Archive of Our Own

Now…

Toby inches his way along the interstate, braking more than moving, squeezing past the junked remains of the numerous accidents. He doesn't feel the urge to look away from the lifeless bodies spilling from the vehicles. Not anymore. He's seen them -- or ones like them -- too many times since this all started.

He'll only pay attention if the ones curled up in the shadows start to move, and that won't happen for hours yet.

He taps his fingers on the wheel as he eases past a yellow school bus tipped on its side, clenches his teeth as he wills himself not to think of his children.

He steps on the gas pedal when the road clears, allows the car to creep up to forty and lets his fingers hover by the radio button. The stations are long off the air except for the crazy fucker who's taken over 99.5, of course. Toby's spent the last two days listening to him, because sometimes even hearing a born-again Christian reciting Bible passages between bouts of sustained crying is better than being alone. But now he doesn't have the patience, so he punches the button for the CD instead and listens to Bono wail about nameless streets.

Toby checks the placement of the sun against the road sign announcing the next gas station and rest stop. He decides to keep going for a while longer.

I.

Armageddon

Ten days ago…

Toby stands on the front porch, head cocked. Listening.

The Beecher home is large and ornate, on a street filled with lush green lawns and mature trees. It's an affluent area, a place where expensive foreign cars are common, where uniformed children are chauffeured by manicured mothers to exclusive prep schools, where well-heeled executives sip martinis and discuss the market before sliding into teak chairs for a fashionably late supper.

It's not the type of neighbourhood where one hears screaming.

Silence. And silence.

Toby lets out a breath.. A chilly evening breeze rustles through the leaves in the large sycamore tree in the front yard, and somewhere down the street a car revs its engine briefly. But the scream he'd heard -- the scream that he thought he'd heard -- isn't repeated.

Toby fingers the cell phone in his hand. He could try to call the police, but he hasn't been able to get a signal for hours. And what would he say? That he thinks, maybe, he heard someone screaming, somewhere? The police already have too much on their plate.

And besides, he doesn't quite trust that he wouldn't be the one ending up in cuffs at the end of the night. He's seen the looks that the Davenports and the McNivens give him, the convicted felon -- the child killer -- dropped into their midst. He knows about the clients lost when he re-joined the firm and starting doing his pro bono work at the prison.

Silence. And silence.

It was probably just a cat in heat.

Toby slips the useless phone into his pocket and steps back inside the house. He makes sure to lock the door behind him.

The television in the family room is still spitting out nothing but snow and static. He's almost inclined to flick it off -- the crackling noise pounds at his brain, and he's tempted to raid the liquor cabinet, just one little snifter of brandy to take the edge off, oh so tempted, but he won't, he won't. He clenches his fists and turns away from the cabinet; remembers that the last scattered news report had mentioned the Emergency Broadcast System. So the smart move is to leave the set on. He turns the volume down to a background murmur, just loud enough that he'll be able to tell the difference if a voice takes the place of the static, and picks up his book.

He re-reads the same sentence four times before giving up. So instead, he squints at the TV screen, willing it to show something, anything but a blizzard of white. Before he'd lost the signal, there'd been spotty footage of the rioting in Queens and Midtown followed by additional reports of similar disturbances in Chicago and Boston. The news anchors were speculating about a rare new brain disease that causes instant mania and uncontrollable rage -- a real life 28 Days Later. One reporter held fast to his theory of a nationwide -- worldwide? -- blood cult. The number of people dead or missing in New York City alone is staggering. Then a useless statement from the White House, urging people to remain calm and to stay indoors.

Toby realizes that he's leaning forward, staring blankly at the screen, his fingers gripping the arm of the chair, his palms slick against the leather.

He hasn't been able to reach his kids since the landlines went out earlier in the afternoon. His cell phone roams and roams and won't pick up a signal. His one saving grace -- the one thing that is stopping him from going out of his mind -- is that there had been no reports of bloodless bodies or ritualistic killings coming out of Florida. Maybe this thing -- whatever it is -- hasn't spread that far. For all he knows, Adventure World could be going full steam ahead. Holly and Harry should be safe with Angus and his mom.

Should be.

Remain calm. Remain fucking calm.

Toby sits in the chair for two hours. The static on the television remains constant. When he can't stop stealing glances at the liquor cabinet, when he can almost taste the sweet-bitter flavour of the whiskey on his tongue, he shuts off the television and goes to bed.

He's only slept an hour or two when he hears the noise.

For a moment, he's back in Oz. He's moving quickly, one hand flinging back the blanket and the other groping beneath the mattress while he swings his legs over the side of the bed, and he thinks not again and he thinks oh shit and he thinks where's the shank, where's the fucking shank and then he blinks and everything comes back to him in a rush. Not Oz, but his old childhood bedroom in his old childhood home. Sleigh bed and duvet and safety, and no one coming after him in the dark.

The floor is chilly on his bare feet, and Toby shivers just as the sound that woke him is repeated.

Someone is knocking at the front door.

Toby throws on a pair of sweatpants over his boxers, leaves his robe behind and pads quietly across the darkened hallway and down the stairs. He hesitates on his side of the door, steeples his fingers against the fine-grained wood and listens intently. He can still hear the wind in the tree, stronger now. The temperature has dropped, chilly for July, and goosebumps rise on the skin of his arms and chest. There are other sounds too, unidentifiable sounds drifting from the street. But on his porch, nothing.

Silence. And silence.

He's about to walk away, to put the phantom sound down to nerves, to worry about his kids and the crazy situation and--

"Tobias?"

He flinches away from the door instinctively. Has to swallow twice before he finds his voice. "Marion?"

"Oh." Her voice is raspy and hoarse, like she's been screaming. "Oh, Toby."

Run away, his mind screams. Every hair on his body standing at attention, the caveman in the dark shrieks at him to run, keep running; the mannered man who was taught to help and respect women can't listen.

She sounds so… broken. Like maybe she'd been screaming for help and no one heard her. Like maybe she'd been attacked and barely escaped and managed to get in her car and make it to the house and….

He opens the door more to silent his racing mind than for any other reason.

He'd left the porch light on earlier -- after he'd heard the scream, his mind insists on adding, and it was a scream, it was -- but now the veranda is wreathed in shadows. Marion stands beneath the shattered bulb, with only the dim glow from the inside hallway light to illuminate her dark hair, her deep red lips, her ashen face.

When she sees him, she smiles.

"Toby," she says.

"I've been so scared," she says.

"I'm cold," she says.

"Can I come in?" she says.

She was never going to be anything serious, never going to be a mother to his children. At best she had been a friend; at worst, a diversion. Or a chance to prove his masculinity, a way to drive away the persistent spectre of Keller that crowded his thoughts, woke him shaking with need in the night.

Marion doesn't look scared, or cold, or broken. She looks hungry.

The air outside is brisk, the sky clear. Toby shivers, and it has nothing to do with the unseasonably cooler temperatures. "Let me see your teeth," he says.

Marion tilts her head. "Toby?"

There is movement behind her on the grass, dark shapes flitting between the trees. A door slams somewhere down the street; a car horns bleats once. In the distance a man yells something intelligible, then utters a high-pitched panicked sound that cuts off abruptly.

"Your teeth," Toby grits out. "Show me."

"Toby." Marion's voice is gentle, soothing, the auditory equivalent of warm milk after a bad dream. He'd thought her the antithesis of Keller, all smooth surfaces and slack limbs. "Toby, why don't you let me in and--"

"You'll tear my throat out?" Toby finishes. "No thanks."

Marion rubs her hands on her arms, ragged nails scratching at the flesh. Milky-white. Like the porcelain dolls that line the shelf in his daughter's room. "Toby, sweetheart--"

"Fuck you," Toby says simply. He moves to shut the door.

"Toby. Please. Let me in!" She glances over her shoulder, eyes wide. "There are people out here. People that -- I think they want to -- Please Toby!"

Toby runs a hand shakily through his hair. His eyes glitter, and his heart pounds fast, too fast. He takes a breath and -- "The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts all on a summer's day. The Knave of Hearts he stole the tarts and took them clean away!"

Marion's eyes flash, and her jagged nails rip at the skin of her arms. She doesn't seem to notice. "LET ME IN!"

And he sees it then. His proof.

Her fangs.

Toby's body stiffens, his fingers clutching at the edge of the door so forcefully that the ache spikes through his arm. His stomach rolls.

And yet… he knew. From the moment the news reports began to filter in about the bloodless bodies and the empty apartment complexes and trailer parks and low-rises, huge tracts of people either massacred or gone without a trace… he knew. Of course he knew. Not an obscure blood-cult indulging in sadistic satanic rituals, not a rare disease, not a biological or chemical weapon unleashed upon the unwary masses.

Toby knew. Everyone knew.

But vampires aren't real.

Toby shuts the door on Marion's scream of frustration and fury; slides down the door and puddles on the floor as her furious blows pour down on the stout wood.

Vampires aren't real, Toby tells himself.

"The King of Hearts called for the tarts and beat the Knave full sore," Toby mutters. His legs are shaking, so he wraps his arms around them. Imagines they are someone else's arms, holding him close, comforting him. "The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts and vowed he'd steal no more."

Vampires aren't real.

Except when they are.

Eventually Toby retreats to his father's study, perching behind the thick curtains at the window. The room hasn't been used since Harrison passed away, and though it's only been a few months it already gives off an impression of disuse, the air musky and dank. Toby fetches the high-powered binoculars from the back of Harrison's closet and uses them at first, but it's not long before he puts them aside. It's possible to see too much.

Blurred figures run past the house, and Toby's never sure whether his eyes are playing tricks on him -- too much fear, too little sleep -- or if the figures really are moving quickly enough to blur.

He hears an explosion several blocks away, and later sees the flames shooting up against the dark night sky. He has real worries about his house until the wind dies.

Once, there is a knock at the door, laughter from whoever stands there. He thinks it might be the McNiven girl.

