Archive of Our Own

It's a week before you can walk at all, two before you dare venture beyond the fence that marks the edge of the farm.

You mostly don't need to, thank God. Whoever used to live here kept a full pantry, lots of tinned food. There was a little bottled water, enough to keep you alive for the first couple days, and by the time the water ran out, your ankle had healed enough for you to drag yourself outside, using a broom as a makeshift crutch, where you found a water butt, full from the recent rain.

No, for the most part, you have everything you need. You're not starving or dying of thirst, you've gathered a small stock of firewood and matches, and the building's reasonably defensible, enough that you can sleep at night without fear of undead intruders.

The whole farm seems to be zom-free, come to think of it. You wonder if it's because of the fence, tall, unfriendly and blessedly intact, or the farm's location, tucked away in a fold of the valley, hemmed in on both sides by steep scree slopes. Or perhaps you just got lucky. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as Sam would say.

The thought of Sam - of any of them, really - hurts.

You miss them, that's part of it. You got used to having people around, to hearing that familiar voice in your ear as you carry out your daily tasks, joking with you, laughing, fussing, offering a running commentary on the latest comms shack drama.

But beyond that, and more painful, in a way, is the knowledge that they've given up on you, left you for dead. They must have, or they'd have found you by now.

The logical part of you doesn't blame them. You took a steep fall, after all, steep enough that even you were surprised when you woke up, your ankle twisted unnaturally beneath you and your headset smashed up beyond repair. That you survived the rest of the night, and that you managed to drag yourself, agonisingly slowly, to a shelter? It's nothing short of a miracle and you know it.

So no, the logical part of you doesn't blame them one bit. Rescue missions take time and resources - time and resources that Abel doesn't have, has never had. Janine made that clear from the start. Rescue missions are the exception, not the rule, to be attempted in special cases only, and even then only after a careful cost-benefit analysis. It's a brutal, unsentimental policy, but you know it makes sense, that there's no point in them mounting a rescue mission for what would most likely, in the best-case scenario, be your corpse.

It doesn't quite silence the other part of you, the illogical, resentful part that wishes they'd made more of an effort. You're just one runner, sure, but you thought that Sam at least-

You cut that thought off before it can fully form, not trusting yourself with it. Sam did what he could, you're sure. Not his fault you fell off a cliff, or anyone else's. No, that's on you. You and the zombies chasing you, you suppose. Either way, playing the blame game won't help you now, will it?

You focus on your exercise routine, mostly, walking in the morning, and gradually building up until you can reach the barn door, the gate to the field, the fence at the far end of the field, pushing the pace where you can with little thirty second bursts of not-quite-running. Then, after lunch, it's back to work, with exercises and stretches that you think are helping. Maxine would know better ones, of course, and would probably be horrified by your amateur attempts at physio. But Maxine isn't here, so you do the best you can, and it seems to be working. You hope.

Finally, maybe two and half weeks after your arrival, you can manage a sort of sustained jog. It's ungainly, and it hurts, and it sure as hell won't be enough to save you if you run into fast zoms, but it'll outpace a shambler, at least, and you want to go home, goddamnit.

The next day is spent gathering supplies, rummaging through cupboards and back rooms in search of anything that might help you survive the trip back to Abel. By the end of the day, you've got matches, and blankets, and waterproofs, and best of all, some Kendal mint cake in a nifty metal tin to supplement the corned beef and tinned chilli you scrounged from the kitchen. You'd have liked to have found a map, or a compass, but apart from that, you've got just about everything, and you fall asleep feeling reasonably content for the first time in a long while.

Tomorrow's going to be a slog, but at the end of it, you'll be that little bit closer to home.

The going, as you suspected, is slow, and for a while you're stuck walking, the terrain too rough to jog over even if you'd wanted to. It's frustrating. You're a runner, after all, and maybe you forgot that for a bit, got out of the habit while you were recuperating, but now you've got a mission again, it's all coming back to you, and you want to run, you need to run.

Better safe than sorry, Runner 5, you can hear Janine warning you, when you think that. Wouldn't want you turning an ankle out there, would we?

You laugh, even though it's not that funny, and the sound echoes. A reminder of just how lonely it is out here, just how far out you are from civilisation. For whatever civilisation's worth nowadays.

It's like that for the whole first morning. The ground flattens out after an hour or so, thank goodness, and you can pick up the pace a bit then, especially once you find what looks like an old National Trust footpath, overgrown but still marked out, and trampled down by sheep, if nothing else. The wording has worn off most of the signs you find, of course, and you suspect it wouldn't have helped, even if you could read it. Not like you know the area, is it?

All you know is that it's quiet. Strangely quiet. You didn't expect to see a living soul when you set out, of course, not really. But you expected zombies. The lack of the living dead unsettles you, in a strange way.

Weird, isn't it, the things you find yourself missing. You know, the other day I realised, I'll never have ham and pineapple pizza again, and I tell you what, I cried, honest to God...

You shake your head in an attempt to chase Runner 3 away. As grateful as you are for the company, you need to focus on the path, and you probably should keep your eyes peeled for zoms, just in case any turn up. Not for the first time since you set out, you miss having a headset, and somebody to tell you what's approaching from your six.

Enlightenment comes in the afternoon, at least regarding the lack of zoms.

You're mostly on the flat by that point, crossing a seemingly endless stretch of fields. The farms, dotted here and there, are bigger than the one you came from, more industrial-looking, so you suspect you'll be coming to a settlement at some point. A former settlement, you remind yourself, just as the first houses come into sight.

Still, as you get closer, something tells you that the settlement might not be quite as former as you thought. There's smoke coming out one house's chimney, after all, and when you get closer you could swear you spot a curtain twitching.

You wave, and a woman comes out, waving back with a friendly smile that's only slightly undermined the shotgun she's levelling at you.

"Can't be too careful, you know," she shrugs, once you're close enough to hear. "We've had zoms in the past who've waved back, like a reflex or something. You never know until they've a bit closer. You're good though, I can see that. Nice and human-coloured."

You smile back - no hard feelings - and the shotgun is lowered.

"How come you're out here anyway?"

You shrug. Not worth trying to explain, and the woman seems friendly enough not to take offence. Sure enough-

"That's fair, I'm sure it's none of my business. But we don't get many visitors up this way, so if you fancy a sandwich and a cup of tea, you'd be more than welcome to stop by, no questions asked. There's just three of us, you see, and it does get a little lonely."

You nod gratefully, and the woman grins, and an hour later you're ready to carry on, your spirits buoyed by the tea and the conversation. You offer the woman - Margaret, her name is - some of your Kendal mint cake as you leave. It's the least you can do, but she just shakes her head.

