, disoriented, eyes moving around the truck as he gathered himself. It was dark, and the truck wasn't moving, and immediately he felt the faintest bit happier. He turned to the person who was shaking him, Minho, who had a strange glint in his eye. Thomas found himself ignoring it.

"We're here." He'd said, before turning and pushing the truck door open. Thomas watched as he hopped out, turning around to face him. "C'mon, we haven't got all shucking night."

This was when Thomas noticed there was no one else in the truck. Even Newt was gone.

"Sorry." Thomas whispered, grabbing his discarded backpack and put it over his shoulders before aiming to slide out of the truck. Instead, his foot slipped, missing the step and causing him to fall out of the truck instead. He expected the pain in his nose from face planting the ground, but instead, he felt arms around him. He landed with a soft grunt, the arms steadying him as he hauled himself up. "Sorry." He repeated, but before he could say anything else, his mouth dropped open, any feeling of fatigue leaving him instantly.

A camp. People.

"Such a clumsy shank." He heard Minho say, though his tone lacked humour. He was too busy staring wide eyed at the sight in front of him to take in what Minho had said, gaping as his mind took in everything he was seeing. It was dark now, the orange glow of the fire filling his vision as he watched the small embers float into the sky before disappearing. There were tents, so many tents, spread across the entire area. The smell of food began to fill his nose, his stomach almost grumbling on queue as his eyes took int he sight before him. Where were the Cranks? Wouldn't they be attracted to such a big group of people? What was going on this time?

And then it clicked. These people were Cranks. Well, he assumed they were.

"They're called The Right Arm apparently." Minho spoke up again, and this time Thomas turned to look at him. "Had some of our group cart themselves down here a few months back, they never came back so we assumed they were dead. Suppose they're not. The slintheads were probably selfish and wanted to keep the camp all for themselves. Doesn't look very shucking sunshine and rainbows here, either."

"Group?" Thomas asked, watching the fire reflect in Minho's eyes. The other boy looked worried, but Thomas wasn't sure for who or what he was worried for.

"About twenty of us. We all thought the others were goin' on a shucking suicide mission so the few of us found the bunker and stayed there while everyone else left us." Minho told him, the expression on his face hard. "Someone was meant to come back if The Right Arm was real. As you can tell, no one ever did. Honestly, I'm glad the shanks never came back."

"How'd you know how to get here?" Thomas asked, trying to be realistic. "And when to leave?"

"Jorge seemed to know where he was going. We left because of WICKED. We had no other choice."

Thomas's gut fell into his shoes. Minho cut him off before he could even open his mouth.

"They were getting closer and closer every day, don't even both saying or thinking it's your fault." Minho almost snapped at him, and Thomas found himself shrinking into himself. Minho's gaze wasn't focused on him anymore, and Thomas found himself curious to was Minho was staring at. He turned his head, only being faced with the camp. Thomas watched someone, a women, walk past, coughing hoarsely. Her veins were dark. Crank?

He'd been so intrigued in staring at the women, he hadn't noticed Minho stepping closer to him. So when a hand rested between his shoulder blades, he jumped violently in fright as his eyes whirled to who had been touching him. For a few seconds he feared it was a Crank, even though he knew the touch was far to gentle for it to be a flesh-hungry zombie. Thomas was beyond relieved when it was just Minho.

"Stay close to me. I'm not sure the people here are going to like you very much." Minho whispered, and all Thomas could do was nod. "They would've all seen the posters."

Thomas wondered if all these people had moved from the city. How else would they have seen the posters of his and Teresa's faces?

"Half the loonies here are close to going insane, too. Don't know how the rest of them are surviving without getting bitten." Minho continued, gently pushing Thomas forwards. His legs moved on his own accord, letting Minho push him along in the direction of the people. "How the shuck has this camp survived so long?"

Thomas didn't have time to reply when someone stood in their path. Thomas moved closer to Minho, the man in front of them tall, muscled and intimidating. He was bald, the bare skin where hair should have been being covered in deep scratches that looked as though they had been made with fingernails. That's when Thomas noticed the slight insanity circulating within the man's blue irises, along with the dark tinge to his veins. Infected.

Minho was tense beside him. Where were the others? Where was Newt? Frypan?

The man said nothing. He just stared, right into Thomas's eyes, dark and unforgiving. Then he was gone. Minho pushed him forwards, quicker this time, the both of them wanting to get as far away from that terrifying man as possible. Thomas had been expecting to get punched, or shot. He didn't miss the gun in the man's belt. The infected man also seemed to recognise Thomas. Minho hadn't been lying.

Did they know he was immune to the disease?

They managed to make it at least halfway across the camp before they were stopped again. This time by someone around Minho's age, a tall blonde girl. Thomas immediately swooped her figure for signs of infection, though there were non. This girl wasn't a Crank.

Her blonde hair and brown eyes looked strangely familiar. She was tall, taller than him, her hair plaited and resting over her left shoulder. She was pretty, Thomas wasn't going to lie about that. But she looked so familiar. Did he know her? Had she been at WICKED?

"Minho!" She'd exclaimed, her happy attitude differing from the mood set around the camp. Thomas was close to Minho, almost plastered against his side. He was shaking for some unknown reason, fear pulsing through his veins as he watched the tall girl in front of them. A bandana was around her head, tied at the front, scratches covering the skin on her face. "It's about time you showed up. Been waiting a long time for him to wake up, I see?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows, both out of fear and confusion.

"Nice to see you too, Sonya." Minho had said, his tone filled with something Thomas couldn't figure out. "This shank here is a deep sleeper."

"As Newt's told me." Newt. This girl. Blonde hair, brown eyes. Similar face shape. "I'm Sonya, Newt's little sister."

Thomas's question was answered before he even had the time to think about it. Newt's sister. He kept quiet, observing her as Minho's hand settled on his shoulder.

"Well, do you have a name?" She asked, smiling at him.

"Thomas." He whispered, wanting to get out of this situation as fast as possible. He could feel eyes on him, he could feel people around the camp watching him. Cranks watching him. There were watchful eyes all over the place, and Thomas just wanted to curl up somewhere and hide.

She nodded and smiled.

"Where's the others?" Minho asked, and Sonya gestured behind here with the stab of a thumb. She then turned around and began walking off in long strides, and soon Minho was pushing him to follow. He tripped over a rock, catching himself at the last second as he hurried to get away from the watching eyes around him. He glanced around briefly, and everyone was watching him. Literally everyone. He spotted a few more infected people, though there were only around five. One had a bandage around his neck, and he was suspecting that there was a bite wound there.

Despite the infected people he'd seen, there were no full on, past the gone Cranks in sight. They were all just starting. How had they gotten infected in the first place, if there were no Cranks around to bite them? An unrecognisable fear flurried within Thomas's chest, though he forced it down as he followed Sonya through the camp.

And then someone grabbed him. A hand clasped around his wrist, yanking him away from Minho. A new face came into Thomas's vision, a women, eyes full-blown and filled with tears. There were dark bags underneath her eyes, dark veins on her forehead. She was panting and coughing in his face, spit spraying onto his skin. He tried to lean away, but he was being yanked so close he could have kissed the women. The thought sickened him to the stomach, his eyes welling with frightened tears as the women literally growled in his face. "I know you." She gargled, anther cough leaving her mouth and more spit splashed onto Thomas's face.

"I know you." She repeated, shaking him. Everything was happening so fast his brain couldn't keep up, and he could feel the women's vice grip through his jacket. "You're from-" Cough. "You're from them!" She wailed, spit landing right in Thomas's eye. He blinked repetitively to get it away, yanking back as he tried to free himself. Someone else was pulling at his shoulders now, and he was hoping to God that it was Minho.

"You're a-" Another cough. "Munie! Munie, Munie, Munie!" She screamed in his face, and this was when he was finally yanked away from the crazed woman. He fell back into someone's chest, their hands securing around his torso as he was yanked away. Someone else's hands grabbed at the woman, who had advanced towards him again while screaming that one word. "Munie! Munie! Munie!"

How could they possibly know that he was immune? He himself hadn't known until that bastard of a Crank had bitten him.

"C'mon, let's get away from this crazy lady." Minho was whispering in his ear, guiding him away from the woman who was watching their every move. She was still screaming, spit and that black substance flying everywhere as she fought the person holding her back. Thomas could still feel all the eyes on him, he could still see Sonya up ahead, leading them away from the chaos that had broken out. Minho had let him go, though a hand was securely around his waist instead. Minho's grip was tight, as though he was ready for someone else to yank Thomas away.

"How does she know I'm-" Thomas started, but Minho was shushing him.

"Don't worry about it." He'd said, and Thomas eloped himself with silence. "Shucking loony doesn't know what she's on about. Not too long until she's a flesh-hungry, past the gone infected."

Thomas hated hearing those words. It made everything seem so much more real.

They continued for another few seconds before familiar faces were coming into Thomas's view. First it was Gally, to his utter horror, who was already glaring daggers at him. Next to him, was Frypan, who was also watching them but with horror written across his face. Had they all seen the woman scream in his face?

Next his eyes found the girl with short hair, who was looking at him with wide and tear filled eyes. Why she looked so sad, Thomas didn't know. Next to her, was another girl with dark skin and dark dreadlocked hair. She had an emotionless expression.

Then he found Newt, who wasn't looking at them. He was staring into the fire, the orange light reflecting off of his face. He looked sad, too, and Thomas could see the tear tracks on the blonde's face. Why was he crying?

There was a bunch of people Thomas didn't know surrounding them, including a kid who couldn't have been aged past twelve, sitting close to Newt, eyes wide with fear. Thomas was hoping that he wasn't the cause for all of their shocked, some teary, and angry expressions. He moved closer to Minho, not liking the looks he was getting one bit. Thomas ignored how Minho's grip tightened around his waist noticeably.

Then Alby came stalking up to them, and Thomas instantly felt the need to run. He hated Alby, he hated Gally. "Causing a ruckus, are we?" Alby scowled, and Thomas immediately felt uncomfortable underneath the stare Alby was sending him. "This is why we shouldn't have brung this shank. He should be at WICKED."

"Shut your hole, Alby, what's done is done." Minho snapped, before pulling Thomas away from the leader. The dark skinned boy literally growled behind them, and Thomas just wanted to run far, far away.

"Shucking Munie." He heard Alby mutter shortly after, and Thomas suddenly felt angry. He pushed the feeling down as he was pulled in the direction of Gally, Frypan, the girl, Newt and the kid.

The kid's sad eyes seemed to light up with happiness as they approached. He leaped up from the log he'd been sitting on and came stumbling towards them, noticeably to Minho. Minho let go of his waist, arm pulling away as he opened them for the kid who came running at full speed. He crashed into Minho, sending the Asian stumbling back a few steps. The icy expression that had once been on his face was gone as he hugged the kid, as though they hadn't seen each other for months.

Obviously, Thomas, you fucking idiot.

"Jesus, shuckface, you've grown!" Minho bellowed, pulling the kid away from him to ruffle his hair. The kid laughed, looking up at Minho as if he'd just hung the son. The sight made Thomas miss his parents, for some odd reason. Maybe because it reminded him of the family he lacked?

"You haven't!" The kid chirped, earning a soft smack the head from Minho.

Feeling as though he was intruding, he looked away. He shoved his trembling hands in his pant pockets, eyes drifting around the group. They soon rested on Newt, who was still staring into the fire. Sonya had sat down next to him, side hugging him, whispering in his ear. Newt looked absolutely terrible, his eyebrows furrowed as he seemed as though he were in a trance. The fire bounced off of the blonde's face, the orange glow flickering off of his scabbed and cut skin as his brown eyes focused on the campfire in front of him.

Yet again, another moment he was intruding on. Then his eyes found the girl with brown hair once again, and she was gesturing of him to sit down in the free space next to her. He hesitated, looking back to Minho, who was in a deep conversation with the kid. He turned back to the girl and swallowing his hesitation, forcing his body to move and go and sit next to her.

He sat down, moving his hands to his jacket pockets instead, staring into the fire. Opposite him was Newt, still in his strange trance, Sonya still hugging him. Thomas dropped his gaze immediately, slight worry for his... for his friend? Were they friends? Was Minho his friend?

"He's in shock." The girl said to him, and this caught his attention. He looked over to her, her big eyes staring into his. "I think seeing Ben, and everyone else is taking a toll on him."

Thomas nodded, the image of the completely deranged Crank moving into his mind. They way the black webs for veins spiralled up his arms, his stomach, his neck. The deep welts in his head, hair missing, clothes torn to shreds. That image would never leave his mind.

"How could you tell it was.. Ben?" Thomas whispered, hoping only she would hear him.

"I didn't realise at first, either. Didn't know Ben for long." She replied, throwing something into the fire. "They took Jorge and I in, only been around for two or three months. I didn't get to become friends with Ben, he was always out on food runs with Minho."

"How'd he get bitten?"

"I don't know. I never saw him." She whispered, proceeding to throw another object into the fire. "He never came back after one of the food runs. I have no idea how he ended back near our bunker, but he's actually dead now."

"What are they going to do with the people who are infected here? Are they just going to let them turn into Cranks?" Thomas asked, maybe a little too loud, because Sonya sent him a warning glance from across the fire. "Sorry."

"I have no idea. I've been here for as long as you have." She set a comforting hand on his wrist, squeezing for a few seconds before letting go. "I'm really sorry for what happened."

Somehow, Thomas knew exactly what she was talking about.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry."

Silence consumed them. Thomas let his eyes wander, always meeting some randoms eye from somewhere else in the camp. He was always met with a glare.

"Why do you call them Cranks?" The girl was soon asking, her voice low.

"That's what I was told they were." Thomas replied, clenching his fists in his pockets. "What do you call them?"

"Infected. I've never heard someone call them Cranks." The conversation was awkward. Thomas felt awkward, he knew the girl did to. This was when he realised he didn't even know this girls name. She had just been, the girl, to him.

"What's your name?" He found himself asking, glancing momentarily over at the girl who in turn had been staring into the fire.

"Brenda. And you're Thomas." Thomas nodded. "D'you have a nickname? Like Tom? Tommy?"

Thomas's heart clenched so painfully when she mentioned that one nickname. "No."

Teresa had called him Tom.

Newt called him Tommy.

"Okay."

Silence once again. And that's how it stayed.

Chapter Text

The next morning, he felt strange. Everything about the camp was strange, and he knew that even when he'd first gotten a good look around after getting out of the truck, and when the man had paused in front of him. Everything inside of him had recoiled when that woman was spitting and yelling in his face, calling him a Munie. He almost, almost wanted to be back at WICKED.

He'd been ushered into a tent by Minho, one of the ones furthest to the edge of camp. Thomas vaguely wondered if they took that tent because it was furthest away from the people in the camp, or because it was one of the last ones left. Thomas supposed it was the latter.

When he'd woken up that morning, for once, he didn't feel like he was going to keel over from sleep deprivation. Though his eyes were blurred, and his stomach was begging for food, he felt pretty good. Physically, he felt good. Aside from the lingering ache in his side and the base of his neck. Closing his eyes, Thomas absentmindedly moved his hand to the side where the Crank bite was located. His hand slipped under his jacket and then under his shirt, his fingers running over the disgusting and fleshy wound. He could feel blood, like the wound had reopened yet again. He felt sickened at the feeling of his own flesh squishing against his fingers. Fucking Crank.

He pulled his fingers away, out of his shirt and jacket and wiped the gooey substance on his pants. Wait, Minho's pants. Immediate embarrassment took over his whole mind, feeling his cheeks burn red at the memories from just a few days - or hours, he didn't really know. He'd lost track on time a long time ago. He peeled his eyes open once again, being met with the brownish fabric being used as the tent ceiling. The sun was out, the bright light almost piercing through the fabric. He rolled his head to the side, ignoring the stiffness in his neck.

He was on the ground, wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon with his old teddy bear as a pillow. His eyes met Minho's, who was curled up in a similar way Thomas himself was. Minho was staring, tired eyes watching him with curiosity. His hair was still spiked up, still defying gravity, and Thomas almost found himself sniggering at the thought.

Instead, his mind fell back into darkness, thoughts moving over each other as though they were fighting for dominance. He could feel his eyes closing as he drifted back into sleep, Minho's face on the other side of the small space fading in and out of his sight. It continued like this for a while, before finally he let his eyes close. He wasn't asleep, but he kept his eyes closed as though he were hiding from the world. As though he were hiding from the Cranks outside of the flimsy tent walls, as if Alby and Gally and possibly the rest of them wanted to send him back to WICKED. Back to Teresa, the girl he loved, the girl who had betrayed him.

Sadness clenched around his heart as he thought about her. He hated her, he hated her a lot. But then, he missed her. Too much.

Then his mind went to Aris, back at WICKED, his face when he'd been struck by the launcher. The guilt he felt for not going back, for not going back to save him. He would have rather gotten captured than having to leave his best friend behind. He had been forced by Teresa to leave him.

But he didn't hate her for that. He hated her for leaving him behind, leaving him to be hunted down by WICKED. Telling them where he was hiding, exposing him to his worst nightmare.

It was during his thought process when he'd noticed tears had begun to escape from his closed eyes. Somehow, the tears were forcing themselves through and were streaming down his cheeks as though they had a mind of their own. God, did he ever stop crying? Ever since that day at the school, he felt like he was always crying. Whether it be from the needles, from the blood tests, or when he would cry himself to sleep. When he'd left Aris behind, when Teresa had forced him to shoot a Crank a few days after their escape. When she ditched and sold him out to WICKED.

"Are you awake?" Someone, Minho, said from above him. Thomas settled on ignoring him, keeping his eyes firmly shut. "Come on dude, I know you're not."

He hated this place. He hated where they were, he hated this planet. He hated the disease and he hated the Cranks. In some sick way, if that meant he hated his parents, since they had eventually turned into Cranks, he wouldn't care. Cranks were barely anything to him anymore. They were all undead, diseased, disgusting creatures that were out of their minds and hungry for flesh. He hated them and he hated himself, he hated WICKED for everything they had done to him and were still doing to him, even if he wasn't at the compound.

He opened his eyes.

Minho was no longer in his sleeping bag, and instead was standing and staring down at him. Thomas hurried to wipe his eyes, ignoring the looks Minho was giving him as he shot into a seated position. The tattered sleeping bag fell from his shoulders, and at that moment, he wondered who exactly had used this sleeping bag before him.

He was hoping to god that it wasn't a Crank.

"What's up?" Minho had asked, turning away and diving into his backpack. Thomas watched him silently, wondering why or how Minho was tolerating him.

"How old are you?" Thomas asked, the curiosity eating him alive as he ignored Minho's question all together, changing the subject. The Asian looked several years older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Maybe even twenty.

"Seventeen." Came Minho's sharp reply, and Thomas felt his eyes widen slightly. Seventeen? How was this guy seventeen? "What, do I look older or something? Should I be offended or complimented?"

Thomas's mouth opened and closed, looking for something to say. In the end, he just looked like a fish out of water. Minho sniggered at him, before turning around again and yanked a piece of cloth, t-shirt out of his bag. He shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders before pulling his current shirt over his head, and immediately Thomas found himself looking away. Why he was looking away, he didn't really know or wanted to find out. He had enough things to worry about.

"Well, come on shuckface, we have food to eat." Minho was talking again, and soon Thomas found his muscles moving on their own as they all worked to get him on his feet. He followed his.. friend out of the tent silently, squinting slightly at the harsh sunlight. He shoved his hands in his pockets as soon as he spotted someone looking at him, a boy, looking a little younger than himself. Fourteen? Fifteen?

The boy was glaring so hard Thomas felt like he'd been shot. Clearly, this boy hated him. Thomas didn't even know who he was. He immediately turned away from the sharp gaze, feeling it burning into the back of his head as he followed Minho, only a few steps behind him. They soon reached the only familiar spot, the campfire he and Brenda had sat at the previous night. Said girl was seated in the same spot, perched on the log next to Newt who was looking a lot happier than he had been. Sonya was on Brenda's other side, the three of them laughing.

Thomas couldn't believe what he was seeing. How could anyone feel so happy in such a situation? When there are Cranks in this very camp getting crazier and crazier by the second? Loosing their minds with every minute, the crave for human flesh settling in with every hour. How could they stand it? Why was he here? Why had he decided to leave WICKED?

He was sixteen. He should be in school, not running around with strangers after pissing his pants in front of them like a baby. He should be living his life, not running from sadistic organisations who're hunting him down while his pathetic crushes leave him for dead. He was still a kid, for Christ's sake.

Why had he even been asking himself that question in the first place? Why did he leave WICKED? Why was he thinking about how much nicer it had been? Why was he regretting his decision?

Anger filled his chests at the thought. Not anger at WICKED, but at himself. Anger at himself for thinking such thoughts, wanting to go back to the place where all they did was poke him with needles, keep him clean and feed him. He wished his parents were still alive, he wished they were immune like him. Why had he been immune, but none of his parents? Why?

He remembered his parent's diseased faces. He remembered the gunshots.

He pushed the thought away immediately and accepted the plate of food handed to him. Something in the back of his mind told him not to trust these people, and that WICKED could come charging in and shoot everyone before he could even blink.

Minho was gone, sitting down next to that curly haired kid once again. He stood there for a few seconds, staring at the food in front of him before he noticed the kid was waving at him, and then patting the log. He was far, far too happy in a world like theirs. Slowly, hesitating just as he had with Brenda, he made his way over to the log and sat down next to the kid. Minho was watching him, and Thomas swore he was laughing at him under the hand he had across his mouth. He instantly cursed himself for hesitating on sitting next to a kid.

A kid.

He peered over, immediately meeting the kid's bright eyes. "Hi! I'm Chuck!"

Thomas smiled slightly. "Thomas."

"Nice to meet ya, Thomas!" The kid chirped back before turning his attention back to Minho. Thomas had never heard that much laughter in his entire life.

He sat there, barely eating his food as those thoughts constantly ran through his mind, the dull ache on his side constantly being in the back of his head. Somehow, the wound had reopened, and it was beginning to burn. He ignored it, trying to focus on the fire as the laughter echoed around him. How could they be so happy? How could they be laughing? How could they be laughing when the end of the world was literally right at their feet? How could they be laughing in a camp full of Cranks?

How could they be acting so normal?

Somehow, during his constant train of depressing thoughts, he'd broken into tears yet again. He hurried to wipe them away, clenched fists wiping away the liquid as soon as they left his tear duct. He was chewing his lip so hard he was beginning to taste blood, and his emotions were sky rocketing all over the place. What was wrong with him this time? Was he going to piss his pants again? Was one of the Cranks in this camp going to go crazy and kill him in his sleep?

He wished he could act normal like the rest of them. WICKED had destroyed him, made him weaker than he already had been. He surprised himself at staying hidden this long.

WICKED was going to find him. They were going to find him one way or another. He couldn't keep running forever.

When he had looked to the side, into the blue sky, his eyes rested on the city. They weren't even that far away. It was distant, yes, but still visible. The half-destroyed buildings, the smoke rising from fires. The lights from the WICKED compound. Even in the day time, their obnoxious lighting was still visible against the sun's harsh glare. Being able to see the place from here was utterly horrifying. If he could see them, couldn't they see him? Well, not specifically him as a person, but the camp.

Everything was so obvious. How could anyone be acting normal?

He was paranoid. He knew it.

The waterworks flared up again and his composure was cracking. He was always crying. He was such a child. He could be passed for six years old, rather than sixteen. He was reaching the point, again, where he was going to have a full blown meltdown. He was such a fucking child.

A hand was on his shoulder, just when they had begun to shake. He couldn't bare to see who it was, covering his eyes as he tried to hide his tears. He couldn't be vulnerable and sobbing like a girl when everyone here was so happy. Like they were genuinely happy to be here in this camp, like they were safe. They were never safe. He would never be safe, with WICKED and the undead roaming around. He was merely blessed being immune to the Flare, or else he'd be one of those disgusting things walking around looking for human flesh to feast on.

