Work Text:
II.
The Jet
Fuck.
The snow had started falling in the late morning, and at the time, he’d done his best to take it with good humor. Like the man sang, sometimes it snows in April. What can you do? At least the sun had been shining, he’d reasoned. It would probably just melt off. But as the day wore on, the snow stayed and the sun didn’t, and he realized that he was going to have to contend with the accumulating ground cover overnight at the very least.
Fucking Indiana.
He had no idea whether this was normal for April in Indiana.
At least it’s covering my footprints.
His exasperation gave way to a stab of fear at the realization that this possible advantage was short-lived; once the snowfall tapered off, he’d be leaving a trail that would make him comically easy to track. The fear passed just as quickly as it had seized him, and he found himself chuckling. Did it matter? It’s not like the Disease had needed his footprints to stalk him up to now.
Did the Disease leave footprints of its own?
Or did it glide above the snow like a spectre? Like the grim reaper?
He doubted either way that the snow would be any hindrance to it. It seemed to move with the same methodical determination regardless of the terrain. There had been a time in his naïvete that he’d cut across creek beds or clambered up hillsides in an effort to put some distance between himself and the Disease, slow it down. Now he stuck to roads. Better to have a solid surface beneath his boots than to risk twisting an ankle. For all his attempts at evasive maneuvering, he’d inevitably feel the Disease’s presence drawing near the moment he let himself rest. Besides, he was uneasy in the woods. They said you were safest outdoors but how outdoors did you have to be? The canopy of trees began to feel dangerously close to a thatched roof and that was the last thing he needed. A technicality.
Miller would know.
Miller had understood a lot about the Disease before anyone else had even started to take it seriously, before the madness had descended that March. He remembered the night on set when Miller had told him that he and Kathryn were going to enter a hermetically-sealed bubble, the seriousness in Miller’s face when he told him that he could join them if he needed to. That they had enough provisions for three people for the next eighteen months. He’d laughed at the time. Eighteen months?! Are you serious?! We don’t even know if this thing will make it over here. I have to live my life!
He wondered if they were alone or if someone else had taken his unused place. Miller always did go for three.
The amusement of this thought was punctured by a sudden, dizzying pain. He tried to keep himself from stumbling to no avail. His knee hit hard against the pavement through a layer of snow and he pitched onto his side. He frantically pulled himself to a kneeling position and tried to get back upright but as he planted his right foot to stand he was hit with another nauseating wave of pain and went down again. He lay supine for a moment, vision swimming. When he was able to focus, he pulled his knee to his chin and strained to examine his boot. He pulled the glove from his hand and his fingers raced over the knobby sole, searching for the source of the pain and finding something flat, hard and metallic. Some kind of tack. He slid the nail of his thumb under it and attempted to lever it out, wincing as he felt it slide free from his flesh. Held between his thumb and forefinger, the tack glistened angrily in the afternoon sunlight, red with blood. He tossed it away toward the shoulder of the road and struggled to remove his boot. Pulling it off, he did his best to hold his sock-clad foot aloft and out of the snow. A small, dark patch blotted the sole. He unrolled the sock and did his best to inspect the wound. It seemed to have come out cleanly, and pressing with his thumb he felt a soreness but nothing close to the shocking pain when the tack’s thorn had been lodged there. His hands began to tremble slightly from the cold air as his adrenaline ebbed. He clumsily unzipped his pack and rooted inside, fishing out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Uncapping it, he sloshed the liquid as best he could over the small puncture wound, drawing breath at the mild sting. He pulled the sock back over his foot and shoved it back into his boot. Despite his best effort, he could feel the dampness of the sock against his skin. He allowed himself to fall to his back, legs bent, staring up at the sky.
The fleeting moment in which he might have stopped the tears passed before he was even conscious of it.
Reggie!
I made a mistake.
I made the wrong choice.
He wasn’t even sure if he’d said the words aloud. His sobs, too, seemed absorbed in the greater silence of the snow around him. He let himself lie there for one dull moment, the softly falling flakes blanketing his hope.
Then he shook himself free, stood up, and started to trudge again toward Indianapolis.