"The company's more than enough, I won't take your supplies. You'll need them on the road, anyway," she adds, then pauses. "I guess you've picked a good time to be travelling, though, what with everything the folks over at Abel are doing."

You freeze, and Margaret frowns.

"Or did you not know about that? I swear it's all anyone on Rofflenet is talking about. They've been doing some sort of manoeuvres, noisemakers, vehicles, tight formations, the works. It's attracting every zom west of Ilverington, seems like, and they've been at it for near on two weeks now, Lord knows why."

You frown, because that sounds a hell of a lot like the whole-township defence drills Janine's been planning for a while, but you thought they still were just that, plans. Either you were wrong, or Janine has moved the schedule forward considerably. The location's odd, too. "Every zom west of Ilverington" would suggest they're doing the drills on the wooded, eastern side of Abel. But surely the grassy western side would be better for that kind of thing, right?

It's a mystery, but not one you're going to solve talking to Margaret, so in the end you just go for a sort of shrug. Gift horses, mouth, Sam chips in again, in your head, and you decide as Margaret waves you off that he's probably right. No zombies can only be a good thing, whatever the reason for it. You don't know why Janine's moved the drills forward, or why she's made what looks like a tactical blunder with the location. What you do know is that, blunder or not, it's cleared you a path almost all the way home.

It's not until you're a good few miles away that you wonder if that was maybe the point.

The afternoon wears on and before you know it, it's evening and you're looking for a place to bed down for the night. Vague memories flash through your mind of childhood friends who were in the scouts, and who always seemed much better at this sort of thing than you. You wonder where they are now. Happily camping away, you hope, out in the wilderness, their water expertly purified and their campfires responsibly extinguished at the end of the day.

You don't have a tent, but it's not like you wanted one anyway. Easier to spot a zombie approaching if there isn't a layer of fabric there. No, instead of bedding down in a tent, you're on the look-out for a hidey-hole, a hollow tree perhaps, or an abandoned building. Somewhere to hunker down and maybe get an hour or two of shut-eye.

Heading towards a patch of woods, you know you've earnt it. You made good ground today, and while you still don't know exactly where you are - should have asked Margaret, idiot - you at least know, thanks to Janine's manoeuvres, that you should be heading roughly west. With a direction to head in, it almost feels like old times, Runner 5 out on a dangerous mission, minus Sam's inane commentary, which might actually be an impro- no, you can't say that, not even as a joke. You'd give an arm and a leg to hear the operator's voice again, and you know it.

You might actually give a leg, you remind yourself, as you reach the treeline and your ankle twinges. You think you've done everything right, first aid-wise, of course, but you still know you probably shouldn't be walking on it, and you definitely shouldn't be running on it. The sooner you find somewhere to stop, the better.

Thankfully, you find what you're looking for among the trees - a little hollow, right up under the roots of a fallen tree, just big enough to snuggle up in as long as you don't mind getting a little loamy. Which you very much don't, because it's been two weeks since you showered, more or less, and you've had maybe three changes of clothes in that time, total.

As you climb into the hollow, your injured foot bumps against something with a metallic clunk, and you hiss at the jolt of pain it sends up your leg. It's too dark to see what it is, so tentatively you reach down into the hollow only to find - a box, of some kind? It's metallic, and fairly small, sort of shoe-box sized, and you think you can feel a lock attached to it, one of the combination ones with all the dials. For a moment you think about getting a fire going, just so you can take a look at the thing. But then you remind yourself the box will survive until morning, which you might not if you make too much noise gathering wood.

Better safe than sorry, Janine reminds you, or possibly Sara, you're too tired to tell. Whoever it was, they're right, you think, as you pull yourself down beneath the tree roots. You'll work it out tomorrow. Right now, it's time for sleep.

The night passes surprisingly quickly, and you do manage to get some sleep, more than you expected. You check yourself for bites when you wake up, more thoroughly that is probably necessary, because let's be real, if you were bitten in the night, a) that probably have woken you up, and b) you probably wouldn't be thinking rationally enough to check yourself right now. Still, it's a comforting ritual, now that you're sleeping out in the open.

Hazy memories come back to you of doing something similar with your friends as part of a camping trip you did for Duke of Edinburgh, of all things, only then you'd been checking for midge bites, and while you didn't like midge bites particularly, you also remember secretly hoping for some, purely for the bragging rights it would get you. Getting eaten alive by insects was a bit of a right of passage on DofE, after all. Whereas getting eaten alive by zombies is... well, it is what it says on the tin, you guess. Less bragging rights, more aaaaaaarghrghrgh.

Thankfully, you seem to be intact - and that's when you remember the box. Your curiosity picqued, you turn back to the tree, where sure enough, there it is. A small, grey, lockable box, maybe a foot long, the sort you might have kept important documents in, back in the day. Which doesn't answer the question of what it's doing here, of all places.

You reach in to pull it out, and as you do so, you notice something scrawled on the box in Sharpie. The writing is messy, but you feel a chill as you read the words scrawled there.

Property of Abel Township, open in case of emergency (2235).

Property of Abel Township? Your hands shaking slightly, you turn the dials, putting the right code in. 2235. ABEL. Nerds.

Then the box opens, and what is inside might just be the most beautiful thing you've seen in your life, because it's a full emergency cache. There's one of those tinfoil survival blankets, packaged up impossibly neatly, and a set of water purification tablets, and a Swiss army knife attached to a compass, and - most excitingly - a map, with Abel circled in red.

Home, somebody's labelled it, with a wonky little smiley face, and suddenly you're tearing up, because they're right. Abel is home, and now you can see it on a map, it's more real than ever. You're going home, in a day or so you'll be home.

Giddy at the thought, you almost miss the little things, hidden away at the bottom of the box. It's only when you pick the thing up to put it back and it rattles that you realise you've missed something - several somethings, in fact. You wonder what else might be in the cache, what else Abel might have deemed essential. But flipping it open again, you stop short.

A Curly Wurly. That's the first thing. A single Curly Wurly, badly bent out of shape, and beside it a small pair of knitted gloves, Fair Isle and grubby. And finally, a medallion of some sort, with a man on it. St. Christopher, you think, although your knowledge of that kind of stuff is pretty minimal.

They're small things, all of them, and not particularly useful, but you know them. Hell, you've seen some of them, and not that long ago, either. Runner 3's last Curly Wurly, the one he may or may not have lost in a bet to Runner 7, and that neither of them were allowed to eat until the bet was settled. The lopsided mittens that Jody made herself, and that she wore whenever she went running, even though they didn't really fit. The medallion is the only one you've never seen before, but taken with the other things, you can hazard a guess who it belonged to.