He hoped, that by rare chance, the others were immune too.

He knew they weren't. They couldn't all be.

Out of the blue, Teresa's face once again came swarming into his mind. Her sharp blue eyes, tar black hair. Her smile. He had loved her so much, whether it be platonically or not, and she was gone. He hated and loved her at the same time. He wanted to hate her so much, but he couldn't. She was part of the reason he had gotten out.

"Man, do you need to go somewhere or something?" Minho, of course.

"What's wrong with him?" British accent. Newt. Thomas hadn't spoken to him for hours.

"I don't know, shut up." Minho again. "Thomas?"

Everything was happening so fast his brain couldn't keep up. He couldn't even reply when a loud, inhuman screech was echoing over the camp. People began to scream, and Thomas's face left his hands as he whipped around to the direction the sound and screams had come from. The others around him had stood up, the hand leaving his shoulder as everyone's attention moved in the direction of the crowd that was screaming and running from something.

Then the same sound echoed throughout the camp, and Thomas knew what it was instantly.

Of course, it was someone on the brink of insanity.

"Everyone back!" A male's voice was yelling over the screams, people fleeing in all directions. Then, Thomas was finally able to see the infected person. A woman, covered in scabs and black veins, that black blood leaking out of her mouth as her body jerked and convulsed. It was a different woman from the one who had grabbed him last night, and Thomas was left to wonder how many of them there actually were in this camp. How could they stay hidden for so long? How could people not notice the Cranks on the way to the Gone standing right next to them?

Some people didn't even seem to be flinching, as though this were a normal thing. They proceeded with gathering their things, cooking, tending to fires as if there weren't a Crank standing right there, thriving amongst the humans as it looked for someone to feed on. IT was almost as if they weren't terrified, as if they were perfectly safe from the undead thing standing just behind them. It was almost if they knew it would be taken care of soon.

Everyone and everything just seemed too normal.

"I said everyone back!" The man yelled again, and finally Thomas spotted the person who owned the voice. He didn't feel encouraged in the slightest by the gun the man was aiming in the diseased woman's direction. Before he could fully grasp the situation, a gunshot was piercing through the camp and the Crank's body was tumbling to the ground. The people Thomas had been watching didn't even flinch at the sound, as if they had actually been expecting it. Was it really this normal?

Himself, on the other hand, had reduced into a trembling mess. He looked away from the sight, the tears now running freely down his face as he stared into the fire, the heat filling his face. He'd been outside for what, half an hour and he'd seen a women get her head blown off? It was only morning. It was only morning and so many things were going on around him, and he actually felt the need to run. To run away, to run away from these new people and this camp and into the forest. Maybe he could make it back to their bunker and hide there until he starved?

He hadn't noticed Chuck wasn't sitting next to him anymore. He hadn't noticed Minho shuffling closer, he didn't notice the arm around his shoulder. He didn't notice himself leaning into the comforting gesture, his eyes fixed on the flames. Is this what Newt had felt like? Completely in a trance from the orange glow in front of him, shock being his only emotion? Is this what Newt had been experiencing after he saw Ben? Or what was left of Ben?

His head was against Minho's shoulder, he was sobbing, but all he could look at was the flames.

It was at that very second, when Thomas began to feel what was left of his innocence beginning to drain out of him. It drained like blood being taken through a needle. It was like someone was physically destroying anything left from his old life, sucking up anything that resembled his childhood through a straw. He was beginning to lose himself. He was beginning to break.

He hadn't fully been himself since the first Cranks he'd seen at his school, even though he didn't know what they were or what was going on. He had lost innocence that day.

And he was losing it again. More and more.

Teresa would've known what to say to him. But she wasn't here. A new anger flared in his chest, but he swallowed it down.

It had been half an hour into the morning in his newer life with these people, and he was already wishing he were back at WICKED.

But deep down inside, he never wanted to see the insides of that damned building ever again.

He closed his eyes, and blocked everyone and everything out.

He felt a piece of himself being ripped away from him right at the second, the moment he closed his eyes. It was as though a third of his heart had torn away and was floating around inside of his chest, dead and void of purpose.

He had been hoping the world would go back to normal one day, in his lifetime, maybe. That there would be a cure, that the people being driven to insanity would be cured and would return to their old selves. That humanity would resurface.

It wasn't going to happen. He knew it wasn't.

It was at that moment, that he knew as well as he was losing himself, the world was losing one of it's last strands of hope.

Like the Cranks, it was too far gone to be saved.

Chapter Text

Three days passed with the same routine. Wake up, eat, wallow, chat with Brenda and Chuck, eat, sleep. In one of those three days, another Crank had broken out and been shot between the eyes. But this time, that Crank had bitten someone. Thomas had seen it happen right in front of him, Chuck gripping onto his hand so hard he swore his fingers were going to break. The two of them had been cutting food for Frypan when a boy as old as Thomas himself lashed out and bit an older women, who had been holding a fucking baby at the time, who had been standing next to him. Thomas had seen the diseased kid in the corner of his eye, and was hoping that they weren't going to lash out and possibly kill someone. Thomas could tell the boy was trying to hold back, trying to hold back the murderous thoughts that were for sure going through his head.

He'd been hoping that he wouldn't break, that the boy would push through just a little longer.

But of course, the world was against him.

Minho and Alby had been leaving at the crack of dawn for two days in a row. Thomas would be woken by Minho's shuffling as he got changed, he would watch him pack some sort of day pack, meeting his eyes a few times as he did so. He'd gotten a goodbye, and that was it. Nothing else was spoken between them. He'd asked Newt where they were going, but the blonde had kept his mouth firmly shut and told him to go help Frypan.

It was as though they had their own little part of the camp, like their own little section. Frypan and a few others would make food, and share it with only them. He'd noticed a few similar actions around the rest of the camp, like it was sectioned off. He didn't explore the camp, rather scared of getting murdered by someone who was sending him death glares. They'd seen the posters, obviously. Had they come from the city or something?

But somehow they knew he was immune. That part wasn't on the poster.

Thomas was currently staring at the tent roof, the morning sunlight gradually beginning to show through the thin fabric. Any time soon, Minho would be awake and out of the tent before he could even blink. Thomas felt unusual today, maybe having been awake for hours on end being the reason. But for some reason, he was feeling rather empty. The lingering sadness was still there, the sadness for his parents and his friend he had left behind in WICKED. Those feelings would never leave him. But today, the emptiness in his heart was overriding all his other emotions and feelings.

Thomas had jumped when beeping suddenly filled his ears, almost sounding exactly like the alarm he used to own. The sound continued for a few seconds before there was shuffling to the left of him and the sound was off. Thomas rolled his head to the side, observing Minho as he sat up and stared into the distance for a while, his hair standing in all different directions. It only took a minute before Minho noticed he was awake, and the said boy's eyebrows were rising up his forehead. He stared at Thomas, running his hand through his hair, attempting to restyle it as they held eye contact.

"You're up earlier than usual." Minho mumbled, pulling his sleeping bag off of himself and began getting to his feet.

Thomas didn't say anything, watching as Minho stood and stretched, cracking his joints in such a way Thomas tried not to cringe. Maybe he shouldn't be staring, but he had nothing else to do. He watched Minho with curiosity beginning to replace that strange, hollow empty feeling. He was rather grateful for that, but he could still feel it eating away at his insides as the seconds passed by. He hated the feeling.

He watched as Minho moved over to the small wooden table between the two sleeping bags, not changing this time. Maybe he had finally run out of clean clothes?

Thomas watched silently as he packed that pack thing he'd been packing for the past two days, pulling it over his shoulders and clasping it across his chest. Then his gun was slung over his shoulder, and Thomas found himself eyeing Minho's arms, noting the bulging muscle there. He hadn't realised he'd been staring so hard until Minho's eyes met his, and those eyebrows were rising once again on his forehead.

"Whatcha staring at?" Minho asked, a slight smirk twitching at his lips. "Like what you see?"

"Where have you been going?" Thomas asked, ignoring Minho's suggestive question. He ignored everything he had felt at that exact moment. "Why do you leave so early and come back so late?"

Minho looked stumped, as if he had no idea what to reply with. Thomas watched him silently, awaiting his reply. "We've been going back to the city."

"Why?" Thomas asked, his widening only slightly. Wy would they want to go back to the city if the whole point of them leaving the bunker was to escape WICKED? Or was that only because he was with them?

"Well, we need supplies. But the shucking stores are running out. Or we're running out of stores to raid." Minho continued, and Thomas was surprised at how freely Minho was speaking about it. When he had asked Newt it had been like he'd asked how to murder somebody. "The Infected's population are increasing, too. WICKED's still patrolling. They're getting closer and closer."

"Why wouldn't Newt tell me this?" Thomas went on to ask, fisting the sleeping bag in his hands.

"I don't know." Minho replied, before turning in the direction of the tent's opening. "But I do know that you have enough things to be worrying about, so don't worry about me. See you tonight, shuckface."

Thomas had never mentioned that he was worried.

"See you." Thomas whispered, swallowing his doubts as he watched Minho leave. He waited a few seconds, countless thoughts running through his mind at such an alarming speed he was making himself feel dizzy. He stayed like that for a few seconds, thinking before suddenly without thinking it through, he was rocketing out out of his sleeping back and shoving his shoes onto his feet. He ignored the pain in his side as the wound tore once again, not bothering to tie his shoe laces as he scrambled from the ground, bursting out of the tent and his eyes started surveying the camp.

Soon his eyes rested on Minho, Alby and Newt standing tight together, talking. Minho was leant against the car, arms crossed and eyebrows creased as he looked between Alby and Newt, who were indulged in a rather heated looked conversation. Was something wrong?

Thomas began to stagger over to them, his legs still waking up as he stumbled in their direction. He bumped into someone on his way, a man, who growled at him as he passed by. He ignored it, running on the sudden adrenaline moving through his veins as he made his way to the three boys. None of them noticed him hurrying over to them until the last second, when of course, Thomas stood on one of his untied shoe laces and went flying. He flew straight through Newt and Alby, the ground getting closer and closer as he prepared himself for impact.

But before he could hit the ground, just like he had went he'd fallen out of the truck, someone caught him and yanked him up. He'd been so shocked from the force of the person pulling him up his knees had buckled, and his face was smushed in the person's chest. Their arms were still holding him up as he gathered himself, hearing the confused voices behind him. What was he even doing?

It was as though his mind, and muscles, had began to work on their own, causing him to get here. That empty feeling was completely gone, and all he felt was a mixture of confusion, fear and curiosity. He pushed himself off the person, realising it to be Minho who in turn was staring down at him with rather wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

"I want to come." Thomas stammered before he could even think it through.

He wished he had thought it through.

A hand grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and he was being yanked backwards. He screeched in alarm, staggering on his feet as the person dragged him away from Newt. Then more hands were grabbing him, but they were pulling him away from the one yanking him by his collar like a dog. The hand let go and once again he was falling into another person. This time, it was Newt, and Alby had been the one treating him like an animal.

"What the hell is wrong with you, shank?" Alby was growling, pointing a finger at him as though he were actually a Crank. Then his accusing finger moved to point at Minho, whose eyebrows began to raise up his forehead slightly. "Didn't we make it clear that the Munie wasn't to know about this?"

That word again. Munie.

"I don't see the big issue." Minho stated as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"The big issue? The big shucking issue?" Alby continued, turning back to Thomas as he said this. "This shank's from WICKED, idiot. They're out there scouting for him. Sounds to me like you're trying to hand us to those shucks through this freak. And who knows, maybe he feels like going back and dragging us down with him? Ever thought of that?"

Thomas's heart dropped into his gut when those words left Alby's mouth, and instantly he was regretting his sudden decision. What had he been thinking? He knew that the city wasn't safe for him, let alone Alby and Minho. Well, Thomas couldn't care less about Alby and his welfare. He wasn't the one who saved his life from a WICKED guard.

"Somehow you've got this Greenie's hopes up, haven't you?" Alby continued to scream, for sure attracting the attention of everyone in the whole fucking camp. Thomas hated himself for even asking Minho that one question. "No, you're not coming with us."

"Why not, Alby? We could use the extra hands." Thomas's eyes widened. Alby's did too, but not with shock. His eyes were full of rage.

"Minho, I think that's a bit bloody-"

"Why, Newt? Someone else is going to need to come sooner or later, you know how little food we can bring back!

"You're gonna get the whole lot of us killed." Alby growled, before shoving past Minho and yanked the door of the car open. "The whole lot of us. And don't think you're so innocent, Munie."

Alby had gotten harsher. It seemed as though he hated him even more than when they had first met, maybe at the Gally level of hatred.. He shared a look with Newt, who looked rather defeated. His eyes were sad, as was his face, and Thomas wondered if he were the reason for that. He then looked to Minho, who was staring right back at him with a look in his face Thomas could determine.

Then Minho turned away, but not before gesturing for Thomas to follow. He hesitated, beginning to regret everything that had gone through his head while making that split decision in the tent. He shared one last look with Newt, who's eyes had became filled with worry.

"You three better bloody come back." Newt pretty much growled as he broke eye contact with Thomas, pushing him forwards in the direction of the open door. Thomas stumbled, almost tripping on his still untied shoe laces once again. He gathered himself, hauling himself into the backseat of the truck and pulled the door closed with a thud. He peered out the window, hearing two more doors close before the engine was starting. Newt's face was stony, arms crossed as worry creased at his eyebrows.

Thomas slumped back into the seat, regretting his decision even more as he pulled his left leg closer to him, his foot resting on the seat as he began to slowly tie his left shoelace. Before he knew it, the truck was taking off and they were heading towards the city. It had seemed like the ride had been so long on the way there, but was it really that long? Or had he been imagining it?

He swapped legs, bringing his right foot onto the tearing seat and began to tie his right shoelace.

"We're leaving him if he ruins everything." Alby snapped, and Thomas could literally see the dark skinned boy's hands squeezing the steering wheel so tight he could burst skin. "If WICKED finds us, he'll be thrown in first."

"Shut up, Alby."

Thomas kept silent. He picked at the scabs on his hands, where the glass had rained down on him when the Crank smashed that window. It felt like years ago that had happened, when it was really only about a week ago. Absentmindedly, his hand rose to the back of his neck, feeling over the bump there. If WICKED had really put a tracking device of some sort underneath his skin, they would have taken him away already. It's been just over a month, they would have found him already.

He kept silent for the whole ride. He'd almost fallen asleep, his eyes drooping as his head began to hang forwards. But when Alby applied the breaks especially hard, he rocketed forwards and smacked his head on the console between the two front seats. He groaned, rubbing his forehead as he righted himself, wanting to formally punch Alby in the head. He didn't miss the said boy's snigger.

There was no time to compose himself before Minho and Alby were out of the truck and on the ground outside, and this was when Thomas realised they were almost at the city. He could see the beaming lights from the compound glowing behind the half-destroyed sky scrapers, he could see the smoke floating between the said buildings. He gathered himself, pushing open the door and slid out of the truck. He landed with a thud, slamming the door behind him as he stared at the two other boys. Alby looked especially pissed off, holding a rather empty looking backpack in his hands.

Before Thomas could even blink, the backpack was being shoved in his direction. Thomas was forced to grab the thing, pulling it around his shoulders without being told. Alby turned away from him and began to walk in the direction of the banked up highway. Minho followed, and Thomas was forced to do the same as they weaved through tree after tree, the city getting closer and closer and closer. Soon his feet were met with the cracked tarmac, hundreds of abandoned cars banked all the way up to the city. He always wondered why everyone ditched their vehicles.

They walked at a steady pace, the only sound being their feet hitting the tarmac and the distant screams from Cranks. If he really listened hard enough, he could ear the eerie wails and gargles wafting over through the breeze, causing his heart to beat harder and harder as they got closer to the sky scrapers.

They had seen no sign of a WICKED guard or vehicle, no sign of Cranks, either. He was hoping it would stay that way until they got to the city, where there would be more cover than just destroyed cars. There were very little places to hide, the trees having ended further back. They were in a vulnerable state, and Thomas felt so exposed he was ready for a guard to jump out from behind the nearest car.

His heart had just begun to calm down when he heard it. He'd heard that sound before, while he was inside WICKED, but he'd never seen it. A steady thrum began to feel his ears, echoing around them as it got louder and louder. With a sudden horror, Thomas realised exactly what was making that sound. A berg.

The others seemed to realise this, too. Minho doubled back, facing Thomas with utter horror on his face. Thomas had gone rigid, fear clasping every fibre in his body as his muscles failed to work, just watching as Minho came hurrying towards him with one arm outstretched. The hand on that arm reached out for him, grabbing him by the elbow and yanked him forwards. Minho was running, pulling him along in the direction of one of the cars. The cars door was opened, there was a half mauled body laying on the ground in front of it. Clearly, the Cranks had been here.

The thought was sent clean from his mind when Minho stopped, turning to move Thomas in front of him. Thomas looked down at the body, nausea filling his stomach as he looked at their face. Minho had no mercy in letting him observe, pushing Thomas forwards and into the backseat of the car, the thrum getting louder and louder. Thomas moved to the other side of the car, giving Minho room as he clambered in next to him. There was no sign of Alby.

Minho slammed the door so hard dust fell from the roof. Thomas turned his body around, peering out of the smashed window in search of the berg. He'd never seen one before.

And that's when he saw it. A black thing disturbing the blue skies, it's propellers spinning and spinning as it came closer and closer. He had been so intrigued by the thing he'd almost leant fully out the window, the broken glass digging into his jacket and ripping it as he craned his neck for a better view. He winced when his jacket gave way, the glass now digging into his bare skin. From here, he could see the clear branding written across the side of the berg.

WICKED.

Before he could gaze anymore, He was yanked away from the window. He fell back against Minho, yelping when the glass gave way with him and fell onto the seat.

"What the hell are you doing, you complete slinthead! They could have shucking seen you, you shuck idiot!" Minho whisper-yelled into his ear, arms wrapped around Thomas's torso tightly. Thomas was beginning to tremble without even knowing, the steady thrumming of the berg beginning to fade as it drifted away. "I've never seen the bergs going out so far..." Minho then whispered, trailing off as the noise began to completely fade.

Thomas turned his head to look out the back window, seeing the berg heading the opposite direction they were heading in. It was heading in the direction of the camp.

"They're going big lengths to look for you." Minho continued whispering, his breath fanning down Thomas's neck. "Must be a special shank."

"I've never seen one of them before." Thomas whispered, mostly to himself as he watched the thing fly away.

Minho didn't reply, instead, he sniggered.

After a few more minutes of just sitting there, waiting, Minho finally let go of him and pushed the door open. It squealed horribly, more dust falling from the roof and onto his face. Not long after, he sneezed.

Minho slid away from him, getting out of the truck so fast Thomas fell backwards. He gathered himself quickly, sliding out after Minho and out into the light. He felt exposed once again, and he found himself looking and listening for any more bergs, or pretty much anything to do with WICKED.

Alby came out from inside a car further ahead. "Let's get shucking moving."

Thomas felt an unrecognisable anger towards Alby at that second he had even surprised himself. It was gone before he could dwell on it, and he felt himself once again. He followed behind Minho silently, watching the other boy's feet as he stepped around scattered debris and even another mauled body.

He couldn't shake the thought of the bergs. Of WICKED.

He couldn't shake the feeling of being so exposed.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was very, very slowly losing his innocence. That he was losing himself.

He forced the thoughts to leave his head as soon as they stepped into the city's boarder, and instantly he knew there were all sorts of new sources of danger awaiting them. He could hear the Crank cries and wails and gargles, he could smell the smoke and he could see the WICKED complex peeking out from behind one of the larger sky scrapers.

He could hear the engines rumbling, a lot louder than they had been when he'd been hiding out. They'd upped their security. They'd upped their search for him.

He shouldn't be here.

Chapter Text

The first Cranks he saw were in the middle of the road, clustered together in a large pack. It was a slow moving cluster of diseased bodies, moving against each other as they advanced in all opposite directions. Thomas was rather confused at the sight. It was as though the things were waiting for something, like they were waiting for something to happen. He had never seen them in such a tight group before, let alone waiting. He didn't think they had the brain cells left to be able to wait, let alone know there was something to wait for.

Alby, Minho and himself went around the large group, advancing behind the buildings instead. Thomas stuck close to Minho, looking around constantly in case there was a stray Crank lurking around in the darkness, ready to jump out and tear his body to bits. He could hear the gargling and the hysteric screams rising from the group of Cranks as they made their way past, and he could even smell the decay. Nausea was thrashing at his stomach, along with hunger. He hadn't eaten that morning, and as far as he knew, Minho hadn't either. But he could handle it.

Ignoring the countless thoughts running through his head, he followed the two boys in front of him who in turn seemed to know exactly where they were headed and what they were going to be doing. They'd made it about a block away from the Crank pack when louder screams erupted, the hysterical sounds bouncing off of the walls as the purr of an engine chimed in. WICKED. Even being this far away, Thomas was able to hear those hysterical and gargled screams bouncing off of the walls in the tight trail behind the building.

Thomas could almost imagine the group of Cranks jerking and flailing like they had when the alarms were sounding through the city during the time when he and Teresa had escaped. He knew they must be doing something similar, dragging themselves around in circles as their destroyed brains spiralled further into insanity from the stress of the sound. Again, he found himself wishing he were apart of that pack and was just a pure inconvenience for WICKED. Well, that was, until they found their cure.

Thomas knew they wouldn't be able to save all the Cranks, they were far too past the Gone to be curable. And what about the rest of the world? Was it dying like America was?

Thomas knew nothing about what was going on in other countries. If it was the same, diseased and destroyed, of if they were living their normal lives as they watched America slowly decay like it were a TV show. He always assumed the rest of the world was dying, too, and he didn't really want to find out for sure.

He sighed, wiping a hand down his sweaty forehead as he followed behind Minho, as he had been doing for the last hour. It was almost midday, and Thomas knew he was regretting his choice. Why would he want to come back here? Why would he want to risk his, Minho and Alby's lives? Why would he want to go back to a place that is so close by to WICKED?

But the berg. The berg had gone in the direction of the Right Arm.

The thought was gone when they reached the end of the back pathway, ending in an alley that led to the roads. Thomas watched as Alby walked down the alleyway like there were no worries in the world, stepping out into broad daylight without even checking for threats. The gargling of the Cranks were still echoing off of the walls, though it was now distant as they had moved further away. Thomas stared at Alby in horror as he walked across the road, completely carefree. How could he accuse Thomas of possibly getting them killed, when he was out here walking across the road like there's no Cranks or sadistic organisations lurking around almost every corner?

Well, of course, that sadistic organisation was only after him. Not Alby or Minho. But the Cranks were after everyone and everything, animal or human.

Thomas hadn't seen any other animal but birds. They were still everywhere, flying around as if the disease didn't exist. As far as Thomas knew, the animals got infected by the virus too. He'd heard of one of the guards getting attacked by a ravaged dog while he'd been getting his blood taken, eavesdropping into the conversation as he watched the red substance fill the tube.

Minho went to step right out onto the street after Alby, immediately snapping Thomas out of his thoughts. Minho moved with much more hesitation, like Alby should have, looking both ways in search of a threat while peeking his head around the brick wall. Thomas watched silently as Minho fully left the alleyway, now standing on the cracked sidewalk as the sun shone down on him, revealing all the dirt and sweat smeared on his skin. Thomas even found himself catching the small cuts on his face that he'd never seen before.