And much later, all the lights in the Chambers house flare to life, and he can see Marion clearly through their dining room window. Toby realizes with a start that she's wearing the same pale yellow dress that she wore on their first date. They'd gone for a walk in the park after dinner at Limoncello's, and she'd laughed at his jokes and his palms had been sweaty and now she is dead, a walking talking dead thing.

Toby fights back the bile as Marion bends Harvey Chambers over the table, snaps her teeth inches from his chest and laughs when he squirms and cries out. The sound of her voice carries easily to Toby's hiding place by the window, and he wonders for a moment if she's putting on a show for his behalf. Chris would remind him that not everything is about him.

Toby spends the rest of the night in the guest bathroom. It's the only room without a window.

By morning, he has a plan. He spends a few hours in the basement. Then he packs luggage and a gym bag, loads those and all the non-perishable food items he can carry into the car. He has a brief moment of panic when he can't find the keys to the Lexus, relief when he finds them, and a twinge of guilt over taking Angus's car at all. He shakes it all off and heads west.

He just has one stop to make.

II.

Oswald State Correctional Facility, Level 4.

Toby pulls over to the side of the road and takes several deep breaths. He'd made the drive to Oz several times since his parole, back when he was acting as an advocate for the prisoners. Back before… well, before. He resolutely shuts his eyes and concentrates on his breathing, doing his best to ignore the lingering memories of his last visit, of the smell of Keller's skin and the crisp lines on the paper pushed into his hand. Of I love you murmured from a lying mouth.

The drive used to take him no more than two and a half hours, three if the roads were bad.

On this day, the first day of the new age… roads are bad. Big surprise there. It takes Toby seven hours to manoeuvre through the crashed cars, the dead bodies, the dazed and confused people wandering the streets. He has to divert miles out of his way to avoid the National Guard roadblocks alone. He can't afford to be stopped.

And he sees people -- at least a dozen, two dozen, more -- that have clearly been bitten, and wonders what will happen to them when the sun goes down. He wants to be far away when it does.

By the time he pulls up the long driveway of the prison -- the gate hanging off its hinges, the front of the building blackened by a fire that might have happened a day or two ago, the parking lot abandoned and the entrance shrouded in darkness -- it's only a hour until sunset. Perhaps less.

Toby forces himself to keep going. To drive as close to the door as he can. To turn off the car and pocket the keys and exit the vehicle.

He slings the gym bag over his shoulder and takes a step toward the too-quiet building. Another. The sun shines on his upturned face, blinding him momentarily, and he takes another deep breath before leaving the sunshine behind and stepping into the dark maw of the entrance.

There is a dead body just inside the door.

For a moment Toby can't breathe, can't move. The hack isn't anyone he recognizes, but it's easy enough to imagine his terror at the end. To picture him running for the door, for that beckoning safety of the sunlight. He almost made it.

Toby steps carefully over the prone form. No skeletal hand reaches out to snake dead fingers around his ankle, to pull him down, to sink sharpened teeth into his neck. The hack has been bled white, and not from one neat little set of punctures in the jugular. There are dozens of bite marks covering his body… chunks missing from the fatty flesh of his arms. No afterlife for him. No thirst for blood, and sure as fuck no heavenly reward. Any belief that Toby ever had in God has almost been burnt out of him over the past twenty-four hours.

He lets himself through the first set of gates and stops, listening. From the bowels of the prison, he can hear screaming.

He's sure, this time.

"Help! Hellllllllp!"

"Oh for fucks sake."

Milgrove narrows his eyes and scowls before clutching the bars even tighter. "HELP!"

"Listen, shit for brains." Chris leans forward, resting his arms between the bars. A study in indifference, to anyone who didn't know how to look. His lips quirk in a mocking smile. "There's no one out there. In prison, no one can hear you scream."

"How do you know?" Rosa demands. "Somebody's gotta be alive. They gotta come for us, man!"

"Yeah," Stanton says. "You don't know shit, Keller."

Chris's eyes flick between the two men. Of the two, he pegs Rosa for the meat wagon tonight. Little spic hasn't eaten in three, four days -- well fuck, neither have most of 'em -- but it's not lookin' good on the kid. Eyeballs dancin' in his head. Nervous twitch. Yeah, Pablo's gonna take the offer tonight. And that'll be the last they'll see of him. Milgrove next, maybe, or Robson. They'll whittle 'em all down, one at a time. In the end, Keller knows that he and Stanton will be the last holdouts. Him because he's not stupid. And Stanton because he's a fucking chickenshit.

"I know," Chris says, "because the world has gone to hell in the proverbial hand basket. You think anyone out there," he indicates the outside world with a jut of his jaw, "gives two shits about a bunch of rapists and thieves and murderers and gangbangers locked up in here? They're all tryin' to save their own asses. And they'll leave ours to rot." Chris unhooks his arms from the bars, crosses them at his chest. "Get used to it. Pray if you think God's gonna take the time to forgive ya. Because nobody's comin' to save us. Nobody cares about us."

"Chris."

Chris stiffens. He keeps his gaze on Stanton, whose eyes have gone wide. Shock there. Disbelief. Then Stanton grins. "Yeah, keep talkin', Keller," he says.

And Chris lets out a breath, slowly. Blinks. Turns.

Toby.

"Deja fucking vu," Chris breathes.

The assholes left in Unit B are screeching now, screaming to be let out, but it's all white noise. Keller hears only Toby's purposeful steps from doorway to guard station to cell. Stanton's arms flailing, Rosa falling down on his knees in tears, but Keller sees only Toby's face.

"Jesus, Keller, you look like shit."

Chris blinks again. Heart pounding, throat raw. He wants Toby, needs him. He has to clench his fists to keep from reaching through the bars and holding on tight. He has to swallow twice before he can speak. "Get the fuck out of here, Beecher."

"Christ." Toby drops the gym bag at his feet, bends to rummage inside. "I've got food… water… fuck, Chris, how long has it been since you've…" Toby shakes his head, bites his lips, rises with a bottle of water. And it's all that Chris can do again not to clutch at him, draw him in, breathe him in deep.

Fucking Toby.

Toby tosses the cap aside and shoves the bottle through the bars. "Drink this," he says. "I tried to rack the cells but--"

"Electricity's shut off," Milgrove yells over. His voice is cracked from shouting for so long. "You gotta get the keys!"

Toby nods. "Where?"

Chris thrusts the half-empty bottle back through the bars. When his fingers brush against Toby's at the exchange he forces himself to feel nothing. Nothing. "Not gonna happen," he says brusquely. "Go."

"Where are the keys, Chris?"

"The hacks!" It's Rosa this time, the little shit. "The hacks got 'em!"

Toby nods again. "Okay. I passed a couple of them on the way in. Dead, in the hallway," he explains. "I'll go back and--"

"Toby. You can't."

"They're just down the hall, Chris. Don't worry, I'll just go and--"

"Toby." Chris pitches his voice soft. Needy. Desperate. It's easy to play this game because he is needy and desperate, just not for what Toby thinks. Or not only that. He holds out his hand and waits for Toby to take it. Then he pulls. In a heartbeat he's got Toby trapped against the bars, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other twisting his arm behind his back. Their bodies press together in the space between the bars and even now Chris can feel the heat between them, the spark that needs so little to ignite. He's half hard even now. Even now.

"Now you listen to me," he snarls into Toby's ear. "The sun is about to go down. The hacks are fuckin' bloodsuckers. You've got about two minutes to get your ass out of here, and you're going to do it." He twists Toby's arm higher, hears the whistle of pain from between Toby's teeth, from Toby's perfect mouth. "You were always a bitch, Beecher, and you were always my bitch. So you're going to do what I say. For once in your motherfucking life you're going to do what I say. Do you hear me?" He twists again, and this time Toby moans.

Even now.

"When I let go, you're going to leave this place and never look back. Do you understand me?"

Toby nods. But it's still a moment before Chris can bring himself to release him. When he does, he pushes forward at the same time, sending Toby stumbling several steps away.

"Now go."

Toby rubs at his shoulder. "Fuck you."

"Jesus FUCK! Toby, just--"

"Well, well, well, look what we got here. Your little girlfriend stopped by for a visit, huh Keller?"

At Howell's voice, Chris's grip tightens on the bars for a brief moment before he steps back out of range. The rest of the cellblock has gone silent, the constant chatter and begging for release at an end. Maybe they finally figured out what Chris knew all along -- there's no release. Not ever.

Chris meets Toby's eyes. "Run."

"No."

Chris closes his eyes.

"I gotta tell ya, Beecher, visiting hours are over," Howell says in a voice laced thickly with amusement. She takes a few more steps into the cellblock, her thick-soled shoes clomping heavily on the concrete and her nightstick already in her hand. Not that she needs it, not anymore. "I'm afraid you're in violation of Code 417B."

Toby takes a breath, then turns to face her. "I've got a special dispensation from the warden."

Howell's mouth twitches. "Cute. But we killed that nigger two days ago."

"He might be better off," Toby says.

"Let him go," Chris says quickly. Her eyes touch briefly on his before turning back to Beecher. "Let him go and you can have me."

"I'm going to have you anyway," Howell says dismissively.

"Not willingly," Chris counters. "Come on, Claire. You know how amazing it can be. You know how amazing I can be."

Her attention turns back to him. Just where he wants it. He only hopes Toby has the presence of mind to start edging away while he can. These fuckers can move fast. "You know," Howell says casually, "if I turn you, you'll just go after him yourself."

"Ya think?" Chris moves a little closer to the bars… almost close enough for her to reach in and touch him. Almost. "Maybe I'll want to stay with you."

"Hmm." Howell's tongue flicks over her lips in easy anticipation. "You remember how good it was, Keller? You remember pounding your big cock into me, you piece of shit?"

Chris lets his eyes slide over her body, lingering on every curve. The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. "I remember."