The objects, mundane as they are, transform the emergency cache into something else entirely. Because, for all that they aren't survival essentials, they aren't sentimental items, either. Simon was ready to eat that Curly Wurly, after all, and Jody's been talking about making some new gloves for weeks, and more than any of that, you suspect that if Sara ever believed in St Christopher, that time is long since past. No, they aren't sentimental things, exactly, but they are nice things. The nicest thing you might have on you, in fact, if you were coming back from a run and found yourself having to erect a makeshift memorial to a fallen friend.

You blink, tears flowing in earnest now, and your throat threatening to close up, and you wonder, if only to distract yourself, what the point of all the other emergency items was. Perhaps the runners knew you'd survived, you think, knew you'd need the items. As much as you'd like to believe that, though, you know it's more likely that the cache existed already, that it was already on the planned run route for the day, for whatever reason. And honestly, there's a certain beauty to that idea, too, the thought of them all creating a ritual on the fly from something as practical as a routine resupply.

You pocket the Curly Wurly before pulling on the gloves. They fit you even worse than they did Jody, but they're nice all the same. With the gloves on, you struggle with the medallion, and for a second you wonder why you didn't put it on first. In the end, instead of wearing it, you tuck it securely into one of your inside coat pockets, the one with a zip. It'll be safer there anyway, you think, and to be honest, there's something comforting about the way you can feel it there, pressed up against your chest.

It only takes a few minutes after that to pack your new-found belongings into the backpack you took from the farm, and then you're ready to go. As you're about to set off, though, you stop.

You should leave something yourself, you think, just like they did. A tribute, of sorts, to the runners who didn't make it, because not for the first time, you're struck by how incredibly lucky you are to be alive. You open your pack again, rummaging around for something suitable.

It's the Kendal mint cake that stays, in the end, along with a pretty white shell that you didn't even know was in the backpack, and a handful of batteries for good measure. You hope, as you close the box and hide it again, that whoever finds them will understand. Or at least that they'll have a use for the batteries.

The second morning doesn't go as smoothly as the first - perhaps inevitable, now you're slightly closer to Abel, where Janine's manoeuvres are apparently attracting half the zombies in the county. Still, the first pack of zombies you pick up are a nasty surprise, and a painful reminder of why radio operators are so useful.

They're shamblers, so you outrun them easily enough, that's not the problem. No, the problem is the brook you end up crossing to escape them, and the slippery rocks that are waiting for you on the other side of it, coated in moss, and just in the right place to trip an unsuspecting runner with a bad ankle.

Cursing your luck - but quietly, in case there more zoms around, you peel up your now-sopping trouser leg to get a look at the damage. Whatever you've done, it's bruising already, the side of your ankle a lovely shade of purple. You try to remember if it's a good thing when bruises appear so quickly. It certainly doesn't feel like a good thing, but there's not much to be done about it either way.

You wash it off in river water, and then inspiration hits and you rummage around in your pack until you find it: an old sock. Not a bandage by any stretch of the imagination, but it'll do until you can get a real one. You tie it tight around your ankle, hoping that it'll provide a degree of support, if nothing else, and then it's off again, more painfully now, but not much slower than before. You can't afford to go much slower.

Once almost-bitten, twice shy. You spot the second pack of zombies around lunchtime, long before they reach you, which gives you plenty of time to get out of their way. It means changing direction almost entirely, but when you hear their distant growls, you're can't feel to bad about it. They sound hungry.

Please, sir, can I have some moarrrrrrrrrgh?

It's Jody's kind of joke, dark and a little weird, and you can almost hear her saying it. Sam would tell her to knock it off, and you can hear that, too, the familiar mix of exasperation and amusement and genuine irritation, the product, you know, of an overactive imagination and a protective streak a mile wide. You smile at the thought of it and carry on, making sure to give the pack a wide berth.

The diversion takes you into another patch of woodland, but quite a different patch to the one you spent the night in. While the woods there were dense and dark, these are more spacious, easier to traverse, and smaller too, if the light up ahead is anything to go by. In fact, you can see grass through the trees ahead - and sand?

Stepping out of the cover of the trees you blink, but the sand is still there, and looking around you realise why - this must have been a golf course, once upon a time. Scrabbling for the map, you open it up, hunting desperately for a golf course, and it takes a while, but there it is, Hinshaw Golf Club. You can even see the trees you just came out of marked on the map, and the clubhouse, down the hill, which still seems to be standing. Good old Ordinance Survey, you think, accurate even after the apocalypse.

Of course, glad as you are to finally know where you are, there's still the small matter of plotting the best route to Abel, the one with the lowest chance of zombies.

Looking at the map, there are a few options. One route would cut through Hinshaw itself before skirting a bunch of larger towns all the way to Abel. It'd mostly be road walking, you think - tempting, with your ankle - but you're not willing to risk it. It's too populated a route to take without a weapon, too many potential zoms.

A second route looks a little more promising, cutting along an old railway line before taking a sharp right at a reservoir. But the maps suggests you'd be climbing hills once you'd got past the reservoir, and that's the last thing you want right now.

So the third option it is, a long, winding route that takes you well out of your way, almost all the way to Finchington. It's a long way to go, you think, but beggars can't be choosers. You have to cross the river somewhere, and of all the options, Finchington does look safest. And don't New Canton run missions out there, sometimes? The name seems familiar, at least, and the prospect of making contact - even if it is with New Canton - is a welcome one.

Spurred on, you make it through the afternoon without encountering any more undead. You hear them a few times, each time startlingly close, snarling and groaning like they're onto you. But each time, the snarling fades away again, the zombies clearly headed in some other direction. Probably Janine's defensive drills, you think, reminding yourself to thank the woman when you get back.

Finally, Finchington appears on the horizon. It's a small place, you think, a couple of houses strung out along a main road. A shop probably, and a pub, maybe a post office. Quiet, either way, you think, notions of making contact with New Canton disappearing as you get closer and it becomes abundantly clear that nobody's here, dead or alive.

You sigh. It was a slim chance, you guess, and you're still on track for Abel, at least. You go to check the map again, and that's when you see it, hanging on a stile up ahead.

You aren't sure quite what it is, not at first, just that it's bright, the fluorescent orange of it breaking up the greens around it. As you get closer though, it becomes clearer - it's a sports bag, one of the old drawstring ones. Somebody's written on it you think, squinting, or drawn on it, perhaps. It looks like-

You stop, confused. That can't be-

But it is. Written on the bag, clear as day, is the number 5. It's even underlined.

At a loss for what to do, you approach the bag, unhooking it cautiously from the stile. Whatever's inside, it's light. Fumbling with the cords, you get it open, only to be greeted by a tangle of wires, something hard and plastic connected them, and there, in the middle of it all, a scrap of paper. You pull the paper out first, hoping it will explain and sure enough, it's a note, the neat writing strangely familiar.

Dear Runner 5,  it starts.

Dear, it continues on the next line, and then stops.