He backed into the shadows, hands shoved in his pockets as he watched Minho look around once more, wiping his forehead as he did so. Minho began to walk after Alby, who was on the other side of the street and still in plain view, but soon stopped and turned around to face Thomas, who was still hiding in the depths of the alleyway. He felt safe there, even though he knew he wasn't. It was safer than out there in the literal broad daylight.

"Coming?" Minho asked, voice low and cautious. Thomas stayed put, countless thoughts running through his mind the longer Minho stood out there in in the sun. WICKED could come around the corner any second and shoot him dead, a Crank could be looming down the road at that very second. Minho did look worried, but behind him, Thomas could see Alby pulling at something on the building opposite. Thomas watched as he tested the thing, pulling it, before he let the thing go. A large clang erupted from the object Alby had yanked, the sound bouncing off the walls and possibly echoing for miles.

Thomas was sure any WICKED guards would have been able to hear that, along with any Cranks hiding out in the area somewhere. If Alby kept it up, they'd all be dead. Or rather, they'd be dead and Thomas'll be getting dragged back to the compound to face Teresa, already being prepped to become their human blood bag once again. Where had all his blood even gone? What were they planning to do with it?

Slowly, he made his muscles move, stepping closer and closer to the end of the alley. Alby yanked back on the thing- wood, Thomas thinks, and another clang echoed from the action. Thomas's heart rate picked up considerably as he peeked his head around the brick wall, as Minho as done, searching for threats. He listened, too, for the rumble of an engine or the thrum of a berg. He listened for the screams of Cranks, which he did hear, but they were still very distant which only gave him the slightest hint of comfort.

Instead his eyes found a poster. A poster of himself, on the same building Alby was fiddling with. From where he was standing he could see it clearly, and to his horror, it was a new poster. A new poster that Teresa wasn't included in, this poster completely centred around him.

Subject A2, Wanted. 3,000,000 reward.

They were putting money to his name? Were there even any more people left in this city to hunt him down? Did WICKED even have that much money left?

Three million. He was worth three million.

The other thing that stuck out to him was the lack of Teresa. She was at WICKED, and now it was confirmed. Her face was no longer on the posters, she was no longer a wanted girl. The wanted girl had been found.

More so, the wanted girl had returned.

His eyes had been so trained on the newer addition of his poster to notice Minho walking over to him. He'd flinched when the Asian had grabbed his hand, his heart picking up once again from fright. He then tensed, eyes snapping to Minho's as fear clung at him like a leech. There were no words said between them as Minho pried him from the safety of the alleyway, and together the two of them scurried across the street, Thomas's head moving left to right rapidly, just in case WICKED rounded the corner. He couldn't hear any engines, nor could he see any sign of a berg.

They soon made it to Alby, who was staring at the two of them with such a disgusted look, Thomas let go of Minho's hand. Minho didn't seem fazed, moving to squeeze Thomas's elbow before walking over to Alby and inspected what the darker male had been prodding at.

Thomas observed the building, noticing the boarded up windows and door. Alby had been pulling back on one of the boards, which was nailed to the wood on the actual doorframe. He watched as the two boys both grabbed the rotting plank of wood, before they began to pull. Thomas could hear the cracking of wood as they pulled back, watching as the nails began to peel back along with the wood as it splintered.

Before he could blink, the wood broke free and was thrown to the floor with a clunk. He watched little splinters, like little daggers, fly from the also rotting door, leaving a gaping hole in the decaying wood. Then, Minho grabbed onto the handle of said door, and began to pull. Thomas could see the door getting caught on the uneven ground, causing an unpleasant screeching sound to fill his ears. The sound echoed off the walls, definitely being heard for miles. The city was eerily quiet, and Thomas didn't like it one bit. Even the hysterical Cranks had shut up for once, as if they'd been put on mute.

Immediately he knew something was up.

There was soon another crack and squeal, before the door was swinging open. The thing was missing a hinge, causing it to hang down slightly as Minho pushed it aside as if it were a mere inconvenience to him. Alby and Minho filed in after each other, leaving Thomas alone outside. He didn't hesitate, wanting to get out of the daylight as soon as he possibly could, both from the sun beating down on him and the lingering fear of WICKED. He rushed over to the opening, almost tripping over a hunk of concrete that the door had been catching on. He'd been tripping over everything, lately.

The stench in the store overwhelmed him as he stepped through, his stomach beginning to swirl once again as he looked around. Light shone through the boarded windows, illuminating some parts of the half destroyed shop. To Thomas's complete surprise, there was food. Canned food, stacked up on shelves, untouched. Thomas had never seen a store with so much canned food left since before the outbreak, since before this whole disease had appeared. How had this store not been raided yet? How had nobody found it during the early days of the apocalypse?

How was any of it even still in date?

Alby and Minho had their arms full, grabbing thing off shelves until there was too much for them to possibly carry. Thomas watched helplessly, unsure on what the hell he was meant to be doing, standing dumbly in the middle of the isles.

It was when Alby came storming over he had realised exactly what he was meant to be doing.

Before he could act on the realisation, Alby was whirling him around and yanking on the backpack. Soon, a large weight was on Thomas's back causing him to stumble a little, the once empty backpack now full of supplies. Minho did the same, but a lot less aggressively. It went on the same for a few minutes before the bag was heavy and full, and Thomas assumed they would be getting right out of there.

Thomas felt slightly comforted by the fact that Minho had his gun, but there was a bad feeling beginning to rise in his chest. Thomas moved to the front of the store as the others began to gather themselves, peering out the doorway a little to listen. His heart fell into a heap at his shoes when he heard the sounds. The sounds of engines coming their way. How hadn't he noticed?

"Guys." Thomas whispered at first, cursing himself because he knew they couldn't hear shit. "Guys!"

"What?" Minho was the first to reply, and in the blink of an eye the male was standing behind him.

"Listen."

Minho loomed in his place behind him, listening. Then, there was a hitch of breath.

"Oh, shuck. Alby, we gotta get out of here!" Minho began speaking, pulling his gun from his shoulder to hold it. Alby came storming over, pushing through the two to step out into the open. Thomas went to grab him, but the the dark skinned boy was gone and running across the road before Thomas could even try. It was as though the guy had a goddamn death wish.

Thomas heard Minho swear under his breath, and before he knew it Thomas was being grabbed by the wrist and was being yanked across the road.

And that's when he saw it.

At the very, very far end of the road was a WICKED vehicle turning the corner, coming in their direction. Fear laced every part of Thomas's body as they ran, only just making it to the alleyway and out of sight. Minho pulled him to the back route, Alby further ahead as they ran for their lives. They went the same way they had come, until they were forced into the open again, just past where the mass of Cranks had been looming. Thomas looked to see that they were still there, but their numbers had lowered. Where had they all gone? It had been a fair amount of time, but they couldn't have just disappeared.

The three of them had stopped at the entry way, staring at the group of undead. Thomas could sense their hesitation as they held back a few seconds, staring at the group of slow moving Cranks.

They had waited a second too long.

There was shuffling to their left, the sound of uneven footsteps getting closer and closer by the second. Thomas barely had time to turn his head before he was being tackled to the ground, loud gargling and screaming filling his eardrums as the backpack full of supplies dug into his back, pained tears blurring his vision as the thing on top of him wailed in his face, spraying spit and that black substance all over him. The thing had come out of literally nowhere.

Without thinking, he screamed. He screamed bloody murder, trying push the thing off of him. Thomas spared a glance at the diseased thing, his eyes almost rolling to the back of his head in horror when he looked at that face. Well, barely a face. It looked like it's face had been half eaten, it's nose missing completely leaving a gaping dark hole there instead. The Crank screamed in his face again, but this time with words.

"Rose took my nose, I s-s-s-s.." The Crank screamed, getting closer and closer to Thomas's face. "I s-s-suppose!"

The Crank surged at him with such speed Thomas was momentarily shocked, biting at him. Thomas had turned his body away from his impending doom, thrusting his right shoulder upwards to protect his face from ending up like the Crank's. As he did so, his jacket had slipped from his shoulder and pain erupted in that very spot. He screamed again, the pain making dots blur his vision as the Crank bit into his flesh.

Oh god, the Crank was biting him.

Then there was a gunshot, splitting through his own yells and the Cranks hysterical screaming. The body fell on top of Thomas, motionless, becoming a dead weight in the timespan of 5 seconds. He fought to get the thing off, bursting into hysterics as trauma filled his body, hands pushing and scrambling to get the dead Crank off of him. Then Minho's face came into view, yanking the Crank off of his body before helping him up. Everything was happening so fast Thomas's mind was yet again fighting to keep up, because when he turned around, fifteen or so Cranks were stumbling in their direction. Alby was still there, standing in front of them, seemingly in shock.

"Run!" Minho.

Minho grabbed his hand and began to yank him away and down the street, Alby snapping out of his daze as he began to run too. The clinging fear of WICKED came into Thomas's senses, and utter horror began to fill him. They were going to be attracted to the noise, the gunshot. The berg could be coming back, they could be watching him at this very moment. Tracking him. The thing in his neck could be setting something off in their trackers or some shit like that.

Thomas was terrified all over again.

He held onto Minho's hand for dear life as the full backpack thumped against his back, the weight of the thing slowing him down greatly. He ignored it, forcing his tired legs to move on as they ran in the direction of the boarder of the city, where they had come from. Back to the highway.

WICKED would be able to see them from there.

Thomas spared a glance behind him, seeing the Cranks far, far back. But it looked like more had joined the party, joining the mass of bodies hungry for human flesh. He turned away and kept running, following Minho away from the disgusting sight. It looked like it had been plucked right out of a zombie apocalypse movie, though without the CGI. This was real. Thomas wasn't safe behind the screen, he was inside the movie. He was the character running for his life, he was the one being hunted down.

He pushed the thought away and turned back once again, the sight sending him stumbling a few steps. Right there, behind the mass of bodies was them. They were here. They had found him.

WICKED.

As he realised this, electrical explosions were erupting all around them. Thomas could see the vehicle, he could see the guards, he could see said truck powering through the mass of half-running half-dragging Cranks, barrelling the majority of them over into a bloody mess. Thomas's shoulder throbbed painfully as they ran, Minho's course changing dramatically as they swerved into an alley. Bad idea, Thomas had thought, but Minho seemed to know where they were going as if it were written on the back of his hand. Alby was right behind them, exhaustion and desperation clear on his face.

The vehicle had caught up to them. Thomas could see it, he could hear the electrical explosions getting closer and closer, whistling by his ears and exploding a few feat away from him.

And then Alby was on the floor, convulsing. It had happened so fast Thomas had missed it, Alby's body erupting in sharp jerks as electrical webs spread across his body. He wanted to stop, he knew Minho had seen what had happened, too. But they kept running.

They rounded the corner, into another one of the back passages ran. After almost two minutes of running endlessly, Minho dove into a building, pulling Thomas with him. The WICKED guards were behind, now, not having ran down the passage yet. Thomas was a little shocked at how stupid they actually were, and how slow, but the thought was wiped clean when he was yanked into a smaller room, Minho pushing him in before slamming the door shut. That was when all light was cut from the room and Thomas couldn't see a thing.

He jumped when Minho made contact with him again, worried for a second that it may have been a Crank hiding out in the room. His shoulder throbbed, tears pouring down his cheeks at a rapid pace as he thought of Alby, who he'd left behind as he did Aris. He'd done it again. Even if he hated Alby, he didn't deserve to be left behind like that. No matter how much he loathed that guy, no one deserved to get sent to WICKED.

"We left-" Thomas began, but he was cut off.

"Shh."

This caused Thomas to collapse. He collapsed into Minho's chest, terror fully taking over him as footsteps thudded past, the guards just on the other side of the wall. Minho squeezed him tight, his body tense as they thundered past, their voices yelling through radios. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he was too horrified to care. He fisted Minho's jacket in his hands, shaking so bad his knees felt as though they were going to buckle underneath him. His shoulder pulsed and pulsed with pain, feeling the gooey sensation of blood trickling down his arm as his own jacket hung half off of him. He was glad he couldn't see, he didn't think he was ready to see yet another disgusting bite wound on his own body.

It had fallen silent outside, the only thing being their breathing. It didn't stay like that for long when the thundering footsteps returned, now going in the opposite direction. Were they retreating?

They stayed like that for who knows how long, silent, wondering what was going to happen. Thomas clung onto Minho for dear life, sweat beading on his forehead as he awaited the worst. But it never came. He had been expecting the guards to come charging in, throwing the door open with their Launchers raised. He'd expected to be shot, to be taken away from Minho, taken back to WICKED with Teresa.

At least he would have gotten to see Aris again.

But was that really a good thing anymore?

It had been at least an hour and a half before Minho finally began to move, keeping one arm around Thomas as he felt around for something. Thomas stuck close, scared to even reach out incase he touched something or something grabbed him. All of a sudden there was a squeaking sound, and the smallest amount of light was seeping into the room. He squinted slightly, eyes adjusting to the new found light, Minho seeming to be doing the same.

Minho slowly edged out of the room, hand moving to clasp around Thomas's wrist as he peeked around the corner, just as he had when crossing the road. Thomas stuck behind him, almost waiting for something to jump out. When nothing happened, Minho began to pull him away from the safety of the room and back into danger. He soon found himself back in the passage, following Minho's lead. When they reached the end of the passage where the alleyway began, Thomas had been expecting to see Alby's body on the floor, still convulsing and covered in electrical webs.

He wasn't there.

"We left him behind." Thomas tried again, and this time Minho completely ignored him. Thomas spared a glance at the other boy, who was chewing his lip as worry creased his eyebrows. He watched as Minho shook his head, as if he were shaking thoughts from his mind and began to walk again, right over the spot where Alby had fallen. Thomas looked back, wanting to see his body, wanting to see him alive. But he still wasn't there. WICKED had taken him, or Cranks had dragged him away.

Minho peered around the corners once again, Thomas forced to stand behind him. Sweat was dripping down Thomas's forehead, nerves making his body heat increase as he waited for the engine of the vehicles to start up and for the Launchers to begin firing. But it never happened.

And then they were walking, using the shadows to go in the direction they had come, towards the highway. Thomas looked up at the sky, which was becoming covered in darker clouds. There was a storm coming. It was beginning to get dark, also, which worried Thomas to no end. When had it gotten so late? Had they been hiding out of longer than he had originally thought?

He kept his thoughts to himself as Minho pulled him along, hand never leaving Thomas's wrist. He spared looking around, spotting one or two Cranks in some other alleyways, feasting on flesh. He knew it was either a human or an animal, but he didn't want to find out which. It only showed the true horror the world- or America had become.

Was China like this? Was Australia like this? Was Canada like this?

Or were they watching America fall to pieces like a reality TV show, with only the slightest worry that the disease would spread over the ocean?

But that wasn't possible. The disease wasn't airborne.

This made Thomas wonder how exactly this whole apocalypse had begun in the first place. Had it been on purpose? Is it all some kind of test? Has he been dreaming this whole time? Was he really inside of a hospital, in a coma, dreaming this whole epidemic? Was he dying in some other reality? A reality where his parents were still alive and there was no virus?

Not possible. Everything was too real, it all felt too real.

Thomas decided to put his thoughts into words. "Is the rest of the world like this?"

Minho didn't glance at him, keeping up their steady pace. They were almost at the highway. They had seen no WICKED vehicles, nor had they heard any. It was as if they'd all retreated, as if they'd all gone into hiding. The only sounds were the crackles of still burning fires and the distant yells of Cranks. He could hear them, but he couldn't see them.

Minho spoke for the first time in hours. "Yes."

Thomas's heart dropped slightly. "How do you know?"

"Saw it on the shuck television before our power was cut. Similar outbreaks all over the place." Minho continued, whispering, eyes surveying their surroundings. "There was only one country that hadn't had an outbreak yet. Australia. I have no shucking clue if it ever reached there."

"How can the disease spread across the world if it isn't airborne?" Thomas found himself asking, his voice getting quieter and quieter. He was terrified that someone, or something, would be able to hear them.

"Don't know, Tomboy."

They fell into silence, though it didn't last long. In the distance, thunder rumbled over the earth. There was definitely a storm coming, and he could tell it was going to be a bad one. The wind was beginning to pick up, his hair beginning to flap in his eyes. His shoulder throbbed painfully underneath his jacket, fatigue was beginning to fill his muscles more than ever. He needed food and he needed sleep. How could he have lasted this long?

He pushed all those thoughts away when they made it to the edge of the city, the highway looming in front of them. The sky above was black with cloud, and the overall lighting was dark. There was a storm coming, and it was almost nighttime. Great!

Minho let go of him, moving to sit up against one of the smaller buildings on the border. He heaved in a deep breath, and Thomas knew they were having a break. He didn't want to, he wanted to make it to the truck as fast as possible. But he couldn't do that when his legs were about to collapse under him. But there was the thought that if he sat down, he would never be able to get back up.

He followed Minho's lead, sitting against the wall as he looked up at the sky. The wind was still picking up, but it wasn't hard enough to be annoying yet. His hand raised to his shoulder, feeling the wound underneath his jacket. His shirt was ripped, too.

They sat there in silence for who knows how long, Thomas just listening to Minho's breathing as a sense of comfort. That he wasn't alone just yet.

He knew they should be getting up, they should be leaving, but he couldn't move. More so, he didn't want to move. He was exhausted.

Though his thoughts changed when he heard it. He heard shuffling, heavy and uneven breaths coming along with it. Minho didn't flinch, and this caused Thomas to wonder that maybe it was just all in his head. The noise continued and Thomas's fear began to amplify, but Minho still didn't move. It had to be in his head. He must have been imagining it.

But, he was proved wrong when a loud, screeching gargle filled his eardrums, causing the both of them to jump. It was right next to them. How could a Crank last so long without making noise? How could a Crank sneak up on them like that?

It was too late to move out of the way and his muscles were too tired. The thing was on top of him in seconds, screaming and wailing in his face just as the Crank with no nose had been. Black blood sprayed over him, but this time, it wasn't just specs. It was like the Crank was literally vomiting up blood in his face.

He gargled himself, trying to hold in the screams as he flailed, trying to throw the monster off of him and to face his head away from the fountain of disgusting, diseased fluid. He gagged when some went straight into his mouth, tasting foul on his tongue. He pushed as hard as he could, and finally, like Thomas had been hoping, Minho smacked the thing in the head with the butt of his gun. The Crank screamed, falling to the side and freeing Thomas. He scrambled away, spitting the black substance onto the concrete as he stood, trying to rid his mouth of the disgusting taste.

He had been expecting, and hoping, that the Crank would get knocked out from the blow of the hit. But instead, it seemed more enraged, and this is when Thomas realised that this Crank wasn't past the Gone yet. It staggered to it's feet, whirling around to face himself and Minho. There was still humanity in it's eyes.

Minho was trying to drag him away, but he stood there, horrified and mesmerised at the same time as his own eyes made contact with black ones. Though, he regretted standing there for so long when another Crank rounded the corner, obviously attracted by the sound. Minho kept on yanking him, trying to pull him away, but he felt rooted to the spot. It was like his brain was shutting down on him as he stared at the two things that had once been human, and like he had the day he'd seen the Crank get shot, he felt more of his innocence get ripped away from him.

"What the hell are you doing? Move your shuck ass!" Minho screamed in his ear, voice full of desperation. The Cranks seemed triggered by the sounds and began to move, advancing towards them. Finally, he gathered his wits and turned. Minho seemed to sigh in relief, but that relief was soon gone when Thomas noticed movement behind Minho.

He screamed Minho's namecxxxss, but he was too late. The Crank latched onto his friend, grotty teeth bared as he went straight for Minho's neck. Minho wailed, body falling to the ground as the Crank went down with him. Thomas watched in utter horror as Minho crumpled, trying to fight the Crank off all the while.

Thomas finally cracked into gear, grabbing the abandoned gun that had fallen from Minho's hand and readied himself to smack the thing across the head. He was aware of the two still alive, functioning Cranks behind him, but he couldn't hesitate as he swung his arm, before throwing it down with all his might and whacked the Crank across the side of it's head. It wailed, just as the one that had been attacking Thomas did and rolled onto it's side. Thomas's shoulder throbbed all the while, but he ignored it and hurried to pull Minho to his feet.

"Run!" Thomas yelled, ignoring the crushing feeling settling in his heart as his eyes found Minho's neck, covered in blood. There were clear teeth marks, and tears began to well in his own eyes as he pushed Minho to run. The other boy didn't hesitate, taking off and began to bound down the highway, dodging cars and debris and bodies. Thomas did the same, fear clasping every single fibre in his body as they ran, his muscles aching and his shoulder throbbing.

They ran at the same pace for almost an hour, finally reaching the tree line. Thunder rumbled overhead, darkness beginning to settle as flashes of light erupted in the clouds overhead. Wind tore at their clothes, the backpack full of supplies slipping off his shoulders sometime during their mad dash for the trees.

Thomas kept his eyes on Minho's back as they hurried the way they came, Minho noticeably slowing. Finally, after what seemed like days rather than minutes, the truck came into view. Still in the same spot, untouched.

When they reached the vehicle, Minho almost launched himself into the drivers seat, slamming the door closed before Thomas's mind could comprehend what was happening. He then ran for the opposite side, throwing the door open and hauled himself into the truck, slamming the door closed behind him.

There was a moment where the only sounds were their heaving breaths, before a loud clap of thunder made both of them jump. Thomas spared a glance at Minho, who had a hand over his neck as he hurried to start the truck.

"Minho-" Thomas began, but he was cut off by Minho's harsh voice.

"I know." He'd snapped, before starting the car and began to turn around. Thomas slumped in his seat, hand covering his mouth as tears threatened to fall, the true reality of the situation setting in.

Minho had been bitten.

Minho wasn't immune.

He was going to die.

Chapter Text

The ride back to camp was quiet and tense. Thomas kept glancing over at Minho, who was somehow driving with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand pressing against his neck. Guilt filled Thomas's body, knowing it was his fault that Minho had gotten bitten. If he hadn't have hesitated, his friend wasn't going to die.

Minho was going to die.

Regret, shame, horror and loss all swarmed into his mind at once, causing the tears that had been teetering on his eyelids to finally fall over his cheeks, the warm liquid sliding down his face and off of his chin. He turned away from Minho, looking to stare out the window instead as lightening flashed across the sky overhead. He couldn't hear the thunder over the rumble of the engine, but he knew it was there.

It took another hour before light began to appear ahead, the orange glow of fires filling Thomas's eyesight. Tears still ran steadily down his cheeks, his chest constricting with hope as they got closer and closer. Now, he could see people, but he couldn't see their faces. It was too dark and windy, and all Thomas wanted to do was hide from the world.

He was going to get one of his only friends killed.

It was his fault.

He glanced at his face in the reflection of the window, cringing at the drying black substance spread across his face. He looked like he'd just dove head first into a mud pit, some of the disgusting stuff even still on his lips. This made him silently gag as he furiously wiped, trying to rid himself of the Crank's blood. Or vomit, he didn't really know nor cared.

After he gathered himself, the truck was slowing to a stop and they were in camp. Relief flooded Thomas's emotions, but it was soon gone when he saw the look on Minho's face.

"I'm-"

"Shut up, Thomas. It's not your fault."

Before Thomas could redeem himself, Minho was pushing his door open and was stumbling out of the truck. Thomas did the same, almost collapsing when he hit the ground. His legs felt like jelly, he was starving. He looked up, and was immediately met with Newt's figure hobbling over to him. He was limping.

Minho had moved next to him, patting him on the shoulder for a reason he didn't know. Minho should have been punching him in the face, not comforting him.

Thomas pushed the thought away and focused his attention on the limping male called Newt as he staggered over to them, his face splotchy with tears and his eyebrows creased with worry. He staggered over to them, limping rather severely. Thomas had vaguely noticed the boy had a limp, but it had never looked this bad and he had never paid much mind to it. The thought was wiped clean from his head when Newt's arms opened, and he was wrapping one arm around Minho's neck and one around Thomas's.