"This is better. Better than the best fuck you ever had. Better than the highest high."

"I believe it."

"Chris." Toby. Still standing there, mouth open. Should be halfway out the door by now. Fucking Christ.

And now her focus is on him again.

"Do it," Chris says quickly. "I'll invite you in, Claire. I won't fight you. But you gotta let him go."

"I could do you both," Howell muses. "Little bit of him, little bit of you. Mingling the blood gives it a whole different flavour, you know."

"You want me, you gotta give him up," Chris says. "That's the deal." He cups his cock with his hand, squeezes gently. "You know I'm worth it. That's why you keep comin' back."

"You got a pretty high opinion of yourself, Keller." When she smiles like that, just like that, he can see her teeth, long and shank-sharp against the ruby of her lips.

He doesn't let her see how much it unnerves him.

"My reputation is well deserved," Chris says with a practised cocky grin. "What do you say?"

The keys are in her hand and Chris never saw her take them from her belt. His eyes flick from her hand to her face, and he knows she's seen the shock of it on his face. Knows that whatever happens tonight, she's not going to make it easy. Despite what he said, he's going to fight her. She knows that, too. She wants that. And he's not going to win. He's going to suffer.

It's okay. It's what he deserves.

"Say it," she growls.

Chris takes several steps back from the sliding door of the cage. "Toby goes free."

"Yeah, yeah." Howell wiggles her fingers at Beecher. "Bye bye, precious. See you tomorrow night."

Toby takes a hesitant step forward. "Don't do this, Chris."

Chris doesn't take his eyes from Howell. "Get the fuck out."

"Say it," Howell sing-songs.

Chris lifts his chin. "Come in."

Howell smiles triumphantly, the key already turning in the lock. And in the scatter-flash flurry of motion that follows, Chris isn't sure what happens next. Only that Howell is falling back, screaming, shrieking, and then something hits his legs and bowls him over. He cracks his head on the metal frame of the bunk and lies there for a long moment, dazed. When he comes to, pushing himself frantically up on his feet, shaking his head and blinking rapidly, reaching for a weapon that isn't there, Howell's screams have died off and she lies motionless in the hallway.

Motionless and smouldering and dead and… fuck… faceless.

Stupid cunt.

He's vaguely aware of the rest of the cellblock, cheering.

He turns to Toby, reaches down a hand to pull him to his feet. "What," he says, "the fuck?"

"Always so eloquent, Keller," Toby says with a unsteady grin. He points at the now-empty water bottle lying a few feet away from the hack. "Holy water."

"Looked like Evian to me."

"It was. I had to stop at five different churches before I found a priest." Toby can't stop grinning. "He blessed the entire case."

Chris shakes his head, feels himself returning the grin. "Smart."

"Damn right."

The smile slides away before it has much of a chance to take hold. "You should have run when I told you to run."

Toby's hand rests lightly on his arm. "I wasn't leaving you here, Chris."

"Well, you shoulda!" Chris wrenches his arm away, stalks to the other end of the cage. "'Cause in case you ain't noticed, Tobe, now you're stuck in here too! We can't leave when the sun's down and they'll be back to make sure we're locked in tight before sunrise. There's others out there, ya know. LoPresti's still here. Mineo." He leans against the wall. "Vern."

Toby blanches; his knees give way and he sits down on the ground, hard. Buries his head in his hands for a moment, palms pressed to his eyes. "Vern?"

"Your ol' pal Vern. He was one of the first to take the bloodsuckers up on their offer. Eternal life for the Nazi fuck. He's also one of the few that they didn't lie to. They actually turned him." Chris drops down to the floor next to Toby, rests his back against the cold concrete. "Why the fuck didn't you just leave when you had the chance?"

Toby shrugs.

"I told you to go," Chris mutters.

"I've never been very good at obeying orders," Toby says. He shakes his head and shuffles back against the wall, wiggles around trying to get comfortable. "You fucked Howell?"

"You know, Beech, you might wanna focus on the big picture here."

"Yeah." Beecher reaches out to drag the gym bag closer. "Sorry about this, by the way. I just tossed it. Didn't mean to take you down."

"Uh huh."

"I've got more water. Food." Toby rustles around inside, comes up with cookies. "Hungry?"

"Not as much as some of these fucks," Chris says. "I knew somethin' was goin' down. Started smuggling food into my cell a few days before the shit hit the fan." But he takes the proffered cookies, digs into the bag with relish. He's hungrier than he thought. "We gotta make these last," he says around a mouthful of oatmeal chip.

"No, we don't." Toby glances up and down the hall -- whether looking for hacks or vampires, it's all the same, learned behaviour is learned behaviour -- before pulling something from the pocket of his hoodie.

Chris swears to fucking god that the keys sparkle. He has no idea how Toby managed to grab them and take out a fucking bloodsucker, but he's impressed. "Keep 'em hidden," he says quickly.

Toby frowns. "I know."

Chris takes another cookie from the bag, munches it slowly. "Smart," he says.

"You said that already."

"It bears repeating." He finishes the cookie and dives into the gym bag, comes up with a crushed bag of Doritos and decides crushed Doritos are better than no Doritos at all. He glances over at Howell as he eats. The corpse has stopped smoking, but the scent of burning flesh still hangs in the air. It doesn't bother his digestion one bit. "Didn't know holy water could kill them," he says conversationally.

"Me neither."

Chris swallows and wipes his hand on his shirt. He's suddenly aware of Toby sitting so close, close enough that their thighs are pressed together, close enough to feel his heat. "Toby," he says.

"Don't."

"Toby, I--"

"You feeling better?"

Chris blinks. Swallows another mouthful of Doritos as he analyzes the question. Finally he shrugs.

"Not so hungry?"

"I'm fine, Toby, what the--"

The punch comes out of nowhere; connects solidly with his jaw even though Toby's sitting down and it should have been a pansy-ass shot. Chris's head snaps back and the back of his head crunches against the concrete hard enough to remind him never to underestimate Beecher.

When he turns his head back, Toby is breathing heavily and that vein in his forehead is throbbing. Chris can't decide whether he wants to lick it or rip it out.

Toby curses. "You tried to fuck up my parole!"

Chris's lips quirk as he scrubs a hand over his chin. "I'm gonna give ya that one, Toby," he says mildly, "'cause I understand why you're sore at me. But don't push your fucking luck."

"You--"

"You," Chris interrupts, "came back for me. Now what does that tell ya?"

And Toby deflates like a punctured balloon. "I couldn't let you rot in here, Chris," he says. He looks at the bunk, at the sliding door standing half open, at Claire Howell's feet splayed on the concrete. Anywhere but at Chris. "But that's all."

Chris closes his eyes. Licks his lips. Just when he thought it was all over, he's suddenly been given the gift of time. He's a patient man. He can wait. "Sure," he says.

"You really fucked Howell?"

Chris shrugs without opening his eyes. "I do what I have to."

The hacks -- bone white, eyes glinting, half mad -- rant and rave and spit when they find Howell's body. But they leave her where she lays, their fury not over her death particularly but over the fact that someone managed to kill -- destroy -- one of their own. Once the surprise is over, they forget her in a heartbeat. They rack the cells individually, taunt and cajole in equal measure. Toby watches as some new kid -- a chubby Latino with a pile of books in his cell -- huddles against the back wall and shakes silently as Mineo works on him with soft unintelligible words. The kid looks like he's going to break in two, shatter like a piece of fragile crystal.

Toby fingers the keys in his pocket and opens his mouth.

"Don't," Chris says without opening his eyes.

Toby closes his mouth and prays silently that the kid can hold out one more night.

He mimics Chris and closes his eyes when they -- his brain still shies away from vampires, so they are just "they": cold, pale, inhuman -- come to his cell. He presses his lips together and wishes he could cover his ears to block out their smooth insidious voices. His entire body stiffens when Vern's mocking voice joins the chorus. And when Chris shifts closer against him and lays a hand on his arm, he welcomes the comfort.

Sometime in the middle of the night, watching Vern trying to convince Robson to leave the protection of the cell, Toby swings his head toward Chris. "Thought Robson would be the first one to yell Pick Me," he murmurs.

Chris shrugs.

Toby glances back down the cellblock. What little that Toby can see of Robson is blocked by Vern standing with his hands on his hips, clearly annoyed. "When Vern says jump, Robson usually asks how high," he says.

"Guess he don't have a death wish."

Toby narrows his eyes and looks back at Vern, now gesturing with his hands, his lips twisted in a sneer. "Are they dead, though?" he wonders aloud. He watches Vern huff out a breath and storm off, leaving a quivering Robson slumped against the bunk. "They clearly employ some form of respiration. They have fine motor skills, and have retained all of their mental abilities. They think and reason. They… eat, after a fashion. I wonder if they have to void their bowels?"

When he sees Robson surreptitiously wipe at his eyes, Toby looks away… to find Chris staring at him incredulously. He blinks. "What?"

"You seriously tellin' me that you're tryin' to justify these bloodsuckers as some kinda new race or something?"

"No." Toby shakes his head. "No, I just--"

"Somebody sucked all the blood outta their bodies and killed them. Now they wanna suck all the blood outta your body and kill you. End of fucking story."

"Yeah. Fuck." Toby nods shakily and turns his face away. His legs ache -- too much time sitting on the floor, the cold seeping into his joints a constant reminder of the gym, Vern's triumphant smirk, I never loved you -- so he shuffles a few feet away and slumps onto the mattress that Chris has placed against the rear wall of the cell. Toby slides his hands under his armpits for warmth and tries to get comfortable.

And Chris sits with his back propped against the frame of the barren bunk, watching. Always watching.

Sometime in the hours before dawn, Toby sleeps.

III.

Escape from Oz

Toby opens his eyes to the misty half light of pre-dawn.

The cell block is quiet, save for a steady helpless whimpering coming from one of the cages at the far end of the row. Chris lies sprawled beside him, eyes closed, half on the filthy mattress and half on the floor.

