Chapter Text
The sun beat down like a hammer, the flat white plains the anvil and Monroe the unfortunate between. He walked along with his hands cuffed tightly behind his back, itching with sweat under his clothes and with sunburn everywhere else.
Three days was a long time to swelter in Death Valley.
'Someone will come soon,' Charlie said, voice lilting with optimism.
Monroe stopped and turned around, coughing the dry out of his mouth. 'For god's sake, Miles. Just tell her. Or kill me. One or the other.'
Miles glared at him, the best he could manage. He had the dry, sticky-lipped look of someone who'd been skimping on his water rations.
'Don't tempt me, Monroe,' he said.
'What's he mean?' Charlie asked, pushing her hair back from her face. Her eyes look insanely blue against burned skin, cheekbones and chin raw with blisters. 'Miles?'
He didn't answer, so Monroe did.
'No-one is coming for us,' he said. 'Power on or off, no-one wants us back.'
Her parched lips pinched into a thin, resentful line. 'They don't want you back.'
'Oh, but they're dying to rescue you Mathesons,' he said, rolling his voice in as much smooth he could eke from his throat. 'The ex-General of two armed insurrections and the pretty, moral little heroine of the rebellion – who's also the kid of the woman that turned it off? You aren't stupid, Charlie, put yourself in their position – a martyr would be much more palatable wouldn't they?'
It took her a second to go from denial to doubt. He didn't judge her for it. None of them were exactly at their best right now.
'Rachel,' she said.
His mouth quirked with old, familiar appreciation of the beautiful, cunning Rachel – the copper taste of blood from cracked lips suiting the thought of her. 'Is a pragmatist,' he said. 'She has Danny. She won't risk a son in the hand for a daughter who could already be dead.'
Miles gripped Charlie's shoulder with a dusty, bloody hand. 'Don't listen to him.'
Charlie glanced back over her shoulder at him. 'Because he's lying?'
Cracked lips open, but it took too long for Miles to come up with his lie. Charlie took a ragged breath and twisted her face into a bitter smile.
'That what's I thought,' she said.
She scrubbed her hand over her face and shoved past Monroe, stalking along the once-upon-a-time maybe-road they'd been following. Left behind, Miles stared after with a tired, grieving expression on his face. He shook it off and turned to glower at Monroe.
'Why?' he asked. 'Who was she hurting?'
'My teeth,' Monroe said. 'I can only take so much saccharine.'
Miles clenched his fists and they stared at each other, waiting. Instead of a punch, though, Miles just shoved him on ahead of him. They marched till noon and then took refuge in the single tent they'd scavenged from Randall's stores on the way out. Monroe was uncuffed and drank half his ration of water, the dribble of flat, hot liquid empty of any refreshment, and sprawled on his stomach thinking of ice and cold hands.
With Miles snoring next to him, on his back and arms crossed like he was grumpy, it was almost familiar.
A bony elbow poked his arm on Charlie's side. He glanced at her. Her lips were wet and soft-looking, her lashes frosted with sun and dried tears.
'Are we going to die?' she asked quietly.
'Everyone dies in the end,' he said, thinking of wet dirt and graves.
Her mouth did something that might have been a grimace or a smile if it had more energy. 'You like telling me the truth, Monroe. So tell me.'
'Maybe,' he admitted. 'I hope not.'
She raised an eyebrow at him. 'You lost.'
'Doesn't mean I want to die,' he said. Not that he hadn't thought about doing a 'glorious last stand', but it was more appealing in the heat of the moment. A lot less once the adrenaline ebbed and death wasn't hung with medals and battle standards, just a dusty grave for wasted bones. 'Doesn't mean I want you to die.'
'Me?'
'Mathesons,' he corrected her. 'You were family once.'
'You don't treat family very well.'
He kissed her. It was an impulse, born of the fact her lips were only centimetres away and the fact it might shut her up. Her lips were rougher than they looked and her breath was sour. She didn't push him away, but she didn't kiss him back either.
'Some things are more important than family,' he reminded her, dropping his head back onto his forearm. 'I liked Rachel, but she killed the world.'
She inhaled through her nose and wriggled over onto her side, her back to him. Her voice whispered to the canvas wall.
'I'm not dying here.'