"What the bloody shucking hell happened?" He almost yelled, his voice full of despair as he spoke. "You were meant to be back shucking hours ago! And where the bloody hell is freaking Alby?"

His use of words would have been comical if they weren't in such horrible a situation.

Newt pulled away, moving to Minho only and raised his hands to the other boy's face, swivelling his head around as if checking for injury. Complete horror washed over the blonde's face when he finally noticed the bleeding bite on Minho's neck, and he went so pale Thomas wondered if he were about to faint on the spot.

The look that had come over Newt's face made guilt rise faster than it ever had before. The waterworks began again as he looked away, eyes soon meeting Brenda's. She was standing a few feat away, Chuck standing next to her and holding her hand. He was staring wide eyed at Newt and Minho, and instantly Thomas felt himself crumbling again. Brenda smiled sadly at him, though she didn't make any move in his direction, her feet staying firmly planted on the ground. Somewhere deep inside him, he was grateful she decided to keep her distance. He didn't know if he could hold himself together.

"What the bloody hell happened out there?" He heard Newt repeat himself, drawing Thomas's attention back to the pair. "How the bloody hell did you manage to get bitten? Where's shucking Alby?"

"WICKED got him. Or the Cranks, I don't know." Minho whispered, and Thomas swore he saw a murderous look pass over Newt's face as Minho spoke. It was gone before he get a good look, that same look of pure heartbreak appearing on his face. The guilt rose again and new tears began to well in his eyes.

Thomas looked away.

"Where's the supplies?" Was the next question, and Thomas suddenly felt he need to run. He squeezed his eyes shut, squeezing his hands together as he awaited the punches, the kicks. He'd let everyone down, he'd gotten Alby kidnapped by WICKED and Minho bitten by a Crank. The worse thing was that he had no idea if Alby had been snatched by WICKED or a mass of Cranks. He went to wipe his face, cringing when the black substance flaked off of his skin and floated to the ground like paper. His shoulder throbbed at the action, pain filling his whole arm. He forced himself to ignore it.

"There was no time." Minho replied, and Thomas didn't have the heart to look at him. "They were dropped and there was no time to go back for them."

Thomas flinched.

"Okay..." Newt whispered, trailing off slightly. "Okay."

There was a few moments of silence between the two boys, which just increased Thomas's despair. His knuckles were beginning to hurt from how hard he'd been squeezing his own hand, his head was beginning to ache from trying to keep his sobs in. He was breaking. He was snapping, his wall was crumbling right before his eyes.

If there was even a wall left.

"Go see Clint and Jeff." Newt suddenly spoke, and he heard a grumble from Minho.

"He needs to, too." Minho replied after a few moments, and Thomas hoped to god that Minho wasn't talking about him. "He got bitten as well."

"Are you serious?" Newt asked, voice sounding absolutely horrified. Thomas didn't look at them, keeping his eyes firmly closed. "Bloody hell. Alright. Go, Minho."

It was very sudden, causing Thomas to open his eyes and spare the two boys a glance. But now, there was one boy, and that boy was staring at him. He tore his eyes away from Newt in search of Minho, only to find him walking in the direction of their section of the camp, hand clamped over his bloody neck. Chuck and Brenda had disappeared, too, and suddenly he felt alone. Even with Newt a few steps away from him, he still felt alone.

"Tommy?" Newt's voice invaded his thoughts, causing him to jump in fright. He didn't look at him. "Come on, we gotta get you to the bloody med jacks. This storm's gonna be a bad one, we need to get under cover and you need to get patched up."

He didn't move.

"Tommy?" A hand was on his shoulder. He winced, and the hand retracted. "Is that where you got bitten? Oh, shuck." He heard Newt ask, but it sounded like Newt was asking himself rather than Thomas. He kept his mouth shut.

He then heard the boy muttering to himself, but he couldn't understand what he was saying due to his heavy British accent, which was seemingly becoming stronger and stronger the more he spoke. Now, he was sounding angry.

Thunder rumbled overhead, the wind beginning to pick up more than ever before. The storm just added to the hysteria rising through his body, rising so fast he couldn't keep it down. Despite everything inside of him trying to force his feelings down, he snapped. He bursted into tears, more than before, covering his face with his hands. He ignored the ache in his shoulder, he ignored the flaking Crank substance on his face. He cried into his hands, hating everyone and hating himself.

If he had moved a few more seconds earlier, Minho wouldn't have been bitten. He wouldn't have caused Minho to receive his death sentence.

"It's my fault!" Thomas found himself saying against his will, his mind running a million miles an hour. It was impossible for him to grasp onto a single thought or emotion, his mind just one big, foggy mess of grief and guilt.

"What's your fault?" He heard Newt say through the underwater feeling in his ears, his whole body shaking as he tried so hard to compose himself. But he couldn't. He was traumatised.

"It's my fault he got bit!" He yelled, and instantly hands were around him.

"No, Tommy. It's not your fault." Newt had said, but Thomas barely registered the words. He had begun to walk, partly because Newt had begun to gently push him forwards. He didn't fight it, letting his exhausted muscles work to move his legs as Newt guided him in the same direction Minho had walked in. He could tell people were watching, staring, judging. "It's not your fault."

Thomas didn't reply. He couldn't reply.

Another hoarse sob left his mouth, tearing at his throat so violently he had trouble filling his lungs with air. He'd choked on his own spit, raspy coughs leaving his mouth as Newt guided him across camp. He saw Gally, staring, eyebrows furrowed downwards. He'd seen Brenda and Chuck, also watching him.

Though his sight of them were cut off when he was ushered into a tent, the wind only lessoning slightly. The fabric used for the tent walls flapped in the wind as Newt coaxed him to sit down, pathetic whimpers leaving his mouth as he let guilt fully take over. He was aware of the other people in the room, one of them coming towards him, two others lying on hammock like beds. His sobs caught in his throat when he saw Minho, sitting up on the other side of the tent with someone tending to his wound. The boy was watching him with an expression Thomas couldn't read, which terrified him so much black dots were beginning to cloud his vision once again.

It had been what, a week and a few days or something? When had begun to feel so... so close to Minho?

He forced the thought away, the feeling becoming mixed in with the rest of his chaotic emotions as he felt Newt sit down beside him, the arm coming back to wrap around his shaking shoulders. He could see the blonde stealing glances at Minho, still sitting across from them and staring. Thomas didn't fail to notice how sad Newt looked. Moments before, he'd been angry, then comforting, and now sad.

Thomas had been the reason Newt's best friend had gotten bitten, and the reason why his other best friend was in the WICKED compound or getting ravaged by Cranks.

He hoped he was still alive. He hoped WICKED had taken them, not the Cranks. No matter how bad they are, it's better than getting eaten alive by insane, undead people.

But when they found out Alby wasn't immune, he'd be thrown out, right?

He could only hope.

He was pulled out the depths of his mind when the boy he'd seen approaching him seconds earlier kneeled down in front of him, fiddling around with something inside a little bag on his hip. Thomas watched him through his blurry eyes, unable to hold in the whimpers as the boy got closer, reaching for his jacket.

"Hey, it's alright, don't be scared." The boy said to him, voice warm and comforting. "I just need to see your wound. We can't have it getting infected."

He stared at the boy for a good few seconds, before shrugging his jacket off his shoulders with a pained grimace. Newt had moved his arm away then, and instantly Thomas was feeling terrified all over again. He pushed it away, sparing a glance at his shoulder. He almost fainted when he saw how much blood was there, how he could see the teeth marks through the hole in his shirt.

He could also see the cut on his underarm from the glass of the car window, when he'd been looking at the berg pass by. He'd completely forgotten about it until that very second, and as if the wound knew he had remembered, it began to sting.

"If you really don't want to, you don't have to, but it would be best for you to take your shirt off. It's easier to clean the wound, and you'd probably want a new shirt anyways." The boy spoke up, and all Thomas could do was stare for a few seconds. He thought through the options, his hazy brain barely able to make decisions on it's own anymore. He sighed, shaky hands moving to the hem of his shirt and began to pull it up.

He almost cried out from the pain in his shoulder, but ignored it and continued to lift the thing over his head with Newt's help. He suddenly felt exposed, looking down at himself. When had he gotten so skinny?

The previous Crank bite was visible, still not having healed properly. The boy moved over to begin poking at Thomas's wound, causing him to wince and hiss over and over again. It continued like this before the boy reached down into his little bag, pulling a bottle of something Thomas didn't recognise.

He watched as the boy also grabbed a napkin looking object, dabbing the substance onto it before raising it to Thomas's shoulder. "This might sting."

The boy was true to his word. Thomas hissed at the fierce sting that tore through his shoulder, his hands fisting the fabric on his pants as the boy continued to dab the stuff on him. Then, a gauze was taped over the bite, and Thomas was relieved he couldn't see the disgusting thing anymore. Blood was still smeared down his arm all the way down to his wrist, but the boy seemed to pay no mind as he went to bandage up the old wound, too. Then the cut on his arm.

Thomas's mental breakdown had ceased, though tears were still looming in the depths of his eyelids as he began to grow tireder than ever. The thunder was loud, now, directly over them. Rain had begun to pour down, the sound overpowering the conversation that had once been going on outside. Thomas wondered how the rain wasn't dripping through the fabric used as the roof and walls, but he didn't have the brain cells left to think too hard about it. He could hear the cracks of lighting accompanying the thunder, and all Thomas wanted to do was sleep his guilt away.

When the boy was finally done, he was instructed to lie down and rest. Newt moved from his spot beside him, and Thomas slowly laid down and stared at the tent's ceiling. After letting everything out so suddenly, he felt emotionless. He allowed his head to roll over, eyes becoming full with the sight of Minho, laying down, asleep. His head was facing Thomas's direction, eyebrows creased downwards even in his sleep. Thomas wondered that maybe, Minho wasn't really asleep.

Thomas couldn't move his eyes away. He couldn't stop staring, staring at the boy who was sentenced to go insane. The boy who was sentenced to die, to die and become apart of the undead.

A Crank.

Thomas had become so close to Minho without even noticing. Thomas only felt mildly horrified at how he felt, how he felt and how similar it was to the way he felt about Teresa. Or how he had felt about Teresa.

Thomas found himself tearing his eyes away from the sleeping teen across from him, only to meet Newt's eyes instead. The boy was sitting next to him, elbows leaning by Thomas's hip as his eyebrows creased with worry, eyes full of loss. They were also full of desperation, fear, sadness. Newt looked absolutely wrecked.

Thomas knew he didn't look, or feel, much better.

"It's not your fault." Newt was saying again, and Thomas wanted nothing more than to smack the boy across the face.

"I hesitated." Thomas mumbled, crushing down his sudden anger. "It is my fault."

Newt sighed. "I know he doesn't blame you for it."

Thomas heart clenched. The feeling that rose inside him shocked him, and he now all he wanted to smack himself across the face instead.

"How could you know?" Thomas found himself asking, turning his annoyance to his aching shoulder instead of Newt or himself.

"I can see it on his bloody face."

Thomas didn't answer.

"What happened to Alby?"

Sadness pooled around Thomas's heart now. No matter how much he'd hated the guy, or how much he'd hated Thomas, he felt horrible. He should have stayed in camp, Alby and Minho would have been fine. He messed everything up, just like he thought he would have.

Maybe he would have been better turning himself in to WICKED.

"After the Crank attacked me..." Thomas trailed, the memory making his shoulder ache on queue. "The whole lot of them were dragging themselves after us. WICKED found us through the Cranks... Alby got struck by a Launcher." He was rather surprised how fast he had changed moods and how composed he suddenly was.

"Launcher?" Newt questioned, eyebrows creasing further in confusion.

"Like a gun. They shoot electric grenades that stun you for a few minutes." Thomas explained, ignoring the memories of Aris getting struck by the guards that surged through his mind all at once. "There was no way we could have helped him. If we tried to touch him, we would have gotten electrocuted too. If not, we would have been shot too."

Newt kept silent for a few seconds, seemingly processing everything Thomas had said. "What's that on your face?"

Thomas cringed at the reminder. "A Crank threw up their blood in my face..."

Newt's nose wrinkled in disgust. He then turned away, leaned down and began grabbing something from the ground. Thomas couldn't see what he was doing, but when he got back up he was holding a rag wet with water. Where the water had come from, Thomas couldn't see.

Without a word, Newt began to wipe Thomas's face, sadness crossing over his features once again. Thomas kept quiet, fingers toying with the pocket on his pants as Newt wiped the Crank substance from his face. Soon, his eyes were closing as Newt began to wipe down his arm, presumably where the dried blood still covered his skin.

After a few minutes of having his eyes firmly closed, slowly, they flickered open again and were met with Newt's sad expression. The boy looked close to tears as he wiped the blood from Thomas's arm, his brown eyes glassy. Thomas almost reeled his arm back in horror from how dead Newt looked, how it looked like he had lost all hope. Thomas couldn't look at him anymore, rolling his head to the side so his eyes could rest on Minho. To his shock, the Asian's eyes were open, staring over at him.

Not long from now, Minho would be showing signs. Or, if he were one of the unfortunate, he'd be insane by the next morning. Complete horror filled Thomas's mind as he stared over at the boy, whose eyes were opening and closing as though he was trying hard to keep himself awake.

Thomas had thought all his tears had been cried out, but boy was he wrong.

At the thoughts of his friend going insane and the expression on Newt's face, he felt the salty water begin to build in his eyelids as emotion threatened to take over his mind once again. He felt that portion of his heart, floating away into nothing. He could feel that part of himself disappearing, dissolving into nothing before his eyes. Everything good in his life was getting yanked away from him faster than ever, that having all started with his parents.

Then Aris, then Teresa, and now Minho. Thomas had a lingering thought that when Minho completely lost it, Newt would too.

The tears leaked down his cheeks as he watched Minho's eyes close. They didn't open again.

Thomas watched his face visibly relaxed as the boy fell into sleep, and the void in his heart felt less empty when he saw that expression. At least he looked peaceful.

He knew that when he woke up the next day, everything could change. Everything would change.

"He doesn't blame you, Tommy. I don't blame you." Newt suddenly spoke, breaking Thomas's train of thought. He found himself tearing his eyes away from Minho once again to face Newt, who no longer had that dead expression on his face. But he still looked as though he were already grieving, grieving for the friend he knew he was going to lose. "I know I wasn't there, but I still don't blame you. Don't blame yourself."

Thomas only just managed to quirk his lips upwards in a tiny, tiny smile as Newt threw the rag onto the floor, where he supposed the water source was. Newt didn't smile back, though his eyes sparked with slight gratitude. His hand rested on Thomas's wrist, squeezing before letting go.

"Get some sleep, you definitely need it." Newt ordered, standing as he spoke.

"I'm sorry." Thomas found himself whispering, and he didn't miss the roll of Newt's eyes.

"It's not your buggin' fault. Have a nap."

And then he was gone, and Thomas was falling into the dark nothingness called sleep.

Chapter Text

He'd woken up that morning in a blur, his brain a mass of fog as life filled his body. The constant flapping of the tent walls had stopped completely, as had the consistent sounds of the rain. His shoulder ached, his was starving, and overall terrified. Of course, he was terrified. There was always something in his life to be afraid of.

He didn't want to look at Minho. He didn't want to see him, spiralling into madness just a few feat away from him. He didn't want to feel even more guilty for what he had caused.

But he went against his thoughts, swinging his legs over the hammock and glanced at where Minho had been the previous night. He was still there, in the same position, asleep. Though he was now shirtless, and Thomas found himself staring at the white, spider webbed like scars on the boy's back. What had happened to him?

They were paler than his tan skin, scabby, and coating his whole back until the waistband of his pants. He found himself looking away, pushing himself off of the hammock and got to his feet. He glanced around the rest of the room, noting that the two people he'd seen laying in their own hammocks were gone, and there was no trace of them having ever been there. The dark boy that had tended to his wounds was also gone, no one but himself and Minho left inside the silent tent. There was chatter outside, the occasional groans, but inside the tent itself it was completely silent.

His eyes found Minho again, but this time, his eyes were open and staring. He'd stumbled from the realisation, Minho's dark eyes staring back at him with nothing but fatigue, as if he had just woken up seconds ago. Minho didn't move a muscle, his eyes trained on Thomas as he fidgeted. Finally, after a far too long stretch of silence, he began to talk.

"Whatcha staring at, Tomboy?" He'd mumbled, amusement filling his tired eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not swinging on the edge of insanity just yet."

Thomas's heart clenched so painfully his hand had moved to his chest and began to rub in that very spot. To his embarrassment, it was just then he realised he himself was still shirtless. He crossed his arms, ignoring the flaring pain in his shoulder as he discreetly tried to cover his exposed chest, ignoring the humorous expression on Minho's face. He heard the crinkle of the gauze and bandages on his shoulder as he did so, along with the ones on his forearm. He hated the sound, he hated the way it felt. He honestly thought that maybe he'd feel better without the medical supplies covering his body.

"How do you feel, then?" He found himself asking, breaking eye contact with Minho and let his eyes wander the tent once again. As soon as he'd seen his jacket, he moved for it, bringing the thing around his shoulders and zipping it up from his stomach to his chest. He ignored how uncomfortable it felt, and how much blood was truly still in the material, bringing his eyes back to Minho instead.

"Feeling swell." Was his reply, and Thomas wanted to laugh. He really did. "It's all sunshine and rainbows inside this shuck head of mine."

Thomas shoved a hand into his pocket, his tongue moving over his dry and chapped lips. "What happened to your back?"

The only thing that moved was his eyebrows. Minho studied him for a good few seconds before sighing, though not out of anger. Out of humour, for Christ's sake. How could he be laughing? How could he be laughing when he was literally lying on his deathbed.

Deathbed. Gee, Thomas was a horrible person.

"Was struck by lightening, can you believe it?" Minho snapped him out of his sudden depression, and more shock found it's way into Thomas's body. "Don't worry, shank, this isn't the first time I've almost died."

"Almost?" Thomas regretted it as soon as he had said it. Immediately, he wanted to be out of that tent and looking for Newt. Or Brenda, maybe even Chuck. Anyone that wasn't Minho. The word had sounded so shallow he wanted to dig himself a hole and never see daylight again. He had been expecting Minho's expression to change into anger, or even hurt, but it stayed all the same. Humorous.

"Such a lack of compassion, reminds me of myself." Minho laughed. He laughed. "Keep doing you, Tomboy, gets you far in life."

Was the virus really not taking over Minho's mind? He was talking riddles, he was laughing at things that weren't funny, like his own impending doom. Thomas had no idea what to do or say, sadness pulling at his heartstrings as he stared at his friend. Concern was all over him, along with the guilt, and his mind had cleared. It was running a million miles an hour as he tried t think up a reply, something that could redeem himself from such a shallow comment.

"I feel fine, shuckface." Minho snapped him out of his thoughts yet again, all humour having left his face at once. "I'm only playin' with ya. I mean, if I was turning into a loony right this second, I'd already be trying to eat your flesh."

Thomas cringed. He hated the thought. "Don't."

"Why don't you go find Newt?" Minho suddenly asked, as if he wanted Thomas to leave. Any trace of humour had left the boy's expression, and Thomas suddenly felt overwhelmed. He shrunk back in the direction of the exit, the hand the wasn't in his pocket clenching tight as he stared at Minho. "You don't want to see me spiralling into insanity, do you? I don't want you to see that. So run along Tommyboy."

"But-"

"Just go, Thomas."

It had happened so suddenly, Thomas wanted to burst into tears yet again. Was Minho really going crazy? Was he really going to turn into one of them? Into a Crank?

He turned. He turned away from his friend, and walked straight out of the tent. He didn't want to see him go insane, Minho had been right about that. He wiped his eyes as tears threatened to fall, the harsh sunlight burning his eyes as he did so. He ignored it all, looking up in search of Newt. It didn't take him long, the blonde was already walking towards him.

He didn't even get to say goodbye.

When Thomas had gotten so attached, he couldn't recall. After Teresa, he knew he would accept literally anyone if they were nice enough to him. He knew if the same had happened to Newt, he would have felt everything he was feeling now. Regret, shock, anger at himself for fucking hesitating. For watching the Cranks like they were animals inside of a zoo instead of getting away as fast as he could before Minho could get bitten. But of course, his brain was too slow, and he'd gotten one of his only friend's killed.

"Tommy? What's-"

Hands had come to his shoulders, they had been comforting. But Thomas didn't want it. With the aggression he didn't know he had, he threw Newt's hands away and pushed him out of the way. He heard the startled sound from Newt, he heard the shout of alarm from Gally somewhere across the camp. He ignored it all, letting his emotions go haywire as he stormed past everyone including Brenda and Chuck, who were both watching him with gaping mouths and wide eyes.

Of course, he was crying again. Did he ever stop fucking crying?

His shoulder was throbbing, his side was aching, his forearm was stinging. But he didn't care. He crossed the last batch of tents before he was out in the open, in the dirt and rocks as he got as far as his already tired legs would carry him. The excessive running for his life the day before had tired his whole body out, and his mind, and all he wanted to do was fall backwards off of a cliff. He felt slightly horrified at himself when he realised how much he wanted to, how much he wanted to let his body fall into the ocean below.

Thank god there wasn't an ocean too close by with a cliff he could use. Would he really do it?

He ended up sitting on a rock, far away from camp, just crying. Like he always did. He cried.

He was starving, he hadn't eaten for a whole day. He was starving, but he didn't want to face those people again and expect them to hand him food like they were best friends. He didn't want to face Newt after blowing up right in his face when the boy only had good intentions. Newt hadn't voiced those good intentions, but Thomas knew. Thomas knew he was only trying to help. No wonder Teresa left him behind.

Anger and heartache flared up at the thought of her. It was almost how he was feeling about Minho at that very moment. Though, of course, the anger was directed at himself and not Minho, unlike Teresa. It was his fault everything had happened. The only thing that left Thomas wondering, was when had he become so dependant on Minho? When had he begun to like him a lot more than he was actually thinking? When had he begun to think of him like he thought of Teresa?

He hadn't even noticed. Not until he had gotten bitten.

Maybe it was just the situation he was forced under. Maybe it was the lack of Teresa, and his heart was searching for a replacement. Maybe he was trying to find something in Minho he'd seen in Teresa.

But he was losing whatever feelings he had left for Teresa. Though the heartache would always be there.

But there was another thought that was dancing on the edge of his mind, wanting to come forward and be the only thought inside his head. The thought that Minho was a boy, and Thomas had never thought of a boy like that before. In school, it had always been girls. In WICKED, it had only been Teresa. He had never thought of Aris like that, and he knew he never would.

So why was Minho so different, then?

It all sounded like a cliché zombie-love story movie to him.

"Tommy." His name being called rocketed him out of his deep thoughts and tears as his head whipped in the direction of Newt, who was standing a fair way back with two plates of food in his hands. Thomas felt guilty just from looking at the blonde, and he had to turn away from the brunt of the feeling building up within his body.

It turns out, Thomas had been sitting there for a lot longer than he had originally thought.

Thomas could hear the gravel crunching under Newt's feet as he got closer, and soon the other boy was sitting next to him on the rock, offering him the plate of food. Thomas hesitated, slowly glancing at Newt in search of hate. There was nothing on the boy's face that resembled the emotion, and all Thomas could find was sadness and that same, lost expression.

"You must be bloody starving." Newt spoke again, though the sentence that was meant to held humour held nothing of the sort. His tone was flat, like he'd given up on everything. "Eat up."

Thomas took the place slowly, ignoring how badly the thing shook because of his trembling hands. He set the plate on his knees, slowly grabbing one of the really good looking potatoes and took a bite. He almost melted on the spot.

