Work Text:
Chernarus.
Late summer.
And it’s been raining for two days.
Raindrops patter a steady beat against the nylon-polyester hood of Red’s coat. After hours upon hours of exposure, they drown into a singular steady sound, an unending white noise that digs into all the wrong parts of his brain. Above, the sky roils grey but not dark yet, light shining through the thin membrane of clouds that pours water to the drowning hills below. Dark summer leaves droop from their branches, shedding water as quickly as it gathers, dumping it onto the stamped-down grass that struggles to maintain a hold on rapidly loosening mud. Rivers have already breached their banks, sweeping away the flimsy brush that once lined the edges, scattering sticks across the lower parts of the valley. From where Red skirts the edges of the valley, high up and camouflaged against the looming treeline, he has a perfect view of the mountainsides slowly falling apart. Of the new waterfalls pouring down the sheer cliffs. Of the plants struggling to remain above the flood line, gasping for air and for sunlight.
Another cold drop slips past his hood, soaks through the mask and drips down his throat. He flinches, far more violent than the simple sensation warrants. The cheap outer layer was designed to keep him dry, but after two straight days of storm, the plastic is soaked clean through. Everything is soaked through, chilling him down to his bones. Boots, mask— though that’s partially from his own breath— pants (both layers), undershirt, hoodie, coat, raincoat, backpack, and finally the plate carrier, are waterlogged enough to practically double the already excessive weight he has to lug around. The old bolt-action rifle that tugs at the tendons in his wrist throws each step just off balance enough to be exhausting, but not so far as to make travel impossible.
The only thing he can find to be grateful for is his foresight to wrap the contents of his bag in tarp. At least it will remain dry and safe from spoilage and water damage. Unlike him: soggy, forlorn, exhausted, and probably quite close to hypothermia if he really considers it. Possibly teetering on the edge, just warm enough that his body doesn’t start shutting its organs down, but close enough to leave him shaky and sick. Weak enough that his collar bones feel close to snapping under the weight of the backpack, unable to brace under its weight.
Lead weighs down his head when he tries to lift it. Squinting through the rain, eyelashes clumping together and doing nothing to stop the water from slipping into his eyes. It’s shrouded in haze, smeared by the downpour, but the town is there. Just five, maybe less, minutes away, tucked into the seam between two mountains given a perfect view of the valley below. Not quite a stronghold, lacking built-up walls save for the barbed wire fences and boarded windows, though the construction of one here would not be out of the question. It’s a comfort, knowing that anyone who approaches will be spotted— but a point of concern as well, for if there is an enemy within the town, Red will have been seen by now.
“Seen”, really, is just another word for death now. A post-apocalyptic word, if you will. A change to the dictionary, since no one cares about that anymore, or perhaps the beginnings of an entirely new one. A euphemism of a sort, though the word is really a precursor to the event itself, rather than an exact synonym. It's a word Red prefers to avoid, for no reason other than the meaning stacked behind it.
Or, for one more reason.
The fear of being seen.
At the start of it all, the word held no such meaning; it was simply another word, and nothing more. Seen meant nothing but that. Seen. It did not drop a cube of ice down his throat, or send prickly shards through his veins.
Swallowing does not remove the lump from his throat. Doing it again only makes him choke on his next breath. Seen. What if he's seen?
He expects, for a moment, to stumble. In the moments he has wasted in distraction— a dangerous habit to fall into— his attention had slipped from the steep grade of the landscape to his own worries. That surely spells a sprained or broken ankle, or a fall at the very least to leave a scouring bruise up his side.
But the slope had evened out, turned mostly flat save for the gentle and low hills, interspaced with silver-grey puddles that drown the thick grass. Icy water splashes up his pants when he fails to avoid one, its true size hidden by interwoven grass that floats above.
The towns right there.
Soon. Just a little bit longer, and he'll be warm.
-
For the tenth— or perhaps twelfth— time, Ash pushes himself off the makeshift bed of pallets and scavenged bits of mattresses to stalk over to the other end of the base, scuffing his feet against the dusty concrete. The motes swirl into the air, illuminated by the oil lanterns scattered around the little barn, perched on crates and bits of plywood and a lump of hay still hiding in one shadowy corner. The chests do not need reorganising anymore; nor do the cabinets, or the wardrobes-turned-storage, or the barrels. Still, Ash flips open their lids and yanks open their doors anyway, glaring down what occupies their insides. Nothing's changed. Their contents have already been sorted, then re-sorted, then sorted once more for good measure, over the days the base has been left empty. Save for him. Once more can’t hurt, right?
