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Together or Not at All

@thominho-week – Day 4 (July 18th): Not Immune/No Maze AU

Thomas, Minho, Newt and Alby were there when it all began; when the sun flares scorched the earth and the boiling sea water flooded the cities. They thought they could survive anything, that was until the Flare virus was released.

(Pretty much a Thominho Kill Order AU)

In those final few moments, he stood there with Minho, staring into his dark eyes as a sense of remembrance returned to his face. He looked up at Thomas, his stern composure wavering as the reality of the situation sank in; this is where it all ended. In that moment, in that shared gaze, Thomas knew that Minho was thinking the same thing; they were trying to memories every detail of each other’s faces as the memories of his past returned to them in fragments.

It started two years ago, the day the two of them were on the subway; the day everything changed.

They had been sitting across from each other on the train, talking about what they were going to do over the summer break, joking about how boring it was going to be; days spent following family around to tedious get-togethers or wasting time away in their room.

“We can always hang out,” Minho offered, his face unreadable. It frustrated Thomas that he could never tell whether his friend was being serious or not. “We can waste time together, playing videogames, eating ice cream…” A small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he added, “maybe even sneak a kiss in the basement.”

It caught Thomas off guard. For a second, he thinks Minho is being serious – hopes he is – but then his friend bursts out in laughter.

Thomas stares at him with a blank expression, feeling a little gutted as he says, “Hilarious. I’m laughing on the inside.”

“You always laugh in the inside,” Minho pointed out. “The day you laugh out loud is the day the world ends.”

Thomas let out a quiet chuckle.

The was a thundering boom as the train screamed to a stop.

Thomas was hurled from his seat, Minho catching him before he smashed his face against the seat. It took him a second to find his footing, steadying himself as he slowly rose to his feet and looked around.

The carriage was submerged into darkness, the yellow emergency lights blinking on and casting an eerie glow against the startled faces of the commuters.

“The power’s out,” Thomas noted, his voice quiet as a sense of unease twisted at his stomach.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Minho replied. “I can see that.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “The power never goes out.”

“It’s a malfunction, a blip in the system or something,” Minho said dismissively. “Just give it a minute, it should start up again.”

But something didn’t seem right. Stiles looked around at the faces of others around them. He held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

“What?” Minho asked.

“Give me your phone,” Thomas insisted.

Minho pulled it from his pocket, setting it down in Thomas’ hand. Thomas turned the screen on, the pale blue light illuminating his face.

“No signal,” he said quietly.

The train shook, tossing Thomas off balance. Minho caught him again, steadying him as the metal floor beneath them trembled. The deep rumble or shaking metal rolled through the tunnel like thunder.

Thomas and Minho glanced at each other, their faces full of confusion and a spark of fear.

Suddenly, everyone burst into action. Two men charged at the exit doors, prying them apart and jumping onto the walkways that lined the tunnel. The passengers began to swarm, the crowd forcing their way out of the train as the echo of panicked cries echoed through the darkness.

Thomas and Minho stood still, watching them leave until finally they were left alone on the train, the pale, yellow emergency light hanging above them.

“I have a bad feeling,” Minho muttered.

“Me too,” Thomas replied, looking around in the darkness.

“You think we should go?” Minho asked.

“Yeah,” Thomas answered, rising to his feet and handing Minho’s phone back to him. “Come on.”

Minho follows him over to the open doors and they climb out onto the narrow walkway the metal plating rumbling beneath their feet. The emergency lights run along the walls of the tunnel, but their dim light does barely anything to break through the darkness.

“They went that way,” Thomas said, pointing to down towards the darkness and the distant echo of noise. “So, let’s go this way,” Thomas said, turning the other way. “I don’t want to follow the mob.”

Thomas took the lead, making his way down the narrow ledge. Something in the back of his mind tells him to hurry, so he does. He picked up the pace as he and Minho ran down the tunnel, keeping a hand on the wall to make their way through the darkness. The wall was vibrating, not as much as the train, but there was a distinct tremor, the quaking calming the more they walked.

“Maybe it was just an earthquake,” Minho ventured. “Maybe everything’s okay.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth did the sound of screams up ahead reach their ears; blood-curdling screams of pure terror.

Thomas slows to a halt, an icy chill flooding his veins.

Any doubts they had washed away. Something had happened, something terrible.

Thomas took another step forward, making his way up to the wide platform of the next substation. He froze, bile burning at his throat as he fought the urge to throw up.

Bodies littered the floors, naked and burnt. The smell of blood and burnt flesh filled at their noses and the gut-wrenching sound of screams and cries tore through them like razor-sharp blades. Those who are still alive drag themselves across the floors, their bodies covered in charred black flesh, smeared blood, boils and flesh that drip like melting wax. Those that can walk hobble forward, arms outstretched; those that can’t, drag themselves across the ground.

A surge of heat washed over them, their faces stinging and flesh reddening with small burns.

Minho grabbed Thomas’ hand, his usual composure fractured and a look of terror on his face. He pulled Thomas back into the tunnel, feeling the instant relief that the dark shadows provided.

“We need to go,” Minho insisted, pulling Thomas along behind him as he ran along the platform and deeper into the tunnels.

They ran back through the winding tunnels, their minds flooded with thoughts, running through the worst-case scenarios and questions about what had happened in the city above them: a bomb or an explosion from a gas leak; something that burned with an unbearable heat that was beginning to fill the tunnels.

Thomas and Minho made they way through abandoned offshoots to the tunnels, going deeper and deeper into the darkness.

People were everywhere, crazy with terror. They were picking fights, brandishing anything they could find as a weapon or clawing at each other with nails.

The two boys made their way through the labyrinth of tunnels and maintenance halls, becoming increasingly aware of the fact that they were being followed. They quickened their pace, but seemed unable to lose their follower. Thomas glanced over his shoulder every now and then, never catching a glimpse of the man as he darted into a nook or cranny.

Minho pushes open a large door, stepping into a long hallway that was ankle-deep with water. He held his phone up as a light, the pale glow of the screen cutting through the darkness.

Thomas followed him through the door and Minho grabbed him, pulling him aside into a small supply closet that he hadn’t seen. Minho quietly shut the door and switches off his phone, submerging them in abysmal nothingness. He felt Minho step closer, his hand brushing against Thomas’ arm to guide himself in the darkness.

“There’s no way that shank was close enough to see us come in here,” he whispered in Thomas’ ear.

They fell into silence, their heartbeats pounding in their ears as they listen for sounds outside the closet. They heard the distant sound of water sloshing around the man’s feet as he walks, the splashing growing louder as the man drew closer; a steady beat of footsteps.

Minho quietly ushered Thomas behind him, pressing Thomas against his back and shielding him from the doorway.

Thomas didn’t argue.

A light flicked on to their right, the sudden brightness blinding them. Thomas and Minho flinched, shielding their eyes as they slowly adjust to the intrusion. Thomas looked down at the source of the light, squinting to see a raggedy-looking man holding a flashlight.

The man dragged himself out of the small vent in the wall, rising to his feet and taking a step towards the door. He swung his arm and thumped his balled fist against the door.

Thomas’ eyes flew open wide.

“What the hell are you doing?” Minho hissed, fighting to keep his voice quiet.

The door opened and the man from the hallway stepped in followed by another, and another.

“We just got a few questions for ya,” one of them said, his lip curled back in a snarl. “We was here way before you and we don’t like visitors much. You two don’t look like the type that comes a-callin’ for the likes of us. What are ya doing down here?”