He ate all his food in the same way, treasuring every bite as though he hadn't eaten in months rather than just twenty-four hours. He and Newt ate in silence, the sun beating down on him like never before. Surely, he would be becoming more sunburnt on the face than he had ever been before.

A memory of his mother came surging into his head so suddenly he'd almost choked on his food, a memory of when she'd insisted he'd put sunscreen on before going to the beach. He'd been refusing, but when she explained the concept of skin cancer to him, he never complained again. He was only seven years old, but somehow, he'd found the brain cells in his young mind to hold such information. He'd never forgotten that moment.

Soon, he was finished, the empty plate resting on his thighs. He stared down at it, almost wishing he had more, but he knew not to be greedy. Then, when Newt let out a puff of air beside him, he realised there was an apology due.

"I'm.." Thomas whispered, cringing at his cracking voice. The tears had dried up, and all he was left with was damp cheeks and a ruined voice. "I'm sorry about.. you know. Before."

"Don't stress about it, mate." A hand rested on his left shoulder. "We all have those moments. Don't worry, Tommy, I understand. I feel the same."

Thomas felt a spark of curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"About Min. Y'know, being infected and all that." Thomas's heart fell into his shoes. "I've known that shank for years, we went to school together. Saved me from the unimaginable, he bloody did."

"I'm so sorry." Thomas felt himself choking again, and he fought desperately to push it down. He'd been crying too much to break down again. Too much.

"Stop apologising, Tommy. It's not your fault." To Thomas's utter horror, Newt sounded as though he too was choking up. "Minho's a strong shank. Always has been. I don't know what I'll..." Newt took a deep breath. "...what I'll do without him. But we'll have to push through, right, Tommy? Together?"

Thomas nodded, despite the true emptiness to Newt's small speech. Minho had saved him from that WICKED guard, and had been there in a way for him ever since.

Then a thought struck him. "What if he's immune? Like me?"

Newt was silent for a few seconds. "Dunno. It's pretty rare, half of this country alone is dead or undead. You're the only Munie I've met. Only other one I know of is that girl."

Teresa.

"Teresa." He found himself whispering her name as if it were a curse and a blessing all at the same time. He felt so conflicted about her he even confused himself, he didn't know at times whether he hated or still held respect for her. Love wasn't quite the word for her anymore.

"That her name?" Newt asked him, a sudden warmness to his voice making Thomas crane his neck to look at the blonde. His heart fell deeper into his shoes when he saw the tear tracks on his face, the water having run into one of the cuts on his face and stayed there, lodged inside of the small dip in his skin. "What happened to her?"

Thomas hadn't been able to tell anyone about her since she'd left him. He suddenly wished Aris were here.

He found himself wondering if Aris and Teresa had seen each other again. If they were friends.

"We escaped WICKED, like you already know.." Thomas trailed, trying to find the words to explain what Teresa had done. "Not long ago.. I can't even remember how long.." He trailed again, sighing. Now it sounded like he was talking riddles. "God."

"You don't have to if you don't want to. None of me bloody business anyways." Newt cut in, but Thomas shook his head. He had to get it off his chest. It was also feeding him a distraction from Minho, and what he was destined to go through hours from now. What was going to happen to him.

"She left me for WICKED. She.. she just left me a note. Never saw her again." Thomas whispered, and he wasn't really sure if talking about it would lift or give a curse. But he kept going. "I know she's there for real now, they updated the fucking posters. Now it's just me they're looking for."

"Sounds shucked." Newt whispered back, as though everything was processing through his head. "That girl's as good as nothing, I suppose?"

"I reckon." Thomas whispered, bending down to place his plate on the ground before he rested his elbows on his knees with a hand over his mouth. "But I still miss her."

"Yeah..." Newt trailed, now seeming unsure on what to say to him. Thomas just sighed, feeling relieved from the sudden distraction from Minho. But now that it was over, it was all becoming to come flooding back to him in a wave of grief and guilt. "You really gotta stop tearing yourself up about Min. He doesn't blame you, I don't, I still don't know why my bloody opinion even matters, but stop it. He's pretty shucking grateful you two got out of there, that's what I know."

"How do you know?" Thomas asked, trying to ignore the feeling looming inside of him. He was also slightly curious on how all of these new people used the word shuck instead of fuck, but he forced that thought away for another time.

"Spoke to him a bit after you passed out, said he wouldn't change anything that happened yesterday. I know he wants you to stop torturing yourself about it." Newt went on as if he were reciting an essay. "He's not showing signs just yet. There's a slim chance the fella could be immune, and I'm bloody hoping he is. As I said, he's a strong shank, and I know if he's not immune he'll fight until the end of his days."

Thomas hated everything about what Newt was saying, but he kept quiet and continued to listen.

"He appreciates you, Tommy, I can tell. He doesn't blame you, I don't know how many times I'll have to say it before it gets through your shuck head. He probably told you this morning that he doesn't want you to see him going... crazy?"

Newt was choking again as if every word was being forced around some sort of blockage, like he was physically forcing the words to come out of his mouth. Thomas wanted to tell him to stop, he felt the overwhelming need to want to comfort Newt, but he wanted to hear what the boy had to say at the same time. Thomas nodded shakily. Newt inhaled a sharp, sudden breath.

"He means it, he doesn't want you to see him lose himself. Or me." Newt sighed, and when Thomas turned his head to look at the boy, there were tears sliding down his cheeks once again. "He's strong, and he knows it. He doesn't want anyone to see him so vulnerable. I'll still be seeing the buggin' shank until the time comes where that would be no longer possible. I've known the guy for eleven of the seventeen years of my life and I'm not going to stop just because he tells me to."

Newt was more ranting now, and Thomas knew all of this must have been resting on Newt's chest for a while. Eleven years. Newt had known Minho for eleven years, and Thomas had known him for just over a week or so. Newt had every right to be angry at him, or to feel completely wrecked. Thomas had no right.

"I know you're thinking just because I've known him longer means that I have more right than you do." Newt had quite literally plucked the thoughts from Thomas's head, almost as if they were handpicked. "Don't think that for a second because you're just as important."

And then Newt was crying, and Thomas found himself hesitantly moving an arm around his shoulders. It was almost like a mirror image of the night before, when Thomas was inside the tent. He didn't know what to say or do, so instead of talking he rested his head on Newt's shoulder and let his own tears fall. Thomas could feel he and Newt's bond getting stronger and stronger by the second, and he knew for a fact that after this, they would be closer. Definitely.

And that's how they stayed, crying together, two broken souls trying to mend without the third.

Chapter Text

Four days.

It's been four days, and Thomas has heard nothing. No screams, no gargling, no gunshots. Well, there had been gunshots, but not from the tent Minho was inside of. A total of six Cranks had been found and killed within those four days, their bodies moved to who knows where immediately. Nothing had ever terrified Thomas so much. His only encouragement was that he'd seen every Crank get shot, and their had been no extras. Minho was still, somewhat, alive behind those thin tent walls.

Thomas had come straight back to camp after his chat with Newt. He'd gone to sit next to Brenda, letting her hold his hand in comfort. Newt went to do his own thing, which consisted of helping Gally and Frypan with something Thomas couldn't be bothered to recognise. He was exhausted, he'd exhausted himself from crying so much and running so much, and he wanted to badly to crash. But he couldn't, because Brenda and Chuck needed him.

He stuck by Brenda and Chuck's side for the rest of that day, though he kept an eye on Newt at the same time. Thomas's heart almost fell from his shoes and into the earth when he saw the blonde, along with Gally, slip into the tent Thomas had just figured out was the medical tent.

They didn't look to happy when they left that same tent around half an hour later.

That night, Thomas was alone. He was alone inside his and Minho's shared tent, finding himself staring at the empty space across from him. This had risen the guilt inside of him, and he found himself crying into his backpack as if it were a pillow until he fell asleep. The scene was so eerily similar to what he had used to do before the end of the world happened, when kids at school would give him a hard time.

Sadly, he even missed those old fucks. He even hoped for the bullies to come back, for school to come back, for his normal life to return.

The next day, the second day, he wasn't feeling too much better. He'd awoken to screaming, the sounds of running people erupting from the other side of the tent walls. He'd sat up in such a hurry his back cracked sickeningly, rubbing his sleepy eyes in confusion as he tried to grasp at the situation. Immediately, his mind went to Minho as a full-blown, past the gone Crank running around and biting people.

Never, never did he want to have that thought ever again.

When he'd gone outside to investigate, he realised that there was in fact a Crank running, or stumbling more like it, around camp. Why it took so long for the thing to get shot, he didn't know, but as soon as his eyes found the infected person, they were on the ground and dead. He'd flinched away, and headed away from the scene and deeper into their section of the camp. No deaths had happened in their section just yet, and Thomas was praying that none ever would.

He'd gone to sit next to Newt, who had been staring into the fire again with that same, empty look. He hated seeing Newt like that, and he desperately wanted to help in some way. But he couldn't. He had wanted to barge into the medical tent and see how Minho was doing that day, but he couldn't. He couldn't comfort Newt, and he couldn't comfort Minho either. The blonde had ended up leaving him alone on the log, muttering something about supplies before disappearing into one of the tents. Thomas had felt deflated at that moment, knowing that Newt's sadness was from Minho's unknown condition.

That day had consisted of sitting around doing nothing, talking with Chuck, wondering about Minho and watching Newt snap at everybody as if they'd punched him in the face repeatedly. Newt seemed to be getting angrier and angrier by the second, and it was something Thomas hated to watch. It was his fault Newt was so sad and angry.

As the daylight drained into darkness and the orange glow from fires became their only source of light, Thomas found himself in the same spot on that same log with Chuck talking in his ear. He could tell the kid was missing Minho, too, but didn't want to show it. He was trying to be strong.

Four Cranks had been killed that day.

He'd gone to sleep that night yet again thinking of Minho, though there was no tears this time. Just an empty feeling settled in his stomach, like a stone that couldn't be moved despite how hard he would try. As the chattering from the people disappeared as everyone fell into their own slumbers, he stayed awake and stared up at the roof. He could hear the tangled screams of Cranks far, far in the distance, and he was almost expecting to hear Minho among them.

But soon, he too fell asleep with the rest of the camp.

On the third day, he'd slept in. He woke up alone and sweating, his wounds stinging as he stared up at the fabric roof, the harsh sunlight begging to burn through. He didn't know how long he was laying there, thinking, until Newt peered in and asked if he was alright.

Thomas had gotten up after that, righting his clothes and grabbing food before he was off helping Newt fix some unfortunate person's destroyed tent. Somehow, the pole, or stick, that had been holding the thing up had snapped and the whole tent had caved in. It provided a distraction, he was grateful for that, but as soon as he stopped working all the depressing thoughts came flooding back at once.

Sometime during the day, he found himself asking Newt a risky question. He definitely didn't want to be on the receiving end of Newt's wrath.

"Have you seen him today?" He'd asked as the two sat down, plates in hand as the sun went down. Thomas knew from the way Newt's shoulders tensed that it wasn't a good thing to ask, but his worries were ceased when Newt began to speak in a strangely calm voice.

"No. Haven't seen him since Wednesday." Days. Days had names, didn't they? Thomas had lost track on what day it was a long, long time ago. It had taken him a while to figure out which day that actually was, but Newt had soon explained. He hadn't seen Minho since the day the two of them had cried their hearts out on that rock.

"Have any idea how he's doing?" Thomas pressed, hoping Newt had at least some information.

"No clue. Only the med jacks know. And no, they won't tell you. I told them not to. Told the buggers not to tell me, either." Newt snapped, cutting Thomas off before more words could even leave his mouth. "I'm going to check on him tomorrow. It's too bloody quiet."

Thomas had felt empty when Newt had said that. Four days. Four days, Minho would surely be gone. Maybe he was one of the unfortunate who died from the actual disease because their bodies and brains weren't strong enough to host the virus. Maybe he'd already been killed.

Would the med jacks really hide that from them, though?

As the fourth day finally rolled around, he found himself sitting next to Brenda in his spot on the log, leg bouncing up and down anxiously as he watched his blonde friend near the medical tent. His limp was evident as he made his way over, his hands clenching and unclenching as he got closer. Newt was nervous, Thomas could tell. He, on the other hand, was completely horrified.

What if he was dead? What if he was going crazy and bites Newt? Another random Crank had been killed that day, creating the total of six. The numbers of infected people were getting bigger and bigger, and Thomas began to feel more and more scared.

The horrifying thing was, is that he hadn't seen bites on most of them. Even the people who were clearly sick, didn't have any bites that were visible. Unless they were under clothing, there was no bite. Usually, people were bitten on the neck, hand, or legs, and Thomas himself had been the unlucky one to get nabbed on the side of his stomach. He had no idea how they could have gotten bitten underneath their clothing from a Crank within camp, everyone would have seen it. No one ever seemed to leave, which escalated the terror swirling inside his heart.

Thomas didn't want to think about what might be happening right in front of him.

He swallowed the thoughts down when Newt disappeared into the tent. Brenda set a reassuring hand on his knee as he stared at the flaps for doors, waiting for his friend to emerge from the assumed hell inside the medical tent. Brenda knew what was going on, she knew what Thomas was stressing so much about.

"I haven't heard a thing from that tent." Brenda whispered to him, a small edge of hope in her voice. "The med jacks have been sending the sick to other sections, telling them to ask for help there. But I've heard nothing. No infected screams, no gunshots."

"People are getting sicker." He'd whispered, not taking his eyes off of the medical tent. "The world's dying way faster. I'm scared the virus is-."

"Yeah." Brenda cut him off as though he knew what he was going to say, or that she didn't wan to hear it.. "I think Minho's immune."

Thomas's eyes did snap away from the tent doors at her statement. "You what?"

She shrugged. Her eyes held hope. "I think the idiot's immune. I've known him for a little while, he's strong. No one's heard anything from him, I think he's immune. Like you, Thomas."

"Maybe he's dead." Thomas deadpanned, feeling the heartache deep within his chest.

"Do you always go to the worst possibility?" Brenda had almost snapped at him. "I know he isn't dead. Newt would have been notified, and he would have told you. Either the virus is really goddamn slow, or he's immune. Something's up."

Thomas knew he should be looking at the tent, waiting for Newt to appear and reveal Minho's state, but he couldn't tear his gaze from Brenda. He was shocked at her lack of compassion, as if she were so sure that Minho was alive and well, immune. How could she be so sure about something so rare?

The chances were slim. So slim, it was slimmer than his pinkie finger. He had hope, of course he did, but it was so slim. He hated himself for being immune, he hated Teresa for being immune. If the world wasn't already so divided before the apocalypse, it was now. The Munies verses the Cranks. Though it was unspoken, it was there. The whole human race was considered Cranks, even if they didn't have the virus. Munies verses the Cranks.

Thomas didn't know where that thought train had come from, but he pushed it away as soon as it came. Minho. Minho is what he needed to be worrying about.

"I can see the gears working in your head." Brenda whispered, nudging him slightly. "Have some hope, Tom, he could be alright. Minho could be alright."

Thomas ignored the nickname and concentrated on her last sentence. He could be alright.

But it seemed too good to be true. She sounded too confident.

He stared at her, trying to figure her out, but before he could speak up again, his name was being called.

"Hey, Tommy!" Newt. Thomas shot up so fast he almost fell headfirst into the fire, eyes snapping to where Newt was bounding over to him, limp and everything. Thomas was shocked to see such a big smile on the blonde's face, along with the tears streaming down his cheeks. He was smiling so hard it looked like it hurt, and instantly Thomas fell hopeful. Newt would not be looking like this if Minho was dead.

Newt had crashed into him, as if he were going in for a hug, but before Thomas could even utter a word or hug back Newt was pulling away and was pulling him in the direction of the medical tent. He glanced back at Brenda, who was smiling confidently and happily at him. He looked away as his heart began to pound heavily inside his chest, Newt dragging him closer and closer. Soon, he was standing directly in front of the entry way, his heart moving so fast it felt like it was going to leap out of his chest and sky rocket all the way to the city. He spared a glance at Newt, who was still grinning ear to ear as he beckoned hurriedly for Thomas to go through.

He hesitated, before pulling the flaps aside and stood into the medical tent. He first saw the dark skinned boy who had aided him, who looked shocked but happy. He walked past Thomas, who had stopped in the doorway, patting him on the shoulder. He ignored the ache from his wound as he watched the boy walk past, and soon he was out of sight behind the tent's flaps. He brushed off the action, forcing himself not to get his hopes up as he rubbed his wounded shoulder.

He found himself stepping further into the tent, eyes scanning the area. He didn't want to look.

But he did.

His eyes had never gone so wide in his entire life. There he was, sitting in the same hammock, completely void of those black webs and black blood, staring at him with fully coloured eyes. They weren't swimming with insanity as he had been expecting, and instead they were swimming with happiness and somewhat excitement, along with the slightest hint of humour. There, sitting in front of him with a carefree smile on his face, was Minho.

Thomas was left gaping for a good few seconds, staring at his friend who just smiled back as though nothing in the world was wrong.

"Newt looked exactly the same. Jeff too." His voice. Normal. Completely normal, not gargled or out of place. Normal.

"What? How.. how?" Thomas spluttered, stepping closer without thinking too hard about it.

"Dunno. Thought I was going shucking insane for a while, but then I realised I still had complete control. I feel fine. There's none of those black veins spread all over me. I look, and feel, fine." Minho spoke without a care in the world. "Med jacks reckon I'm immune. They're convinced I was so terrified by the idea of going insane I convinced myself I was. Shucking idiot, I am."

Thomas couldn't speak. Immune. The word rooted itself in his head like the virus, circulating and worming around itself as he tried to grasp what he was seeing. It had been four days. Usually, in four days, Minho would have been apart of the undead and dragging himself around eating people. Or, with a bullet between his eyes, since that's how the camp seemed to tackle things like that. Instead, he was sitting there, looking completely virus free as he stared at Thomas with happy, and very alive, eyes.

"Immune." Thomas repeated, not breaking eye contact with Minho for one second. "Immune."

"Yes shank, they think I'm immune." Then it hit him. Thomas had taken almost the same amount of time to figure out that he wasn't going insane. That he was immune, the people WICKED had always spoken about. Never had they themselves called him that, hence to why he never knew until he'd gotten bitten. He had thought he was like everyone else, vulnerable to the bite from a Crank. The WICKED workers had always talked about Immunes as though they didn't exist, as if they were just a myth.

"You're immune." Thomas repeated yet again, feeling his eyes welling with yet, more tears.

"Guess so. No need to torture yourself anymore, huh?" Minho smiled. "You shouldn't have been doing that in the first place, you stupid shank. It wasn't your shucking fault my dumbass got bitten. Shouldn't have turned my back on them, hm?"

"You're.. immune." Thomas couldn't say anything else, feeling everything Minho was saying go through one ear and out the other. Immune seemed to be the only word his mind could process at that very moment, nothing else. Minho nodded, his smile getting if not bigger. He had dimples.

Before he could think, Thomas was launching himself across the room and throwing his arms around his friend. The other boy had let out some strangled, shocked noise, but it was drowned out by Thomas's arms slamming against the bare skin of his back. Minho was still shirtless, but Thomas paid no mind to it as he buried his face in his Minho's shoulder, emotion overtaking everything inside his mind as he hugged tighter than he'd ever hugged someone before.

He felt Minho's arms snake around his waist and squeeze, his legs moving so Thomas was standing between them. He paid no attention to the position as he moved impossibly closer to Minho, never wanting to let go. He still didn't know when or why he got so close to Minho, but he didn't pay the thought any more than a second of time as tears toppled over his eyelids, streaking down his cheeks at a rapid pace.

"Gees, Tomboy, didn't know you cared this much about a poor shank like me." Minho was saying, but it just went through one ear and out the other once again as Thomas pulled his head back from Minho's shoulder, only pulling back so far so he could see the other boy's face. They were so close, their noses were almost touching, and all Thomas could do was stare.

Minho was staring back at him, eyes wide and teary. The longer Thomas looked, the closer those tears got to falling over Minho's eyelids and down his cheeks. It didn't take long before the water began to fall, sliding over the countless cuts and scraps covering his tan skin.

Before Thomas could gather his wits, to stop himself from doing something stupid, he did something stupid.

He didn't think anything through. His brain ran a million miles an hour, unable to catch on a single thought as he felt himself surging forwards, his eyes closing on their own accord as he moved. Minho's face faded from view when his eyelids had slid shut, the tears bursting through despite them being closed. He hadn't thought twice on what he was doing when he had moved, and before his mind could process it, his lips were slamming against Minho's.

His mind was free of everything for those first few seconds, before everything came crashing down in a heap and he was pulling away in shock at what he'd done. He tried to move away, but Minho's arms that were still around his waist tightened and kept him in place. His eyes snapped open, soon meeting Minho's still teary ones. Thomas assumed he looked the same. He could feel the tears midway down his cheeks, he could see the ones still sliding down Minho's.

Before he could process what was going on, to apologise for his absurd action, Minho was moving forwards this time.

When their lips connected for the second time, it was a lot less sudden than the first. Thomas let his eyes fall shut as he melted into the kiss, driving off his pure deprivation of any intimate contact with a person in, well, forever. He drove off this and his true, evolved happiness at knowing Minho was going to be okay.

His arms tightened around Minho's neck, their lips moving in sync. Thomas had only ever kissed one person before, and that, of course, was Teresa. But it hadn't been like this. It had been awkward, rushed, and completely out of the blue. Next thing he knew, Teresa was gone and scurrying back to WICKED like a dog running with it's tail between it's legs. He pushed the thoughts of Teresa away as he focused on Minho and his lips, that singular word still moving through his mind on repeat.

Immune.

He found himself pulling away in need of air, feeling his cheeks flush as he let his eyes fall open slowly. To Thomas's shock, he was still crying, the tears steadily running down his cheeks as he stared at Minho, who looked rather shocked but happy. Happier than he had been beforehand.

"Who knew you knew how to kiss, Tomboy." Minho smirked, and Thomas found his cheeks and the rest of his body heating up with embarrassment. "Not so innocent, are ya, shank?"

Thomas spluttered, not being able to form coherent sentences. "I- I um-"

"I was joking, calm down." Minho laughed. "Who knew I needed to get bitten by a loony bin to get little old Tommyboy to kiss me?"

Thomas closed his eyes at the thought of the Crank, the image of it biting Minho surging into his head at such incredible speed he found himself falling more against Minho. His head found it's place in his shoulder once again, new tears welling as he squeezed. Minho sighed into his neck, hand's moving to rub Thomas's back as though he were trying to comfort him. Thomas felt himself relax into the touch, though the overwhelming feeling of guilt was still there.

"C'mon slinthead, don't cry, I was just joking. I'm fine. I'm not dead." Minho was choking up as if he too were really coming to terms with what could have happened. "I'm not gonna turn into one of those shucking crackheads, I'm fine. I'm immune. I think. I hope." He was blubbering now, as if he was running off anything that came into his head.

"I'm sorry." Thomas found himself sobbing, again.

"Shut up, Thomas, it's not your fault. Stop it." Minho snapped, though their was no venom in his words. Just sadness and tears.

"I'm glad you're alright." He forced out, finally composing himself enough to pull back to look at Minho yet again. The other boy was crying too, but not nearly as bad as Thomas was. At least he could compose himself well.

"Me too." They laughed. Thomas was horrified at the sound that had come out of his mouth. He hadn't laughed for so long, the sound was completely foreign. Despite the tears, sad or happy tears he didn't even know, he let himself laugh.

And then they were hugging again. He was still wedged between Minho's legs, but the compromising position didn't even cross over his mind as he let himself be happy for just once. Minho wasn't going to die. He was going to be okay.