Dear Runner 5, it starts again, and you can almost hear the letter-writer sigh.

This is stupid. I don't know your name. I don't even like you. True, I don't hate you as much as I used to. But I wouldn't call us friends, and I don't think you would either, not after I tried to kill you.

The thing is, I owe it to Sam. You too, I guess. You got me out of enough tight spots, after all, and you trusted me, in the end, even after... well, even after I tried to kill you. Not many people would have done that, and I never did thank you for it.

So, consider this a gesture. A thank you, of sorts, and a lifeline, if you're still alive out there. Don't think the irony's lost on me, either - if you asked a month ago how this would end, I don't think either of us would have imagined me giving you a headset, of all things. It's what Lem would have done though, I think.

Stay safe out there, 5. Abel misses you.

Nadia.

You stare at it for a moment, once you've finished reading it, not sure how to feel. Part of you is touched, you think, and part of you is surprised, and part of you is excited. A headset. The very real prospect of making contact, so much sooner than expected, is almost more than you can bear, and your hands tremble as you tip the kit out of the bag.

When you finally see the thing, your heart falls a little. You can't help it. It's a headset, sure, but barely. There are speakers, admittedly, and they are connected, with wires and copious amounts of duct tape, to a signal box, so it should pick up transmissions. But you can't even see a mike, and if it's not got a mike, what are the chances of GPS? Or a camera?

You examine the device further and sure enough, it seems to be a basic one-way receiver. You should still be able to use it to pick up general, public broadcasts. But it won't get you onto the frequency that the Abel runners use, and it certainly won't relay any information back to them. Whoever you end up listening to, they'll have no clue you're listening in, and for a moment the unfairness of it rankles, because this was so close to being perfect.

It makes sense, that's the annoying thing. When you think about it, it makes sense that Nadia might not have a full headset to spare - and if she did, she certainly wouldn't be wasting it on a runner who may or may not be dead. No, even for a runner you actually like, that's not feasible, not with the scarcity of... well, of just about everything, nowadays.

No, the fact that Nadia even took the time to jury-rig this thing, and to send somebody out to Finchington with it? That's not nothing, and you know you should be grateful. Beyond grateful, really, because she didn't have to, and frustrated as you are, it is a link home. A lifeline, as the New Canton operator put it.

You pick it up, try it on. It fits, and when you flick the switch, sounds comes through the headphones. Static, mostly. You twiddle the dial on the side of it, scanning, scanning, scanning, until-

... all we ever .... you want to .... mean, I wouldn't say ... well, yes, but....

Then it's gone, and you fumble with the dial some more, but it's hopeless, nothing but static. A shame, because even garbled, you'd have recognised Jack and Eugene's back and forth anywhere. Still, it's proof the device works. You just hope the poor reception will clear up as you get closer to Abel.

You make sure to tuck Nadia's note into a pocket as you set off again. You get the feeling you'll want to read it again, once this is over, if only as food for thought. You still wouldn't call Nadia a friend. But part of you thinks she might just be worth crossing off the enemies list.

You walk for a bit after that, partly to take the strain off your ankle, partly because it'll let you fiddle with the headset a bit more easily. It's pointless, for the most part. The most you ever get is a few words here, a snatch of a song there, never enough to identify. Still, it keeps you occupied, and for that you're grateful. The stretch of bridleway you ended up on after leaving Finchington is boring, to say the least, all tarmac and weeds and high hedgerows blocking your view. Mind-numbing at the best of times, but now, after a full day running? You yawn, noticing how dim it's getting, and how heavy your backpack's feeling. Time to settle down for the evening, you think.

Naturally, that's when your third pack of the day turns up, slavering and growling, and alarmingly quick. Fast zoms, you think, feeling sick.

That's what you get for tempting fate, the Simon in your head chips in, unhelpfully, before Sam interrupts him. No time for that now, 3, just focus on running. You too, 5! Run!

It's the kick you need to get you going, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you pick up speed. With the headset on, it almost feels like old times, and you keep going for a good few miles before it finally gets too much and you collapse into a hedgerow, panting and sweaty, your ankle throbbing in time with your heartbeat. You close your eyes and listen, hoping against hope that they're gone.

They aren't, not quite. You can hear them a little way back, chomping on something that you desperately hope is a sheep. Still, it's slowed them down at least, enough that you can afford to slow down too, once you set off again. Walking would probably be unwise, still. But a jog should be fine.

You end up doubling most of the way back to Finchington, by which point the zoms are well and truly behind you and you feel comfortable bedding down for the night, this time in the cab of an abandoned farm truck you find just off the bridleway. It's not as warm as last night's tree-hollow, but the truck's metal wall are reassuringly solid, and you even find an old granola bar squished up under the driver's seat.

Not bad, you think, chowing down. Not good, you add, because it isn't. But not bad either, on balance.

You lie there a while longer, just thinking. You should be knackered, you know, but somehow sleep proves elusive. Maybe it's the remnants of adrenaline that does it, or maybe it's the ever-present fear of the zoms returning. Mostly, though, it's Abel your mind keeps drifting back to.

This time tomorrow you should be there, you think, and for a moment it doesn't feel real. You wonder how they'll react when you turn up at the gates. You wonder how you'll react. Half of you wants to play it cool, to stroll in all casually, really lean into the "stone-cold badass" reputation that Sam's  created for you, despite all evidence to the contrary. The other half of you - the more realistic half - knows that there'll be tears. Snotty tears, probably, the sort that leave you blotchy-faced and give you a headache afterwards.

You sigh. You're never going to get to sleep at this rate. Then you have an idea. Carefully, because you don't want to drop it in the dark, you pull your headset out, get the headphones settled over your ears, memories flashing through your head of a friend years ago who suffered from insomnia, and swore by these white noise podcasts. They always did sound like radio static to you, you think, as you close your eyes and flip the switch-

-10 PM, so that's pretty much it from us, I'm afraid.

Your eyes fly open again as a familiar voice crackles out of the speaker, miraculously clear.

Tune in tomorrow, for great tunes, questionable advice and, in an Abel first, an interview with the one, the only-

Oh cut it out, Jack. You make it sound like I've never been on the show before!

Well, you haven't! Not as an interviewee. It's exciting, Gene!

It's getting their hopes up, that's what it is, you ruffian.

An unprofessional snort of laughter.

Did you seriously just call me a ruffian?! That's like something my great-aunt Mabel would have said! Might as well call me a... a scoundrel, or a hoodlum! Or ... or a ne'er-do-well!

Another snort of laughter, Eugene this time.

You said it, not me.

A groan.

You know I didn't- oh, don't give me that look! Stop it! God, I swear you're worse than 5 sometimes.

A sudden pause, long and awkward.

I'm sorry, I didn't -

Jack cuts himself off, and for a moment neither of them say anything. Finally, Eugene breaks the silence.