He closed his dry eyes and hoped she was right. It didn't feel like it, but he must have slept. At least long enough for Miles to have to shake him awake. Bass spat out a mouthful of dry, tatty Charlie hair and sat up, feeling the ache of tight skin and tired bones. 'What,' he mouthed.
Miles jerked his thumb over his shoulder and crawled out of the tent. The sun was lower in the sky, but it was still brutal. Bass shaded his eyes and squinted towards the blurred smudge of the horizon, trying to estimate whether it looked less harsh than their current location.
'How much water do we have?'
'More if I kill you,' Miles said quietly.
Tension prickled down Bass' neck, the skin between his shoulders crawling, and he turned around. Miles stood behind him, feet braced shoulder width apart and gaunt face grim. He watched Bass with sunken, fevered eyes.
'You going to?'
Miles twisted his fingers around the hilt of his sword. 'I should.'
'Not what I asked, brother.'
He'd meant the word to be sarcastic, but it just came out tired. No Miles, no Republic – he didn't want to die, but damn it if he knew what he was walking towards.
'I wasn't asleep,' Miles said.
It took a second for Bass to follow. When he did he laughed, long enough that it started sounding a bit hysterical to himself. He choked it down and scrubbed his hand over his face.
'Look around you,' he said. 'Does this really seem like the place to worry about your niece's virtue? And hell, Miles, I'm flattered but I'm not exactly up for it right now.'
Miles gave the ghost of a snort. 'Seen you look worse and try. That hospital in Baghdad? You had a catheter in and were trying it on with that nurse.'
They shared a silent moment of remembered amusement. It had been a long time, Bass realised, even before the last time Miles tried to kill him. He rubbed his chafed wrists absently, thumbs finding the raw spots under his thumbs, while Miles worked his hand loose from the sword. The scabs over his knuckles cracked and bled.
'Charlie has a better chance of making it out alive with both of us,' Miles said. 'That's the only reason I'm letting you live, after everything. So keep that in mind when you talk to her, or drink too much of her water.'
'Her water?'
Miles gave that Matheson-smile, the blinding one they wore before throwing themselves on the sword. 'She's the only one of us who deserves to get out of this alive.'
Luckily, Bass had never cared what he deserved. Just what he wanted.
Miles woke up Charlie, tying the rags of a torn up t-shirt over her knotted hair, while Bass pitched what there was of their camp. The bag of water-bottles Miles had been carrying felt too light when Bass picked it up. He didn't look. Either they'd make it or they were just walking to give them something to do between now and dying – knowing wouldn't make him feel any better.
This time Miles didn't bother to cuff Bass' hands.
Night felt, the cold sand sucking heat through the soles of their boots. They kept walking, guessing at whether they were still on the rudimentary road. At least the cold soothed Bass' raw skin.
They saw the horsemen too late to avoid them – a bit embarrassing, but Bass supposed there was no-one to tell that tale.
'Get back, Charlie,' Miles said, shoving her out of the way.
He pulled his sword and set his feet. Bass reached automatically for his only to find an empty belt. Damn. Still, he took in the ragged clothes and dirty, pocked faces of the men bearing down on him, he was better trained than these bandits.
Hopefully.
Laughing and whooping the five riders plunged towards them, sand kicked up like water around the horse's hooves. Miles didn't bother with anything fancy, just ducked the swing of a mace and swung his sword in a short, hard arc that shattered one bony pastern. The horse screamed like a child and went down, thrashing in the dirt.
It's rider wasn't well-trained enough to get off again in time, although Bass wasn't sure if he heard the distinctive crunch of a shattered leg or just remembered it. He stepped under the clumsy swipe of the bandit's sword, grabbed the thick wrist and twisted, hauling the man out of the cheaply made saddle.
The horse kept going, loose reins flapping as it tossed its head, and Bass followed the bandit down onto the sand. He dug his knee into the small of the man's back and twisted his arm, disarticulating it with a tidy pop. The man's scream was muffled in the sand. Numb fingers dropped the sword.
Just to be sure, Bass grabbed his head, digging his fingers into the greasy hair, and snapped his neck He didn't want to have to argue with Miles and Charlie about prisoners. They couldn't afford the water.