He didn't know how long they stayed there, hugging, crying, laughing, the whole lot. Minho's hands were still slowly moving up his back, comforting him, making him feel relaxed for the first time in months. Years. Finally, he was at ease. Maybe it wouldn't stay like that forever, but he had to keep himself in the moment while it was still there.

After who knows how long, Thomas found himself pulling away from Minho's shoulder for the third time. He stared at Minho, trying to read his expression, but the boy was hiding something. Thomas looked into his eyes, trying to find what he was hiding, but Minho was doing a good job. He had no idea what might be going through the other boy's head.

He didn't have time to ask before a new voice was yelling from behind them, and this is when sound finally flooded back into Thomas's ears. His head whipped around, eyes breaking away from Minho's as he looked in the direction of the voice, not catching what they had said. His eyes widened when they met Newt, but the other boy showed no surprise nor distaste. Though, he looked concerned. Really concerned. Any sign of happiness had disappeared from his face, and now he just looked worried all over again. And of course, there was a hint of anger.

Newt was getting angrier and snappier as the days, and minutes, passed.

"I think you might wanna see this, Tommy." Newt said, before he turned away and left the tent. Thomas stared at the empty space for a while, thinking, before he finally turned back to Minho. He wiped his face, trying to get the water off of his cheeks as he took his arms away from Minho's neck. Minho was watching him, curiosity in his eyes as he did so.

Thomas didn't have to say anything. Minho's arms left their place around his waist, the comforting touch gone and making Thomas feel empty all over again. He went to step away, but before he could, Minho was grabbing his hand and pulling him back. He almost choked when he felt lips pressed firmly against his cheek, feeling his cheeks begin to heat up as Minho pulled away.

Thomas smiled slightly, unsure really how to react. There was no time to react, anyways, since Minho was gesturing for him to go, letting go of his hand. His eyes were warm, and that's all Thomas needed to see.

He backed away, before turning around and headed towards the exit of the medical tent. He glanced back to see Minho standing now, looking around on the ground for something. Thomas turned away and pushed the flaps of the tent aside before his eyes found Newt, who was standing and staring at something Thomas could see. Whatever Newt was looking at, along with half of the camp, was being blocked by another tent.

It was as if Newt had sensed Thomas's arrival. Brown eyes met his, and already the British boy was talking.

"Come over here. You need to see this." His tone was worried.

Slowly, Thomas shoved his hands into his pockets and made his way over to where Newt was standing. Brenda, Chuck and Gally were nearby, all looking at him. Gally with hatred, Brenda with concern mirroring Newt's, and Chuck with deadpan confusion. He turned away from the three people and neared Newt, looking down at the ground. Something was telling him he wasn't going to like what he was about to see. Just from Newt's tone and facial expression he could tell.

He reached the blonde soon enough, mentally preparing himself.

He couldn't have prepared himself for who he saw standing in front of him.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Chapter Text

Nothing. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

His mouth fell agape as he stared at them, the two people, who were in turn staring right back at him. One mirroring his expression, one looking over the moon. Emotion from finding out Minho's immunity and this all just came crashing down on him as he stared at them, more and more tears welling in his eyes as his brain tried to figure out what the hell his eyes were seeing.

There he was. Standing right in front of him, face beaten and bruised. Aris.

There she was. Standing right in front of him, face clean and pristine as if she'd just been through a photoshoot. Teresa. She was smiling, of all things she could be doing, she was smiling.

His eyes went back to Aris. Said boy was staring right back at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Newt was talking in Thomas's ear, asking him questions, but he couldn't understand what he was saying. Whispered hushes from Chuck could be heard, but he couldn't understand what he was saying either. It was as if everything was crashing down on him at once, the Cranks, Minho, Aris and Teresa. How were they even here? How did they get here? How did they escape WICKED? How did Teresa escape for a second time?

But he was running forwards and engulfing his best friend in his arms like he'd been wishing to do since the moment he was struck by the Launcher's electric grenade.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He exclaimed, shock taking over him for the second time that day. "How are you here?"

Aris didn't say anything, but he did hug Thomas back. It was very different from his and Minho's hug.

But he could sense that there was something off with Aris from the moment his arms wrapped around his friend.

When he pulled away, he fully stepped back and turned to Teresa. She was staring at him, as was everyone else around him, eyes full of elation.

Elation.

That bitch.

Just as he had that thought, she was stepping forwards and reaching for him. To his complete horror, her hands began to rise to his cheeks as if she were about to kiss him. When her hands touched his cheeks and her face began to get closer, Thomas grabbed her wrists and rocketed back, throwing her off with such ferocity he didn't know he had. Immediate hurt passed over her face as she stepped away from him as if he was going to punch her next, and Thomas found himself glaring despite the ache inside of his heart. No.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He repeated, knowing that he was sneering and spitting as much venom into the words as he could. His happiness at seeing Aris had faded quickly, the emotion quickly morphing into fury. "It's not like you didn't leave me for dead. You expect me to kiss and make up like you didn't leave me behind?"

He never wanted to kiss her again. That time in his life was gone.

Thomas was very aware of his voice choking, the feeling still there and wedged deep inside of his heart. That unmovable stone was still there, protesting and refusing to move.

"Tom..." Her voice. He hadn't heard her voice in so long. The nickname. The stone inside him pressed harder, blocking his fury from fully letting loose. It burned deep within his chest as he looked at her, but he forced it away. No more of that. "I'm so sorry. I thought-"

"You thought what? What, Teresa?" He spat, ignoring Aris's staring eyes.

He backed away as if he were repulsed by the words. The two people in front of him now wore the same expressions, which sent something off inside of him. Alarm bells sounded inside his head when he looked between the two, as if he were figuring out something that was meant to be kept hidden. He found himself back next to Newt, pressed so close their sides were pressed together as close as they could master. The blonde seemed to be glaring Teresa down with all his might as if he had truly know her for years, as if she had betrayed him too.

Teresa then began to step closer again, eyes getting even more puppy-eyed and teary as she did so.

"I'm so sorry, Tom. I mean it, I thought I was doing what was right." She explained, her voice dripping with emotion and regret. "I thought they would have found a cure by now. I thought I could have helped save humanity. I thought I was doing the right thing, and that I could save you."

"Save me from-"

"Who the shuck is this?" Thomas choked on his words when he heard Minho's voice right by him, his head whirling in the direction his voice had come from. The boy was wearing a torn up shirt, his eyebrows furrowed as he stared down Teresa and Aris just like Newt was. He was standing by Thomas, their shoulders almost touching. He could see how tense Minho was, his heart pounding harder as he stared a little too long at the gauze on the Asian's neck, knowing the bite was just beneath the medical equipment.

"Tom-"

"How'd you know I was here?" Thomas cut in, not wanting to hear anymore. He could feel his heart aching to forgive her and just become friends again, but he couldn't do that. He could feel the undying battle inside of him, tearing up his insides as they fought. He couldn't forgive her after leaving him for dead, he couldn't.

"We didn't. We broke out of WICKED, we left the city as fast as we could." She began, eyes moving between all the people staring at her. She was lying. Thomas could see it clear as day on her face.

Thomas took this chance to take a look at who exactly was watching the show. Minho and Newt, standing on either side of him, glaring down Teresa and Aris like they were long lost enemies. Chuck, watching them also, big and confused eyes switching between each of them at lightening speed. Brenda next to him, seeming to be looking directly at Teresa with furrowed eyebrows and a glare that could kill someone if it were possible. Gally looked exactly the same, but he was looking at Thomas instead.

He moved his eyes away from Gally's as soon as they had met. At that moment, he was reminded of Alby, who everyone seemed to have forgotten about. They'd either forgotten, or they just didn't speak about him. It was although he was dead, not kidnapped. Determination to save the boy suddenly flared up in Thomas's chest, that stone wedged inside of him moving ever so slightly.

Then, it was moving back and he was back where he started.

Then there was Frypan and Jorge, their expressions just masked in confusion. Thomas's eyes glided across the rest of the faces, fear clinging onto him at the realisation that they were all strangers. There were infected people watching, too, and immediately he felt worried for his life. Like he was about to get jumped and eaten by the undead in less than five seconds.

But they weren't undead just yet. He had to remember that.

They already hated him, and now that Teresa was here, he was going to be hated even more. They all knew who they were and what they were.

"I repeat, who the shuck is this?" Minho again. Thomas looked back to Teresa, who was staring at him with those fucking teary puppy eyes. Minho should have known who she was, she was on the posters.

"Teresa." Thomas replied, ignoring the edge of emotion to his tone he couldn't control. "Aris."

"Ohhhhh." Minho whistled, though not out of attraction like some may have thought. "The shank from the posters. I see, I see."

Thomas didn't like to think that he'd blushed. This was not the time for that.

"Subject A1 and A2." Gally. Thomas hadn't heard the boy talk for days. He was always walking around with that scowl on his face, his eyebrows turned down as if he had lost something. He'd been like that ever since-

Thomas almost smacked himself in the head when the thought surged through his mind at alarming speed.

He'd been like that since Alby didn't return to camp.

"Munies." Gally continued. "What about you, shank? You a Munie too?" Thomas turned to Aris now. The boy looked intimidated by all of the attention centred on him, his eyes darting between the crowd as if he didn't know who to look at.

He never ended up replying.

During this, Teresa had gotten closer and closer to Thomas and was now standing directly in front of him. She was staring at him, eyes big, fat tears now rolling down her cheeks. There was something hidden in her eyes, like she was guilty for something, but the look was gone as her eyes flickered away from him and landed on Minho. Thomas turned to him, too, confused.

"You're infected." She said so deadpan Thomas wanted to smack her pretty face.

"Excuse me?" Minho spat, crossing his arms as he raised his eyebrows at her.

"You've been bitten." She pointed to the white gauze.

"Yeah, that's right." He sneered, a creepy smile Thomas had never seen before coming onto Minho's face. "Four days ago, girl."

Thomas turned to Teresa in search of a reaction. She looked shocked. "You're immune."

"Sounds about right."

Thomas heard Gally scoff.

Silence. The two stared at each other for an uncomfortably long time, before Teresa was turning back to Thomas instead. "Tom, please listen to me. We escaped WICKED, we hiked here. That's all there is, we saw the fire from the woods last night. We had no idea you were here, and neither does WICKED."

Lies. WICKED would be able to see their camp from the compound.

Then why was Thomas still here?

"How'd you escape for the second time?" Thomas wondered aloud, fists clenching and unclenching. Newt was tense beside him, their shoulders firmly pressed together as if Newt were about to jump at any sign of a threat. Minho had closed in, too, getting closer and closer to him as time passed. "It took us two years. No sirens, either? Did they just let you walk out like you owned the place?"

Teresa looked loss for words. She was looking at him as if she didn't even know him anymore.

She wouldn't be wrong. He didn't even know where half of the words he was saying was coming from, and he knew he was sounding a lot angrier than he actually was. He was feeling different, he was still choking up every now and then, but for once, he felt like he had power. He finally felt like he had power over someone.

And that someone was Teresa.

"Do you even hear yourself?" She ended up saying, her guilty eyes slowly evolving into pure hurt. "You don't sound like the Tom I escaped with."

"Do you hear yourself, shuckface? Sound like a bloody Infected, you do. Talking buggin' riddles here and there." Newt sounded, and looked, furious. "Why are you here, and what do you bloody want?"

"Nothing!" Teresa ushered out, that hidden look in her eyes returning for a split second as she locked eyes with Thomas. "We were escaping WICKED, that's all there is!"

"Now I'm having a hard time believing that, sweetie." Minho.

"I hate to say it, but I agree with the shank." Gally.

Since when did Gally agree with, well, anyone? In the week and a bit, almost two weeks, Thomas had known the guy, he was always disagreeing with something with that permanent scowl on his face. Alby had been much the same, but less angry all the time.

"I don't even know who you people are-" She sighed, cutting herself off. "Tom, please. I'm not here on a WICKED errand or anything like that. Aris and I escaped, we hiked, we got here. That's all there is."

More lies.

"How can I trust you?" Thomas whispered, mostly to himself, but she still caught the words.

"You've always trusted me, Tom, even when we first met each other."

Thomas felt that sudden fury once again as the stone in his heart shifted. "My name's Thomas."

That hurt look crossed over her face once again. But then, very slowly, it morphed into anger. Anger Thomas had never seen on her face before, anger he never wanted to see again. Aris looked completely mortified behind her, staring at Thomas as if his life were about to end. He flickered his eyes back to Teresa's, and it almost looked as though she was fighting something behind those angry blue eyes.

Before he knew it, her hand was raising and a palm was slapping his cheek.

A burning sensation flourished in Thomas's left cheek as he was sent back a few steps, hands coming around to catch him. He turned back to Teresa who now looked hurt, and completely horrified. Horrified as if she couldn't believe she'd just done that. The force in her slap had been so out of character Thomas was left shocked, eyes never leaving her teary blue ones.

And then there were hands grabbing her. To Thomas's complete surprise, Gally was the one grabbing her wrists and slamming them behind her back. She whimpered so pathetically Thomas felt that stone in his chest rip back into place, heavier than ever before.

Everything was happening so fast. Alby getting taken or ravaged by Cranks, Minho bitten, Minho immune, Teresa and Aris showing up. All in four days. Six Cranks killed, more and more people in the camp getting infected faster than ever before.

Something bad was happening, but he couldn't figure out what.

Before he knew it, Teresa was being dragged away from Gally to who knows where and Aris was left standing with tears running down his face. Thomas didn't know what to do, what to say, how to act. There was something up with him, too.

He rubbed at his cheek absentmindedly as Newt came over to block his view of Aris, concern and fury painted all over his face. There was also bags under his eyes, dark and black underneath his eyelid. Clearly, he needed more sleep.

"What a bloody bitch." Newt snapped, and Thomas felt like he could literally see the steam pouring out of his ears. That was the first time he'd heard Newt, or anyone aside from Alby, swear. "Something's fishy here. Something's not right, Tommy, and I know you know it too."

"We need to get rid of her." Minho.

Thomas hadn't noticed the hand holding his until then, a thumb rubbing over his knuckles in silent comfort. The burning in his cheek had begun to numb, and now he was left emotionless.

"Thomas." Aris.

Minho and Newt's heads snapped in the direction of Aris, who visibly seemed to shrink away from the ferocity of their stares. Aris looked as though he wanted to say something, but he couldn't. His eyes were boring holes into Thomas's own, his muscles twitching as though he were trying to force something out. His face was gradually turning red, but all attention was turned off of him when a loud sound bursted into the air, flocks and flocks of birds swarming up from trees at the sound.

Thomas rocketed backwards at the sound, gripping onto Minho for dear life as the siren echoed over the earth, before stopping so abruptly his ears were ringing. After a few seconds of shocked, confused silence, the radios began to crackle and the sound began to get even louder. It was like a fire alarm times one thousand, and all Thomas wanted was to shove earplugs in his ears. At first, he'd thought the radios were just there for decoration. He never knew the things actually worked.

It was an alarm. Loud and blaring, but not just through the said radios.

It sounded as though it was coming from the city itself, too. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere.

Fear clung to him like a leech, sucking at his veins as his eyes moved in the direction of the city. To his horror, it sounded like it was quite literally coming from there. He had never heard something so loud. It sounded like there were big speakers everywhere, in every crick and cranny there was, aimed directly at him. Even when he and Teresa had escaped WICKED, the sirens had never been so loud. Something bad was happening.

People were stumbling around in confusion, looking at the radios, then looking at the city. Newt was beside him covering his ears, Minho on his other side staring in the direction of the destroyed city with wide eyes. Faintly, thought the destroyed structures, Thomas could see WICKED. There were flashing lights, lights blinking red all over the tall building.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Newt was yelling, his accent getting harder and harder to understand along with the blaring alarms.

It went like that for another solid minute before everything stopped. The alarm stopped, and everything fell silent. Even the crackling of the radios had stopped. Confused voices broke out as people clung to each other in fear, including Thomas who was almost hanging off Minho's arm. Newt uncovered his ears, staring over at the city as though the thing was a real, alive villain out to hunt them.

Before Thomas could say anything, the radios began to crackle once again. Heads whipped around to the gadgets, people fiddling with them to find out what was wrong. He saw someone trying to turn them off, but the crackling just continued.

And that's when it began.

At first, it was so quiet he could barely hear it to begin with. But as it got louder, everything instantly became a lot more scary. It was an eerie howling sort of sound, emitting from both the radios and the city, sounding like something that would have been in an old werewolf movie.

It was another siren. Different from the blaring alarm, sounding as though it was on a low battery. It constantly changed octaves, creating the eerie echo as it sliced through the air, the people around him falling silent as they listened to the horrifying sound. The thing echoed through the air, through the crackling radios, engraving itself right inside Thomas's mind. It sounded like it was coming from literally everywhere, still getting louder and louder and creepier by the second. High, low, high, low. Constantly.

He'd heard this siren before.

First, Teresa and Aris show up. Now this?

"What the hell is that?" Minho asked, his voice jumping Thomas out of his revelation. He looked up at Minho, unsure how to answer him. Though, he was relieved when he realised the boy wasn't even talking to him, but was talking to Newt. Instead, he moved closer, eyes focusing back on the city in the far distance. The red lights had gotten if not brighter, more constant flashes shining from the bulbs.

"As if I'd have a bloody clue." Newt snapped back, eyes wide with terror. "Is the bloody world ending? Again?"

"Shucking sounds like it."

Thomas could hear people, kids particularly, beginning to cry.

Teresa and Aris, and now this?

It couldn't have just been a coincidence.

The siren was so loud it was beginning to drill into his brain, engraving the sound forever. It was still rising in uneven octaves, getting higher and lower in it's uneven fashion. The sound echoed all around him, bouncing off tent walls and trees and everything. Birds flew, kids cried, people yelled over the haunting sound to talk to each other, to ask what the hell was going on.

He knew what was happening.

He had known this was already happening.

He'd heard the siren before. When he was inside WICKED, halfway through his stay. The exact siren had erupted throughout the whole compound, drilling through his head just the same as he was shot out of his slumber. The sound had been so terrifying inside of his small room he had cried almost instantly, trying to get himself out of the room. The door had been locked and he couldn't get out.

Not only a minute later had he been ushered out to join the rest of the kids, who were all in the same boat as him. He found Teresa and Aris and stuck by their sides throughout the whole traumatic event.

It had been a false alarm, and Thomas was left to force himself to forget the sound.

But this time, it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. He had been seeing the signs everywhere.

The virus.

It was airborne.

Chapter Text

When the endless, haunting siren had finally ceased into nothing, that's when the real hell broke loose.

People began to talk over each other, fear etched in every single one of their faces. Thomas's eyes found Aris, who had tears leaking down his cheeks as if he had done something wrong. But there was no time to stare or think about it before the boy was running past him and in the direction Teresa had been dragged by Gally, who had now returned with complete horror on his face.

For once, he wasn't scowling.

Kids were crying, some people were angry, like Newt. Especially Newt. Thomas could see the haunted looks of the newly infected, and instant guilt passed over him. They had no idea what was happening. Was he the only one who really knew?

They had no idea that the whole of this camp would be flesh eating Cranks within days or even hours. Unless, like Minho, some were immune without even knowing. Everything was happening so quickly Thomas was left behind, his whole mind disoriented and his thoughts going haywire. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing.

Not even half an hour ago, he was kissing Minho in the relief that he was alive. Then before he knew it, the small ounce of happiness he had found was sucked away into the oblivion by Teresa and Aris's arrival, and now the sirens pronouncing immediate death. Nothing could have prepared him for this. No one could have given him a warning, no one could have convinced him everything was going to turn to shit so fast.

The world was crumbling faster than he had ever expected. Soon, all these people would be dead.

And at that thought, the innocence that had begun to mend within him was ripped away for good, leaving a hollow hole inside his chest. He could feel everything that made him himself draining away from him, leaving him emotionless. Numb.

Everything he had feared was turning into reality.

He stood there as Minho and Newt talked over his head, Newt's anger getting worse and worse as the minutes went on. Thomas had spared a look at his friend, noting the serious crease in his eyebrows and the paleness of his face. He had looked away the moment Newt's harsh stare rested on him, focusing on staring down at his feet as he tried to occupy his mind with something else. He gripped Minho's hand in a vice grip, unsure what to do or where to go. People had begun to run around like crazy, confused and terrified voices echoing around him as they hurried past. It was as though they were packing. Packing for what, he had no idea.

Maybe they did know what was going on? It looked as though they were prepared, or already were preparing for something to happen.

He had no idea what to do. He had no idea if he should tell them, if he should tell Newt and Minho what the siren had really meant.

The virus was airborne. Anyone who wasn't immune or already bitten was going to die within days. It had already begun before the siren, he was suspecting it, but he didn't want to think the worst.

But the worst was happening.

But for some reason, at that very moment, Teresa came surging into his head like an electric current. He had to talk to her. She, no doubt, would know exactly what was going on. It couldn't have just been coincidence that she and Aris randomly show up right before the death alarm. Something was up.

He looked up from his shoes, eyes searching for the now familiar scowl-faced boy who was for sure lurking somewhere around their section of the camp. Minho and Newt were still talking over him about who knows what, Newt almost yelling as his hands came to rest on the sides of his head as if he were sporting a headache. Thomas knew the guy was becoming easily agitated and tireder than normal, which spiked up such a fear inside of Thomas's chest he almost collapsed right there.

But before his knees could buckle beneath him, his eyes found Gally who was sat on a log talking with a stony faced Frypan, hands occupied with stuffing things inside an old, ripped up backpack.

He tore his hand away from Minho's and began to move, ignoring the numbness in his legs as he forced himself to move over to Gally, the one who he had got along with the worst since Minho had brought him to that basement. He could hear Minho's confused voice behind him, but he ignored it as Gally's form got closer and closer and closer.

Soon, he was standing in front of the two boys, who were staring up at him with arched eyebrows.

"What?" Gally snapped, his anger towards Thomas never ceasing. He was rather confused why he had ushered Teresa away from him so fast, though.

"I need to see them. Where'd you take them?" He asked, not bothering to use names. Gally didn't know them. Even though Aris had run off on his own, he couldn't be bothered elaborating. He needed to see Teresa.

"Dumped her on the border of camp, dunno where your slinthead boyfriend ran off to." Gally snapped, arms crossing as he eyed Thomas up and down. He felt uncomfortable undenrneath the other boy's stare, but he swallowed his self consciousness and stood up straighter.

"He's not my boyfriend." Thomas almost snapped, but he knew Gally could tell he was scared shitless. His hands were trembling and sweat was beading on his forehead.

"I don't care, shank. I know you know something's up, and it definitely has something to do with that shuck siren. Now you better fess up before your body's on the ground in nothing but flesh. You can't hide things very well."

Thomas tried to force himself to not be afraid of Gally's empty threat, moving to cross his arms. It wasn't really to seem tough, it was more to hide the rapid shaking of his hands. He knew he could leave, walk along the border of camp until he found Teresa, but he wanted to hear what Gally had to say.

His conscious was telling him to leave, but his body was doing an entirely different thing.

"I can see it in your eyes. You know something."

"Do you ever shut the bloody hell up?" Newt's strong British accent surged into Thomas's ear as Newt literally charged between them, pushing Thomas back with one hand and Gally back with the other. Thomas hadn't even noticed the boy had stood up. He wanted to laugh at how the scowled faced boy almost fell backwards over the log he had previously been sitting on, but any sign of happiness within him was gone. "Gally, don't you have something better to do?"

"Really, Newt? We just heard some death siren, and you're here standing up for your little boyfriend?"

Newt scoffed. "Is that really all you got? He's not my shuck boyfriend, you complete bloody idiot. I think that spot's taken already." Thomas didn't have time to wonder what his friend meant before he was rattling off once again. "We don't know what the bloody alarm meant. Now, scurry along."