“Something happened up in the city,” Thomas explained, fighting to keep himself calm as he reached out and gently grabbed Minho’s arm, stopping the boy from lashing out at the men. “Haven’t you noticed how hot it is? There was a bomb, or a gas explosion, or something.”

The man shrugged. “You think we care? All I care about is my next meal.”

The man with the flashlight took another step closer and Thomas felt Minho tense, ready to fight.

Thomas tightened his grip on Minho’s arm, catching a glimpse of something silver in the man’s hand: a knife.

“We haven’t got any food,” Thomas told them.

“Shame,” the first man said without a hint of remorse in his voice. “You might have had somethin’ to bargain for ya lives with if ya had.”

Thomas swallowed hard.

The man nodded as the others. Wicked grins stretched across their faces, exposing rotting teeth as the two began to move forward.

There was a flash of movement outside as someone slammed into the guy by the door. His body hit a fuse box, the thundering bang ringing out through the hallway. The man let out a weak grunt before his body fell into the water with a splash.

The leader of the group spun around, his knife glinting as it caught the light.

The newcomer grabbed his wrist, slamming their arm down on the man’s forearm. There was a gut-wrenching crack of bone breaking as he cried out in pain and dropped his knife. He was hurled into the hallway where another crash rang out followed by a splash as his body fell into the shallow water.

Minho didn’t hesitate. He dove forward and scrambled for the man’s dropped knife.

One of the men realised what he was doing, diving on Minho and wrestling with him. Minho fought back, struggling to hold the man back as his knife neared his throat.

Thomas sprinted forward, slamming his foot into the man’s ribs. The man cried out as he was knocked off Minho.

Minho wrenched the knife from his grip and slammed it into the man’s shoulder. Blood pooled over his hand as the man cried out in pain. He scrambled to his feet and dove back into the vent, the metal rumbling like thunder as he scurried away.

Thomas grabbed Minho’s hand, pulling him up to his feet. “Are you okay?” he frantically asked, looking his friend over.

“I’m good,” Minho said, his eyes fixed on the doorway. Outside, he saw the newcomer throwing punches, knocking out the last attacker.

The torch that one of them had been holding rattled across the floor, bumping against the foot of one of the metal shelves and shining a light on the black leather boots of a young man.

Minho instinctively pushed Thomas behind him. “You were the one following us, weren’t you?” Minho asked, his voice sharp as he readied himself to fight.

“You can thank me later,” the young man said. “My name’s Alby. We’ve got bigger problems than these guys, so come with me.”

Alby stepped back into the shallow water, his pace faltering as Minho asked, “Why should we trust you?”

“I just saved your lives,” Alby pointed out.

“I had it handled,” Minho said.

Thomas rolled his eyes. Now was not the time for Minho to get snippy.

“What happened?” Thomas asked.

“Sun flares,” Alby answered. “We barely had time to react. But haven’t you noticed? The water’s rising. The sun flares melted the ice caps, there’s a tsunami heading straight for the city.”

“But we’re underground,” Minho pointed out.

“We’re in the subtrans tunnels of New York – a city that sits on the shoreline,” Thomas countered. He turned to look at Minho. “Water drains downwards.”

“We need to get to high ground,” Alby insisted.

The thought struck Thomas. “The Lincoln Building.”

Alby nodded. “If you want to live, we need to move. Now.”

Minho opened his mouth to argue but Thomas grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the door, Minho’s words falling short of his lips as he was dragged into the hallway.

Along the way, Alby explained he was a young Berg pilot, contracted to a defence job in New York. He and his friend Newt were two of the few people who realised what was happening and took action before they got killed. They hid in the train stations while the flares scorched the earth. The two of them were doing the best they could to gather stragglers and get them to the Lincoln Building but time was running out.

They made their way through the tunnels, meeting up with Newt and a few others that he had rescued. Newt was a young man, tall and muscular, with tousled blonde hair and an accent. He stood with a few teenage boys, some of which Thomas recognised from school. Newt quickly introduced them: Gally, Winston, Ben and Siggy—who, for some reason, liked to be called Frypan.

“We need to get through the Lincoln Building,” Alby explained. “In order to do that, we need to make it through this last tunnel. This place is full of people and we have no idea what kind of mood their in. Walk like you’re not going anywhere, like you’re not in a hurry. Stay together. Let’s go.”

Newt opened the door and Alby stepped through, leading the group of teenagers into the tunnel.

After that, Thomas took in everything in glimpses.

Thomas caught a wayward glance of a passing stranger and that was all it took for them to start a fight. He remembered throwing punches and scrambling to escape. He remembered the moment of fear as all of them froze, turning towards the sound of roaring water, the foaming waves rushing through the tunnel. He remembered Alby shouting for everyone to run and they did. He grabbed Minho’s hand and ran.

The foaming waves lapped at his heels, the scalding heat burning his ankles. He cried out as he ran, his muscles protesting the effort.

He remembered the rancid smell of bodied burning and the haunting echo of screams as people fell victim to the rolling tidal wave.

They reached the Lincoln Building, but not fast enough.

The water was around their waists by the time Alby pulled Thomas and Minho onto the stairs, shouting for them to run, but they didn’t. They watched as Newt ran as fast as he could, limping on a weak ankle and fighting the current as he struggled to get to the stairs.

Alby caught his wrist and pulled him onto the stairs, but he lost his grip on the rail. Thomas felt his heart skip a beat as he watched Alby disappear beneath the waves. He opened his mouth to cry out for him, but Minho was faster; he dove in after him.

Thomas ran back down the stairs, Newt shouting after him. He grabbed the rail and reached out, catching Minho’s outstretched hand as he fought his way to the surface. He cried out as he strained to pull them in.

They broke past the surface of the water, gasping for air. Thomas pulled them onto the stairs and pushed them up into the building.

They didn’t stop. They ran up the stairs, all the way to the twentieth floor.

They stayed there for days, waiting for the waters to settle and the radiation to lower. They scavenged for food. The heat didn’t change, the building filled with the stench of rotting bodies and boiled flesh. Then came the day they escaped; when the boat pulled up by the building and the man tried to steal their dwindling supply of food.

He remembered Alby refusing to help the man, he remembered the gunshot and the blood the spread across Ben’s chest as he fell into Thomas’ arms. He remembered holding the boy as the life drained from his body and his eyes glazed over.

He remembers Alby turning the gun on the man and taking his boat, he remembered the waves rocking the boat and the buildings growing distant; the sun beating down on them as they sailed away.

A week ago, in the small town of wooden cabins and mud huts, everything changed again. They had recovered from the sun flares, rebuilt civilisation. They could have survived if it weren’t for the Berg that flew over town that day.

They were joking, laughing, messing around like the teenagers they were when the strange sound silenced them. They all recognised the sound; the rumble of engines.

They stepped out of the cabin, gusts of wind rolling through the buildings, stirring up clouds of dust that tore at their skin and whipping at their clothes. A crowd had gathered in street, all eyes fixed on the large ship in the sky.

Thomas winced, covering his ears as the roaring engines grew louder.

The Berg steadied, the sound of the engine dimming. The blue thrusters burnt hot as the ship steadied itself and hovered above the town.

No one said a word, they just stood there with the morning sun beating down on them.

“What’s it doing here?” Gally asked, practically shouting over the sound of the engine.

“Supply drop?” Alby proposed.

“No,” Newt replied. “Supplies get left in the bigger settlements, like Asheville. Besides, the ones that drop off supplies in Asheville have PFC painted in big letters on the side – Post-Flares Coalition. This one has nothing on it, no markings or anything to say whose Berg it is or where it came from.”

