Abide with Me, 6/6
Part 5
The shed was probably the safest place on the estate but after waiting ten minutes, Merlin ventured back out into the rain and made his way to the house; the rain washed the mud from his skin but only made his clothes and makeshift bandage worse, and by the time he made it indoors again, the water was running off his clothing and the slopping noises his jeans were making made it difficult to be stealthy. He crept along as best he could.
Mailor had started in the kitchen; Jones lay on the floor next to the counter, with his limbs splayed around him and a butcher knife sitting several inches away from his outstretched hand. A bowl of peas had been upended all over him and they had rolled as far as the doorway.
Moving toward the front of the house and keeping to the copious shadows (for there were no lights running during the daytime even when they were needed; the generators had more important uses), he came across the remains of two more soldiers. One of them was still clutching his gun in death; perhaps he had used it and Mailor had shrugged it off, or perhaps it had failed him, but he was dead anyway, his throat ripped open. The other body was missing its head; Merlin stepped closer and saw that it was Pvt. White, but he didn't care to look for the head.
He hesitated for a moment, fighting with himself, but after a moment started patting down White's corpse. He turned up a knife in its sheath and finally White's sidearm. He checked the safety (damn Arthur anyway for teaching him things he hadn't even wanted to learn) and then stuffed it down the back of his sodden jeans, feeling faintly ridiculous about it but glad for the extra weapon. Hopefully it was loaded; his lessons had only gone so far. Impulsively, he also clipped the knife to his belt before moving on.
Another body lay in the entry to the supply room, gored but still in one piece. He stepped over it to scout the room and found Morgana's Maglite and near that, their car keys.
“Of all the bloody luck,” he murmured, pocketing the keys. The torch, though, he ended up leaving. It would likely draw too much attention to him and he was better off using his night vision, such as it was.
He took a deep breath. Up the stairs, then.
He was two steps from the top when he heard the telltale screeches that indicated Mailor was nearby-probably too near by for his comfort, strange abilities or no. He listened harder, straining his ears to hear around the rush of blood in his own veins, and then he nearly gasped out loud.
There were definitely two Infected up there.
It shouldn't have been a surprise, really, but it wasn't exactly good for Merlin, either. There was a human shout, male, from farther down the corridor, followed by a thump. He crept up to the landing and slipped into the first room available, Arthur's bedroom, only to be assaulted by the sound of harsh breathing.
“I got no bullets,” the man hissed. He was cowering in the corner behind the door.
Merlin shut the door softly behind him. “Shut up,” he hissed.
“Are-are you going to help?”
Merlin crossed to the window and pushed it open, letting in gushes of rain that soaked the drapes as he leaned out into the night. There was a short roof just below, hopefully a sturdy one. He looked back at the marine in the corner. He sort of hoped that it was Moore.
“No. No, I'm not.”
An anguished wail from the man and the bang of the door hitting the wall followed Merlin out into the night.
He raised his face to the rain; he was so thoroughly wet that the storm was beginning to feel pleasant, and the flickers of lightning in the distance made him smile a little. Holding the pry bar out for balance against the slippery pitch of the roof, he half-crawled his way along the side of the house, passing two windows and peeking into the last, the room where Morgana had slept.
Mailor was inside, along with another freshly infected soldier. He ducked quickly out of the way and hoped they didn't see the movement.
He was, however, running out of options. The ledge he was on disappeared back into the wall only two feet away, and there was nothing back the way he'd just come. But another flash of lightning, slightly brighter, illuminated a trellis that climbed the bare wall. He looked up; yes, a jut of moulding against the bricks that he could just hang onto, and more windows above, on the third storey.
He had to leave the pry bar, but he jumped onto the trellis and climbed. A section broke off under his foot, dropping him several inches, and his fingers dug into the wet, splintering wood, but it held until he reached the ledge above, and he gripped the moulding for dear life as his toes scrabbled for purchase on the bricks, edging his way along to the nearest window. It would have to be safe in the room beyond, or he was going to die.
Merlin missed his pry bar immediately, because the window was closed and the pane of glass whole. Perhaps the butt of the gun... but could he reach it, in the back of his trousers, without falling, and would breaking the glass attract someone who wanted to kill him?
His fingers began to slip and panicked him into action. Pulling on some yet-untapped reserve of strength (adrenaline, he thought wildly, was magical), he hauled himself up to lean an entire forearm on the moulding, gripping with every inch of skin he thought he could, the edge diggging into a nerve in his arm, and pulled his head up to peek over the windowsill and inside the room as he groped behind him for his gun. There was no movement inside, so he ducked his head and swung the butt of the gun with his free hand, as hard as he could without knocking himself off the side of the house.
The window cracked with two hits and the third shattered it, making a wretched noise and leaving horrible-looking shards sticking up from the bottom of the frame. Merlin could have cared less, and merely knocked out one particularly large and scary piece before throwing his already-perforated arm over the ledge and dragging himself inside.
There was a worrying moment where he thought he'd end up facedown in the glass shards that covered the carpet but he managed to stay on his feet. He brought the gun up, watching the door, but either it was locked or no one was on this floor, because no one burst in to kill him. Anyway, the safety was still on, he realized, and he lowered the gun, feeling his cheeks go hot, and put it back in his waistband.
