In the Land of the Blind..
Title: In the Land of the Blind...
Pairing: Chase+/House
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: Pg-13-R
Warnings: AU, violence
Summary: June 1st, 2008, a nuclear bomb was detonated above the US, sending the world into chaos.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: Idek, inspired by the sick!House CPR post, but, um, that doesn't really explain where the heck this came from...
Sitting on the floor of the ER in the disaster zone that had once been the area surrounding Snoqualmie, Washington, he leaned over, hand on his ex-boss’s arm, “so how are we getting out of this one?”
“I don’t know.”
They had been there for a medical conference, when it had hit, the nuclear bomb detonated high above the united states, the resulting wave of nuclear radiating and electromagnetic force taking out telecommunications, the power grid, and killing something like two thirds of the population.
June 1st, 2008, the United States had become a third world country. In the three years since, it hadn’t gotten better. The fall had taken down the majority of the world economy, the resulting wars had raged across the globe, and had been building momentum, up until a few months ago, when the plages had started. Mutation fulled by the radiation left from the pulse, bacteria hadn’t been the only thing to change. There were freaks, everywhere; most children born since the pulse were...different.
There had been quarantine zones, at first, but the mass-murder of most of the population in a camp in Seattle had inspired the occupants of the other camps to end the whole quarantine idea. The plagues had spread like wildfire, no-one knew how they had gotten across the oceans, but it was almost the whole world, that was affected, now, and hardly anyone remained uninfected. Africa was the main hold-out, apparently there was one disease that didn’t tear it apart worse than the rest of the world, the much lower population per mile keeping the spread at a minimum, and people of African descent having more resistance to it in the first place.
Chase stared coughing, leaning forward so the globs of mucus could exit his respiratory tract without getting all over him. House’s hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him, fingers strong, warm, and dry against Chase’s bare skin. He had been one of the unlucky ones, who contracted the respiratory problems as well as the neurological ones, and just like the neurological damage, the lung damage didn’t heal. He heard one of the patients go into seizures across the room, and stood, shakily, still out of breath from the coughing fit. Hand on the cool scuffed plastic of one of the hospital beds, he walked along, the other hand trailing along the rail erected across the room, his thumb pressing against the carved marks along the side of the rail.
Reaching the bed that was shaking with the force of its occupant’s convulsions, he followed the side of the bed, and reached , until he got the patient’s arm, and pulled them onto their side, lowering the chance of them aspirating. The patient, a man, was rather large, and Chase was having trouble keeping them on their side alone, “House.”
“Which bed?”
“Five.”
A grunt, and after a few very long moments, House’s body heat was near him, then some of the weight eased off Chase’s arms. He smiled, “thanks.”
“Yeah.”
“Your leg okay?”
“For now.”
While drug production was at an all time high, it wasn’t the legal drugs, and they were pretty much the economy. They were expensive, and designed to be as addictive as possible, in the hopes of luring as many people as possible into debt, at which point they were seized and forced to work in the drug production as little more than slaves, working them until they died of exhaustion or the toxic chemicals used in both production and the drugs themselves.
When it started to become clear what a problem it would be, House had locked himself in a room, and Chase had had to unscrew the door hinges to get to him when he started screaming. That had been before the plagues, and Chase would never forget that sight, House collapsed on the floor, in a puddle of sweat, veins on his arms and neck standing out as he screamed, clutching at his leg, finger nails digging through his worn pants, drawing blood, enough that the faded denim was already stained by it, other parts of his pants stained by diarrhea and urine.
The man’s seizure stopped, Chase moved around to the other side, checking the man’s pulse, and breathing. He slipped his fingers between the man’s lips, checking-yeah, he had bitten his tongue...all the way through. Chase pulled the tip out-they had none of the facilities to reattach it-and went to get gauze to staunch the bleeding before the patient bled out, dropping the tongue piece into the trash as he went, wiping his hands so he wouldn’t smear the patient’s blood along the hallway rail.