“So what’s it doing here?” a boy named George asked.

Newt shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s not enough room for them to land that buggin’ thing here.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. He stood by Minho, his stomach twisting with unease as something in the back of his mind screamed at him to run. He squinted against the glare of the sun, watching as the ramp on the back of the Berg began to open. The echoing groan and squeal of hydraulics rang through the air. The inside of the ship was dark, faint green lights lining the tops of the walls.

The crowd that gathered in the centre of the town looked up at the ship with wonder, gasps and shouts rippling through the crowd as they pointed up at the ship.

Thomas glanced back up at the Berg to see five figures emerge from the darkness of the ship. They were dressed in outfits that send a new wave of unease through his body: rubbery green one-piece hazmat suits that covered them from head to two. There were clear visors in the headpieces of the suits, but they were too far away for Thomas to make out their face. The five of the stepped out onto the lowered ramp, digging their black boots into the ridges of the lowered hatch door as they struggled to keep their balance. Each of the held a black tube in their hands, something that looked like a kid’s spud gun.

Thomas felt a chill run down in spine, making him shudder.

The strangers settled into their positions and held up the tube-like guns, aiming it at the people below.

Thomas’ breath caught in his throat. It took him a second to realise that Alby was shouting.

Minho grabbed his hand and hurled him back, narrowly missing the metal dart fired at him. Minho dragged him over to one of the cabins, diving behind the wooden panels as the darts rained around them.

Everything erupted into chaos, people shouting and screaming as they fled through the narrow streets, trying to find shelter. The metal darts fired from the Berg flew by in a flash of movement.

Thomas heard a sickening thunk, turning to see George’s body jolt, a five-inch-long dark sticking out of his shoulder. Streams of blood trickled from the wound, seeping into the faded fabric of his shirt. His body swayed, his lips trembling as he staggered slightly, struggling to stay upright. He choked on his breath, forcing himself not to cry out in pain as tears welled in his eyes.

Newt lay on the ground beside him, dirt smeared across his arms and legs from George shoving him out of the way. He shouted to his friend, scrambling to his feet as he tried to push George towards shelter, but the boy collapsed to the ground.

Thomas snapped out of his gaze. He leapt to his feet and burst into the street, Minho shouting after him. He sprinted over to Newt’s side, hooking his elbows under George’s arms and dragging him towards the shelter of the cabin. He shouted at Newt to run ahead, watching as the boy hesitated before reluctantly limping towards Minho.

The sound of darts flying through the air filled his ears. He was unable to look away as the darts hit people around him, metal barbs buried in limbs or slicing through throats. Spurts of blood rained across the dirt as bodies hit the ground with heavy, lifeless thumps.

Thomas dragged George into the shelter of the shadows behind the cabin. Minho reached forward and helped pull him to safety.

“I get the feeling they’re not here to help us,” Newt noted.

“Geez, what gave you that idea?” Minho said sharply.

“Not now you two,” Thomas warned, pressing his back against the wooden boards of the cabin wall.

The sounds of darts striking the wood of the buildings and the trunks of nearby trees reached his ears. Another dart tore through the wooden siding of the cabin. Thomas flinched as splinters rained down over him. Newt and Minho grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him further into the shadows.

Thomas sat back, trying to steady his breathing as his chest rose and fell.

The Berg’s thrusters roared, stirring warm winds that blew into Thomas’ face, whipping their clothes about and tousling their unkempt hair.

Thomas glanced around the edge of the building, shifting enough to see the Berg fly after the fleeing crowd. He saw Frypan and Gally urging people to hurry but their shouts were drowned out by the roar of the Berg’s engines.

It was a massacre. Heavy boots thumped against the ground, upturning tufts of green grass and dirt. People tripped and fell, trampled by the panicking crowd. Thomas’ ears rang with the gut-wrenching sound of breaking bones, the sound of darts tearing through flesh and the strangled gasps and cries of people as they fell to the ground.

Every projectile seemed to find its mark, slamming into the necks and arms of men and women and children. They screamed and crumpled to the ground almost instantly, others tripping over their bodies in the mad rush for cover.

Gally and Frypan dove to either side of the street, avoiding the darts that were aimed at them.

“What do we do?” Newt asked, crouching beside George and putting pressure against the wound in his shoulder.

The boy let out a pained wheeze, his eyes struggling to stay open.

“We can’t stay here. We need to get him to shelter,” Thomas said.

“Just leave him,” Minho said. “He’s dead for all we know.”

“They’re using darts, not bullets,” Newt argued.

“So what?” Minho shouted.

“So, there’s a chance he’s still alive. We’re not leaving him behind,” Newt said with finality. He looked around, his eyes wide as he shouted, “Where the buggin’ hell is Alby?”

Thomas looked the other way, down the alley between houses to where a glimpse of movement caught his attention. A large figure burst out of the house they used as a storeroom, holding what looked like two huge rifles with grappling hooks and big coils of rope attached to them.

Alby.

“Get to cover,” Thomas instructed, leaping to his feet and sprinting down the alleyway.

Minho shouted after him, but he kept running.

He grabbed an old door that had fallen off its hinges, holding it over his head like a shield as he ran through the openings. He heard the whistle of the darts cutting through the air and the heavy thunk as they struck the wood.

Keep running, he told himself.

Alby seemed to notice Thomas and came running towards him. They nearly ran into each other as Thomas sprinted to his side and held up the wooden door to shield the both of them.

“We need to hurry!” Alby shouted.

“What do I do?” Thomas asked.

“Cover me, with this,” Alby pulled a pistol from the small of his back, cocking it before handing it to Thomas.

Dart struck the wooden shield like a hailstorm.

“You’ve got twelve bullets,” Ably explained. “Don’t miss.”

Thomas nodded.

“Cover me while I go up, then follow me. On my mark,” the young man instructed, setting the other rifle down on the ground by Thomas’ feet. “Now!”

Thomas threw his shoulder against the wooden shield, knocking it to the ground as he turned and fired off two shots. They struck one of the men on the Berg, his body collapsing against the lowered ramp.

The four others crouched, trying to avoid the shots as one of them dragged their comrade into the hull of the ship.

Thomas aimed the gun and fired again. The recoil jolted his arm but he saw a spray of red blood as the bullets tore through the chest of one man and knocked him out of the Berg. The other shot hit one of the other suited attackers in the arm; he fell backwards against the ramp, clutching the bleeding wound. Two left.

To his side, Alby aimed the rifle, steadying himself as he pulled back on the trigger. The grappling hook flew towards the Berg, the rope soaring behind it. The hook clanged against the metal of one of the hydraulic shafts, hooking around the metal bar. The rope pulled taut.

“Throw me the gun!” Alby shouted.

Thomas tossed the gun to Alby who caught it with ease. He pushed one of the buttons on the butt of his gun, a sharp whir filling the air as he soared into the sky.

Thomas grabbed the rifle at his feet, watching as Alby cleared the edge of the ramp and disappeared into the hull of the ship. Seconds later, one of the green-suited men was flung out of the ship, hitting the ground with a sickening crack.

He spread his feet and steadied himself as he pressed the butt of the gun into his shoulder, aiming at the other hydraulic shaft. He pulled the trigger, wincing in pain as the recoil threw his shoulder back.

The hook shot up at the ship, the rope trailing behind it. The grappling hook struck the hydraulic shaft, bouncing off the metal pole.

Alby grabbed it just in time, hooking it around the shaft.