And LoPresti fills the open doorway with his body and his arrogant smirk.

Toby wants to wipe that smirk off his face. Preferably with a fist -- or his nails, he thinks, and the resulting grin at that thought does cause a flash of something like anxiety on LoPresti's face -- but a bottle of holy water would do nicely. He clenches his fist at his side and wishes he'd thought to put one by the mattress before he slept.

"Sleep tight, girls," LoPresti croons as he hefts the sliding door closed. The lock snaps shut decisively and the echo rings through the block. "See you tonight."

"Dickwad," Chris mutters under his breath.

Toby nudges him with a sneakered toe. "You're awake."

"No shit." Chris opens his eyes and stretches, and Toby watches the play of muscles beneath Chris's undershirt and licks his lips and looks away.

"Hungry."

"Is that a question?"

"No. Pass me the Doritos." Toby groans around a yawn.

"No more Doritos," Chris answers. He sits up with a grunt, catches the bottle of water that rolls away from his side, and digs around in the gym bag. "Got… uh… pretzels."

"I shouldn't have brought so many salty things," Toby grouses as he catches the tossed bag. "Stupid."

"Yeah," Chris agrees. "Next time you go shopping before a vampire invasion, make sure you get some healthy shit."

They share grins and pretzels and half a bottle of water in companionable silence. Toby takes a final sip and regards the plastic bottle solemnly. He frowns. "We have to get some other water, too," he says, "and save the holy water for when we need it. When we get out--"

"Keep your voice down," Chris warns.

Toby glances around guiltily. They seem to be gone, hiding away from the coming dawn. And the sun is shining brighter now, thin shafts appearing through the high windows and lighting the concrete at infrequent intervals in pale yellow stripes, but he knows it's better to be safe than sorry. They need to be sure that the sun is fully out before they even attempt to make their way out of the building. The keys are heavy in the pocket of his hoodie.

He watches Chris's throat convulse as he swallows more water and his own throat is suddenly dry. He thinks this is the longest he's ever spent with Chris without touching him.

"Maybe our piss is toxic," Chris says.

Toby blinks. "What?"

"From drinkin' so much holy water. Maybe if we get jumped by a vamp, all we gotta do is whip out our dicks and piss on 'em."

For a long moment Toby is silent. Then he laughs.

Chris frowns. "What? It could work."

"I don't know about you," Toby says, "but number one, I'm not whipping out my dick anytime soon, and number two, I can't exactly piss on command. And number three, even if I could, I'm not sure a… one of them… would wait around long enough for me to get my pants off."

"You can say vampire, ya know."

Toby looks away.

"Or bloodsucker. Whichever."

"It sounds stupid," Toby mumbles.

Chris shrugs. "'S'what they are."

"Yeah. Well." Toby shoves aside a couple of bottles of water in the bag to make room for the half-empty bag of pretzels. And thinks for a moment that he's always had trouble admitting the truth.

"Anyway," Chris continues, "I can."

Toby's brow wrinkles. "What?"

"Piss on command. I can," Chris says proudly.

Toby opens his mouth. Closes it again. Then-- "I forgot how confusing it can be talking to you."

"Yeah. You're a real prize yourself, Dr. Seuss," Chris mutters.

"Help!"

"Oh Jesus FUCK, Milgrove, shut the fuck up!" Chris yells.

Silence. And silence.

"HELP!"

Chris hangs his head.

"He do this all day?"

"All day, every day," Chris answers. "Thank God this is the last time I have to hear it."

He caps the half-empty bottle and slides it into the gym bag before zipping it up. He loosens the lid on a full bottle of water and holds it loosely in his hand before rising lithely to his feet. "I'm going first. You take the bag. You see any vamps, run like hell."

"Now?"

Chris arches a brow. "You got something else you wanna do first? Game of chess?"

"Don't be an asshole."

"It's in my nature, Tobe. Keys?"

Toby steps forward and eases his arm out into the cellblock hall, turning his fist so that the keys dangle from his palm. He can sense more than feel Chris at his side, tense, trying to keep an eye on both ends of the long hallway. The sun being up should make them feel safe, but Oz is a place of shadows. And they have no idea what the limitations on these things are.

The keys jangle in his hand.

"Don't drop them!"

Toby bristles. "That's just what I was planning to do." He slots the key into the keyhole. "And by the way? I'm not running," he adds blandly.

The key turns. And the lock slides open smoothly.

"You never fuckin' do what I say," Chris says.

"So you should be used to it by now."

They slide quietly out into the hall and stand together. Within seconds there is chaos. Milgrove's cries change from "Help!" to "Hey!" and the clamouring to be let free begins anew. Only this time, Toby can do something about it. He hefts the key-ring in his hand and takes a step… only to be stopped by Chris's strong hand curling around his bicep.

"Don't do it," Chris says softly.

Toby glances from the firm hold to the line of desperate men. "Chris--"

"Look at these fucks," Chris says. "You got a car out there?"

Toby grits his teeth. "Let me go, Keller."

"Answer the fucking question."

"Of course I have a car out there. Now let--"

"Loaded with supplies, I'll bet. You got survivalist gear? Bet ya do."

Toby doesn't, but he remains silent. And Chris's grip gets a little tighter.

"More food and water in the car, right? A case of holy water, you said. And you think one of these fuckwads is going to let it sit out there nice and safe while you make the rounds and let everyone go? First fucker you let free is going to light out of here and lift your wheels before you have time to fuckin' spit."

Toby shifts on his feet. Stares at his shoes. He knows everything that Chris has said is the truth. But he doesn't want to think about what kind of man it would make him if he listened. "I can't leave them here."

"You can't let them go," Chris says simply. He rubs a thumb over Toby's arm before releasing his hold. "Milgrove would shank you as soon as look at you--"

"I wouldn't!" Milgrove protests hotly. "I swear I--"

"…and Creeler, there. He's a perv, Beech. Likes to diddle little girls. Gonna let him free? How about Robson? You bit off his dick, Beecher. I'm thinkin' he's not a real forgiving man."

"Hey!" Robson leans as far out of the cell as he can, tries to catch Beecher's eyes. "I forgive you! No hard feelings, buddy."

"Jesus." Toby swipes a hand through his hair. His eyes dart over the rows of cells, every second or third one holding a terrified defeated man who would probably beat him to a bloody pulp to get out of this place. His eyes widen as he gets to the third cell down. It looks the same as it did yesterday, but for the topple of books on the floor. "Shit. Where's the kid?"

"Huh?"

"The chubby kid," Toby gestures to the cell before turning to face Chris.

"Pablo Rosa," Chris says. "They took him at about 5 this morning."

Toby hangs his head. "Fuck. I knew he was cracking… I should have told him about the keys. I should have--"

"And they'd have found another way to fuck us over," Chris says sharply, "and we'd still be trapped here. No." He squints at the cell, then looks back at Toby and takes a breath. "It would have been quick for him," he says. "It was late. They didn't have much time."

"Yeah," Toby snorts. "Right. Unless they've got him chained up somewhere until tonight."

Chris's eyes flare wide. "We are not searching this place for him."

"I know."

"He made his choice."

"I know."

"And we have to go. We're wasting daylight."

Toby jingles the keys in his palm.

"Toby."

Toby ignores him, walks to the first cell on the left. The man inside watches him warily. "You're Henry Stanton."

"Uh… yeah?"

"You remember me? Tobias Beecher. I helped you with your claim--"

"I remember you, Beecher. You got them to keep me on restricted duty 'cause of my back." Stanton leans forward and grips the bars. "It really worked, too. My back's doin' much better, and the hacks had to leave me alone. Everything's been good. Well, you know, until vampires took over the prison and tried to kill us."

"Right." Toby nods. "So… you owe me."

"Uh." Stanton studies his hands. "Well… okay. But I've never… uh… done this before." He grimaces and nods his head toward Chris. "And isn't that… like… your boyfriend?"

"For fucks sake, I don't want you to suck me off!" Toby steps back and ignores the smirk that Chris is sending his way. "I'm going to give you the keys," Toby says, and holds up a hand to forestall Chris's protest. "I want you to wait fifteen minutes. Then let yourself out and free everyone else."

"Fifteen minutes?"

"I did something for you," Toby says. "You can do this for me."

"But… why can't you just let us out now?"

"Fuck. Yo, numbnuts," Chris calls out, scowling. "Were you paying any fucking attention to the conversation we just had?"

Stanton raised his chin. "No, okay? I thought it looked kinda… private. I try to give people their space."

"Yeah, you're a real stand up guy."

"I am!"

"Jesus Christ, will the two of you shut up?" Toby shakes his head, then holds the keys just out of Stanton's reach. "Will you do it?"

Stanton shrugs. "Yeah. Sure. It's the only way I'm getting out of here, right?"

"You got it."

"We can wait fifteen minutes."

Toby nods. "Good." He drops the keys in Stanton's outstretched palm.

"Fuck this up, Stanton, and I swear to God I'll hunt you down," Chris growls.

"Keller." Toby waits until Chris turns back to him. "We're wasting daylight, remember?"

"Yeah." Chris glares back at Stanton one final time before heading out.

"Hey," Stanton calls out before they've gone four feet.

"For fucks sake, Stanton, WHAT?"

"Just… do I have to let everyone out?"

Toby glances along the row of cells, comes to rest his gaze intently on Robson. He shrugs. "Use your discretion."

IV.

Go North, Young Man

When Toby emerges from the front entrance of the prison, the first thing he does is stop and look up at the sun. It feels like he's been locked inside forever. He only wants to stand and bask in the warmth on his face.

But he knows he can't. The car is still where he left it, but Chris is right -- one of the bastards inside would kill him as soon as spit on him for transportation out of here. And he sets his shoulders and deliberately doesn't think about the others possibly left inside -- O'Reily and Alvarez and… fuck, how would someone like Busmalis survive something like this? He pictures them all, locked inside their pods, tempted and taunted nightly. Would McManus have been turned? Murphy?