They had barely left this hospital since the pulse, they had been here working when it hit, and had seen it through the last three years. However, the opium war was picking up speed again, and soldiers would reach them soon, on the way to fight in the greenhouse district of southern Washington-not that there were really states, anymore. Chase knew the hospital would almost certainly be raided, and he remembered what had happened the last time. They had barely gotten through that with their lives.
Chase turned over in the bed, missing the warmth of the body that usually shared the space with him, “mmm...House?”
“Over here.”
Chase got up, shedding the ratty blanket, and carefully picking his way between the two short rows of their sleeping colleagues, until he reached the corner closet where House often sought refuge. Sitting down, beside him, Chase put a hand out, on his arm, and slid it down, until he reached the hand, long, dexterous fingers, calluses, fingernails probably caked with blood. House was trembling, in pain, breathing labored even compared to Chase’s. Chase leaned against him, sighing, “come back to bed.”
“It’s not a bed, it’s half a mattress.”
“Better than the floor.”
House snorted, but his breath caught, and his hand suddenly tightened, hard, on Chase’s, the strength surprising mostly because it came so quickly. Chase reached across the other man’s body with his free hand, House leaned against his arm, chest heaving, gasping, whole body shuddering with wave upon wave of pain.
“Shh,” mumbled Chase, quietly, pulling House against his own chest, “I know. I know. I’m here.”
“You talking is a waste of air, sometimes.”
Chase smiled, and buried his face in House’s hair, settling in to wait out the night. That was where they were, when the soldiers came. Chase tried not to wheeze, and House breathed silently, waiting, trying so hard not to flinch, as screams and the sound of fighting filled the room. There was nothing they could do, but try not to get killed. Chase held onto House’s hand, and House his, until the soldiers left, chasing bare, running feet, on plastic tiled floor.
House’s pain had saved their lives.
Slowly, Chase became aware of the acrid scent of smoke. He groaned, and pressed his face to House’s shoulder. They were setting fire to the hospital.
In the distance, though, they heard something. They heard gunfire. That was far scarier than anything else in the world, scarier than the freaks, and fire about to eat away at the building they were in.
It meant there was someone who could see.
Pairing: Chase+/House
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: Pg-13-R
Warnings: AU, violence
Summary: June 1st, 2008, a nuclear bomb was detonated above the US, sending the world into chaos.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: Idek, inspired by the sick!House CPR post, but, um, that doesn't really explain where the heck this came from...
Sitting on the floor of the ER in the disaster zone that had once been the area surrounding Snoqualmie, Washington, he leaned over, hand on his ex-boss’s arm, “so how are we getting out of this one?”
“I don’t know.”
They had been there for a medical conference, when it had hit, the nuclear bomb detonated high above the united states, the resulting wave of nuclear radiating and electromagnetic force taking out telecommunications, the power grid, and killing something like two thirds of the population.
June 1st, 2008, the United States had become a third world country. In the three years since, it hadn’t gotten better. The fall had taken down the majority of the world economy, the resulting wars had raged across the globe, and had been building momentum, up until a few months ago, when the plages had started. Mutation fulled by the radiation left from the pulse, bacteria hadn’t been the only thing to change. There were freaks, everywhere; most children born since the pulse were...different.
There had been quarantine zones, at first, but the mass-murder of most of the population in a camp in Seattle had inspired the occupants of the other camps to end the whole quarantine idea. The plagues had spread like wildfire, no-one knew how they had gotten across the oceans, but it was almost the whole world, that was affected, now, and hardly anyone remained uninfected. Africa was the main hold-out, apparently there was one disease that didn’t tear it apart worse than the rest of the world, the much lower population per mile keeping the spread at a minimum, and people of African descent having more resistance to it in the first place.
Chase stared coughing, leaning forward so the globs of mucus could exit his respiratory tract without getting all over him. House’s hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him, fingers strong, warm, and dry against Chase’s bare skin. He had been one of the unlucky ones, who contracted the respiratory problems as well as the neurological ones, and just like the neurological damage, the lung damage didn’t heal. He heard one of the patients go into seizures across the room, and stood, shakily, still out of breath from the coughing fit. Hand on the cool scuffed plastic of one of the hospital beds, he walked along, the other hand trailing along the rail erected across the room, his thumb pressing against the carved marks along the side of the rail.