It's okay, Jack. It's only been a few weeks, it's allowed to still be weird.

A pause again, and then a sigh from Jack.

Yeah, I guess. I just... it's horrible, not knowing, you know? Like, nobody enjoys seeing their friend go grey, but at least then you know.

A final pause, longer than the rest, and you think you hear Eugene knock something over in the recording booth - he's reaching over to hold Jack's hand, you'd wager anything.

5 could still be out there, you know, stuck somewhere, he says, gently, firmly. Like when you were missing. You came back, didn't you?

A snort.

Yes, maybe 5's also being held hostage by a deranged bunch of Downton Abbey knock-offs.

A pause, as Jack considers the possibility.

I kinda hope that's true, actually.

Yeah. Me too.

A moment's silence before Eugene speaks.

Well, Runner 5, if you're out there listening, I guess that means this last song's for you. We'll be back for breakfast tomorrow, as always, 8 AM sharp, but until then that's all from me, Eugene Woods-

And me, Jack Holden. Stay safe, Abel, and sleep well.

The song comes on, and it's not one you know, but you kind of like it. You listen right through to the end, and once it's over you listen to the static for a while, your mind miles away.

The last thing you remember, before drifting off to sleep, is flicking the switch to turn the headset off. Even half-conscious, the need to conserve battery power has been drilled into you so often by the operating team that it's practically a reflex.

Night, Sam, night, Janine, you think sleepily. Tell Jack and Eugene the show rocked.

You wake up at the crack of dawn in a not-inconsiderable amount of pain, and for a moment you wonder if the scenario you were joking about yesterday - becoming a zombie midnight snack - might have come true.

The frantic but thorough self-examination that follows this thought reveals no bites, thankfully, but as you check yourself over, it soon becomes apparent what the issue is. Your ankle, you can see, now you've come down off whatever sleep-deprived adrenaline high you were on yesterday, is clearly in a bad way, hopelessly swollen and an even more violent shade of reddish-purple than before. Even without Dr Myers' medical degree, you know straight away that there'll be no running today - hell, even walking might prove challenging.

Cursing internally, you root around for the map, desperately hoping that Abel is still in your now-considerably-reduced range. You can't afford another night outside, after all, not with dwindling supplies and a messed-up ankle. Abel is in range, you decide in the end, after a bit of mental maths. Even walking, you should reach Abel today, the question's more whether you can get there before the gates close for the night. If you can, great. But if you can't...  well, Abel attracts a lot of zoms at night, and Janine's stance on opening the gates out of hours is about as flexible as her stance on Runner 3's proposed Abel Naturist Association.

You get it, of course. You've seen first hand what happens to camps that aren't so strict about it. It's not a fate you want your friends at Abel to meet, ever, and yet... well, you can't deny it. Part of you resents the fact that after running scores of missions, after picking up countless supplies, after falling off a cliff for them, Abel's official policy, if you turned up at the gates after dark, would be to turn you away. It's just about the cruellest fate you can imagine, eaten by zombies on your own front doorstep.

You shake your head, as if to chase the thought away. Worrying about it will only slow you down, and that's exactly what you don't want right now. No, the best thing you can do for yourself now is to get going, so gritting your teeth, you attempt to climb down from the truck, leaning heavily on a nearby fence post for support.

Your ankle still takes your weight, you're pleased to find, but it feels like it might give way at any moment, so the first order of business is finding a sturdy enough branch to use as a crutch. That done, you're good to go. You gather your belongings up into your pack, pop your headset on and off you go, stick in hand, looking, for all the world, like a regular, pre-apocalyptic hiker.

The going is predictably rough. Actually, scratch that, it's not just rough. It's torture. Never again will you use the word to describe Jack's singing, or Sara's training regime, or that mushy pea pasta bake they occasionally serve in the cantine, because this? This is quite possibly the most miserable, aggravating, stupid thing you've had to put up with since the apocalypse began, and torture does not begin to cover it.

To distract yourself, you take to fiddling with your headset, hoping for a repeat of last night. Occasionally, it works, and by lunchtime you've caught Janine talking about gun safety, Maxine advising you on the best way to avoid tooth decay, and, perhaps most excitingly, Runners 4 and 7 performing what seems be a two-person radio reenactment of an old-school Doctor Who episode.

Eugene's interview is lost in static, unfortunately, and there's not a peep from Sam, either, which is unusual, because the Radio Abel booth is right next door to the comms shack, so there's normally a bit more crossover, Jack and Eugene dropping into Sam's broadcasts to ask about something, or vice versa. Today there's none of that - in fact, the single time Sam's mentioned, Jack deftly steers the topic away, so subtly that for a moment you don't even notice.

You try not to read to much into it. Perhaps Sam's in the middle of something that can't be interrupted, a real nail-biter of a mission. Or perhaps Janine has him out and about, testing headsets or something, or maybe he's got the day off - it's never happened before, but there's a first time for everything. There are any number of reasons why the operator might not be available, so you really shouldn't be getting hung up on it, it's just... well, if you're being honest, it's not even that you're that worried about him, it's more that you just want to hear his voice again.

Frustrated, you end up flicking the headset off. No point listening if it's just going to stress you out, especially not with limited battery power. The silence, after maybe half an hour of pretty consistent radio reception, is deafening.

Only it's not, you realise, after a few seconds. There's a noise up ahead, too faint for you to identify. For a moment you're convinced it's zombies again, dread sinking into your stomach as you contemplate running. But then the wind changes, and you can make out voices.

Relief courses through your veins, and it only gets stronger once your turn the corner - it's a band of survivors, ragged but clearly at ease, enough that they're cooking something. The smell wafts over to you and you can't help but groan, the mere thought of hot food making your stomach rumble.

You're maybe fifty feet away when they spot you, and immediately there's a gun pointed at your head.

"Not one step further!"

You freeze, cursing yourself internally for not anticipating this. Of course they're going to be wary. You're filthy. You're limping. And you've run into them at meal time, just when they're most vulnerable to attack.

Slowly, cautiously, you raise your hands, showing that you aren't armed. The man with the gun nods in acknowledgement, then looks down at your leg, the unspoken question heavy in the air between you. You shake your head, waving your makeshift crutch in the air. Injured, yes, bite, no.

The man relaxes visibly and lowers the gun, waving you over.

"Sorry about that," he apologises, once you arrive. "Can't be too careful out this way, there are fast zoms around."

You can't avoid a huff of laughter at that. The man looks at you questioningly, and you roll your eyes, looking meaningfully down at your foot.

"Ah." He shoots you a sympathetic look. "Yes, I guess that explains that."

It's easy going after that. The man - Mark - introduces you to the rest of the group, somebody offers you a spam fritter, and before you know it, you're sat on a tree stump as one of them - Other Paul, he used to be a doctor - checks your ankle out.

