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He wanders for days. At first he tries to head north, where he knows (thinks) the sea will be. He drinks little, eats less, and walks through the shattered ruins of the places men used to live. He watches the broken buildings and sees the corpses scattered everywhere, in different states of decay, and thinks, What a fucking waste. But small villages usually come with small shops and wells, and some of them are still mostly intact. He feels like a thief at first, grabbing cans off the shelves and walking out the door without the shopkeeper yelling. But pragmatism overrides guilt, and he doesn't even flinch when he finds the store owner staring at him out of an empty skull.
The first time he runs into other people, he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. They haven't seen him yet, but he can hear their voices. He doesn't know what language they're speaking, but that doesn't matter -- some gestures are universal.
He shoulders his rifle, prepares to step out to greet them. They come into view for a scant second, just a glimpse in between the ruins of buildings. Red stains cover their clothes from head to toe, and there's more red on the sword strapped to one of their hips. But even more chilling are the bones they are carrying away, and the scent of roasted meat in the air. Quietly, he slinks back between the ruins, and doesn't stop walking until he is far, far away.
After that, he avoids human contact. You can't detect a cannibal from a distance, and he'd rather not take any chances.
The earth shook, like an angry god was punching it with a giant fist. He wanted to tell his men to find cover, but the only cover to be had was sand, and then the wind snatched his words and sent them back at him with the force of a typhoon. He was tossed and tumbled and bloodied his fingers trying to hold on to any rock outcropping he flew towards, but the winds threw him against a mountain like a rag doll and, much like that doll, he slumped to the ground, unable to get up.
He hasn't seen any animals since disaster struck, so when a bird glides by over his head, he ducks in shock. He stares at it for a moment, awed. "Is it just the two of us left, then?" he asks, but the bird doesn't answer, and after another moment of sharing the universe with it, he shoots it out of the sky.
It fills his belly for days, and he doesn't feel guilty.
He talks to himself. Sometimes, it's just to hear the sound of his own voice. Other times, it's because he's afraid he'll forget how to talk if he doesn't practice.
He reminds himself of who he is, an endless litany, "Richard Armitage, service number 26843698, born August 22, 1971, in Leicester. My family still lives there." (please please please)
Other times, he sings, snippets of songs from his youth, pop songs off the radio. Abba mixed with Depeche Mode, Set Fire to the Rain followed by Yesterday. There's nobody there to tell him he sounds off-key or that he gets the lyrics wrong.
When he's too tired to talk, too exhausted to keep the nightmares at bay, he wonders if he's the only one left. If he just knew for sure that the storm had only struck here, he thinks he would feel better. But with each passing day, with each decimated town and city, his hopes grow dimmer.
His foot looks terrible once he gets the boot off, red and swollen beyond all recognition. He tries to massage it, but each touch of his hands sends fresh sparks of pain up his leg until he wants to cry out. He pours a little water over it instead, hoping it will help. There are painkillers in his dwindling med kit and he swallows one. He has to keep going -- it's too dangerous to be here, defenseless out in the open once night falls.
He doesn't know what it is that alerts him, but he has his rifle up and pointed to the right before he even turns his head.
A man stands before him.
His thoughts run in a hundred different directions, but his steady hand never wavers. Neither does the stranger's -- his rifle is pointing unerringly at Richard's heart. They gaze at each other and he holds his breath, just waiting.
The man slowly lifts his rifle and his hands. Even slower, he puts the rifle on the ground and takes a step back from it. Richard's hand doesn't twitch.
"What's your name?" the man asks, and the sound of another human voice roars in his ears. "I won't harm you."
"Richard Armitage, service num--" He chokes the rest back, barely resisting the urge to laugh. He suspects it wouldn't make him sound very sane.
The man smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm Graham McTavish." He nods towards the swollen ankle. "Can I take a look?"
"Why?"
"It looks like it hurts. I'm a field medic, I can help."
Richard lowers the rifle and, for the first time in months, relaxes his guard.
Graham's hands are gentle and careful. Richard hisses when his ankle is prodded, and Graham mumbles a soothing apology. "Nothing broken," he opines. Richard bites back a sigh. "Can you walk?"
Never show weakness in front of an enemy.
"Not very far," Richard admits.
Failure.
Graham purses his lips. "What if you lean on me?"
"And where would I be going?" He can't help the note of suspicion, but Graham smiles as if he doesn't hear it.
"My camp. I have medical supplies there."
Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to be cautious.
He holds out his hand, and lets Graham help him up.
He's tired of being careful, and even more tired of being alone.
Graham's camp is a cave, hidden from view by another mountain. There are torches stuck in the sandy ground, lighting the hollow. There is a food store, blankets, and the medical supplies Graham promised.
He is settled down on the pile of blankets that must serve as bedding, and Graham rifles through his store. When he comes back, he has a tube of cream that looks vaguely familiar, and a roll of pristine, white bandages. "This'll reduce the swelling," he explains as he sets to work. Richard only feels a twinge when Graham starts rubbing the cream in. The painkiller must be working, finally.
He looks at Graham's bare head, bent over his leg. Glances over his faded clothes, the crest on his pack. "Where were you stationed?"
"Pakistan," Graham grunts. "You?"
"Afghanistan."
He stays silent until Graham finishes. Then, when Richard can see his face, he asks, "Was Britain affected?"
He reads the answer in Graham's eyes, and lets go of the last shred of hope.