Thomas’ hand slid down to the butt of the gun, following what Alby had done and pressing the small green button. There was a sharp whir as the rope retracted and his body was hurled off the ground.

He heard Minho and Newt shouting after him, but their voices were drowned out by the rush of air and the roaring thrusters as the Berg lurched forward and the door began to close.

Alby quickly regained his balance, watching as Thomas let go of the gun and caught the edge of the rising door. He pulled himself over the hatch door and toppled into the back of the Berg.

The door slammed shut with a thunderous boom that echoed through the darkness inside the Berg. The cool shadows provided a brief feeling of relief as Thomas rolled onto his back and drew in heavy breaths.

“You okay?” Alby asked from somewhere inside the darkness.

“Yeah,” Thomas replies, steadying his breathing.

He gave himself a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the only source of light being the small strips of green lights that ran across the top of the walls, but they did nothing to break the darkness.

“Why are we up here?” Thomas asked.

Alby pointed a finger at him. “Because it’s what you do when someone comes to your house and attacks your people. You fight back. I’m not going to let these shanks get away with that crap.”

Thomas thought about George, about the kid who was probably dead because he tried to save Newt. He thought about all those people who were hurt and confused and he realized that Alby was right. “Okay. I’m in. So what do we do?”

“The last guy ran through there,” Alby told him, pointing towards a door at the far end of the room. It was sealed shut. “But for the sake of our survival, let’s just assume he has company. Look around for something to pry the doors open, I’m going to try and break the control panel.”

Thomas nodded although Alby couldn’t see him. He staggered to his feet and made his way towards a nearby door through which he could see a dim light. He pushed back the door to find a storage room, the metal shelves that lined the walls were mostly empty aside from a few workpads strapped into place and some metal boxes.

Thomas tested a few of the workpads, finding one that was still fully charged and no password. He opened it, finding a map that tracked the flight path of the Berg. He unstrapped it and slid it into the small of his back. His eyes shifted across the shelves until he found something that could be helpful: a sledgehammer.

“Alby,” he called out, lifting the hammer off the shelf and holding it out for the older boy. “If you want to break something, this might help.”

Alby muttered “Thanks” as he took the sledgehammer from Thomas. Seconds later, Thomas heard the older boy slam the hammer against the heavy metal doors. The heavy doors rang out with a thundering crash as the metal buckled and dented with each blow.

Thomas turned to leave, the toe of his boot striking the corner of a metal crates. He looked down, the heavy metal case lay open and empty, the inside lined with black foam as if it were made to carry something important. There were several other cases like it, some open and empty; others sealed.

He crouched by the box, shutting the lid and straining to read the label in the dim light. There was a warning symbol plastered across the top, the kind that indicated the contents were some sort of biohazard. A label below the symbol said:

Virus VC321xb47

HIGHLY CONTAGEOUS.

24 DARTS. EXTREME CAUTION.

Thomas’ stomach lurched into his throat. He staggered to his feet and made his way over to Alby’s side.

“Find anything else?” the older boy asked, swinging the hammer again. He had nearly busted through the doors.

“There’s a reason they didn’t hit us with bullets,” Thomas muttered. “It was a virus.”

Alby’s action faltered. He lowered the sledgehammer and looked at Thomas. “What?”

“It was a virus,” Thomas repeated.

Alby froze for a moment, his face lit by the dim light. Thomas could see the pain and fear in his eyes and knew he was thinking about the others back in town; all those hit by the darts and Newt.

Thomas was thinking about Minho.

“We’ve been through worse,” Alby said, his voice steady and his face composed. He pulled the pistol from his belt and held it out to Thomas. “Seven bullets left. When I open this door, you get ready to fire, got it?”

Thomas nodded.

“We’re not going to let these guys get away with what they did,” Alby said with finality.

Thomas took a step back, bracing himself as he lifted the gun and aimed it at the door.

Alby lifted the sledgehammer high and brought it down with a thundering crash. The doors burst open and Thomas aimed the gun down the hallway.

Nothing.

The curving hall was empty, lit but pale blue lights.

Thomas stood still for a while, scanning the hallway, before he slowly lowered his gun. He took a step forward, slowly making his way down the dimly lit hallway. It curved slightly, Thomas keeping his back pressed against the wall as he followed the bending hallway that ran along the outer edge of the aircraft. They passed several doors, but each was locked when Alby tried them.

“Cockpit,” Alby whispered, reaching forward and gently taking the gun from Thomas’ hands – and Thomas was glad he did, a mix of fear and rage left him ready to pull the trigger on the first thing that moved, his hands trembling as he balled them into fists by his side.

They heard a door slam up ahead, then more footsteps; boots pounding against the metal floor.

Thomas’ heart lurched.

Alby broke into a sprint, Thomas following him down the curved passage. Thomas caught a glimpse of a running shadow up ahead, but it looked like someone in one of the green suits they’d seen earlier, without the headgear. The person yelled something, but the words were indecipherable as they echoed off the walls of the hallway.

Engines revved all around them and the Berg jerked into motion, blasting forward in a rush of power.

Thomas lost his balance and crashed into a wall, bounced off, then stumbled over his feet. He glanced up to see Alby struggling to hold his balance too. The two of them scrambled to their feet and sprinted towards the door the man had disappeared through.

As they neared the door, Thomas saw the man pulling the door shut. Alby lifted the gun and fired a shot, shattering the control panel by the door. Blue spars rained everywhere as the cockpit door flew open.

Thomas kicked up his heels, running past Alby and sprinting into the cockpit. Thomas slid to a halt, sliding across the metal floor and grabbing a wrench that had been toss across the floor. He stopped by the pilot who sat before a panel of instruments, dials and flashing screens of information.

He had barely taken it all in when someone tackled him from the right, both of their bodies crashing to the floor. His breath was knocked out of him as his attacker tried to pin him down.

There was a quiet click of a gun being cocked and the man froze. The man in the green suit slowly rose to his feet, realising that Alby was towering over him with a gun pressed to his head. Alby grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around and shoving him back against the wall.

“What’s going on here?” Alby shouted.

“We were just sent to do their dirty work,” the man answered.

“Sent?” Alby repeated back to him. “Who sent you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The pilot continued to work the controls, ignoring the chaotic scene behind her. Thomas stepped up to her, not sure what to do – he couldn’t really threaten her with a wrench. He steadied himself and put all the authority he could into his voice as he said, “Stop this thing right now. Turn it around and take us home.”

She acted like she hadn’t heard him.

Thomas was listening to what was going on across the room. He was annoyed that the pilot had ignored his directions. “I said to stop this thing! Now!”

“Just following orders,” the lady replied without a hint of emotion in her voice.

Thomas looked over at Alby.

“Who sent you?” Alec barked. “What was in those darts you shot at us? Some kind of virus?”

“I don’t know,” the man whimpered. Suddenly his expression dropped, his eyes cold and emotionless as he said, “Do it. Take her down.”

“What?” Alby muttered.

The pilot turned to look at Thomas. He looked back at her, perplexed; she had the same dead-looking eyes as the green-suit guy. Her voice was quiet and emotionless as she said, “Just following orders.”

She reached out and pushed a lever, slamming it forward until it couldn’t go any farther. The entire Berg lurched and plunged toward the ground, the windows of the cockpit suddenly full of greenery.

Thomas flew off the floor and smashed into the control panels. Something huge shattered and the roar of engines filled his ears; there was a loud crash, followed by an explosion. The Berg jerked to a stop and something hard came flying across the room and smacked him in the head.