Oh fuck. Sister Pete?

Nothing he can do. He has what he came for.

So Toby shifts the gym bag to his other shoulder and turns to Chris, who still has his own face upturned to the sun.

Toby realizes with a start that this is the first time he's seen Chris in natural light.

The sun is kind to him, teasing out highlights in his hair. Making the little wrinkles around his eyes stand out just a little more, yes, but still. He looks so… No. Toby swallows. "Chris."

Chris blinks.

"Chris… we have to go."

Chris turns to him and smiles. Toby wants to squint and turn away from the dazzling effect of that smile, before he forgets just exactly what Chris tried to do to him. What Chris came so close to doing. Because Toby was on his way to the address on that slip of paper, had borrowed -- stolen -- his father's car and was hunched over the wheel, sure that at any moment he was going to be pulled over and some cop, some hard-nosed bitch of a cop was going to check and find out that he didn't have a license, that his license had been revoked because he killed someone, killed a little girl, and--

Toby sets his shoulders and turns away from that smile. He unlocks the car and opens the door. "You coming?" he asks.

The smile fades. Chris's shoulders slump. "Yeah," he says.

They head north.

Chris spends the first five minutes poking through the supplies that Toby has piled haphazardly in the back seat of the car. As Toby snakes through the winding roads leading away from the prison, Chris hunches between the seats, digging through canned goods and comforters, packages of pasta and several pairs of winter boots. And if he makes sure that his ass brushes against Toby's shoulder -- ignoring the exasperated Chris! and the slight lurch of the car before Toby gets them back on track -- well. Just proves his point, doesn't it?

Toby wants him. Still.

Toby will forgive him.

He comes up with a plastic bag filled with fruit and smiles as he snags a couple of mangos. He hasn't had a mango in… five years? Six? Long enough to almost forget the taste. "Hey, Tobe," he says, turning to the front of the car, flopping down on the seat, "when did you--"

Toby brakes at the top of a hill.

"Holy fuck," Chris mumbles. The mango in his hand is forgotten. "Toby."

The town looks deserted. Chris remembers cheap motels and diners to service the families of the cons that keep coming and coming, second-rate low-rise buildings and low-rent bungalows where the hacks probably eat take-out pizza at scarred formica tables and watch shitty sitcoms on big-screen TVs that still require dozens of "low monthly payments." Beyond, sure, there's probably a nicer set of buildings, Tudor houses or some shit. Chris has never seen that part.

The motel that he remembers passing on his way back from Cedar Junction is collapsed, blackened ruins that fill the air with the stench of burnt wood and plastic. The door to the diner is open, the bottom half of a body -- denim clad legs and white sneakers -- stuck out into the street. Chris squints, but still can't see the rest of the body. He wants to think that the man's torso is just lost in the shadows of the doorframe. But the shadows aren't that deep.

"What the fuck is happening?" Chris says.

Toby huffs out something could be a laugh.

And Chris whirls on him, fist clenched in his shirt, face inches from Toby's. "I mean it!" Chris snarls. "What the fuck is going on? We haven't had news for days, the hacks took away our radios, you stupid fuck!"

Toby doesn't look scared. At least, not of Chris.

"Calm down," Toby says.

Chris realizes that his other hand is clenched around Toby's bicep, fingers digging into the flesh. Hard enough to bruise. He released the hold slowly. Takes a breath. "Yeah," he says.

Toby looks out over the town, his calm demeanour belied by the clench of his fists on the wheel, the set of his jaw. "End of the world, Keller," he says.

"No."

Toby blinks, once, then turns in the seat to look at him. "What the fuck did you think was happening?"

Chris bows his head.

"Seriously, Keller. Vampire CO's took over the fucking prison!"

"Yeah!" Chris shouts. "There. In Oz. 'Cause who gives a fuck about us? But here… there should be… where the fuck's the army? The fucking…" Chris scrubs a hand over his chin. "What the fuck, Beecher?"

Toby looks away. He shrugs. "No one believed. Or… everyone believed, but no one would say it out loud."

"So that's it."

"That's it. We were getting reports of small towns up near the Canadian border. Couple hundred people, missing. Tables set for dinner, pot of potatoes on the stove. But the people gone, vanished. It's happened before. Then the bodies starting showing up in the cities. Drained of blood." Toby sniffs. "That's never happened before."

"Somebody shoulda done something."

"Everybody speculated. Nobody did shit. Within a few days it all went crazy. Riots in the cities. More missing, more dead. They took advantage of us, Keller. They waited until the time was right. Increased their numbers. And moved in, knowing we wouldn't do a fucking thing to stop them. Because vampires don't fucking exist."

Chris looks out over the town. Empty. Except for whatever is lurking in the burnt out hulk of the diner, behind the stained clapboard of the houses that line the side streets. Sleeping. Waiting for nightfall. Hungry, and dreaming of blood.

He sees motion out of the corner of his eye, and whips his head around in time to see a teenage boy sidling around one of the buildings. One survivor, at least. Holy fuck, just one.

And then-- "Where are your kids?"

Toby closes his eyes. "Chris."

"Where are your kids, Toby?"

"I don't know."

"What?" He bites it out. He braces himself for Toby's anger, and instead faces Toby's tears.

"They're… Florida. Angus and…. they said it would be good for them… I couldn't… my parole restric… oh fuck…"

There is something else, garbled noise that may be words, and then Chris is snaking a hand around the nape of Toby's neck, pulling him close. Toby's body is warm against his, and Toby scrunches his hand in Chris's T-shirt and his breath hitches in shuddering gasps. And Chris murmurs words that make no sense, things like they're fine and they're gonna be all right, Tobe and maybe they're lies. Maybe Toby knows that. But maybe not.

"I couldn't even leave them a note," Toby says, finally, after he's pulled away and wiped his nose on his sleeve and stared out the window at nothing while Chris sits quietly beside him, hands clenched in his lap, wishing for someone to kill. "I couldn't tell my family where I've gone because… what if they come back? What if they're--"

"They're not," Chris says.

"No," Toby says. "They're not." He shifts in his seat, faces Chris for the first time since the tears. "You believe in God," he says.

It's not a question, but Chris answers anyway. "Yeah," he says.

"Even now?"

Chris shrugs. "It ain't like I ever thought God was a particularly good person, Tobe. Ask Job. That fucker lost everything because of God."

"Yeah." Toby replaces his hands on the wheel, looks forward resolutely. "Well, I don't think that God would be that cruel. He wouldn't take my kids. My remaining kids."

Chris generally thinks that God couldn't give a shit. But he keeps his mouth shut. Because if God did fuck up this badly, if God not only let fucking bloodsuckers loose in the world but also set them on Toby's kids… them him and God were going to have words.

"That's not even the scariest part," Toby says, and now his voice is cold and flat. "The scariest part is… what if I get turned? And what if I decide to take a little trip to Florida?"

"That ain't gonna happen."

Toby sighs. "You don't know that."

"Yeah," Chris says, "I do. I'm not lettin' anyone get to you, Tobe."

"You can't protect me, Chris."

Chris shakes his head. Sometimes Toby is so dense. "It's always been you and me, Toby," he says softly. "Don't you know that by now?"

Toby says nothing, but he slides his gaze to Chris's before turning his attention back to the front of the car. He turns the key and revs the car experimentally before switching gears and starting down the hill.

He knows.

"Where are we going?" Chris says as Toby skirts the town.

"Canada."

V.

Limitations

"I still can't believe you didn't bring me any clothes," Chris sniffs.

"Will you shut the fuck up about the clothes?"

"I reek. Fuck."

The sun has only been up an hour and Chris has already pissed him off. That's got to be a record. But Toby bites his lip to stop himself from making some kind of crude remark about the way Chris normally smells -- of sweat and cheap aftershave and prison-issue soap -- and just how pleasant that stench normally is. He doesn't want to fight right now. He doesn't even want to talk.

They'd spent the night in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. They'd searched it thoroughly, Toby holding one of the blocks of wood he'd roughly hacked into something approximating a stake in the basement back home, and Chris feeling more confident with a couple of opened bottles of holy water. They'd found nothing. No one. So they'd locked all the doors and covered the windows and retreated to the master bedroom on the second floor to wait out the long hours of evening. Chris's first choice had been a smaller room, closer to the stairs, less light, but the room had been decorated in pale pink and frilly white curtains and Toby had shaken his head and backed slowly out of the room.

Chris had shut the door behind them and followed him to the master without a word.

They didn't look out the window, but Toby is certain they were outside. Once, they both heard laughter -- a young girl's laughter -- and Toby remembered the pink room and the ruffled curtains and wondered if the little girl that lived here was staying close to home.

They didn't speak much. Chris sat with his back against the wall, a bottle of water next to him and a stake laying across his legs, and eventually Toby fell asleep atop the bedspread. He doesn't think Chris moved all night.

He woke to find Chris going through the supplies they'd lugged upstairs. And complaining about clothes, or lack thereof.

"Just wear something of mine," Toby had said.

Chris had cursed, thrown Toby's favourite polo shirt across the room and stomped outside.

And now they were in the car, still heading north, and Chris just wouldn't let it go.

Toby flexes his hands on the wheel, reaches for the bottle of water in the cup holder and then stays his hand. The case blessed by the priest is going much too fast, and they still haven't been able to refill any of the bottles. They're going to need gas soon, and Toby has no idea if they'll even be able to access the pumps. And they've passed two cars… both going in the opposite direction. Toby doesn't like what that seems to say about his choice of destination. He doesn't like anything about this day so far. And, he realizes, he's at least had a little time to acclimatize -- both to being out and to being out in a world that's suddenly tipped over on its side. Chris? Chris has been alone. Chris has spent the last six years knowing he's going to die in prison, and the last week knowing that his death is going to occur by starvation.