He doesn't ask any more questions and only gives monosyllabic answers. Graham seems to understand, and lets him be for the most part. He spends days curled up in his blanket, staring at rock walls and trying to remember happier times. His mother, in her sunny kitchen. His father, reading the newspaper in his plush chair. His childhood home, broken beyond repair, his parents just as broken, no, happier times, don't think of that.
Don't think at all.
Just sleep.
When he finally finds the strength to crawl out of his hole, his rifle is standing against the wall, and Graham is gone. There is a bottle of water next to the rifle, and an open can of beans. Richard wolfs it down while his eyes scan the cavern.
A disturbance in the sand close to the entrance makes him walk that way. An arrow is drawn in the sand, curving right. Richard swallows and smiles. He grabs his rifle and water, and follows the clue Graham left for him.
He finds Graham at the shore of a river. "The fish survived?"
"Fish are sturdy creatures. They adapt." He casts his line as Richard settles beside him. "Humanity will adapt too, and survive."
Richard barks a laugh. "Will we? I don't know how many of us are left, but between the scarcity of food and the cannibals, our numbers must be dwindling daily."
"I like to stay optimistic," Graham smiles.
"And will your optimism conjure women from thin air, or have men evolved to allow for pregnancies?"
Graham's laugh is bright, unfettered, and most beautiful to his ears. "Why would you think there aren't any women left?"
women, lying battered and silent around the deserted camp fire
dead children left in piles
young girls held prisoner until some man gets a craving
"How can you be sure there are?" he retorts bitterly. Graham's smile widens. "You know something."
"I know a lot of things."
Richard growls menacingly. "Don't fuck around with me."
Graham lifts his hands a little, eyebrow raised, and Richard deflates along with his temper. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I just want--"
"To feel like we have a chance in hell?" Richard's lips quirk up in a smile despite himself.
"Yeah, I suppose so."
Graham's hand gives his shoulder a squeeze. "I understand. To answer your question, I know of a group of people living nearby, and there are women among them."
"Normal people?"
"Well, they didn't try to eat me," Graham says with a grin. "They stay hidden for the most part, and only leave their village if they have to."
Richard thinks of what it would be like to live among other people again, to hear normal sounds like cooking and kids playing and screaming and people arguing good-naturedly about normal, every day things.
"Why do you live alone?"
Graham shrugs, and recasts. "It's easier this way. I can bring them supplies sometimes without drawing too much attention to myself."
Humanity's last guardian. It would be funny if it weren't true.
"Come and see what I found!"
Graham's enthusiasm reminds Richard of a kid come christmas, instead of someone scavenging for washed up items. He bites back his amusement and follows Graham a little further down the shore.
Even he has to admit that Graham's find is worth being excited about.
"Do you think it's usable? What about bacteria, or fungi?"
Graham starts pulling on the water-laden mattress, and Richard grabs the other side. "We can toss a blanket over it," Graham grunts. Richard can't answer; the mattress is incredibly heavy, and his strength isn't what it once was.
"How will we get it to the cave?" he muses aloud, but Graham has an answer to that too.
They end up rigging a few sturdy pieces of wood together with some rope to form a strange stretcher. Richard follows Graham's example and settles the heavy load on his shoulders, and they slowly make their way back home.
The mattress is left outside to dry in the sun, and Graham even wipes it down with some of his precious stock of alcohol. Richard doesn't know if Graham noticed how itchy the thought of sleeping on it made him feel, but he's thankful all the same.
"I haven't slept on a proper mattress since I got deployed," Graham says later that night, over stale crackers and beans.
Richard snorts. "I wouldn't call those army issue things mattresses, either. I could feel the metal digging into my back."
"I just slept on the floor," Graham says with a laugh, and Richard joins him.
It feels good to laugh again. That is one other thing he has foregone since his deployment.
Graham cares.
He cares about people he doesn't know, about pollution, about the state of the universe. He can't stand seeing anyone in pain, and always insists on helping, regardless of the possible outcome.
Richard worries.
He worries when Graham wanders up to a group of armed people without taking any precautions, worries when he disappears to his hidden village every week or so and doesn't return till the next day, worries when he sees the bruises Graham can't seem to stop getting.
So Richard watches over Graham, always alert and ready to jump in, guns blazing, should the need arise. And Graham watches over Richard, making sure he doesn't slip back into his closed off shell, showing him that humanity can still be redeemed.
It's a good balance.
Despite the cold weather, Richard wakes up warm every morning. They fall asleep at opposite ends of the mattress, but the night always ends with Graham's arm slung over Richard's side. It makes him feel strange at first, but Graham doesn't seems to be self-conscious about it, and so he doesn't say anything.
It becomes strangely comforting, and his usual night terrors start to slowly fade away.
Warmth is what Richard associates with the man he has come to call his friend.
They are sitting on a particularly high sand dune, enjoying the kinder winter sun. Graham had playfully pushed him down into the sand, and there had been a small scuffle that concluded with Graham holding onto his leg and both of them laughing breathlessly. Somehow, they ended up staying that way.
Graham's hand feels warm where it rests on his knee. His voice washes over Richard, chocolate-smooth and kind. His eyes, mouth, even his hands seem to smile, animated gestures punctuating the cadence of his voice.
He knows he has missed some sort of cue when Graham sends him a worried glance. A large hand is pressed against his forehead and Graham frowns a little.
Richard does feel feverish, but it's not the kind Graham is looking for.
He doesn't think about it, just reaches out and brushes his lips gently over Graham's, just once.
When Graham's smile slowly spreads, Richard finds some of that warmth flowing to his heart.
It's not the world he would choose to live in, but it's the world he has. And at least, now, he doesn't have to face it alone.
He can think of worse fates.