"It's like non of you care about Alby." Gally mumbled as he turned his back to Newt, who seemed to become more enraged at that very statement. Thomas felt like he could literally see the steam coming out of his friend's ears as he glared at the back of Gally's head. "I haven't heard a word about him since these shanks came back from that hell of a city. Non of you shucking care-"

"There's nothing we can buggin' do!" Newt snapped, arm flailing around as he did so. Thomas had to step back to avoid getting smacked across the head, eyes widening slightly as he darted away. "You think I don't fucking care, Gally? You think I don't care?"

Thomas's jaw dropped in shock when he heard the word leave Newt's mouth. This time, there was no shuck involved. Thomas hadn't been shocked when Newt had said bitch, but there was no time to gape at the blonde as Gally stormed away, stepping over the log and disappearing behind one of the tents. When Newt turned to Thomas, he unintentionally flinched away from the fierce expression on his face. The happy boy of just over thirty minutes ago was gone, instead being replaced with someone completely enraged. Newt's eyes rested on his, angry and unforgiving as they stared. His eyes were full of fire, and Thomas felt horrified to think what was going through his friend's mind at that very second.

Thomas backed away slowly, almost jumping six feat into the air when he backed into someone. He turned around, preparing to apologise to whoever it was, but relief came over him in a sudden wave when his eyes found Minho's face. The boy was looking down at him, face void of emotion. Fear gripped at him as he thought of the fire in Newt's eyes, and the lack of emotion in Minho's.

During this momentary distraction, Newt had begun to mutter hoarsely under his breath. "Doesn't think I fucking care. Yeah, right. Jesus, I'm going bloody insane."

Thomas tore his eyes from Minho to look at Newt, who's face had changed completely. Now he just looked sad, desperate even, his hands clasped to the sides of his head once again as he looked down at the ground. Thomas watched his friend talk to himself, more so as if he were arguing with himself as his head shook back and forth.

"Go talk to your lady friend." Minho murmured in his ear, sending Thomas into fright once again. "I'll handle him. Go."

Minho kissed his cheek briefly before pushing him away.

When had they gotten to that stage? It had been hardly half an hour since...

No. He had more and bigger problems at hand.

Gathering himself, he tore his eyes from the emotional rollercoaster called Newt and turned away, taking himself in the direction of the border of the camp. He ignored the stares from people as he passed by, shoving his hands into his pockets as he lurked throughout the camp, not seeing any sign of Aris or Teresa. All he saw were frantic and sick people, packing their bags and holding weapons Thomas had never seen anywhere inside the camp. Had they been preparing for something like this? Did they have a whole tent of weapons or something? As he thought this, he kept walking, squinting from the glare coming from the sun as his eyes searched the scene around him. His heart rate picked up suddenly when his eyes found familiar, tar black hair.

There she was, sitting, hands tied behind a tree, head down. It was one of the only trees in that area, the majority of them being on the right side of camp in the direction of the city. He walked over, crushing his fears as he chewed his lip, ignoring the jump in his heart as Teresa looked up at him upon his arrival. He hated the look in her eyes, the hopefulness. The trust.

He could never trust her again.

When he got close enough, she began talking. "Tom. Where's Aris?"

Thomas said nothing, sitting down right in front of her with his legs crossed beneath him. He ignored the uneven ground, staring holes into Teresa's head as she stared back at him with that same, hopeful look. Did she think he was going to save her?

He wanted to find Aris, the boy had been in the back of his head since he and Teresa's arrival. But he had bigger issues at the moment, so instead he pushed the longing to be with his best friend away, dismissing it for another time. Maybe, another lifetime. Thomas didn't know if he'd ever be able to mend things with Aris.

"What are you doing?" She asked, voice full of that same hope her eyes held. Thomas hated it. He pushed all thoughts of Aris away and concentrated on Teresa only.

"Did you know this was going to happen? How did you know I was here? Did they put you up to this?" Thomas drilled, trying to keep his voice level. He couldn't show how vulnerable he was feeling, he couldn't give her the satisfaction. "Why did you leave me behind?"

"I told you, I thought I was doing what was right! I thought I could have been able to save you!"

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "By going back to them? You thought you'd be saving me by crawling back to them? But don't worry, there's no need to save me. I'm immune, anyways." Thomas almost went to yank up his shirt, to show the bite on his shoulder just to prove his point. Instead, he forced the urge down and waited for Teresa to speak.

Her eyes suddenly narrowed as she shook her head, throwing her black hair out of her eyes. "Who are you?"

"What?"

"Who are you, Thomas. You're not the same person I fell in love with."

Thomas choked on his spit. He stared at her, at her sudden angered expression, at her sudden ferocity that had come out of literally nowhere. Her hair flew around in the wind, strands becoming stuck in her eyelashes and eyebrows as she stared right back at him. It was almost as if he were the one who betrayed her and not the other way around. Her mood swing was slightly worrying, and he found himself leaning back as if she'd snap like a savage dog.

"You're not the same." She stated once again, not breaking eye contact. "I thought you'd be happy to see Aris and I. Aris, at least."

Had she not seen him leap at Aris or something?

"Who are you?" Thomas spat back, choosing to ignore one of her previous statements with a heavy heart. "Why are you even here?"

She blinked, silence engulfing the two of them for just a few seconds before she was speaking.

"We escaped WICKED, Thomas. How many times do I have to say it? I knew what they were doing wasn't right, and that there's no cure, and that I had to get Aris out too."

"What about the others?" The others. He hadn't thought about them since he got out.

"What others?"

"The others trapped with us. Our friends."

Thomas was horrified at the emotionless expression on her face. This wasn't her. It couldn't be her. This wasn't Teresa, this wasn't the Teresa he knew in WICKED. The Teresa he knew was the guilt ridden, hopeful girl who had been displayed to him just a few seconds ago. His Teresa was the one who so desperately wanted to get away from WICKED.

There was something wrong.

"There was no time." She finally came out with, and Thomas didn't know how to answer her. "But there's something I have to tell you."

"What is it this time?" Thomas snapped, ignoring that stone in his chest that would not budge. He felt so conflicted about her he couldn't feel as angry he would have hoped.

"You have to go back." It sounded forced. "You have to go back there."

Thomas laughed. He laughed, but not out of happiness or humour. He laughed, because it was the only thing he could think to do. He laughed because he was dry of any reactions, he was dry of trying to retaliate against this girl he had once loved, this girl who had once been his best friend. He also laughed from the true ridiculousness of the statement. "What?"

"You have to go back. They want... they want to test you some more. Before they all die of infection. They think there's something there." She sounded like she were reading a script, like she had been rehearsing for this moment for years. Like she was playing the part of an onscreen character, like she were someone else.

Thomas found himself laughing again. "Why would I let them do that?"

"They want you.. you only." She continued, before her body completely relaxed. Thomas watched in confusion as her head shot back up and her eyes met his, and to his shock, the conflict was gone and her eyes were full of guilt. "Just go, Thomas, and this will all be over. We can be together again. And your blonde friend, the angry one, he might be okay too. I can tell he's infected, he's already beginning to-"

"I don't want to be with you." Thomas snapped, ignoring everything she had just said about Newt. There was no way he was going to let her play with his emotions. Her eyes were filling with tears as she looked at him with that same, guilt ridden expression. "I don't love you."

"Please, Tom, please. It doesn't matter, we'll still be friends. No matter what, we'll still be together." She continued, and Thomas hated every word she was saying. Like she knew for a fact that they would be together, even against his will. He hated the way she spoke about Newt. He hated the knowing look in her eye, mixed with the horrible look of guilt. "You will have your new friends. You will have Alby."

Thomas spluttered. He coughed on his own spit, eyes widening greatly when Alby's name left Teresa's lips. How could she have possibly known who Alby was?

"What do you know about Alby?" Thomas snapped, moving closer to her to cause intimidation. He crushed everything he was feeling for her and bored holes into her skull, trying to force the information out of her. "Where is he? What do you mean we'll all be together again?"

"You know the virus is airborne!" She almost yelled, and Thomas really hoped that no one had heard her. "You know what the sirens meant! You know what's going to happen to your friends! I can already see it, everywhere. The blonde one! He-"

"Shut up!" Thomas screamed. He screamed in her face, his heart completely plummeting out of his chest and onto the ground as Newt was mentioned for a second time. Tears blurred his vision as he forced the thoughts away, forced the thoughts of what Teresa was saying. "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

"You can save your friends!" She hurried, eyes becoming desperate as Thomas began to stand. "You can save him if you go back! You can get him away from the disease, you can get him away from his fate. You can get them all away!"

"SHUT UP!"

He turned. Angry tears overflowed down his cheeks as he began to storm away from her, feeling another portion of his innocence beginning to rip away from him as he left Teresa behind as she had done to him. She was yelling after him, but he ignored her pleas. Thomas stormed through the camp, furiously wiping his eyes as he made his way to their section, not wanting to think at all about what was happening around him. About the fate of all of his friends. The fate of Newt.

When he made it back, everyone was looking at him. He wasn't surprised, he was already creating a ruckus as it was. Aris was nowhere to be seen, Minho and Newt were coming towards him. Just by looking at Newt he found himself falling more into despair, not wanting to think about what was going to happen to everyone around him. Everyone was going to die. He could see the dark black bags under Newt's eyes, the paleness of his skin, the anger. He had been hoping it was due to the lack of sleep, but now he knew it wasn't. Teresa stating it had made it much more real.

Everything was crashing down on him. Everything in his life had been played with and destroyed before his eyes. He missed his normal life, where he wasn't running around an abandoned city with only one gun and no friends. He wanted his fucking gun back, the gun he had lost when Minho had saved him. He'd felt empty ever since he'd lost the stupid thing.

He was losing everything. He was losing himself, his friends, the world.

He fell onto Minho when he'd reached him, letting his knees collide with the hard earth as Minho was late to completely catch him. He saw Newt at the last minute, bending down to comfort him, which just sent him further and further into his own insanity. His insanity wasn't the disease. His insanity was losing everyone and everything he cared about.

He'd been stuck on that road as soon as his parents were unfairly ripped away from him.

Minho and Newt were trying to talk to him, trying to ask him what was wrong, but he couldn't speak. He was furious, he was grieving, he was losing it. Even he didn't know who he was anymore.

His old self was on the brink of leaving him. His old self was waving him goodbye, his old self from before the end of the world.

He was gone.

Chapter Text

He couldn't sleep.

After his complete mental breakdown, he'd felt emotionless for the rest of the day. Teresa and Aris were always in the back of his head, haunting and taunting him. He'd heard that someone had nabbed Aris trying to escape, like he had really done something wrong, and now he was left tied to the other side of the tree that Teresa was bound to. Thomas had seen him, heard him crying and yelling for help. Yelling for him. He didn't see Aris nor Teresa after that particular scene.

Minho and Brenda hadn't let him out of their sight the entire day, Newt had been all sorts of hysterical. Thomas was terrified the boy was going to rip his hair out from how much he was tugging it, from how angry he was becoming over the short time period. It had only been a few hours, but that could be all it took for him to be gone. Thomas prayed that Newt was one of the luckier ones that could hold back the virus for longer, that his immune system was stronger than some. Just so he had his new friend for a little while longer.

What were they going to do? What was he going to do? Soon this camp would be crawling with Cranks, he could get eaten alive. Minho could get eaten alive. Anyone else who was lucky enough to be immune could get eaten alive.

Tears slowly ran down his cheeks as he stared at the roof of the tent, his heart empty and mourning as he waited for sleep to consume him into it's depths of nothing. He knew that sleep definitely wasn't going to come to him, he might as well stay awake all night thinking about all the bad things in his life. Feeling sorry for himself like the pathetic human he was.

"I can hear you thinking from over here." Minho's voice echoed over the eerie silence, rocketing Thomas out of his thoughts. He rolled his head over to face the boy, who he could just see in the faint glow of the fires shimmering through the tent wall. Minho wasn't looking at him. Thomas decided not to answer him, to pretend he wasn't caught wallowing red handed.

"Can't sleep, can ya?" Minho's voice echoed out again, and Thomas let out a huff of air.

"No." His voice came out ragged, his eyes finding the tent roof once again.

"You need to sleep." Minho kept going, and Thomas could hear him shuffling.

Thomas didn't answer, breathing slow to control his emotions as he kept his eyes trained on the tent roof above him. He knew Minho was watching him now, he could feel his stare from across the tent. All Thomas wanted was sleep, but his body wasn't providing him with the pleasure.

The silence stretched on as the sounds of people murmuring to each other continued, their words illegible. Thomas could sense the seriousness in their tones, like they were planning something, like they had been waiting for something like this to happen. He almost wished he could understand the strangers words.

Before he could push himself to try and listen harder, shuffling was heard once again from the other side of the tent. He ignored it, assuming that Minho was just turning around, but instead he was faced with something being thrown down beside him. He jumped out of his trance like state, eyes darting to the object that had landed beside him. Through the darkness, he could see that it was a sleeping bag.

And then something else was being thrown down, right next to his head, scaring the living daylights out of him. A backpack, he supposed. The one Minho had been using as his pillow.

Before Thomas knew it, another body was clambering down beside him and sliding into the sleeping bag. He watched Minho in complete silence as the boy slid into his sleeping bag, before lying on his back like nothing was wrong. Thomas suddenly felt awkward, mind briefly falling back to their kiss.

Why was he thinking about this? He had bigger problems at hand.

Before he could even move, Minho was huffing and rolling onto his side. "What's on your mind?"

Thomas didn't answer, letting himself shrink slightly as the tears began to well up once again in his eyes. Why could he never stop crying? Why was he always breaking down? He kept asking himself these questions but never found his answer. Maybe he was just one big sook.

The silence stretched for a good minute before Minho was talking once again.

"So, tell me. What was your life like before the end of the world?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows at the question, reaching up to quickly wipe the tear that had broken free off of his cheek. Was this really questions Minho could be asking? What his life was like before the plague wiped out the earth? When they'd just figured out that the disease was airborne and their friends would be dead within days?

"What?" Thomas questioned, unsure really what to answer with.

"I mean, what was your life like before?"

Thomas sighed. "It was... normal."

"Normal?"

"Yep."

Another tear streaked down his cheek, causing Thomas to angrily bring up his fist to wipe it away. His eyes were burning, they were drooping, begging for sleep. He could barely tell wether it was his mind or his body preventing him from sleep anymore.

Thomas risked a glance to Minho, rolling his head to the side to look at the other boy. He was already looking at Thomas with a look in his eye, his eyes never leaving Thomas's. Thomas regretted looking at the other boy as soon as he did it, because he couldn't look away.

From what he could see through the darkness, Minho's eyes were swimming with sadness. Thomas knew it must be because of Newt, because of their friend's fate. Because Newt was infected, and there was nothing they could do. Thomas remembered Newt telling him about Minho, how they'd known each other for years. Thomas had nothing, he'd known Newt for two weeks.

It felt like years, that he'd known Newt and Minho.

"What's on your mind, Thomas?" Minho repeated his earlier question, voice lowering as if he were worried he would scare Thomas away. He already felt distant, after what Teresa had said to him, and now he just felt empty once again. He hated to think that being by himself was better, better in ways he couldn't comprehend. There were always good and bad aspects.

"Teresa." Thomas found himself saying without even thinking, wanting to punch himself in the head. It wasn't entirely a lie, she was on his mind, but so was Newt. Aris, the airborne infection that was beginning to kill people already. Alby was always there, too, lurking in the outskirts of his mind. Thomas had to find him, despite how much the boy hated him. Despite how much Gally hated him, he wanted to make amends. It was the only thing he had left to do.

"Is that so?" Minho questioned, his tone not changing. "What is she to you? Like, did you meet in WICKED or did you know each other before?"

"WICKED." Thomas stated, hating to think that he missed the place solely because she was his best friend back then.

"She left you behind to go back, right?" Minho asked, and Thomas forced his eyes away from his. He looked back up at the tent roof, cursing Teresa silently. He nodded, not really wanting to touch on the subject to much. It was like poking an old wound with a stick, hoping that it would reopen.

"What a slinthead..." Minho trailed, shuffling slightly beside him. "Did you two have a thing?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly. "No."

"Did you love her?"

Thomas didn't answer, hoping Minho would put the pieces together. When he heard the boy's intake of breath, Thomas knew that he'd figured it out. "Geez, that sucks."

Thomas nodded again, not really wanting to know how Minho was feeling about that subject. Sure, they'd kissed, but that must have been in the spur of the moment, right? Sure, Thomas didn't exactly think that, but he knew Minho would. There was nothing there.

He needed to sleep.

"You think too much." Minho stated next, provoking Thomas to roll his head over once again to face him. "I don't think anything of it, ya know. Just wanting to get to know you."

"Is it really the time for that, though?" Thomas whispered, ignoring the tears beginning to well for the third consecutive time. "The virus is airborne and there's nothing we can do. Newt..."

"Newt's strong." Minho almost snapped. "He can hold on long enough. He can do it."

"Hold on for what?" Thomas asked, unsure of what Minho exactly meant.

"I don't know, something. Just something. Maybe WICKED's cooked up their shucking cure." Minho seemed to be saying what Thomas wanted to hear, what he wanted to hear. Thomas knew the both of them knew that it wasn't going to happen. That even if there was a cure, it would be too late. "I've known Newt for years. I can't imagine my life without him, false hope is the only thing keeping me going."

That very statement alone had Thomas's stomach dropping and his heart shattering. Being alone was definitely better, he was spared the heartbreak. Being immune spared him the disease, being at WICKED spared him the two years of living in his house alone after his parents died. He didn't deserve any of it.

"I'm sorry." Thomas found himself saying for a reason he didn't know.

"Are you serious, Tomboy? What for?" Minho did snap this time, his body shuffling once again.

"I don't know." He sounded horrendously stupid.

Before he could redeem himself, a hand was reaching over his stomach and clasping around his hip. Then, Minho gently rolled him over so that they were facing each other, and Thomas had never felt more intimate with someone. The tears that had been welling in his eyes were long gone, the water already running down his already wet cheeks as Newt's face flashed through his mind.

Newt was going to die and there was nothing any of them could do.

"You're thinking about Newt, aren't you?" Minho asked, his voice so low Thomas could barely understand him. "If you're shucking blaming yourself for him, I will not hesitate to smack your slinthead face."

Thomas didn't answer. He expected the slap when Minho's hand left his hand, but instead of the sting Thomas was expecting, Minho placed his hand on his cheek as if he were a fragile piece of glass.

"I don't know how it could ever be your fault, but it's not." Minho wiped his tears away as he spoke, a certain glint in his eye. Thomas's eyes were beginning to droop once again, but he forced them to stay open and to keep looking at Minho. It was like if he made one move, the moment would be gone and Minho would be back on the other side of the tent. "Stop blaming yourself for something you can't control."

Thomas itched to say sorry once again, but he forced the need down as he kept his eyes locked with Minho's.

It was slow, but Minho's head was moving forwards and Thomas's eyes were closing on their own. When their lips touched, it was just as emotional as the first. Thomas forced his tears away as Minho cradled his cheek, their lips moving slowly together like they had already gotten used to it. It was a few seconds before Minho pulled away, his hand leaving Thomas's face to instead rest on his hip once again. Without thinking, Thomas shuffled forwards, almost craving comfort. When he realised what he was doing, he went to move back, but Minho held him in place.

"You're so cute." Minho whispered, a breathy laugh leaving his mouth. Thomas didn't say anything, letting himself be hugged as he pressed his face into Minho's chest. Finally, he felt himself slowly falling into the land called sleep as Minho rubbed circles in the small of his back, the gesture more comforting than anything had ever been. Thomas felt somewhat calm at that moment, letting his thoughts run free was he tried to drift off.

But there was always something preventing that. The thought of what Newt might be going through at that very second.

Before he could press more on the thought, a dull ache began to form in his forehead. He winced, raising the arm that wasn't trapped beneath his own body to rub the painful spot. It was very sudden, and before he knew it, it was gone. He waited for it to return in the way a headache would, to pulse annoyingly in his forehead. But after a solid two minutes of waiting, he gave up.

"Something wrong?" Minho asked him, shuffling slightly. Thomas lowered his hand before pressing his face back into Minho's chest, shaking his head by doing so. The rubbing on his back didn't stop, he still felt creepily at ease despite the sudden ache in his head. He closed his eyes, sighing as he tried to force his body to rest.

He felt like he was there for hours, trying to fall asleep, to have the release of being in the word of nothing. Minho had fallen asleep, the hand that was rubbing his back slowly stopping as the boy's body relaxed against Thomas's. He was left to his own thoughts, left to listen to the sounds outside of their tent. The same people were still talking, though Thomas still couldn't understand what they were saying.

But finally, after what felt like years, he finally fell into the tight grasp of sleep.

Chapter Text

He'd surprisingly been asleep when the chaos had broken out.

He was rocketed out of his slumber by someone shaking him so violently his head hurt, eyes barely open and meeting Newt's, who was standing in the tent's doorway, before he disappeared from view. The hands left his shoulders and he was left to slump back onto the ground, head spinning in confusion as he tried to comprehend what was going on.

He didn't miss the even darker rings under Newt's eyes.

There was yelling, the rumbles of engines echoing around him as he tried to force his body to sit, but he was exhausted. The last lot of days had taken their toll, his blowup and meltdown at Teresa the day before just adding onto his exhaustion.

He had no time to gather his senses when Minho's face appeared above him, and hands were grabbing his shoulders and pulling him off of the ground and out of his sleeping bag. He made no move to help push himself up as he let Minho do the work, wanting nothing more for the people outside to shut up and to fall back to sleep. He'd finally gotten there, he'd finally gotten his peace and now he was being yanked out of it. It was still dark outside, Thomas had no idea how long he had actually been sleeping for.

"Come on, we gotta go or they'll leave us behind." Minho was talking to him, but he couldn't move. He heard Minho sigh slightly before he disappeared, and Thomas found himself turning to follow the other boy's body. He yanked Thomas's backpack that only had the purpose of being a pillow and turned back around to face him, pausing for a few seconds to look Thomas up and down. Thomas couldn't speak, he couldn't move.

Minho eyed him for a few seconds, out of concern and not anger, Thomas hoped, before he hurried past him while handing him the backpack. He grabbed it wordlessly, as though his arms were moving by themselves as his fingers clasped around the straps. He slowly swivelled around, watching Minho pack his own things so fast it was done in under a minute. Then Minho was grabbing Thomas's jacket, pulling the backpack from his grasp before putting the jacket on for him.

Thomas let Minho dress him like a child, fatigue settling over him as he fought to keep his eyes open. Then his backpack was on his shoulders and Minho was hauling his own over his back. Thomas eyed a small gun he had never seen before, sitting in the hip side of Minho's pants.

Then Minho grabbed his hand and begun to pull him out of the tent. He stumbled at first, but his feet moved on their own to catch him as Minho dragged him out of the tent and into the open. Everything was a blur as Minho pulled him through the running people, who seemed to be running out of determination rather than fear. What was going on this time?

Thomas managed to turn his head to look behind him, and to his shock, there was so many more people with them. They were everywhere. There were more vehicles, more people, more everything. More guns. More infected.

He turned back to watch Minho's feet as he dragged him through the crowds of people before familiar faces filled his view. Newt was there, Gally was there, Frypan, Brenda, Jorge. Thomas found himself looking at Newt, who was leant against Gally with his hands on his knees. He was coughing.

Tears immediately welled in his eyes. Minho pulled him to to a stop directly in front of the others, who were all leaning against the back of the truck as if they were waiting for someone. They all, apart from Newt, looked fidgety, like they were nervous or dreading what was coming. Thomas let Minho pull him against his side, his eyes trained on Newt who slowly brought himself into a standing position. He was paler, his eyes were getting darker and darker from their usual brown. He was still coughing, he could see the shaking of his hands.