Chris is still in prison blue work pants and the stained white wife-beater that he's lived in for the past seven days.

"We'll stop," he says quietly.

Chris turns his head slowly, glares. "What the fuck are you mumbling about?"

"Look, Chris," Toby begins, "I know you're scared--"

"Fuck you."

"I know," Toby plows on, "that you're pissed off because this is something you can't control--"

"What?" Chris's lip upturns in a sneer. "You a psychiatrist now, Toby? Sister Pete been givin' you some lessons?"

"I'm just saying it's natural to be--"

"I'm pissed off because you brought yourself a suitcase full of country club cruise wear and three fucking parkas and couldn't see fit to pick me up one pair of jeans," Chris says hotly.

Toby presses his lips together. "Fine."

"Fine."

"So we'll stop somewhere and get you some clothes."

Silence.

"For what it's worth," Toby says into the silence, "I'm terrified."

Chris says nothing, but a few minutes later he rests his hand on Toby's knee. Squeezes gently. And Toby lets himself be reassured by the touch.

They find the Big Q-Mart fifteen minutes later.

It's one of the bigger locations, and empty of life from what Toby can see by cupping his hands around his face and peering through the window. Their Lexus is the only car in the parking lot. He tries the door. "It's locked," he says.

Chris makes a face and stabs the blunt end of one of the stakes through the glass. The shattering noise would normally cause everyone in the area to come running, not to mention send up the whoop of the alarm. But there's only silence.

"It's unlocked," Chris says with a smirk. He pushes the door open and treads through the broken glass, heading straight for the men's department.

Toby grabs his arm before he can get too far. "We need to check for bloodsuckers before we do anything," he whispers.

Chris scrubs a hand over his chin.

"We stick together," Toby whispers.

Chris squints at him. "Why the fuck are you whispering?"

Toby swallows.

"They can't walk around in the daytime," Chris says. "If they could, they'd'a been harassin' us all the time in Oz."

"Okay," Toby whispers. He clears his throat. "Okay," he tries again, and though he's not whispering his voice still sounds too loud in the large, empty space. "But we still need to make sure there's none of them inside before we can relax. I won't feel real comfortable coming across some… dead thing just… lying there."

"They can't hurt ya during the day, Tobe."

"Look," Toby bites out.

"Fine, whatever." Chris rolls his shoulders. "We'll search first. But the door was locked, Beecher. Their ain't gonna be nobody in here."

"Humour me."

It doesn't take long.

Toby finds two of them on the floor behind the jewellery display case. The woman is still wearing her blue Big-Q smock. The man in Bermuda shorts and button-down shirt might have been a customer. Both are bleached pale and both lay unmoving, even when Chris nudges them with his foot.

Chris finds the third in the frozen food department. Actually, in the frozen food. The man has shoved aside the cheeses and cold-cuts and curled up around the tubs of margarine.

"So I guess cold doesn't hurt them," Toby muses aloud. At least they learned something.

Chris looks at him. Blinks.

"What?"

Chris's lips quirk in a slow smile. "This is perfect."

Toby crosses his arms. "What?"

"Guinea pigs, Tobe. We've got ourselves three beautiful guinea pigs."

"We already know holy water kills them," Chris argues.

They've dragged the first body, the woman -- the female, Toby amended, because these things surely weren't men and women anymore -- away from her companion. Toby had braced himself for that first touch, had seen Chris do the same, but the vampire's flesh was smooth and silky and only slightly chilled. He had blinked up in surprise.

"The fresh blood must keep 'em warm," Chris had said, and Toby had shuddered as they laid her down on top of the display case.

"We only know that it killed Howell," Toby says now.

"Who was a bloodsucker."

"Right. But I've been thinking--"

"Oh, here we go."

"I got her in the face," Toby says patiently. "But more importantly, I got her in the neck. I didn't look too closely, but I'm pretty sure the holy water cut right through her jugular."

Chris nods. "I did look closely. Yeah."

"So just holy water might not kill them."

"Okay."

"They do breathe. So maybe we have to sever the--"

Chris huffs out a breath. "I get it, Toby."

"Right." Toby's pretty sure he could keep discussing this for quite a while, and thinks maybe it's because as long as he keeps talking they don't have to do this thing.

"So we'll test it," Chris says, and apparently the time for talking is done because he lifts the bottle of water from the counter. "The arm?" he asks.

"Sure," Toby says. He starts to cross his arms, watches as Chris braces himself and then starts to upend the bottle. Then his hand shoots out, staying the movement. "Wait."

"Do you want to test this or not?" Chris grouses.

"What if splashing holy water on a vampire just wakes it up? And it's pissed?"

Chris wipes a hand over his chin. "Huh."

"We should save the holy water test until last."

Chris nods. "Good plan," he says. He hands the bottle off to Toby, and Toby wonders if maybe Chris is just as anxious as he is to avoid these little experiments.

"Stake, then," Chris says.

Christ. Apparently not.

"Okay," Toby says, his throat dry. He reaches down for the gym bag, fumbles one of the rough-hewn homemade stakes out of the pocket. "Who--" he begins.

"Give it to me."

There's a part of Toby that thinks he should protest, some stupid uber-masculine bullshit part that wants him to do some macho posturing for the sake of his ego. Most of him is just thankful that Chris is willing and able to do this thing, this horrible disgusting thing.

Chris poises the pointed end of the stake above the female's heart. Looks at him. "Ready?"

And Toby suddenly feels the laughter wanting to bubble up. Laughter, or maybe a rhyme. Because here he is, Tobias Beecher, in a discount department store with his prison lover, in the middle of what is essentially the apocalypse, about to shove a wooden stake into the body of a Big Q employee.

Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

Chris must see something of it in his eyes, because his rigid arm relaxes and he cocks his head. "Toby?"

Toby presses his lips together and bites down on the insanity. Rotates his shoulders. Nods. "Ready."

But Chris waits another moment, studying him intently, before nodding himself. And then the stake is plunging into the woman's body, and Toby tenses, every nerve ending screaming, the bottle of water slick in his palm, and waits for her eyes to fly open, for her hands to twist into claws and clutch at Chris's arm, for her spine to arch and a gout of blackish blood to pour from her mouth.

Instead, she merely shudders, once. And as he watches, her skin seems to shrink upon itself, lose elasticity, as though it's crawling. Within seconds, the plumpness of her skin is gone. She is a nothing but a skeleton covered by a thin coating of flesh, already rotting.

Toby lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He blinks. "Holy shit," he mumbles.

"It's not supposed to be like that," Chris says.

"I know," Toby says. His mouth is dry. He licks his lips and wants the holy water, conservation needs be damned. "In the movies--"

"No," Chris says, his eyes wide and unblinking. "It was like… sliding through butter. The heart is well protected, Tobe. You have to hack your way through the ribcage, cracking bones as you go. It ain't like the movies."

And Toby stops with the water bottle halfway to his mouth. Squints his eyes shut and turns away, and just breathes. Tries to breathe.

"Toby."

His stomach spasms. He's glad he didn't eat this morning.

"You know who I am, Beecher," Chris says.

And when he turns back, Chris is standing tall, chin jutting forward, stake held loose in his grasp.

"Yes," Toby says quietly. He meets Chris's eyes. "Let's try sunlight next."

VI.

Cages

On the third day, they discover that the vampires are organizing.

The gas station looks to be the only one in the town, the yellow Sunoco sign bleached by the sun. Toby hops out by the pumps and watches while Chris slides from the car, yawns and stretches in the sun like a giant cat, prison-hewn muscles flexing, the new white T-shirt gripping in all the right places. Toby couldn't look away even if he wanted to.

He doesn't really want to.

Chris slips his sunglasses off, lets them dangle by one earpiece while he squints over at Toby and indicates the attached convenience store with a wave of his hand. "I'm goin' for supplies," he says. "You want anything in particular?"

"I think it's closed--" Toby starts; shuts his mouth abruptly at the look that Chris gives him. Right. "Water," he says instead.

"Anything good?"

Vodka, Toby thinks. Or a nice smooth whiskey. Hell, a six pack of the cheap stuff. "Twizzlers," he says aloud. "The red ones."

"You got it."

Toby slots the pump into the gas tank and watches Chris stroll toward the store, ass filling out those new jeans nicely. He blinks and coughs into his hand when he realizes that Chris can see his reflection in the store window. Chris is watching him watch.

The fake cough almost makes him miss the sound.

Toby freezes with one hand still in mid-air, watches now as Chris does the same, his hand stilled in reaching for the handle of the door.

He hasn't seen a living soul -- besides Chris -- in 24 hours. Even the sightings of the occasional moving vehicle had trickled off, then stopped all together. He's seen lots of dead bodies, some spilling from vehicles on the streets as though the people were dragged bodily from their cars and ravaged where they stood. Some in their homes, in their beds, splayed on kitchen floors or photo-strewn family rooms. These scenes would be a lot more difficult to handle were it not for the fact that there's never more than a speck or two of dried blood. Just corpses, white and cold.

And he's seen bloodsuckers. Curled in closets. Underneath beds. Stretched on the back seats of cars in attached garages. He and Chris had to search six homes on the previous night before finding one that didn't reveal a vampire at rest. Nesting.

Toby hasn't heard a voice that didn't belong to Chris Keller in three days.

Now he cocks his head, listening intently, and hears it again when the wind shifts. A voice. Definitely a voice.

"That's--" he starts.

"What--" Chris says.

Toby hoists the hose into place, slots it carefully back onto the pump. Turns to Chris with a smile. "There's survivors."

"Survivors," Chris repeats. He walks back to the car and turns slowly in a circle, taking in the little stores that line the two-lane street, antique shops and curio shops and even, yes, Ye Olde Fashioned something or other. "Then where are they?"

"They're probably… scared."

"Scared," Chris says. "Yeah. Okay."

"Chris."

"I'm getting the gun."

"Chris."