He felt the pain flood his body, the air knocked form his lung leaving him unable to cry out. He heard Alby call his name, but it was so far away. His eyes fell shut, the darkness consuming him.

It was hours before Thomas regained consciousness and two days of hiking before they made it back to town. The first thing they noticed was the smell, the rancid stench of rotting flesh and decay that overturned their stomachs. Thomas and Alby tore the bottoms of their shirts off, tying the fabric over their face to shield their mouths and noses. As they came closer to the town they noticed the piles of bodies, bloodied and discoloured. They had been laid in the lean-too on the outskirts of town; the crooked building that usually stored supplies and food rations.

As they stepped into town, something seemed wrong. It was too quiet. Everyone was shuttered inside buildings and the whole town was silent, all except for the blood-curdling scream from the furthest cabin.

There was no describing the relief that washed over him when he saw Minho. He wanted to run into his arms and never let him go, but Newt stopped them. He explained that everyone hit by a dart had died, everyone but George.

Thomas flinched as George’s screams rang out again, the pained cries tearing at the boy’s throat. He couldn’t help himself, he walked over to the cabin, peering through the small gap in the wooden boards that had been nailed over the windows.

“George?” he called quietly.

“My head,” the boy whimpered over and over again. “My head.”

Thin beams of light broke through the windows, illuminating the boys face. Streams of blood were smeared across his face. His veins were black and bulging from his skin, blemishes of purple, black and blue bruises coloured his skin, and huge gashes of flesh had been torn from his face as if he had done it with his own bloody hands. His hands were on either side of his head, his fingers pressed into his skull as he writhed on the ground.

“I know it’s bad, but for some reason you’re still alive. Maybe you’re stronger than the others, maybe you can survive this. Just stay strong, okay?” Thomas said, his chest aching as he listened to the boy’s weak whimpers.

“My head,” he repeated. It was as if they were the only two words he knew. “My head.”

“George?” Alby called, appearing beside Thomas. “If you’re still there, give me a sign.”

“My head!” the boy screeched, lurching to his feet and charging at the wall.

Thomas and Alby stepped back, listening as the boy slammed his head against the wall over and over again. Then came the sickening sound of bone breaking and a heavy thud as the boy’s body fell to the ground with a weak sigh. Then, there was silence.

Thomas stood frozen, staring at the door and hoping to hear something, anything. But it was too late, George was gone.

Minho gently tugged on his sleeve, leading him to the larger cabin that most of them shared.

Thomas showed them the map on the workpad.

It was Alby who suggested they follow it to where the Berg came from and get some answers; he was a man on a mission, out for revenge.

“I’m in,” Gally said without hesitation.

“Me too,” Minho added. He turned to look at Thomas.

“I was in when I grabbed the bloody grappling hook,” Thomas pointed out.

Minho bowed his head to hide a smirk.

“I’m coming too,” Frypan volunteered.

“Same with me,” Winston chimed in.

That just left Newt. The boy stood in the corner, his arms folded across his chest and his head bowed as he listened to them. He glanced up at the group, his eyes full of though as he let out a heavy sigh and nodded.

“Okay, I’m in too,” he reluctantly agreed.

They packed their bags, dividing rations between the seven of them. Thomas watched as Minho swung his bag onto his back and stepped outside to wait for them. Alby soon joined him. Gally and Winston stood in the corner, chatting quietly with Frypan as he finished packing his bag.

Newt stepped over to Thomas’ side, holding out a folded piece of paper. “Stuff this in your pocket.”

“What is it?” Thomas asked as he took it.

“Just stuff the bloody thing in your pocket.”

Thomas did as he was told, confused.

“Now look me in the eyes.” Newt snapped his fingers, getting Thomas’ attention.

Something about this made Thomas uneasy. His stomach sank at the anguish he saw in Newt’s eyes.

“What is it?” Thomas asked again, his chest tightening.

“You don’t need to know right now. You can’t know. But you have to make me a promise – and I’m not messing around here. You swear to me that you won’t read that note until the time’s right.”

“When the time is right?” Thomas asked. “How will I—”

“You’ll bloody know,” Newt answered before Thomas could ask. “Now swear to me. Swear it!”

“Fine!” Thomas snapped. “I swear I won’t read it until the time s right. I swear.”

“Good that,” Newt replied as he grabbed his bag and stepped towards the door.

There was a heavy thud that made them all freeze.

Thomas spun around to see Gally on his knees, clutching his head. HIs face was twisted in pain, his skin pale and glistening with sweat. He looked weak, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Gally,” Frypan called, reaching out for his friend.

“Don’t touch him!” Newt shouted, making everyone freeze. He took a step closer. “Gally? Are you okay?”

“My… my head hurts,” he muttered.

“Out. Now!” Newt ordered.

Everyone grabbed their packs and sprinted for the door. Newt was the last out, shutting Gally inside.

“We can’t just leave him like that,” Frypan argued.

“We have to isolate him,” Newt explained. “If he has the same thing George had, then that means that whatever this is, it’s contagious.”

Thomas thought back to the sicker on the metal case: HIGHLY CONTAGEOUS.

“Go without me,” Gally called out from inside the cabin.

A pained expression crossed Alby’s face. “We have to check this place out.”

“You guys go,” Winston said, setting his pack down on the ground. “I’m staying here.”

“Me too,” Frypan said. “You guys go find out who did this.”

Alby nodded, saying a short goodbye to both of them before turning to make his way out of town. Newt stopped to lecture them about keeping their distance and what to do if anyone else got sick.

“Maybe you should stay here too,” Minho whispered to Thomas.

“I’m not leaving you again,” Thomas argued.

“Thomas,” Minho started.

“We do this together, or not at all,” Thomas said with finality. He turned and said goodbye to Winston and Frypan before following Newt and Alby. Minutes later, Minho followed.

They had been hiking for two days. The effort was wearing on them, their muscles aching in protest of the effort. But for Thomas it was worse, every time he settled to sleep, the memories of the sunflares came racing back.

But that night, he was disturbed by the sound of twigs breaking in the undergrowth. He stirred awake, watching as a figure staggered out of the trees and into the small opening.

The moonlight lit the boy’s face, his tan skin pale and covered in radiating black veins. His dark eyes were focused on Thomas as the boy rose to his feet.

“Winston?” Thomas asked, his voice just loud enough to alert the others.

“They’re in my head,” Winston uttered.

Thomas frowned in confusion. “What?”

“I couldn’t take the screaming,” Winston explained. “I went in and held him. And they crawled out of his head and into mine.”

“What?”

“The bugs,” Winston muttered weakly. “They crawled out of Gally’s head and into mine.”

“Is Gally…?” Thomas couldn’t say it.

“Dead?” Winston finished. He bowed his head, tears glittering in the moonlight as he nodded. “Frypan too.”

“What happened to Frypan?” Newt asked, shocked.

Winston’s eyes shot up, dark; soulless. “He got in my way.” He blinked heavily as if shaking himself from a nightmare. He looked up at the others, fear filling his eyes as he said, “What’s happening to me?”

Thomas heard Newt and Alby talking in hushed voices behind him.

Newt stepped forward, talking quietly as he led Winston into the woods.

Thomas turned to look at Alby, but the older boy stood still, his head bowed.

A gunshot split the air.

Thomas spun around, his eyes wide as he stared at the darkness beyond the trees.

A minute later, Newt stepped into the clearing, Alby’s pistol in his hand. He looked at the others, tears welling in his eyes as he quietly said, “I had to.”