"I won't lie," he says, once he's done, "It's not good. It will heal," he adds, reassuringly, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, "But the sooner you get this iced and off the ground, the better. Beyond that, I'm not sure what I can advise."

A disgruntled kind of pause.

"Although, and I can't believe I'm recommending this, but if you will insist on walking much further on it, anti-inflammatories might help, paracetamol, ibuprofen, low-dose codeine. Anything like that, if you've got it."

You make a face, and the doctor sighs.

"Yeah, figures."

He pauses, glances round, then looks at you, almost calculatingly. Finally, he leans in towards you, speaking quietly enough that the others can't hear.

"Look, it might not be any use, but word is, the doctor over at Abel's been tagging along on runs these last couple of weeks, stashing medical supplies around the place."

You blink, confused more than anything, and Other Paul must catch it, because he shrugs.

"They're... well, officially they're part of some initiative, the Abel runners are all supposed to be able to use them, but unofficially, everyone knows they're intended for a specific runner. One who's almost certainly dead, and the doc knows it, but I guess grief does funny things to people."

Your stomach twists painfully, as Paul, oblivious, carries on.

"Anyway, I don't approve of stealing from the dead, the others even less so. Especially not..." he trails off, looking conflicted. "Well, the person it's meant for, the runner? They were a bit of a legend round here, even to us non-Abel folks. So as a mark of respect, if we were scavenging and stumbled across a stash, let's hypothetically say it was in an old barn a couple of miles back, I'm sure we hypothetically would have left it there, anti-inflammatory painkillers and all. You get my drift?"

He shoots you a significant look and you nod. It's just about all you can do around the lump that's formed in your throat.

"Good," he murmurs, and that's that. Your ankle re-bandaged, much more competently than before, you're reminded that you're on a timetable, one that really can't wait. Waving goodbye to the group, you set off again instead, fed, rested and much less miserable than before.

If you get little misty-eyed thinking about Maxine leaving supplies for you? Well, it's not like anybody's around to see.

The barn's exactly where Paul said it would be and you waste no time once you get there, clambering awkwardly in over a pile of farm equipment that must have been there since the apocalypse began.

The meds stash itself proves a little harder to find, and for a moment you're left turning in circles, wondering where Maxine - clever, practical Maxine - would have put it. Somewhere unobtrusive, you think, but not somewhere completely hidden, she does want you to find it. Nowhere that animals could get into it, you think, ruling out the floor, and certainly nowhere unsanitary, which rules out a lot of the rest of the barn.

Your eyes alight on something on the other side of the room - a plastic bin, unobtrusive and relatively clean. Bingo. You hobble over and sure enough, there's a bag in there, and when you open it, there they are: painkillers in all their neatly packaged glory, along with bandages, plasters, antiseptic spray, all labelled up in Maxine's distinctively spiky writing.

You check the recommended dosage on the painkillers, then take the maximum. You know, logically, that you won't be feeling the benefit for another fifteen minutes at least, but it's an immediate relief none the less. That done, you stick the rest of the pills in the same jacket pocket with Sara's St. Christopher, before quickly rifling through the rest of the medical kit, checking there's anything else that might be useful.

There isn't, although you're briefly tempted by the scissors, if only because you still don't have a weapon. Having a blade on you, even just a tiny pair of first-aid scissors, is tempting - that is, until you realise how ridiculously pointless it would be. If you're close enough to a zombie to stab it with a pair of scissors, you're also close enough for it to have bitten you already.

With that cheery thought, you decide it's probably time to leave. Packing the kit up again, you put it back where you found it, turning to leave - and that's when you spot it, daubed across the back of door you came in through in reasonably fresh red spray paint.

Abel, 12 miles - you can do it!!!

You don't recognise the writing this time, and in a way it doesn't matter. Even if he didn't physically write it, you know exactly whose idea it was, because the supportive tone, the unfounded optimism, the slightly manic exclamation marks? They're all Sam, and they're Sam in panic mode, his usual fussing set aside in favour of a fake, breezy confidence that's half him trying to convince you that everything's okay, and half him trying to convince himself.

You've heard it a million times before, and every time you've hated it.

"Nearly there, Runner Five, you've got this!", as Deadlocks take pot shots at you from a rooftop.

"Just a little further, Runner Five, you're going to make it!", as a pack of shamblers corner you in an abandoned supermarket.

"Almost home, Runner Five, you're doing great!", as fast zoms snap at your heels, mere meters away from the Abel gates.

Of course, up until now it's always been a temporary thing, a coping mechanism that kicks into action in a pinch, but is forgotten five minutes later, once the danger's passed. You get away safely, Sam reverts back to his usual, mildly disgruntled self, and that's how you know that everything's okay, that Sam's okay.

That's how it usually goes. This time? Well, this seems a little different, you think, looking at the message on the barn door, its breezy cheerfulness a sure sign that Sam Yao, wherever he may currently be, is not okay, is trapped in a panic mode that might, for all you know, have triggered the moment you fell off that cliff, and certainly hasn't switched off since, not if he's sending runners out to spray-paint you messages.

God, Sam.

You shake your head, worry and the fierce desire to see Sam again mixing together and making you feel queasy. The sooner you get back to Abel, the better - and not just for your own sake, it seems.

All the more reason to get going.

With a sigh, you check the meds are safely in your pocket, and that your pack is securely strapped on. Your branch is propped up by the barn door where you left it, and the way ahead seems clear.

12 miles to Abel, you think, and knowing the precise distance does help, a bit. Sam's right. You can do it, Runner 5.

Gritting your teeth, you get going.

Eight miles of relatively pain-free walking later, you run into a problem - a snarling, growling problem that you really should have anticipated.

You've just got back into familiar territory, that's the kicker. Eight miles of walking, and finally you're joining the main road, a twisting B-road you know will take you all the way home, because you know the route, you've run it countless times before.

Not recently, though, your mind supplies, and you struggle to remember why. Did the road get blocked off further down? Or did New Canton get a quicker route cleared? You're still racking your brains when you turn a corner and the answer becomes clear: crawlers, and a lot of them, thrashing and squalling. To make matters worse, the noise seems to be attracting even more zoms from the surrounding area.

They don't seem to have sensed you, at least, and for that you send up a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. Slowly - horribly, painstakingly slowly - you back away, moving as silently as you can until you're a safe distance away and can gauge the situation.

It's not good, you think, once you've done so. There must be 20 zoms there, twice as many if you count crawlers - which you should, Sara admonishes you, rather unsettlingly. Just because they don't shamble, doesn't mean they can't bite.