He starts with the cans, grabbing two from their shelves, flipping them in his grasp and examining the labels. Tomato soup, the both of them. Expires in five years, long after they'll both be consumed. Nutrition label is badly water damaged, but he’s not too worried about how much sodium they have, or about their vitamin C content. As long as it's food, and it's long-lasting, he could not care less.
Taking two steps back, he stares at food cabinet number one. It’s filled to the brim, except for a single shelf near the bottom, haphazardly filled with weird beans he doesn’t trust. Dusty, too, with many slightly crushed or dented, splattered with dirt, though their seals all remain unbroken— something he wishes wasn't true, so the day he may have to stomach whatever's in them will not come.
Maybe he’ll organise them alphabetically this time, to make them easier to find. Yes, that sounds like a good idea, and much more fun than how he's previously sorted them. Maybe he should find ones closer to the beginning of the alphabet first—
There’s a rattle at the door.
Ash freezes where he stands, the two cans still clenched in his grasp, staring at the entrance. His breath is caught in his throat, turned to ice. In moments, his heart rate spikes, jackhammering in his chest. Frost still collects in his blood, chilling his bones. It’s thrice-reinforced; first by the metal doors that came with the small barn/warehouse, followed by two sets of wooden doors they tore off the other barns. All locked together with padlocks and chains. Which means its safe, very safe. It would take too much effort to break in for any zombie; they'll soon loose interest. And as for humans— if he stays silent, they'll assume its empty. No power tools exist, so cutting inside is nearly impossible.
Still, he waits.
Rain pounds against the tin roof in a steady rattle.
Ash sucks in a short breath and holds it, listening intently. In the constant sound, it isn’t too uncommon that he experiences auditory hallucinations. That, or the wind rattled the little iron door knocker they bolted to the entrance. Both are very possible.
The sound comes again, no longer muffled and uncertain, and very clearly a knock. It rattles through the walls, the sound jabbing into both his ears at once. Echoing slightly, in the solid interior.
Ash remains frozen in place for a moment longer, then quickly shoves the tomato soup cans back into their spots on the shelf and, without closing anything, strides as silently as possible to the doors, skilfully hopping around the scattered pebbles on the floor. There, stance staggered and eyes wide, he hesitates, swaying back and forth on his feet, eyes flickering between the door and the shotgun that leans against the far wall. Then, after sucking in another near-silent breath and rising on his toes, he lines his eye up with the makeshift peephole.
It’s not at all a flawless, or trustworthy, way to look outside; with three doors to drill through, it isn’t even or clear, filled with splinters of broken wood and bits of wire-thin metal, requiring some repositioning to look through properly. With a little practice, however, it becomes easier.
It still takes a few seconds for the picture on the other side to come into focus. Raindrops keep sliding over the peephole, distorting the image, and the darkened landscape does nothing to reveal the outside world. Ash had tried positioning a piece of glass over the hole, but it only seemed to mess with vision even more, so he had removed it. It works, though, to some extent— which is all that is necessary for survival. A dark shadow is visible on the other side, blending in with the rain and dark buildings beyond. A person. Hood drawn low over their face, the rest of it obscured by a mask. They stand utterly motionless, backpack slung over their shoulder and a gun held in their hands.
Ash focuses in on it, mind swirling a mile a minute. If he makes a sound, they could fire in seconds. He's not sure the calibre, but it could punch its way through the doors and into his body. If that happens, there is no first aid that could help him.
Rain cascades over the person's shoulders without care— and suddenly, so suddenly Ash jumps as well, they jolt, as if just remembering something important. Pushing their hood away from their head, they reach for the knocker again.
Which isn’t necessary in the end. In mere milliseconds, the anxiety in Ash’s chest is swept away, replaced by pure relief and utter joy at the sight of familiar coppery hair.
"Red!"
"Ash?" Red's voice is muffled by the reinforcements and the rain still pounding against the roof, fighting to break its way into the shelter and flood the occupant within. "Are you there?"