The next day, they stumbled upon another settlement. It was isolated, nestled among the trees. The wind shifted, blowing the smell of rotting flesh towards them. They took a few steps forward, stepping around one of the buildings and facing the same horrors they had seen days before: bodies strewn across the ground, bloodied and impaled by small metal barbs. They had been stacked upon each other, their bodies discoloured as if they had been lying there for months.

“We’re turning around, right now,” Alby ordered.

Minho and Newt followed his lead, turning back towards the trees, but Thomas didn’t move.

He saw a small figure step out from behind one of the houses. A young boy who looked like he couldn’t be more than four years old. He had a mop of curly hair that was tousled by the wind. His pale cheeks were smeared with dirt and his expression was sad.

“Hi,” Thomas said softly. “Where is everyone?”

“They left,” the boy answered, his voice dry and raspy.

Thomas took a step forward, ignoring Alby’s protests. “We’re friendly, I promise. We come from a village just like this one.”

The boy stood still.

“My name’s Thomas,” he introduced himself. “What’s yours?”

“Charles,” the boy replied. “But my friends call my Chuck.”

“Where did everyone go, Chuck?” Thomas asked, taking another step forward and crouching a few feet before the boy.

“They ran into the forest,” the boy answered. Something about that answer made Thomas uneasy.

“Why did they leave you behind?”

“Because I didn’t die like the others.”

Chuck’s answer sent shivers down his spine.

Thomas was about to ask him what he meant when Chuck held out his arm, showing Thomas the bloody wound on his arm. A large gash ran along his upper arm, dried blood spread across his bicep and a circular wound near his shoulder.

“Were you hit by a dart?” Thomas asked.

Chuck nodded.

“And you feel alright? No headaches or anything?”

Chuck shook his head. HIs lips quivered and tears welled in his eyes, falling down his chubby cheeks as he sobbed, “They left me.”

“We’re not going to leave you,” Thomas promised.

“Thomas,” Alby called from behind him.

Thomas rose to his feet and stepped over to his friends. Once out of earshot of the boy, he whispered, “We can’t leave him here.”

“No one’s suggesting we do, Tommy,” Newt reassured him. “We’re not heartless. We just need to be cautious.”

“Whatever happened here, happened weeks ago,” Alby pointed out. “And if that kid’s still alive after being shot, then there’s something different about him.”

“At this point, we’re probably all sick,” Minho said. “Maybe it just takes longer for it to manifest in some people than in others. Either way, he’s a kid. He’s alone and scared. I’m not leaving him here.”

Thomas smiled softly, feeling proud of Minho.

“Okay, the kid comes with us,” Alby agreed.

Newt turned to face the boy. “Hey, Chucky. Do you want to come with us?”

The boy sniffed back his sobs and nodded.

Newt waved him over, holding his hand out to the boy.

Alby shot him a glare.

“Minho’s right,” Newt said. “We’re probably all sick at this point, so isolation doesn’t matter anymore.”

Chuck made his way over to Newt’s side, reaching out to take hold of the young man’s outstretched hands. He wiped his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his other hand.

“Okay,” Alby said. “Let’s get going.”

At some point, the group got split up. Thomas and Alby went to investigate the strange noises that rang out through the forest. When they returned, Minho, Newt and Chuck were nowhere in sight. They agreed to keep going; Newt and Minho knew they were tracking the Berg’s path and they knew where they were heading. If they could find them, it would be there.

But they weren’t.

Thomas doesn’t remember how they broke into the underground bunker, or how they stole the Berg. But he does remember reading the email on the workpad, one pertaining to something they were calling the Flare virus, but there wasn’t much information.

He remembers talking about how Chuck could have survived being shot two months ago and still show no sign of being sick. And then it struck them: he was immune.

He remembers something eating away at him. He dug into his pocket, pulling out the piece of paper Newt had given him. He turned it over in his fingers a few times, unsure of whether to read it. Finally, he gave in.

He unfurled the note, reading it.

Don’t let me die like that. If you’ve ever been my friend, kill me.

His heart sank into his gut.

When morning broke, Alby flew the stolen Berg over the old neighbourhoods.

Thomas felt a pang of pain in his chest as he looked down at the destroyed buildings that once housed families and the winding streets and cul-de-sacs where kids used to play.

After a few hours of flying, they found them: the figures of two young men and a boy being pushed towards a house by a group of people.

Alby landed the Berg a few streets over, searching the ship for weapons. He found a Transvice, a gun designed to disintegrate organic material. Alby lifted the strap over his shoulder, holding onto the gun with a tight grasp. He pulled his pistol from the small of his back and handed it to Thomas.

Thomas took it, keeping it in his hand as they left the Berg and walked through the blazing heat to where they had seen the others.

The cul-de-sac had been in an expensive neighbourhood; large buildings and expensive developments that had all been burnt by the flares; the buildings scotched, bricks charred and buildings crumbling. The streets were covered with ash and debris.

Thomas doesn’t remember much about what happened next. He remembered a street full of people who looked like they had escaped an asylum. A few people sat apart from everyone, muttering to themselves and rocking back and forth. Others stood nearby, staring into the sky; still mesmerised by the Berg they had flown over the street. People ran back and forth between houses, their bodies covered in black streaks, smears of blood and blistering sores. Small clusters of people gathered around make-shift fires on the curb, some dancing and singing and others drinking bubbling black liquid form a pot that sat atop the flames. A few people were hunched over the bodies of dead animals, stripping the meat from the carcases. Along the street and by the houses, bodies lie lifeless, some stacked in piles.

No one seemed to notice them as they walked on through the streets, passing by without so much as a glance from the others.

Alby stepped up to the house they had seen their friends escorted towards. He knocked on the door, waiting as a strange looking man opened it slightly, peering at them through the gap.

“We’re just here for our friends,” Alby said firmly. “Let us take them out of here and no one has to get hurt, got it?”

The man stared at him, frowning in confusion. It was as if he didn’t understand anything Alby had said.

“Newt?” Alby shouted. “Minho? You in there?”

From somewhere in the house, someone shouted back, a voice that Thomas knew anywhere: Minho.

Alby gently shoved the door open, walking past the man and down the long hallway.

Thomas followed him, his eyes darting back and forth as he passed the people who were huddled in the house.

Alby made his way down to the far end of the hallway, pushing open the door. His composure fractured, a wave of relief washing over his face as he looked at Newt and Minho.

But Thomas would never forget the look on Minho’s face; the fear in his eyes.

“He’s sick,” Minho said, his eyes focused on Alby. “He’s sick.”

Thomas and Alby looked at Newt.

Newt looked horrible. His hair had been torn out in patches, leaving bald spots that were nothing more than red welts. Scratches and bruises covered his face; his shirt was ripped, barely hanging on to his thin frame, and his pants were filthy with grime and blood. His pale skin was streaked by dark veins as if his blood were now ink. His eyes were vacant, his gaze fixed on a point on the floor as he stared into oblivion.

Thomas slid his pistol into the small of his back, reaching forward and hoisting Newt’s arm over his shoulder. He lifted Newt to his feet, letting the young man lean his weight against Thomas as he half-dragged him towards the door.

“Come on,” Thomas encouraged. “Let’s go.”

Minho lifted Chuck into his arms, cradling the boy’s face into his shoulder and shielding him as Alby led the way out of the house. They walked slowly down the hallway and out onto the street. All eyes were on them now, but no one dared to move.

They made it to the end of the street and rounded the corner, escaping the gazes that followed them.