You watch them for a second, and you wonder how far the zombie-blockade goes. If it's just here, you think, then maybe you could sneak past them, skirt the edge of the field you're in and join the road again further down. It's a gamble, you know, but the alternative's a long, circuitous route, a route that takes time that you just don't have, so you decide to chance it, setting off slowly and oh-so carefully across the field, looking to rejoin the road just as soon as there aren't zombies blocking it.

It takes three quarters of an hour, in the end, much longer than you'd have liked, and as you set off again, the zombies safely behind you, you notice that clouds have gathered, the thick dark sort you get towards the end of the day as the sun goes down. Alarmed, you rack you brains, desperately trying to remember when Abel's gates close - do they close them the minute the sun goes down? Or do they wait until the light's properly gone? For the life of you, you can't remember, and the uncertainty does funny things to your stomach as you pick up the pace.

A bit less than half an hour later, the road narrows, and you turn off down the track that will take you to Abel, tarmac giving way to dirt, branches and dead leaves underfoot, threatening to trip you up in the half-light as you speed up again, ignoring the pain in your leg. You need to get in.

Not far now, the Sam in your head butts in, and you shake your head, but Jody backs him up, Runner 3 too. He's right, you know, it's a mile. A mile and you're landed with us again. You stumble, and suddenly Maxine's in on the act, reminding you not to overextend as you try to recover. No slouching either, nice and straight. You roll your eyes, and sure enough, there's Janine, warning you to take the doc seriously. A runner's health is no laughing matter, 5!  She'll have a whole speech prepared, too, you think, only then it's Sara, practical as ever, with much more pressing business. Zombie at 2 o'clock! Run!

Putting on a  burst of speed you manage to avoid it, and you're going as fast now as you've ever gone, your ankle forgotten, because they all think you can do it, and if they all think you can do it, then you bloody well can, zombies and injuries and the laws of physics be damned.

You push, and you push some more, and Abel's in sight now, or the top of the radio mast is, and you could cry, because suddenly it's real and you're home, and you're going to see them all again, and that radio mast is getting closer, closer, closer-

You turn the corner and the gates are shut.

It doesn't register for a second, and even once it does, you think that maybe they just haven't spotted you yet, that you'll get closer and you'll hear a familiar voice over the tannoy - raise the gates! - and a crackle of gunfire as the guards pick off the tail of zoms you've picked up.

But you get closer and none of that happens, and you're left running in the half-light towards a closed gate, zombies close behind.

You turn, set off round Abel's perimeter, less because it's a good idea and more because you have to go somewhere. As you turn, you catch a glimpse of the zoms - a good dozen, you think, your heart sinking. With that many, there's not much hope of dodging your way round them and certainly no hope of fighting your way through them.

You scan the terrain up ahead, wondering if you could make a break for the woods, maybe climb a tree. But even in the gloom you can tell there are zombies out there in the fields, between you and the treeline. No, you'd do better to corral your tail somehow, lead them into a ditch they can't escape from - if only you knew how to find the defensive ditches in the dark. You scoffed when Sara offered to teach you to find them blindfolded, and now you really wish you hadn't.

You carry on, your mind whirring through the possibilities. Could you fight them at arm's length with your crutch? No, you dropped it maybe a mile back. Could you scale Abel's walls? Not unless you want to get shredded by razor wire before falling to your death. Could you find somewhere and hide? Not likely now the zoms have your scent.

Instead, your mind keeps drifting back to the other option, the tempting one. Because you could almost certainly get their attention, that's the thing. It would be easy, even, you'd just have to wait until you were back at the gates and find something to pound on them with - and there are enough rocks lying around that you reckon you could make a pretty good booming noise. It would attract zoms, of course, but surely Sam-

You cut yourself off, because no. Sam wouldn't let you in. He'd try, you're certain of that. But Janine would stop him, or one of the others. With a  heavy heart, perhaps, but they would - and you know that because you've seen it before. You've seen runners, friends, family members turn up after dark, and each time you've seen them turned away, seen the grief in Janine's eyes, the guilt, heard... well, heard what happened afterwards. It's a noisy business.

You shudder at the memory, and just like that you've no desire to get anybody's attention. Not if that's what's in store for you. Not if they-

Your mind blanks out whenever you get too near to the thought, a sort of panickly white noise taking over of oh God, no, no no no, this isn't happening, and if you can't even think about it, you sure as hell don't want to put the others through that, not when they're the ones who'd actually have to live with it.

No, better you get as far away from Abel as you can in the time that you've got. Hell, maybe if you get far enough, they'll never have to know, can go on thinking you're alive out there. Runner 5 will live on, in a way, and the thought strengthens your resolve: when you get back to the gates, you're going to break off, get as far as you can back towards the road.

You've still half of Abel to go, and the undead are gaining, but you think you'll make it all the way round. You just need to pick up the pace. Could be a new track record, the Sam in your head jokes, and something in your stomach gives a lurch at the idea of never hearing from him again.

Then, an idea. Quickly, without breaking stride, you reach for your headset, toggle it on. This close to Abel the signal should be crystal clear, and you hope against hope that you'll have got lucky, that you'll have caught Sam on one of his not-infrequent guest spots.

The initial static settles down -

-Heinz Baked Beans. That's my pick.

No it is not.

Is too, you said -

- and you could cry because it's Jack and Eugene, and they're arguing about beans, of all things, and you love them dearly, but they're not Sam.

You keep it on as you finish your circuit, all the same. The familiar voices are a reminder that Abel's still standing, still broadcasting, still arguing about beans. Whatever happens to you won't change that, and the thought is surprisingly comforting.

Well what's your desert island food pick, then, if you're gonna be a snob about it?

Mac and cheese.

Mac and - really?! You're criticising my beans, and you go for mac and cheese?

It's almost pointless enough to distract you from all the other stuff. Almost, because the zoms are close enough now for you to pick out individual snarls, and that's not something you can ignore. But Jack and Eugene help, you think, grateful to them for this final service.

Like I said, comfort food. Whereas beans aren't even a meal, they're just-

Shut up.

At first you think it's part of the routine, but then Jack repeats it again, more insistently this time, and deadly serious.

Shut up, Gene, was that-

Whatever it was you never find out. They're saying something, you think, but they've gone off mike, and then there's a noise like the recording booth door is open, and somebody - Sam? - is shouting, and then there's the clatter of two people leaving a recording booth, and you're left with dead air, no clue as to what just happened.

You hope it's not an emergency, but there's not much you can do if it is, so you keep running, pushing the pace, straining to hear anything in the background of the transmission that might give you a clue to what's happening.

A moment later, you're rounding the corner to the gate. Any second now and you'll be turning off towards the road, any second now you'll be - no, not yet, not now, no, no, no.

You struggle to get your breathing under control as you scan for an opening to break away. You've just spotted one, when another noise comes through your headset, piercing and unpleasant.