Leaning over, Bass grabbed the discarded sword – cheaply made and badly kept, but it would do – and scrambled to his feet. His head swam, making the world ripple, as his adrenaline started to flag. He gritted his teeth and kept moving.
Two down, two to go.
Without needing to think about it, he and Miles ended up back to back on the sand as the remaining riders circled them. Between their ill-fitting hats and high collars their scabby, dirty faces were dark with anger. Not enough to make them careless unfortunately.
'The ginger guy,' Bass said, tilting his head towards Miles so his voice would carry. 'He'll move first.'
There was a pause as Miles weighed up the two. The ginger man was the youngest of the group and anxious, his twisting hands making the raw-mouthed horse fret and gnaw at the bit. His companion, an older Japanese man who'd lost an eye, had a more controlled seat. He'd hang back, in Bass' opinion, until he knew whether to participate in the victory or flee the rout.
Miles saw it too. 'No bet,' he said. 'Don't hurt the horse.'
Ginger screamed like an idiot and thumped his heels into his horse's ribs, spurs raking open old scars. It charged at them, bloody froth on its muzzle, and they both stepped and pivoted at the same time. They moved like mirror images of each other, one real and the other a reflection. Bass thought the edge of his blade bit home first, slicing through the wiry meat of Ginger's thigh, but Miles was only a breath slower.
Blood soaked through the man's trousers in seconds and he wobbled, legs gone numb from the abrupt injury. He slid out of the saddle and flopped to the ground, catching a hoof to the temple as he went down. It left a crescent shaped dent in his skull, slowly feeling with blood, but he was still flinching and twisting.
Miles stepped and stabbed down, tendons standing out in his wrist as he twisted the blade. Blood bubbled on the man's lip, popping on his ginger stumble. The Japanese man wrenched his horse back on its heels and pulled it around in a tight turn. As he retreated, Bass raised an eyebrow at Miles.
'Didn't think you had it in you any more,' he said.
Miles gave him a dark look. 'I've not changed, Bass,' he said. 'That's why neither of us should get out of here. This comes too easy to us-'
The distinct clack and hiss of a crossbow bolt being released interrupted them. It hit the bandit in the back, jerking him forwards. He fell off the horse and dragged, bouncing along the ground until it finally stopped.
Both men turned to look at Charlie. She lowered the crossbow she'd grabbed from the injured horse and stared back at them.
'I'm not helpless,' she said roughly. 'And we're all getting out of here. Idiots.'
It took a while to catch the skittish horses. It turned out that Charlie had picked up Miles antipathy towards horses and it was returned in kind. She actually managed to get bitten by the nervy, one-eared grey.
They finally got them caught and gentled, along the grey kept a white-rimmed eye on Charlie. She glared back at it and squirmed uncomfortably in the saddle of her more stoic brown.
'What about him?' she asked, looking at the sweating man under his dead horse.
'I'll take care of it,' Bass said. 'Go on.'
She twisted the reins around her hand until her fingers went puffy white. 'I should see.'
Bass' eyes flicked to Miles curiously. When he nodded, Bass shrugged and walked over to the man. It was a kindness, of sorts, that sort of injury wouldn't heal out here. Even in Philadelphia, with the best medical facilities they could cobble together, he'd probably lose the leg. His face was already dry and shiny with fever.
He slit his throat.
It took another day to leave the arid desert. The horses had to drink as well, and by the time they reached the border they were down to one half-ration each. Miles gave his to Charlie without letting on. Bass drank his, he'd be more use to Charlie up and walking than dead.
Not that he cared that much about Charlie. It was just an irritated reaction to Miles hopes of martyrdom.
Charlie stopped the horse and stared with a mixture of relief and dismay at the land laid out in front of her. A row of skulls mounted on stakes marked out the boundary. Most of them weren't human, but some of them were. 'The Wastelands,' she said. 'How will we ever get home.'
'We'll work something out,' Miles said, leaning over to squeeze her shoulder supportively. 'Even if we have to walk.'
Maybe. Bass leant down and stroked the grey's neck, feeling her skin twitch under his callused palm. Or maybe this was home. No leadership, no infrastructure – nothing between him and a fresh start. All he had to do was convince his Mathesons' to play along.