Chris ignores him, reaches in and thumbs open the lock on the glove compartment and draws out the weapon. Toby had argued against it at the Big-Q when he'd found Chris mulling over the options in the display case. He didn't want a gun. He didn't want Chris Keller with a gun.

"They're people," he says now, as Chris checks the cartridge and slides another into the waistband of his jeans. "Like us."

"Jesus Christ, Beecher, didn't you learn anything in Oz? People want to hurt you. People want to take your shit. People want to kick you when you're down, spit on you, and leave you lyin' in the dirt."

Toby shakes his head. "I don't believe that."

Chris snorts. "Believe what you want. We're goin' in soft. Get the binoculars."

Toby slides along the clapboard of an ice-cream store, darts between buildings like some kind of super-cop on a drug bust, hunkers down behind a parked car and scans the area beyond the diner with the binoculars, and generally feels like an idiot… right up until the moment they spot the people huddled and crying behind the chain-link fence at the auto repair shop.

There are at least a dozen of them, about equally split between men and women. Clothes torn, faces dirty and tear-streaked. It looks like a POW camp, complete with armed guard walking the perimeter of the fence.

"Jesus Christ," Toby murmurs.

"Another one there," Chris says almost silently, and Toby follows his gaze to the insurance dealership next to the shop. The second guard is seated on an old lawn chair, hands folded on his stomach and a rifle propped against the door of the building.

Toby scans the rest of the area quickly, then props the binoculars against the parked car and examines it again more slowly. He slides down behind the car, crouches next to Chris. "I think there's only the two of them," he says.

"Didn't think it would be this quick," Chris says. At Toby's enquiring look, he shrugs. "Traitors. Workin' with the vamps. Guarding the stock during the daylight hours, Beecher."

"Shit." Toby presses his lips together. Flattens the heels of his hands on his knees and presses hard. Breathes. "Okay," he says. "Okay. How are we going to do this?"

"How are we going to do what?" Chris hisses.

"Get them out!"

"Oh no," Chris says. "No. What we're doing is going back to the car, pushin' it out to the road, and detouring the fuck around this pissant little town."

Toby blinks. "We can't do that."

"Oh yeah," Chris says. "We can."

"No."

"Don't fucking piss me off, Beecher."

"Don't piss you off?" Toby grabs a hunk of Chris's shirt and pulls him close. "You've done nothing but piss me off since the moment I saved your ass and got you out of Oz. If it weren't for me, you'd be an hors d'oeuvre for Claire Howell right about now. So I'm not asking you, Keller. I'm telling you. We are going to release those people."

Chris narrows his eyes, and when he opens his mouth Toby can feel his warm breath on his skin, smell the peppermint toothpaste on his breath. It's a stupid thing to be thinking of, and he knows it, but there it is.

Chris leans forward, the soft skin of his newly-shaven cheek brushing lightly against Toby's. "You're hot when you're angry," he says.

Toby releases him with a grunt. "Fuck you."

"Maybe later," Chris says distractedly. "Apparently I've got some stupid fucks to save right now."

It goes off without a hitch, despite Chris's protests. Almost.

Chris is able to manoeuvre close enough to shoot the first guard in the leg, and by the time he's fallen, howling in pain, Toby has stolen around the side of the insurance agency and tackled the second. They go down in a tumble of arms and legs, the overweight guard scrambling for his rifle, but before he can do more than brush his fingers against the barrel Chris is standing over him, gun levelled.

They drag the second guard next to the first and find the keys in his pocket. The lock on the fence slides open easily.

The prisoners --- drugged, maybe, or just terrified, Toby doesn't know -- don't say a word as they file from the yard.

Toby thinks he should feel something. Excitement. Elation. Instead, he just feels tired. "We did it," he says.

"We got lucky."

And Toby knows he's right. Chris could have missed his shot. The guard Toby had tackled could have had a second gun hidden on him. Either of them could have been overpowered, found themselves locked behind that fence.

But damnit, he couldn't walk away. He knows what it's like, a little. To be livestock.

Toby turns away as the last person clears the fence to see Chris standing over the first guard, his gun out and pointed at his head. His eyes widen. "What are you doing?"

"We can't leave witnesses, Toby."

Toby's throat works, silently, but no sound comes out.

And Chris raises his eyes to look at him coolly. "What the fuck did you think we were gonna do, Beecher?"

"I thought… I…"

"They can identify us. They can tell the bloodsuckers what kind of car we're driving, which way we're headed. We can't let them do that." Chris turns his attention back to the guard, the blubbering guard who is crying now, protesting, begging for his life. "We can't let them say our names," he says softly.

"Chris--" Toby starts, and the roar of the gun going off silences him, and the hole that appears in the guard's head doesn't look neat and tidy like it does on TV, it looks big and raw and angry. "Jesus," Toby says.

The second guard claws at his leg, and Toby looks down in bewilderment at the too-white fingers clutching at his dockers, at the upturned face, mouth spread wide in an O, at the lips forming words that he can't understand. Then Chris's boot is on the guard's chest; Chris is pushing him away. And the gun booms again, and this time the blood blossoms on the man's chest and he flops once, twice, and his lips twist and more blood sputters from his lips before he finally goes still.

"Jesus," Toby says again.

They drive as fast as they can, chasing the daylight, eager to get as much distance between them and the town as possible. They end up somewhere near the border, where discount malls battle with chain restaurants for prominence, and a small white-fenced house with a garden gives them shelter for the night.

Toby hasn't said a word since Chris led him to the car and shoved him into the passenger seat. He's not sure he knows how to break this silence. Chris does it for him.

"I'm still not sure about Canada," Chris says.

Okay then. Toby presses the palms of his hands to his eyes. "We've been over this--"

"Yeah, you got a house in Algonquin Park--" Chris says.

Toby takes a breath. "It's our best option," he says. Again. He feels like they've had this argument every night. Maybe because they have. "It's a hunting cabin. It originally belonged to my great-grandfather, and it hasn't been modernized. It's completely isolated, out in the middle of nowhere. No roads. We have to hike for two days just to get there."

"Two days without shelter."

Toby inclines his head. "Yes, but--"

"Two days exposed, Beecher. Two days where the vamps--"

"They're won't be any vampires. Not out there."

Chris paces to the back of the room. "And you know this."

"It makes logical sense, Chris! There's no one there! And if there's no one for them to hunt, then they go hungry. They'll be in the cities, yes, but--"

"Stayin' in one place is suicide."

Toby huffs. "You always were prone to hyperbole, Keller."

Chris narrows his eyes. "You ever think about why we're seein' so many burned out buildings, Beecher?"

Toby blinks. "Because the… uh… electricity--"

"Because the vamps are burnin' people out. Stupid fuckers think, yeah, I got a home, I'll just stay inside and won't invite anybody in. And then the bloodsuckers come along and light a fire under their asses. Either run out and get eaten or stay inside and choke to death on the smoke, if you're lucky and it gets ya before the fire does. Nice option, huh, Beech?"

"They won't find the cabin, Chris!"

"I think we should go to Florida," Chris says. "And I got an idea about shelter… movable shelter, Tobe--"

"No."

"We could find your kids--"

"Fuck, don't you think I want that? But I… I can't risk--"

"Then what if they find you?" Chris leans against the wall. "You say nobody knows where this cabin is. They know, Beecher."

"Don't fucking do that."

"Then don't argue with me about every fucking thing!"

"I'm not!" Toby splutters.

"You know how many pieces of advice I've given you over the years, Toby?"

"I know how many times you've tried to order me around," Toby bites out.

"You ever think that's because I've got your best interests at heart?"

"Honestly? Not really, no," Toby says dryly.

"Yeah." Christ shakes his head. "You loved me, but you never really trusted me."

Toby looks at the floor. "That's not true."

"Oh? So you never loved me either?"

"I'm going to bed."

"You love me, Beecher."

"So what?" Toby huffs out in exasperation. "So what if I love you? That doesn't mean I should!"

"You think I want to love you? You think I like having my guts twisted up in knots whenever you're around? You think I liked worrying about keeping you safe and alive in that hellhole when I shoulda been thinking about myself?"

"Then you should have left me alone," Toby snipes back. "You shouldn't have tried to fuck with my parole--"

"And you shouldn't have come back to Oz rubbing my face in that little pussy you were fucking!"

"Marion," Toby says incredulously. "You did it because of Marion."

"You loved her," Chris says shortly.

"No."

Chris shakes his head. "Don't lie to me, Toby. Don't ever fucking lie to me. You loved her. I could tell."

Toby throws up his hands. "I barely tolerated her! She had the IQ of a ping pong ball. She couldn't play chess. I couldn't talk to her. We had nothing in common."

Chris leans against the wall, palms flat on the fake wood panelling. "We don't exactly got a lot in common, Tobe."

Toby lifts his shoulders. "You can play chess."

Chris's lips quirk. "Kick your ass."

"I could talk to you."

"Could?"

"When you're not being a fucking bitch," Toby bites out.

Chris inclines his head, apparently not interested in arguing that point. He presses his lips together. Looks at the floor. "You never loved her."

"Jesus, Chris."

"You love me."

Toby pushes away from the table. "I'm not doing this again."

"You love me, Beecher, and it's the end of the fucking world. You really gonna stay mad?"

Toby sighs. Drops his head in his hands. "No," he finally says.

Chris smiles softly and shoves smoothly away from the wall. "I want to kiss you, Toby," he says. He stalks to the table, all slow sinuous motion and again Toby can't seem to look away. "You know how long it's been since I kissed you? I done everything you ever asked, lied and killed for you, watched over you, protected you, just for the chance to touch you. To kiss you."

Chris takes another step forward, the last step forward, until he is in Toby's space, his taut body filling his vision, his eyes all that Toby can see.

Toby lays the flat of his palm on Chris's chest and presses him gently back. "You've got first watch," he says shortly.