Newt’s weight became too much, his body sagging to the side. Thomas staggered as he tried to set Newt down on the ground gently.

The older boy slumped back against a fence. “Just need a break,” he mumbled.

Alby and Minho had stopped, waiting for Thomas and Newt.

“Go ahead, we’ll catch up,” Thomas said, crouching before Newt.

Alby hesitated before reluctantly turning to leave.

Newt turned his head to the side, watching them leave. He waited until they turned another corner and made their way towards the Berg before reaching up to his chest. He dug under his shirt and balled his fist around his dog tags, yanking at the chain until it broke. He held them out to Thomas, streams of black blood dripping from his lips and his voice weak as he said, “Take it… Give them to Alby.”

“Give them to him yourself,” Thomas said, reaching forward to lift Newt up again. “Let’s go.”

“No!” Newt snapped. He heaved in deep breaths through gritted teeth, pushing the dog tags against Thomas’ chest. “Please, Tommy. Give them to Alby. He’ll understand.”

Thomas took the dog tags, the warm metal feeling heavy in his hand. He slid them into his pocket before reaching out for Newt again.

“Are you okay to keep going?” he asked.

Newt shook his head. “Just go,” he said weakly. He grimaced, holding his hand up to his face. “Just get out of here, Tommy. Go!”

“Newt, come with me, right now,” Thomas said softly. “We can take you somewhere safer, somewhere better to …”

Newt laughed, but it was dry, hollow. “Get out of here, Tommy,” he said warningly.

“Newt—”

Thomas froze, his words falling short of his lips. He remembered the note, his heart sinking as he looked at his friend.

Newt’s face suddenly hardened. His eyes filled with rage. He screamed and rushed forward, tackling Thomas to the ground. Thomas hit the pavement with gasp of pain, his breath knocked out of him. He struggled to fill his lungs as his old friend climbed on top of him and pinned him down.

His eyes were bloodshot, the whites of his eyes overtaken by red and black. Strings of saliva dripped from his mouth. He was like a feral animal, completely unhinged. Any sign of who he had been before was gone.

Newt clamped his hands around Thomas’ throat.

Thomas struggled against him, chocking as Newt tightened his grip. He thrashed about, knocking Newt off of him and staggering to his feet.

Newt leapt to his feet, swinging his arms as he slashed at Thomas. He let out animalistic grunts as he charged at Thomas.

Thomas dodged to the side, shoving Newt away.

Newt stumbled and fell to the ground, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees and whipping his head around.

He drew his gun from the small of his back and cocked it. He lifted it but froze.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot his friend.

Newt straightened his back and walked up to Thomas. He grabbed Thomas by the hand, yanking it toward himself and forcing it up until the barrel of the pistol was pressed under his chin.

“Kill me,” Newt ordered. “Kill me before I become one of those cannibal monsters! Kill me!”

Chills ran down Thomas’ spine. His lips trembled as he shook his head.

“I trusted you with the note!” Newt shouted, spit flying from his lips. “No one else. Now do it!”

Thomas tried to pull his hand away, but Newt was too strong. “I can’t, Newt, I can’t.”

His voice dropped to an urgent, harsh whisper. “Kill me, you shuck coward. Prove you can do the right thing. Put me out of my misery.”

The words horrified Thomas. “Newt, maybe we can—”

“Shut up! Just shut up! I trusted you! Now do it!”

“I can’t,” Thomas repeated.

“Do it!”

“I can’t!”

“Kill me or I’ll kill you. Kill me! Do it!”

“Newt …”

“Do it before I become one of them!”

“I …”

“Kill me!” And then Newt’s eyes cleared, as if he’d gained one last trembling gasp of sanity, and his voice softened. “Please, Tommy. Please.”

His heart fell into an endless abyss, his chest filling with pain as Thomas shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

He walked back to the Berg alone. Alby was waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp. He didn’t ask any questions; he knew. Thomas dug into his pocket, pulling out Newt’s dog tags and handing them to Alby. He fought back tears, his stomach twisting with guilt as he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Alby was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on the dirty dog tags. He balled his fist around them, reaching out with his other hand and gently patting Thomas’ shoulder. Without another word, he turned and walked into the dark hull of the Berg.

Thomas sat alone in the darkness. His face illuminated by the workpad and his eyes burnt as he started at the bright screen.

The others were asleep, but Thomas couldn’t get the image of Newt out of his head. He tried to distract himself, searching through the files on the workpad, trying to find any kind of answers he could.

That’s when he stumbled upon the folder, the one titled KILL ORDER.

A lot of it was political junk and saved emails, but there was one thing that stood out to him, something about the Post-Flares Coalition putting together a committee, the Population Control Committee, in order to manage the impending food shortage. According to the PFC, too many people had survived the flares and there wasn’t enough food to go around, so they came up with one solution: the Flare virus.

Thomas felt an indescribable rage burn through his veins. Everything he had witnessed in the last week had been sanctioned by an acting government they had hoped would help them. It hadn’t been the work of madmen or extremists. It had been approved and executed in the hopes of controlling the population.

It was genocide.

Thomas’ body shook, his muscles tense and his heartbeat slamming against his chest. He was livid. He shut off the workpad and stared into the darkness, sparks of colour and bursts of light filling his vision.

The images filled his mind: the lifeless bodies that lay in the streets, the metal darts sticking out of flesh, Geroge’s bloodied face as he screamed and slammed his head against the wall, Gally, Winston, and Frypan, the mad men and women who flooded the cul-de-sac. Newt.

Thomas heard a loud crack, blinking as he snapped back to reality. He looked down at the workpad in his hand, the pale emergency light of the hallway illuminating the shattered screen. Shards of glass dug into the palms of his hands.

He tossed the workpad aside, letting it clatter across the metal floor as he rose to his feet. He jumped, gasping as he looked at the hulking figure in the doorway.

Alby slouched against the doorframe, his eyes weary. The light in the hallway lit his face, revealing the glistening beads of sweat that covered his skin.

“Alby?” Thomas said cautiously. “You okay?”

“I’m sick,” Alby muttered weakly. He looked up at Thomas. “I’m really sick.”

“Maybe you should lie down for a bit,” Thomas said, taking another step forward.

Alby reached out and grabbed Thomas by the front of his shirt. “Listen to me,” he whispered, struggling to find his voice. “I don’t want to die for no reason. You understand? … I don’t want to die for nothing.”

“We’re not going to die for nothing,” Thomas promised.

Alby sat hunched over the controls, his face slack and his eyes empty. Minho sat in the corner with Chuck. Both of them looked at him, but their expressions were unreadable.

“Flat Trans,” Thomas blurted out. Sparkles and flashes of light continued to cross his field of vision, and he could barely contain the unstable emotions that churned within him. “The email said the PFC had a Flat Trans in Asheville. We have to find it.”

Alby’s head snapped up and he glared at Thomas. Something softened in his gaze as he said, “I think I know where to find it.”

Thomas felt the Berg descending. He slouched back against the wall and closed his eyes, his head throbbing as his eyes began to feel heavy. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more but to fall asleep, but he had to finish this.

He forced his eyes open and looked out the window of the Berg. The small city of Asheville was spread out before them, encircled by walls that had been constructed of wood, scrap metal, melted cars and anything big enough and strong enough to protect what lay inside: a mostly burnt-out urban centre.

But something was wrong.

Thomas blinked his eyes, trying to clear the haze from his vision as he looked down. A mass of people had breached one of the walls, breaking their way through the barricade, climbing over the mess of scrap and surging into the city.