Reaching the bed that was shaking with the force of its occupant’s convulsions, he followed the side of the bed, and reached , until he got the patient’s arm, and pulled them onto their side, lowering the chance of them aspirating. The patient, a man, was rather large, and Chase was having trouble keeping them on their side alone, “House.”
“Which bed?”
“Five.”
A grunt, and after a few very long moments, House’s body heat was near him, then some of the weight eased off Chase’s arms. He smiled, “thanks.”
“Yeah.”
“Your leg okay?”
“For now.”
While drug production was at an all time high, it wasn’t the legal drugs, and they were pretty much the economy. They were expensive, and designed to be as addictive as possible, in the hopes of luring as many people as possible into debt, at which point they were seized and forced to work in the drug production as little more than slaves, working them until they died of exhaustion or the toxic chemicals used in both production and the drugs themselves.
When it started to become clear what a problem it would be, House had locked himself in a room, and Chase had had to unscrew the door hinges to get to him when he started screaming. That had been before the plagues, and Chase would never forget that sight, House collapsed on the floor, in a puddle of sweat, veins on his arms and neck standing out as he screamed, clutching at his leg, finger nails digging through his worn pants, drawing blood, enough that the faded denim was already stained by it, other parts of his pants stained by diarrhea and urine.
The man’s seizure stopped, Chase moved around to the other side, checking the man’s pulse, and breathing. He slipped his fingers between the man’s lips, checking-yeah, he had bitten his tongue...all the way through. Chase pulled the tip out-they had none of the facilities to reattach it-and went to get gauze to staunch the bleeding before the patient bled out, dropping the tongue piece into the trash as he went, wiping his hands so he wouldn’t smear the patient’s blood along the hallway rail.
They had barely left this hospital since the pulse, they had been here working when it hit, and had seen it through the last three years. However, the opium war was picking up speed again, and soldiers would reach them soon, on the way to fight in the greenhouse district of southern Washington-not that there were really states, anymore. Chase knew the hospital would almost certainly be raided, and he remembered what had happened the last time. They had barely gotten through that with their lives.
Chase turned over in the bed, missing the warmth of the body that usually shared the space with him, “mmm...House?”
“Over here.”
Chase got up, shedding the ratty blanket, and carefully picking his way between the two short rows of their sleeping colleagues, until he reached the corner closet where House often sought refuge. Sitting down, beside him, Chase put a hand out, on his arm, and slid it down, until he reached the hand, long, dexterous fingers, calluses, fingernails probably caked with blood. House was trembling, in pain, breathing labored even compared to Chase’s. Chase leaned against him, sighing, “come back to bed.”
“It’s not a bed, it’s half a mattress.”
“Better than the floor.”
House snorted, but his breath caught, and his hand suddenly tightened, hard, on Chase’s, the strength surprising mostly because it came so quickly. Chase reached across the other man’s body with his free hand, House leaned against his arm, chest heaving, gasping, whole body shuddering with wave upon wave of pain.
“Shh,” mumbled Chase, quietly, pulling House against his own chest, “I know. I know. I’m here.”
“You talking is a waste of air, sometimes.”
Chase smiled, and buried his face in House’s hair, settling in to wait out the night. That was where they were, when the soldiers came. Chase tried not to wheeze, and House breathed silently, waiting, trying so hard not to flinch, as screams and the sound of fighting filled the room. There was nothing they could do, but try not to get killed. Chase held onto House’s hand, and House his, until the soldiers left, chasing bare, running feet, on plastic tiled floor.
House’s pain had saved their lives.
Slowly, Chase became aware of the acrid scent of smoke. He groaned, and pressed his face to House’s shoulder. They were setting fire to the hospital.
In the distance, though, they heard something. They heard gunfire. That was far scarier than anything else in the world, scarier than the freaks, and fire about to eat away at the building they were in.
It meant there was someone who could see.