In just a few hours, Newt would be gone.

The tears overflowed his cheeks as he pressed further into Minho, the exhaustion mixed with despair as he watched his friend. He found his tired eyes floating around the faces, before they rested on Chuck. His heart completely shot out of his chest in an explosion of shock and sadness when his eyes had rested the kid.

He was the equivalent to Newt.

Just the day before, they were fine. They were barely showing signs.

It was as if the sirens had triggered the virus within them. He knew it hadn't, there had been so many signs beforehand. Newt and Chuck must have just been lucky not to catch it immediately. He searched the other faces for infection, but there was nothing. Gally looked fine, Frypan looked fine, Brenda looked fine. There was no sign of infection on their faces or bodies. Even Jorge looked fine. Maybe the virus just hadn't reached them yet.

When his eyes rested on someone on the end of the line, he choked on his tears. Teresa was slumped against the tire of the truck, hands and feet tied together with rope as she stared down into her lap. Next to her was Aris, tied up much the same. They were sitting close to each other, Aris's head on her shoulder as if they were waiting for the world to literally explode. They knew this was going to happen, they had to. They were with WICKED, they had to know this was going to happen.

They were pawns. Thomas was a pawn. They were just pawns in finding the fucking cure.

It was at that moment Teresa glanced up at him, her eyes filled with something Thomas couldn't read. She looked back down at her lap, and at that very moment that same ache erupted in his forehead. He cringed, raising his free hand to press at the sore spot. It kept pulsing, a lot worse than the first time.

It went on for a few, long seconds before it disappeared completely, just like it had before. Somehow his eyes met Teresa's once again, and she was looking at him with some sort of dejected look in her eye. Thomas didn't even have the willpower to try and figure out what the look meant, tearing his eyes away from hers and focused on Brenda instead. She was crying while holding Chuck's hand, who in turn was leaning against her.

Thomas hated everything and everyone at that very moment.

"We gotta go." Minho was saying, but not to him. He was yelling over the rest of the voices, and it was as if his voice triggered everyone to move. Gally seemed to be in charge of yanking Teresa and Aris to their feet, Minho was pulling him towards the now open door of the truck. Frypan was helping Newt inside, Minho moving around Thomas and letting go of his hand to get in the truck himself. Thomas stood there, dumbly, his muscles not wanting to move. It wasn't long before Minho was in view again, grabbing Thomas under the armpits and someone else grabbing him from behind.

Then, he was lifted into the truck like a literal child. Instead of sitting on the third seat, he was pulled onto Minho's lap instead. He didn't fight it, letting the tears fall freely as Brenda clambered in beside himself and Minho. Chuck was nowhere to be seen. He could hear the others crowding into the back, Jorge driving and someone Thomas didn't know sitting in the passengers seat. Thomas hoped Chuck was in the truck somewhere, hoping to god that they didn't leave the kid behind.

"What's going on?" Thomas found himself whispering weakly, letting Minho slot his hand into his own.

"Another shucking camp stormed in, they knew the virus was airborne before we did." Minho said in his ear, and Thomas choked on his spit. He knew. "Now, we're going to tear WICKED to the ground. Apparently."

"Bloody hell." Newt suddenly snapped beside him, causing Thomas to jump. Minho squeezed his hand. "Shucking move already! We're going to get bloody left behind if we don't bloody move!"

Thomas turned his head to look at Newt, who looked rather livid with anger. Newt did meet his eyes soon after his sudden explosion of anger, and immediately his expression softened and a sad smile was appearing over his face. Thomas could see his veins beginning to darken slightly, becoming more visible against his pale skin.

Then, Newt wordlessly grabbed his other hand. Thomas didn't let either of them let go.

Then, the vehicle lurched into action, and they were moving. Thomas could hear everything around him, the other vehicles, the people on foot. What were they planning to do, to explode the WICKED compound? Literally? That was impossible. Did they even have any bombs of the sort?

Minho's other arm was wrapped around his waist, fingers rubbing the place where the older Crank bite was located. Thomas forced his eyes to close, squeezing his friend's hands tighter as he tried to fight the conflicting thoughts away.

Where were Teresa and Aris? How could they even fit inside the truck? There wasn't enough seats. And why were they coming with them, anyways?

"Newt, are you sure you're alright?" Minho was whispering, only just able to be heard over the rumble of the engine.

"I'm bloody fine. Stop worrying about me, we have bigger things to worry about." Newt had snapped back, squeezing Thomas's hand tighter and tighter as the seconds went by. He didn't open his eyes.

"Just looking out for you. Sorry." Thomas wanted to explode.

"I know mate, I know. Not much use now, though, the bloody end's coming for me."

Thomas never wanted to hear those words again. It was at that, his stomach lurched and begun to swirl. Newt was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to leave Thomas and Minho, he was going become a Crank. There was no stopping it. There is no cure.

"Stop talking like that." Minho was the one snapping this time.

"Why? It's the truth."

Minho never replied.

And somehow, during all the chaos, Thomas managed to fall asleep.

He was in grass.

It was dark, it was raining, lighting was flashing overhead as the thunder rumbled in the distance. There was open air around him, his clothes rustling in the wind as he moved around in small circles. Where was he?

He began to move, slowly and cautiously moving further along the grass. He was freezing, the rain saturating every piece of clothing on his body. His teeth were clattering, his stomach was churning, every part of his body ached. There was something off about where he was, what he was seeing.

He kept on walking, waiting for something to either jump out at him or to run into a wall. Finally he spotted something. Trees. They were all grouped, like a small forest, and there was no telling how far it went. Thomas headed towards the trees, not really knowing why. Just as he was about to step foot into the forest, he realised the large, grey wall towering over him.

He headed towards the thing instead, noting the green plants spiralling up from the concrete. Vines, maybe?

The rain wasn't easing up as he got closer, arms outstretched and waiting to make contact with the wall. It was huge, towering over Thomas like he was a spec of dust. Suddenly he felt like he was an ant, staring up at a huge human. It was so tall Thomas felt like it was about to fall down on him, the vines swinging off of the walls due to the strong wind.

Thomas started following the wall, letting his hands run over the uneven surface as he moved. The rain poured down on him, saturating him, making him freezing. He ignored it all as he followed the wall for a solid three minutes, thunder rumbling around him as lighting flashed across the dark sky. The rain was beating down so hard he couldn't see the rest of the wall in front of him, using his hands as guidance as he moved further to somewhere he didn't know.

When his hands fell off the end of the wall he'd almost fallen over. He caught himself at the last second, turning to the wall he had been following. Now, he was faced with not concrete but open air. Well, he thought it was open air. It took him a while to notice that it was in fact a passageway, a passageway that ended a few more feat in front of him and broke off left and right. The green vines were hanging off these walls too, flying around in the wind as it howled down the corridor.

Without thinking much of it, he stepped into the passage. It was no longer grass, the ground matching the concrete used in the walls. He still felt like they were going to cave in on him, like they were hanging on by a single thread. It was all so big, Thomas couldn't believe it. He ignored everything inside of him screaming not to go down there, ignoring the cold shivers tearing through his body with every gust of wind.

He took himself down the corridor, swallowing any fear he was feeling and reached out. His hands touched the surface of the wall, his eyes looking down each of the passages leading left and right. He took the left.

He didn't know how long he was walking, taking lefts or rights, meeting dead ends occasionally. It was still pouring down with rain, but it had become nothing more as a thought in the back of his head as he realised where he was. He was inside some sort of maze.

And he was lost.

Before he could turn back and try to retrace his steps, a low, screeching howl emitted through the thunder. Lighting flashed over him as he whipped his head around in the direction of the sound, eyes full blown and wide as he took a few steps back. The same howling noise erupted once again, along with the sound of machinery.

Whirr, click click. Whirr, click click.

Whatever it was, it sounded like it was rolling. He couldn't see that far down the corridor, the rain providing severe inconvenience as he took several steps back. It was getting louder and louder, the sound now louder than the thunder and rain. Whatever it was, it was close.

Whirr, click click. Whirr, click click.

That's when he saw it. He choked on his saliva as some sort of... some sort of monster broke through the rain and into view, rolling along the concrete. It was large, covered in all sorts of machinery that looked like they were meant to be arms and legs. Blades of sorts were on the ends of them all, large, sharp and menacing. The metal arms were connected to some sort of body, squelching noises echoing off the walls as the thing moved.

Thomas screamed, he turned and began to run. He didn't have to think twice, tearing down the corridor and around the corner. The sounds behind him picked up, the whirring and the clicking intensifying dramatically. The thing was chasing him.

But this was all just a dream, right?

He kept running and running, before finally he hit a dead end. He ran into the wall almost with full force, the impact sending him rocketing back onto the ground. He rolled around, back pressed against the wall as his head began to ache. The thing was there, at the end of the corridor, tearing down the stretch with such ferocity Thomas knew he was done. Dream or not, he was done.

He squeezed his eyes shut when the thing grabbed onto him.

When he opened his eyes, he was back inside the truck.

He lurched out of his slumber with some sort of strangled noise, eyes darting around as he determined where he was. People were talking, trees were passing the windows as the truck barrelled through that same forest Thomas had been through so many times.

"You alright, Tommy?" Newt. It was Newt's voice.

Thomas's head whipped in the blonde's direction, who in turn had his head leaning against the window. He was looking at Thomas, concern clear on his features. Thomas didn't say a word, only nodding before turning away. He couldn't stand to look at his friend, he looked absolutely terrible. He was sick. His veins were getting darker.

"Did you have a dream?" Minho's voice came into his ears next. Thomas sighed, his mind swirling with the thoughts of seeing that monster tearing down the corridor like it was a race track. It's mechanical arms had been outstretched and ready to tear Thomas to pieces. It was almost more terrifying than the Cranks.

He nodded, once again not saying a word as he wondered how his brain could have ever cooked up something so horrifying. He'd never seen something like it, not in a movie or read about one in a book. He'd never thought of something so horrifying, something so animal but machine.

How could his head have come up with something so bizarre?

He squeezed his eyes shut, dismissing the thought. Everyone had crazy dreams.

But the thing that really worried Thomas, is that it didn't really seem like a dream to him.

Chapter Text

Getting out of that truck had been one of the most terrifying things Thomas had to do.

There were people everywhere. They were screaming, charging, some of them even already half Crank. Thomas could see one man lurching for a woman who was running past him, missing and tumbling to the floor instead. He never got back up.

When he got back up, he would have lost his insanity completely. He'd be undead.

It didn't help that Thomas had pretty much fallen out of the truck, landing on his hands and knees, almost head butting the tarmac. Minho had him under the armpits within a second, hauling him to his feet and grabbing onto his right hand. Newt grabbed left wrist, pulling both Thomas and Minho closer to him as people streamed past, guns cocked and aimed in front of them. People bumped against Minho as they stormed past, almost sending the boy off of his feet multiple times. Thomas still didn't understand where all these people had come from and how they had gotten there so fast.

The huge group was charging in the direction of the WICKED compound, that much was obvious. There wasn't much time left.

Thomas had gone from seeing the odd stranger roaming the city to almost hundreds of angry men and women charging into that very city. Children were in some adults parents arms, their cries only just being heard over the angry yells. Thomas could see a little boy, maybe around ten years old being held by an older boy, but not a boy old enough to be his father. Brother, maybe? The two were engulfed in the crowd by seconds.

Were they really aiming to destroy WICKED like Minho had said?

Everyone that had been apart of their section was clumped in a group, forcing the other strangers to stream around them as they stayed as close to the truck as possible. Thomas could see Jorge yelling over the consistent screams to Gally, who was yelling back just as forcefully. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he hoped they were planning not to join the crowds and implode WICKED.

Before he knew it, the group of people eased off. There were a few stragglers, a few people laying on the floor coated in blood. Some not moving. By the looks of it, they had been trampled.

He sighed, slightly grateful that the majority of the crowds had disappeared. Maybe there wasn't as many people as he had originally thought? But there had to be enough for these people on the concrete to be trampled and even killed.

Before he could dwell further on the thought, his head began to ache in that familiar ache that had been irritating him. He groaned, hand raising to his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing for the pain to ease away. Newt's hand fell from his wrist as he did so, but Thomas didn't have the brain cells at that moment to care. This time, the pain was much worse. It wracked his skull, pulsating smack in the middle of his forehead with such an annoying pain he wished he could direct the pain somewhere else instead. His body leant against Minho's, his legs falling weak as the ache pounded and pounded away in his head.

There was a hand on his shoulder, Newt's, Thomas suspected. There were other hands, Minho's maybe, trying to pry Thomas's own off of his forehead. He didn't open his eyes, letting Minho pry his own hand off of his forehead as the pain continued to pulse within his skull.

"What's wrong?" Someone had said, but he couldn't figure out who. They sounded almost angry.

Thomas.

Thomas almost fell over from the thought of his own name, a sudden surge of pain bellowing throughout his whole head this time. A strangled noise left his mouth when the thought hit him, almost as if it wasn't his own. He hated it, he wanted it to stop.

It's working. I can't believe it, it's actually working!

They weren't his thoughts. There was something different about them, like it was a whole other voice entirely. Like someone had hijacked his mind, like someone was toying with his thoughts and giving him a voice that wasn't his own. There was something wrong. Was there someone inside of his head? Was this what the chip in the back of his head was for? Who was in his head?

But then it stopped.

He breathed out, his chest heaving as if an entire weight was lifted of his shoulders. The pressure in his mind eased completely, the thudding pain disappearing within seconds. He breathed heavily, trying to compose himself as confusion began to wash over his senses. Maybe he was expecting himself to be terrified of what had just happened, but he was just confused. There had been a certain familiarity about the voice he'd heard that spooked him, but he was just lost. Something was definitely up, but he didn't know how to put it into words.

"What the hell just happened?" Gally.

"I don't know, shut up shuckface." Minho.

"Just because your new boyfr-"

"Shut your bloody hole." Newt. Angry Newt. "Tommy, are you alright?"

Thomas still hadn't opened his eyes. His hands were squeezing someones jacket in such a tight grip his fingers were going numb, his own brain circulating with confusion as he tried to figure out what had just happened. But then, the thoughts of the crowd going to destroy WICKED surged into his mind. Then thoughts of Alby. Who was still trapped in there like the rest o the people Thomas had met.

"Thomas?" Thomas opened his eyes. Minho was looking down at him, worry creasing his eyebrow.

"Tom!" Teresa.

Thomas's head whipped in the direction of her voice, his eyes finding the girl he had once felt so strongly for. Sweat was beading on her forehead, tears were streaming down her red face as if she'd been struggling to do something. Aris was beside her, looking down, hands shaking like leaves in the wind. Thomas hated how fragile his friend looked. How terrified he looked. How guilty he looked.

"Shut it." Gally snapped before Thomas could reply, causing him to look at the scowling boy instead. His eyebrows were turned downwards as he glared at Teresa and Aris, as if he had been personally offended by the sight of them. "You need to tell us where Alby is."

"There's no use, I told you that!" Teresa seemed desperate. Too desperate. "He's not there, he's gone. They took him away for the trials. They took him away to find the cure, like the rest of them! The sirens were late!"

Thomas hated every word that had come out of her mouth. Trials. Cure.

The sirens were late.

"That's a bunch of crap. Listen to me, girl, you've been saying the same thing the entire shucking ride here. Now you're going to lead us to Alby before those idiots explode the whole building!" Gally seemed to be having non of it, his stance getting incredibly more menacing by the second as he stepped closer to the distressed looking Teresa.

"He's not there!" Teresa was almost screaming now. "They took him for the trials! None of them are there anymore, the buildings only full of the staff who are already infected."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Brenda this time. "What trials?"

"Thomas, are you sure you're alright? Your head, is it okay?" Minho was whispering to him, a comforting hand coming to rest on the small of his back as he listened to Gally yell at Teresa. The furious yelling from the crowd of people was still audible, still piercing through the air as they charged on in the direction of WICKED.

"I'm okay." Thomas whispered, not tearing his eyes away from Gally and Teresa. "I'm fine."

Teresa didn't look away from Gally. "There's no point going back there. Alby's gone."

"You're taking us to him." Gally pressed on, hand raising to rub at his forehead. "I don't care about this so called trial, you're going to bring us to him and we're going to get him out of that hell."

Newt suddenly started coughing beside him, the coughs sounding wet and disgusting causing Thomas's stomach to swirl. Pain for his friend spiked up in his heart, not wanting to look at him as Minho moved away from him to aid their blonde friend instead.

"What are the trials?" Thomas snapped, eyeing Teresa as he spoke. Her eyes turned to his, full of frustration and desperation.

"I don't know. All I know is that they took Alby and the other immunes there to begin the trials."

"The trials for what?"

"The cure! Have you not been listening to me?"

Something had definitely shifted between them. It seemed like something inside Teresa had also snapped, as had it snapped inside of Thomas. Like the two were completely done with each other after Thomas's full on, complete meltdown the last time they had spoken. There was no room for redemption, whatever lasting friendship they had had been destroyed and stomped on within seconds. "You'll get yourselves killed if you go in there."

"I don't care." Thomas snapped, feeling something inside his heart severing the more he spoke. The more his anger built up, the more it began to fray. The more his anger built up, the quicker the pressure in his head began to build up once again. "It's worth it if I'm saving another life."

"I don't know who you are anymore."

"And I still don't care. Take us to Alby, let us get him out of there." Thomas snapped, ignoring what she had said and tried to keep his strong front. He chewed his lip when he finished his sentence, awaiting Teresa's reply as Gally let out an agitated huff.

"You heard me, didn't you?" Teresa finally said, eyeing Thomas with a look he couldn't determine. "You heard me?"

"What?" Thomas asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. Teresa's face fell even more, as if she had been expecting him to know exactly what she was talking about. This caused an unfamiliar anger to spark in his chest as another strangled cough left Newt, his hands beginning to tremble. But this time, not with fear. They were trembling with anger.

Something had happened to him after that dream. That dream he'd had on the way back to the city, about the monster. The maze like structure, the rain. It had all felt so real, he hated it. The only thing he had left was to get Alby out. He had to get him back, Thomas was the reason why he'd been taken from them. It was Thomas's fault. He had to repay Gally, Newt. He had to repay Minho.

"I thought you heard me?" Teresa sounded suddenly so innocent Thomas felt the urge to hurl himself into the oblivion.

"What the shuck is this loony talking about?" Minho suddenly snapped after another fit of Newt's coughs, Thomas' eyes laying on him for a few, long seconds. "Come on, now you're sounding like one of the infected."

"You can't get him out because he isn't there!" Teresa seemed to be pleading, Aris still silent and shaking like a leaf beside her. "I told you, they took him to the trials before they let us go."

As soon as she said it, her face went pale.

"So they let you out?" Thomas asked her, raising her eyebrows slightly.

"I didn't- okay. They did, because they knew the virus was airborne."

"But why in the living bloody hell would they let you out? You're immune like the rest of 'em." Newt spoke this time, his voice slightly gargled and out of place. Thomas closed his eyes, breathing in deeply as he fought the need to look at his friend. He couldn't help but feel responsible, even though the virus was something he couldn't control. Maybe if he had stayed, they could have found something in his blood or some shit that would help with finding the cure? "Something's not bloody right with your buggin' story."

But they would have been able to find it in the first two years they kept him captive inside that hell of a building.

"I'm telling the truth! They let us out because they knew the virus was airborne and they had to get out themselves."

Thomas stared at her. "But they wouldn't just let you out. They would have taken you with them." Then it clicked. It clicked so suddenly he almost sent himself off balance with the realisation, that anger inside of his chest beginning to burn as he looked at her. "They let you out to find me, didn't they?"

Her eyes filled with even more tears when she finished speaking. Thomas scoffed, ignoring the way his own eyes teared with the realisation that she had been lying the entire time. But he should have expected it, right?

"I shucking knew it." Gally snapped, his back to Thomas. "I knew there was more. I knew there was more to your fake story." He kept on rambling like it was the only thing he could do.

"And what were you meant to do when you found me? Persuade me to come with you? For the trials or whatever the fuck they are?" Thomas was stepping closer to her, trying to make her feel intimidated. When he had become a person like this, he didn't recall. It had quite literally happened overnight. "Did you really think that was going to work? Did you really think I'd willingly come back to that hell of a building?"

"I didn't know you would be like this." Teresa answered him, her glassy blue eyes roaming around everyone who was watching on. "I didn't think you had changed so much."

"What did you expect? That I'd be over the moon to see you after you left me for dead?" He had no idea where the thoughts were coming from.

"Tom, we've already had this conversation!"

"Where's Alby?" Thomas pressed on, clenching his fists.

"He's not here! He's gone. For the trials. You can't get him back, even if you come with me."

"Why would I want to go with you?"

"What if I told you," She was now the one pressing, suddenly becoming dead serious. "That we could find the cure. That WICKED could find the cure with these trials. What if I told you we could save them?" She nodded her head in Chuck's and then Newt's directions. Thomas didn't take his eyes off her, ignoring the tears welling in his eyes. His facade was breaking, his anger was ceasing. Desperation and his emotions were taking over once again.

"Don't listen to her, Tommy. Looks to me as if she's tryna get into your head." Newt said from beside him, his voice still sounding the exact same. His breathing was also becoming heavy, he was coughing after that once sentence. "I barely know this shuckface, but it's already quite bloody clear that she's trying to get inside of your head. Don't worry about me, worry about Alby."

Thomas still didn't look at him. He kept eye contact with Teresa, trying to keep up his strong facade. "He's right."

"He's dying."

"Watch your tongue." Minho snapped this time, his voice so suddenly full of anger. "Say something like that again and a bullet will be between your eyes." Thomas's eyes widened as Minho threatened with such menace and seriousness in his tone. As if he'd really do it.

Thomas wasn't so sure he'd stop him.

"Minho!" Newt was mumbling, before he was sent into another coughing fit.

"We don't have time for this." Gally snapped, stepping between himself and Teresa. With one hand, Gally pushed him several steps away from Teresa. "We need to get Alby. It won't be long before those idiots go in there and explode the building, we can drive there. Like you said, there's no workers in there, right? Apart from the infected ones? No one's patrolling anymore, there's no Bergs. We can get in easy."

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Teresa sounded so serious Thomas didn't recognise who he was listening to. "You're going to get yourselves killed. You'll figure it out when you realise I was right and Alby isn't there."

"Take us there." Gally snapped, ignoring everything she had said.

"Fine. But don't put a bullet between my eyes when you find nothing. Like I said, he's not there. If you really want to follow a lost cause, go ahead." Thomas hated the way she sounded, like it wasn't really her talking. "But I only go if Tom does."

"No." Minho.

Wait, Minho?

"He's not going anywhere near that place." Minho was almost growling at her, Thomas's eyes finding the other male as he left Newt's side to walk up to Teresa instead. "I just heard you say you were let out of that hell to shucking find him, no way is he going back with you. Gally, this is obviously a trap. Whoever's waiting for them'll take him for those trials. If there is even trials."

"I don't care. If Alby's in there, we're going to get him out."

"He's not in there!" Teresa protested, her desperate tone returning.

"Shut up!" Gally snapped so aggressively even Thomas flinched away. "We're going. Thomas or no Thomas, we're going."

"You're going to get yourselves killed!" Teresa was pleading again, like she was quite literally switching between two different personas. "That place is probably crawling with Cranks by now. The workers left behind would be insane by now."

"I don't care. We're going."

"Are you sure you didn't hear me, Tom?" Teresa asked, her voice softer now. "I swear it worked."

"What worked?" Thomas snapped, not liking any word she was saying one bit.

"Looks like it didn't, then."