"Of course I am, you idiot," he can't help the snappish comment. Five days, he was gone. Five! "Make yourself useful and help me with the locks, will you?"
The inner lock is the easiest to open, but still requires more fine motor movement than Ash can really deal with properly at the moment. The combination is simple enough, his birthday— at Red's insistence, and it still makes him cringe every time he has to unlock it. What bothers him most is the compactness of the lock that makes it nearly impossible to turn without it jamming.
Finally, after hours (more like three minutes, not that there's any clock to prove him wrong), the last lock is undone; Ash yanks aside the last door, gritting his teeth to restrain himself from launching into Red's arms as soon as he crosses the threshold. The door's still open, his mind whispers, spinning itself in anxious circles. Someone's going to see.
"Ya won't believe what I found," Red says cheerfully, pulling the rusted barn doors shut and redoing the padlocks. In the rain, they don't have to worry too much about being quiet, but force of habit makes him flip the latches shut as silently as possible.
Ash stares at the backpack, only now truly taking note of it. "What?" he demands. "What did you find?"
A laugh, short and breathy and most of all, exhausted. "Give me a moment. I'll show you."
When Red steps inside, towards the bed and the storage area, he limps. Heavily. Favouring one leg, but seeming to try to stay off both legs at the same time. The backpack pulls heavily down at his shoulders, trying to tug his arms from his sockets.
Ash, suddenly, feels guilty. A bitter sort of coldness that collects in his stomach, heavy like the clouds outside. Feels encouraged to rush forward, to help Red over to the bed even though he can do it himself. The backpack is shockingly heavy, weighted not only by water but its own contents, when he relieves Red of its weight, setting it carefully at the foot of the bed. It clanks alarmingly when it meets the concrete, but Red shows no sign of concern, so nor does he.
He waits, silently, patiently, until Red kicks off his boots and slings his jacket to dry in a heap on the floor. They'll arrange it next to the woodstove later, when Red isn't half dead and Ash isn't out of his mind wondering about the backpack. "What did you get?"
Giving only a toothy grin, shockingly energetic despite his drooping eyes, Red leans forward and begins digging through the bag. "Don't look," he orders. It leaves a sour taste in Ash's mouth to follow the request, but he does. Just because he's tired, he tells himself. No other reason. Leans back on his hands, though not without a glare and a curl of his lip, tipping his head back to stare at the tin ceiling. No imperfections break its surface, save for a few spots of rust. No pools of water threaten to dent and cave inward. It gives a little bit more relief, even though he's confident in the integrity of the building.
With a final rustle, Red sits upright. Ash instantly locks his focus onto Red, onto the way he holds one arm behind his back. Demands again, heart racing, this time with anticipation, "What?"
"Cookies!" Red drops the glossy, plastic-coated package onto the bed, his exclamation ringing through the little barn. It's hard to make out the colour in the dim lighting, but it looks blueish. Printed across the surface are white, bubbly letters that exclaim their contents to the world. Two very obviously photoshopped cookies sit centre-frame, wonky shadows cast across the invisible table they sit on.
And it looks wonderful. Ash isn't sure he's seen a better looking thing in his life.
Red's smile grows wider, flashy with teeth. "Well?"
"Open the fucking package, Red," Ash groans. An unwanted smile tugs at his lips anyway, even when he tries to bite his tongue and his teeth slip into the dents dug into the soft flesh. It's not hidden at all, but at this moment, presented with the best thing in the whole world, he doesn't mind. The world could end the moment he bit into one of the cookies, and he wouldn't mind at all.
Well.
The world's fucked anyway, at this point. It can't end anymore.
Everyone's dead. Or most of them, anyway.
The world's already ended.
He chokes back the sudden sting in his eyes, lets his body list to the side and collide with Red. There, he tucks his head against Red's shoulder, nuzzling into the soft fabric, and turns his sniffle into a cough of sorts.
The cookies are dry, crumbly, and missing most of their chocolate chips. When they knock them together, an unnerving click rings through the shelter.
The first bite breaks Ash's teeth, and he has to tilt his head awkwardly to dig his molars into the concrete-dough.
Still, when the flavour explodes across his tongue, overly sweet and textured like dust, with Red's arm slung over his back, he wouldn't even trade it for the Before.