Chris waits until he's sure before pressing his palm over Toby's mouth. He juts his chin toward the window, bends down so that his lips hover by Toby's ear. But there's no need to speak. The curtains are dark, but he can tell by Toby's widened eyes that he can see the light from the flames.

"Toooooo-beeeeeee," a female voice sing-songs from outside.

Toby pushes Chris's hand away from his mouth, pulls himself into a sitting position on the mattress they'd dragged into the living room. "How the fuck does it know my name?" he whispers.

"I'd say your people ratted us out," Chris says bitterly.

"Fucking motherfuckers!"

Soft laughter from outside the window. "Chrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiis."

Toby wraps his arms around his knees. "How long until sunrise?"

"Too fucking long."

"Shit," Toby says. "Any ideas?"

Chris arches a brow. "You sayin' you'd actually take my advice?"

"Are you kidding me? You're starting this now?"

"Are you gonna shut up and listen?" He waits until Toby nods his assent. "I'm gonna open the front door and confront 'em. You're gonna open the back door and run like hell."

Toby blinks. "That's your big plan."

"That's it."

"That's the worst plan I've ever heard," Toby says. "No."

Chris grits his teeth. "I knew you wouldn't listen."

"Boys, boys, boys," the voice says. And now she sounds even closer, Chris thinks, right up on the porch. "Don't you want to come out and play?"

"That's not a plan," Toby hisses. "That's suicide!"

"I ain't about to sacrifice myself, Beecher. I ain't that noble. I been busy while you were gettin' your beauty sleep." He points to the door, where several bottles of bleach are lined up in a row, jury-rigged nozzles attached to the open mouths of the bottles. "Spray guns," he says.

"Bleach? Bleach isn't going to--"

"Holy water."

"You disappoint us, gentlemen," the voice calls out.

"Chris--"

The shattering of the glass in the window sounds louder than it should. Then it all moves so fast -- the first Molotov cocktail bounces once before landing on the sofa; the second rolls to a stop just inside the window. The curtains billow out and catch fire, and beyond them Chris can see the vamps, three or four grouped around a short sturdy blonde who looks like an accountant. Or a schoolteacher.

He can fuckin' take her.

"We're out of time," Chris says. "We gotta do it my way."

Toby shakes his head. "Not a chance."

"We're gonna burn to death in here!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

The house is old, tired, and the flames spread quickly. And the smoke -- the smoke is already making it difficult to see, difficult to think. Chris swipes at his eyes and grips Toby's biceps tightly. "I'm not gonna die," he says forcefully. He has to believe it… so Toby will believe it.

Performance of his life.

"I can help y--"

"No," he says quickly. "No room. You'll just get in my way, Beecher, can't you see that? I can take them out. And when it's done I'll meet you at that motel that we saw, you remember Tobe, that motel with the neon palm tree by the interstate? I'll meet you there at dawn." He takes a shallow breath, trying not to cough on the smoke. Trying not to sound desperate. "Toby, please… trust me."

And Toby -- finally -- nods.

Chris returns the nod silently; fights to keep the relief from showing on his face. "Get your shit," he says. "Run and don't stop no matter what you hear. I'll try to keep 'em busy until you have time to find shelter again. And--"

Chris stops at the hand on his arm. At Toby's eyes, wide and wet.

"Chris," Toby says softly.

When Toby's lips graze his, it feels like heaven.

He waits for Toby to flee into the night before flinging open the door. The heat of the flames fans his skin, and he bares his teeth, but it doesn't feel like Hell. It makes him feel alive.

Toby waits at the motel until noon.

He leaves alone.

VI.

Change of Plans

Toby's not sure he'll be able to find the house again, but he does. He stands amid the smoking ruins and searches for any sign that Chris survived. He finds the melted remnants of a container of bleach.

The car is totalled, of course. No parkas or suitcases of 'cruise wear'. No food. Five stakes, and no holy water except for the three bottles in his gym bag.

He'll make do.

The only mobile home dealership listed in the phone book lies two hours west, and Toby spends the rest of his day practicing driving one of the monstrosities around in the parking lot of a nearby strip mall. In the end he decides that the potential for killing himself in one of those eyesores is too great, and he spends the waning hours of afternoon hooking one of the smaller tow-able trailers to the back of the battered car he'd stolen that morning. He spends the night inside the trailer. And he hears the vampires in the streets, and once hears a scream, but the bloodsuckers seem to focus on actual houses and don't seem to think to look for anyone in a motor home.

Chris was right.

On the second day, he raids a dozen churches for wafer and crosses, and squeezes the holy water out of the several dozen sponges that fill the fonts inside the doors. He's unsure about the crosses -- he and Chris hadn't thought to test the reliability of religious artifacts on the undead. But Toby figures he'll have the chance soon enough.

His trips to the toy store and supermarket are successful as well.

An hour before sunset on the third day, Toby finds a likely spot on the interstate to settle in for the night. He eases the car and trailer behind a souped-up Dodge and angles it next to a three-car pileup. He leaves the car unlocked before he heads back around to the trailer and closes the blinds, then stands back and surveys the scene. Dirtying up the trailer seems to have been the right move -- to Toby's eye it blends in to the chaos nicely.

He eats cold green beans and potatoes out of the cans and treats himself to a container from his limited stock of tinned peaches.

He's been asleep for a few hours when something wakes him. He pads quietly to the door of the trailer and listens for a long moment, his fingers unconsciously tracing patterns on the wood. He thinks back to another night -- only a week ago now though it seems much longer -- to the whisper of the breeze in the sycamore tree, and the smell of his mother's roses, and screams in the night.

He opens the door.

"Took you long enough," he says.

Chris steps away from the shade of the Dodge, and whatever Toby wants to say next is lost at the sight of him. As nice as it had been to see Chris in daylight, he knows now that Chris Keller was made for shadows.

"Toby," Chris says as he takes another step closer.

"Stay back," Toby warns.

Chris's eyes flicker with annoyance. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, Toby." When Toby says nothing, Chris spreads his arms wide. "You wanna take me out, Beecher? I know you got somethin' hidden behind that door. You rig up some more of those bottles of bleach?"

Toby hesitates for a moment, then reaches back and pulls out one of the hideous orange and black toys. "Water guns," he says shortly.

"Even better," Chris says. He lets his arms drop. Cocks his head. "You wanna shoot me, Toby?"

Toby knows he should. Chris -- the Chris he loved -- is dead. This thing, this bloodsucker, can't be his Chris. But he can't imagine pulling the trigger, seeing the water hit that face like acid, seeing the flesh sear and melt like candle wax.

"I'm not going to let you turn me," he says.

"Okay."

Toby narrows his eyes. "I want you to go."

"Aaah. See, Beech, I don't think you do."

Toby clenches his fingers on the super soaker, and wishes that were a lie.

"Now granted," Chris continues, "I ain't had a lot of time to check out the… uh… hierarchy and shit. But it seems to me that if a vamp, like me, has… someone, like you, then the other vamps can't fuck him up. So you'd be safer with me than without me."

Toby huffs. "So I get to be your prag even when you're dead? No thanks."

"You were never my prag, Toby."

"Bullshit."

"You never did my laundry. You never cleaned up my stuff. And you never listened to a word I said. I gotta tell ya, Tobe, if you were my prag then you were the worst prag in the history of prags."

Despite his best intentions, Toby's lips quirk.

"I'm just tellin' ya how it is," Chris says.

Toby remains silent.

Chris looks up at the sky. "Nice night," he says.

And Toby's eyes harden. "You feed tonight, Chris?"

Chris's eyes flick back to Toby's, and his back straightens. "Yeah. Guy in the next town over. I left him alive," he says pointedly.

"Right," Toby scoffs. "So what, you're a vampire with a soul, now?"

The cockiness snaps off like a flipped switch. "I don't think I ever had a soul, Toby."

"That's not true," Toby says quickly.

Chris tucks his hands beneath his armpits, shivers despite the warm night. Shivers despite what he is. "Don't send me away, Toby," he says softly. "I swear I won't hurt you."

Swear. Promise. Take an oath, make a vow. Then go fuck yourself.

Toby briefly closes his eyes. Hears the crack of his bones, and sees the blur of white as Chris slashes at Vern and rushes forward, presses a warm hand against his side, I got ya, oh shit, I got ya. Chris's hand fists in his shirt as he mutters Oz didn't make you a bitch in his ear, and Chris falls as the bullet pierces his chest and Toby worries for days, is sick with it. Chris passes him off to Mondo and Chris walks out of Oz in an orange jumpsuit, promising heaven.

"Without you, I don't wanna live," Chris says. "Not like this, not any way. You're the only good thing I've got."

Toby huffs out a breath and sits down on the threshold, crossing his legs under him. He props the silly looking water gun against the door.

"Toby?"

"It's always been you and me, Chris," Toby says. "Don't you know that by now?"

Now…

The rest stop is bordered by a park, so Toby pulls in under the shade of a large tree. The U2 CD had come to an end about three miles back, and he hadn't bothered to put in another. He sits for a long moment just listening -- to the birds in the trees, the whisper of the breeze in the long grass.

He emerges from the car to tip his face up to the sun. Smiles.

According to the maps, he should be crossing into Florida some time in the next two days.

There's only two other cars in the lot, but he checks them both thoroughly, and is thankful to find neither dead bodies nor undead ones. So he washes up and shaves in the concrete block of a bathroom before raiding the snack shop. He's gotten quite proficient at the whole breaking-and-entering thing.

He sets his hibachi up next to the trailer and plops four burgers on the grille. His are well done, and loaded with ketchup. The others are… not.

He sips Gatorade as he sets out his equipment within easy reach -- the water pistols, the wafer, the gun, the stakes. The new tools of his trade.

Lastly, he unlocks the trunk of the car.

Then Toby sits inside the open doorway of the trailer and watches the sun set. Somehow, he'd forgotten how beautiful they could be.

Maybe, he thinks, they'll play chess tonight.

Maybe they'll do something else.