- that it? I think it's -

- better, it's -

- it again, it's not -

You wince, and it drops out, only to come back again a second later, clearer and stronger than before.

- about now? Runner 5, can you hear me?

It's Jack, you realise, a pain shooting through your chest. So much for Abel never knowing.

The headset looks pretty basic, Eugene chips in. Sam said-

There might not be a mike, I know. A sigh. Runner 5, if you can hear us, could you wave?

You consider ignoring them - maybe that will spare you the "I'm sorry you're about to die" speech - but that feels rude, somehow. Reluctantly, you raise an arm.

The response is immediate and gleeful.

It worked! That was a wave!  Janine?! Janine! It worked! God, Runner 5, would you look at that!

A pause, and then Janine is on the line, her voice as calm and controlled as ever.

Excellent work, Mr. Holden, Mr. Woods. Runner 5? Hang on in there, we're trying something a little experimental here.

You almost laugh. Hang on in there. Easier said than done. The zoms are maybe two yards away now, and you can feel your legs burning. You won't be able to keep this up much longer, adrenaline or no adrenaline. Something's got to give.

And that's when you hear it.

"Raise the gates!"

You make a wide arc, come back around, and by the time you're done, the gates are making their usual noise. It's a racket, of course, but a beautiful, familiar, comforting racket, one that signals home, and safe and friends, and if the noise of the gates is a relief, it's nothing compared to the people you can see behind the gates, Sara, Simon, Jody, and Maxine, weirdly enough, all four of them lit up and wearing strange bulky backpack-looking things.

You're close enough to hear them as they dash out gates, the runners spreading out in some sort of formation as Maxine hangs back, nearer the wall.

"Get inside," she shouts as you approach, gesturing towards Abel, and you don't need telling twice. You run flat-out for the main yard, and as you do so, you can see Maxine setting something up on the ground, flicking switches. It makes a noise, you think, so high-pitched you can barely hear it, and you'd be willing to bet whatever's in the others' backpacks is a portable version of the same apparatus - a modified noisemaker, perhaps?

Whatever it is, it works - and it's a good job too, because the moment the zombies fall back, hissing and clawing at their ears, is the moment your ankle decides to give way. You trip, and then you trip some more, and in the end you sort of tumble through the gates, collapsing in an undignified heap in the main yard. It's not quite the triumphant return you imagined.

Beggars can't be choosers, you think, slightly hysterically, followed by, God, I'm actually home.

You lie there for a second, breathing hard, your ankle throbbing, and as you lie there, you realise somebody is shouting at you, their voice far away, and strangely high up, by the sound of things.

"5?"

Funny, it must be coming from the sniper's nest. You didn't know they manned those at night.

"5, is everything alright? 5?"

The slight note of panic is unmistakable, and blessely familiar - but what's Sam doing up there?

"5!"

Oh, right. Whoops.

You manage a groan, just loud enough that he should hear you, and the response is immediate - a whoop of delight, followed by the noise of somebody clumsily descending a ladder.

"God, Runner 5, you're alive! You're actually alive! I knew it, I knew you couldn't be-"

And then you're being propped up, manhandled into an embrace that's just that little bit too tight, and it's awkward and painful and perfect.

"Don't do that again," you hear, whispered quietly but firmly in your ear, and you shake your head - no - as you breathe in Sam's scent. He smells like the comms shack, all sawdust and coffee and camphor, and the for a moment it's the most beautiful smell in the world.

"Good," he replies, emphatically, and for a moment that's all that needs saying.

Then the others are coming in, and Sam's pulling away, apologetic, rattling commands off into a headset. He must have been directing the whole operation, you realise, noisemakers and all - that's why he was up in the sniper's nest, that's why Jack and Eugene had to take over the regular comms on such short notice. You just wonder how they-

"You tripped a motion sensor on your way in," Sam explains between commands, reading your mind. "Normally we turn them off at night, given the general zombie situation," he shrugs. "But I've... uh, I've taken to checking them last thing before clocking off. Just in case... well, you know."

He glances over at you, his mouth briefly twisting into something tight and painful, and you feel a pang in your stomach. Oh, Sam.

Thankfully that's when the others arrive back, with a holler and a cry and a rattle of gates closing.

"How'd you like them apples, zombie scum?!"

It's loud and obnoxiously Northern, and so very Simon that you can help but laugh, and of course that sets Jody off, and before you know it, the three of you are all together, laughing and hugging, Sam shaking his head fondly off to one side.

"It's so good to see you again 5!"

"Thought for sure you'd gone splat-."

"Simon!"

"What? We did, I don't see the-"

"It's insensitive! Not to mention-"

But whatever Jody has to say, you miss it as Maxine and Sara arrive and immediately start fussing, Maxine peering anxiously at your foot as Sara ushers everyone else away, muttering darkly about appropriate precautions and standard procedure - yes, Sam, especially when it's 5.

"Not that I think you'd have got this far with a bite," she conceded, "but better safe than sorry."

She pats you down as briskly as ever and then - so quickly you might have imagined it, and carefully angled so the others can't see - pulls you into a hug.

"Checking the back of your shoulders," she mutters gruffly, by way of explanation, and that's that.

"All clear!"

Smiles all round, including from Janine - when did she turn up? - and then Maxine takes over, prodding and poking and generally looking concerned. Jody shoots you a sympathetic look over her shoulder.

"What's the damage, doc?" she asks, finally.

A bite of the lip, and when Maxine speaks it's you she's addressing.

"It's... well, it's not great. You know that already. I, uh ... to be honest, it's a miracle you made it so far on your own."

She looks ready to cry, and now the others are looking at you too, all serious and sombre, and there are so many ways you could reply. You want to get the pain meds out, rattle them around, show them all your gloves, your medallion, your Curly Wurly. You want to point to your headset, or get out your map, show them the route you took, right through the area Janine had cleared. You want to flick Radio Abel on, just for a couple seconds, let them hear its familiar cadences, or tell Sam off for his horrible fake cheer.

But you can't do all that, of course, not all at once, and so you do the next best thing and shake your head, with a broad, sweeping gesture towards Abel, towards your home, towards them.

Not on my own. Never on my own.

They get it, you think. For a moment, stood there in the gloom, they get it, and there's a shift, a nod, an acknowledgement.

Then Maxine's talking about painkillers and bed rest and healing time, and Jody's off fetching cocoa, and Janine's trying to persuade everyone to go to bed, some of us are up early tomorrow.

It's beautifully, wonderfully mundane, and you don't feel guilty tuning it out as somebody helps you towards your bunk.

There'll be time to catch up later, you think, a faint smile on your face as you remind yourself of the basics. I'm home, I'm safe, they opened the gates.

The rest, you know, will work itself out. For now? Everything is just fine.