One man stood atop the walls, shouting at everyone and waving them through. He seemed familiar to Thomas, and then it struck him; he was from the bunker, one of the men who had released he Flare. He had come for the Flat Trans too.

As the Berg flew over them, it was clear that the green suits had done nothing to protect them; they were infected.

The Berg glided over the abandoned streets of the city, landing before a large metal building. Out the front was a sign with letters stamped onto it: PFC PERSONNEL ONLY. A few people were gathering at the doors, lining up as if they were heading somewhere. But what struck Thomas was how oddly calm they were.

“That’s it,” Alby muttered, struggling with his words as he brought he Berg to a halt and began to descend to the street. His movements were strained, his muscles tense and veins like ropes under his skin. He was flushed, feverish sweat dripping down his face.

Thomas nodded. He reached into the small drawer under the control panel and tore a piece of paper from a clipboard, He grabbed a pen and quickly scribbled a note, reading it over before folding it in half and pocketing it.

The Berg made a surprisingly gentle landing out the front of the PFC building.

Alby flipped the controls to open the hatch.

“Once we’re in there, you know what to do.”

Alby nodded, slouching forward and leaning against the controls.

Thomas turned to make his way towards the door but paused. He turned back to Alby. “For all the times I didn’t say it, thank you.”

Alby’s arm trembled as he held his hand out to Thomas. “It was nice knowing you.”

“You too,” Thomas replied, shaking Alby’s hand.

Minho was on his feet, suddenly aware of what’s going on. “Let me do this.”

Thomas shook his head. “We do this together, or not at all.”

Minho nodded and whispered, “Together.”

Thomas gently patted his arm and replied, “Together.”

Chuck rose to his feet, reaching out to take Thomas’ hand. Thomas took it, looking down at the boy as he quietly said, “You’re so brace, Chuck. And I need you to be brave a little longer.”

The boy nodded, his curls bouncing atop his head.

Thomas reached down, lifting the boy into his arms and holding him close. Chuck tightened his arms around Thomas’ shoulders and buried his face in his shoulder. Thomas made his way towards the door, Minho following him. He paused, only for a second. He looked back at Alby.

The older teen was slouched back in the pilot’s seat, looking down at something in his hand. The metal caught the sunlight and Thomas realised what it was that Alby was holding: Newt’s dog tags.

He watched as Alby curled his fingers around them, holding them tight as he switched on the engines again.

Thomas turned to leave. He ran down the curved hallway and out through the open hatch. He ran down the ramp and into the glaring light of day.

There was a thundering boom and dust and debris rained around them.

“Run,” Thomas shouted over his shoulder. “And whatever you do, don’t stop running.”

They kicked up their heels and sprinted around the Berg.

There was a loud screech as the rear door shut and the engine roared to life, the blue thrusters flaring as Alby lifted the Berg off the ground.

Thomas felt his heart sink as a realisation dawned on him: he was never going to see his friend again.

He forced himself to keep going, sprinting towards the flight of stairs that led to the shattered glass doors at the front of the PFC building. They bounded up the stairs two at a time.

The sun beat down on them and the doors seemed to get further and further away, like a nightmare you can’t escape. Thomas drew in broken breaths, his body weakening as he fought the haze that flooded his vision.

He heard Minho call out for him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him on.

HIs legs ached in protest, but he had to keep running.

Behind them, he could hear the group of infected soldiers coursing through the streets, their boots thumping the ground and their shouts filling the air. They were set on their goal: the Flat Trans. But Thomas and Minho had to get there first.

The winds from the Berg whipped at them as they ran up the final few stairs and burst into the building.

Chuck clung to him and Minho slid to a stop by Thomas’ side. They stood in a large foyer, bare of any furniture. The only thing in the room was who metallic rods standing tall in the centre of the foyer, a shimmering wall of grey wavering between them like a sheet strung up to dry.

A man and a woman stood next to it, looking back at them with wide eyes filled with fear. They ran towards the grey sheet.

“Wait!” Thomas called after them, but he was too late: they were gone. They leapt into the greyness and disappeared.

Thomas and Minho stared at it.

“That’s the Flat Trans, right?” Minho muttered.

Neither of them had seen one before, but it looked like what people had described.

The noise of the approaching crowd outside grew louder, pulling Thomas back to reality and spurring him into action. He was out of time, he had to move now.

He carefully set Chuck on his feet and crouched before him, fighting to stay calm as madness seeped into his mind like ink in water. He set a finger under Chuck’s chin, lifting the boy’s face to look at him as he said, “Hey. I need you to listen to me. You’ve done so well. You’ve so brave, and I just need you to be really brave for me now, okay?”

Chuck’s eyes were full of tears, the glistening droplets caressing his chubby cheeks and clearing away the dirt and blood smeared across his skin. He nodded.

“There are people on the other side of this magic wall,” Thomas explained, pointing at the Flat Trans. “They’re going to help you. And you’re going to help them. Because you are so special.”

“Are you coming too?” Chuck asked.

Thomas felt his heart break as he said, “Not this time, buddy.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the note, reading it over.

HIS NAME IS CHUCK.

HE’S IMMUNE TO THE FLARE.

HE CAN SAVE US ALL.

His hands trembled as he reached out for Chuck’s arm. He put the note in the boy’s hand and balled his fist around it, scrunching the paper into his palm. He gave Chuck’s hand a gentle squeeze, forcing a reassuring smile.

The boy turned around, wrapping his arms around Minho and hugging him tight. Minho hugged him back, cradling the boy’s head to his chest and burying his face in the mess of curls so that no one would see him cry. After a second, he pulled back slightly.

Chuck then ran into Thomas’ arms.

He held him tight, fighting back his own tears as he whispered, “You’re going to be okay.”

He heard the sound of the Berg’s thrusters growing louder. The wind picked up, tearing through the broken doors and into the building.

They were out of time.

“Go,” he told Chuck, pulling bac from the hug and rising to his feet.

Chuck drew in a deep breath, trying to put on a brave face as he turned to face the swirling wall of grey. He stopped right before it, turning to look back at Thomas and Minho. He waved goodbye before taking a step forward and disappearing into the abyss.

The roar of the Berg filled the air. The building trembled.

The howling crowd drew closer.

“Break it!” Thomas shouted to Minho, his voice barely audible over the sound of the Berg.

They both kicked at one of the metal poles. The wall of grey disappeared as the metal rods broke in half, broken wires sparking.

They staggered back, turning to look at each other.

In those final few moments, he stood there with Minho, staring into his eyes as a sense of remembrance returned to his face. He looked up at Thomas, his stern composure wavering as the reality of the situation sank in; this is where it all ended. In that moment, in that shared gaze, Thomas knew that Minho was thinking the same thing; they were trying to memories every detail of each other’s faces as the memories of his past returned to them in fragments. The days they spent playing in their front yards, passing “Hello”s in the school halls, that day on the subtrans, the tunnels, the floods, the Lincoln Building. They’d been through it all together. With Alby and Newt, Ben, George, Gally, Frypan and Winston. And now it was just them.

Thomas tried to memorise his face. His dark eyes, messy hair, the two freckles on his cheek, the shape of his jaw, and his gorgeous smile. He remembered him smiling; tried to hold onto that memory.

Minho ran forward, grabbing Thomas by the front of his shirt and pulling him close, crushing their mouths together.

Thomas wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck, pulling him closer as the noise outside grew louder; deafening.

He let his eyes flutter shut as the Berg came crashing into the building.

In those final few moments, it was just him and Minho as the world came crashing down around them.

[AO3]