A noise reached him, either Gwen or Morgana, and whoever it was, she was not happy. Merlin considered the gun again but finally drew the knife instead, carrying it down by his side as he eased the door open. He paused in the hallway and listened some more, and there it was again: one of the girls was making noises of struggling. It was easy now to move like a ghost, all of his senses trained on the corridor around him: the smell of his own blood as it dripped down his arm, the bandage now dirty and soaked and useless; the crunch of bits of glass stuck to the soles of his trainers as they were ground to powder under his weight; the glint of the knife blade as flashes of lightning reflected from it in the darkness.
The door to the room was open and the soldier's back was to him as he held a hand over Gwen's mouth. She looked like she was trying to bite him. The element of surprise made up for the weight difference between them as Merlin slung an arm around the man's neck and yanked him off her, throwing him to the floor. The air rushed out of Blakely's lungs as his back hit the hardwood and Merlin felt a smile tug his face in an unnatural way as he knelt down and drew the blade across Blakely's white throat.
Gwen, endless font of strength that she was, watched with a calm expression from the wall as the sergeant gurgled to death. Merlin grabbed the handgun from the man's shoulder holster.
“Here.” He handed it to her. “You should get outside, and be careful. Arthur and Morgana?”
She stared at him for a moment as if he had just spoken in tongues.
“You, you're not coming? But it's, I mean, it's dangerous, not that I don't think you can handle it, from the looks of things, but, well. You look like something the cat dragged in. A bit. Are you sure you're alright alone? With your arm, I mean; it's bleeding all over the floor!” She flailed at him, at the blood he felt running down his arm with the rainwater. “Shouldn't we stick together?”
Merlin smiled, warmly this time, feeling it in his extremities, and dug in his pocket to toss her the keys he'd grabbed.
“Start the car, Gwen. And lock yourself in,” he added. “Now. Have you seen Arthur and Morgana?”
“We were separated by some Infected downstairs,” she said, still looking worried. “Merlin, are you sure--”
He held up a hand, still smiling, and stepped over Blakely's legs to stand in front of her. “Go, Gwen. I'd rather someone live to tell the tale than all of us die.”
She looked down. “You think there'll be someone to tell?”
“There must be.”
She left, going back the way Merlin had come to reach the staircase, and Merlin followed shortly after, darting down the hall with the knife still in hand, turning the lightning red now.
He was searching the frontmost room, a large games room with a ripped and dusty billiards table, when the door slammed open behind him and Arthur barged in. His gun was already drawn as Merlin whipped around in surprise and they stared at each other for a full minute. Recognition flickered on Arthur's face at about the same time as Merlin was able to identify him, but he didn't lower his gun. All of a sudden, Merlin realized how he must look: wet, dirty, bloody and wild-eyed, with his chest heaving from exertion. He licked his lips, eyeing the barrel of the gun that was pointed steadily at his chest.
“Arthur,” he said, and his voice came out scratchy. He dropped the knife and slowly raised his hands, and thank fuck, Arthur lowered the gun.
“Merlin,” he said, “I thought you'd died, you insane bastard.”
Merlin had no response to that, so he tried a smile, and Arthur swooped forward and hugged him.
Arthur was still wet too, and a little bloody and scratched himself, but warmer than he had any right to be, and Merlin felt the last dregs of manic energy ooze out of him and gave in at last, clinging for dear life. Arthur's hold just tightened more and his breath tickled Merlin's neck.
He shut his eyes against the world, and for a long moment, Merlin just concentrated on the skin contact and breathing in and out. He was not wet or cold or bleeding or going into shock, and Arthur was softly nuzzling his neck and making him smile in a way he never had, small and privately.
Then Arthur's hands shifted against his back and he mumbled something into Merlin's collarbone that sounded like 'idiot', and Merlin relished the scratch of stubble on his cheek as lips dragged slowly up his jaw and sought his own.
They were still for a moment, breathing each other's air and perhaps getting used to the feeling (Arthur's lips were chapped and bitten a little and Merlin couldn't deny that it felt perfect just then), but finally they moved, sharing soft, experimental kisses. Merlin slid his hands up Arthur's biceps, feeling the play of muscle under skin as he felt his way over Arthur's shoulders to his long, tan neck and up, to bury his fingers in Arthur's tangled hair. Using his advantage, he tugged Arthur's head to a better angle to slide his tongue between the rough, parted lips and then everything abruptly shifted gears and Merlin felt the backs of his legs hit the pool table and Arthur's hands up the back of his shirt as they kissed like they'd just invented it.
If he could climb inside Arthur's skin then perhaps he would get warm, Merlin thought as their tongues slid against each other and they pressed as close together as they could. He sat on the table a bit, hoping it wouldn't collapse, and hooked an ankle around the back of Arthur's calf to pull him, stumbling, closer. Arthur laughed into his mouth and redoubled his assault, nibbling at Merlin's lips and trying to touch every inch of his back and ribs under his shirt. Merlin settled for messing up his hair a bit more in return, and while he couldn't speak for the shock and the likely PTSD just then, he figured he was starting to warm up just fine on his own. His only shivers now were from the gentle slide of fingertips against his side.
His knee had gotten between Arthur's thighs and he pressed forward, his leg rubbing against Arthur's groin. Arthur moaned into his mouth and as if someone had just slammed a door, Merlin was jerked back into the present. He broke off the kiss, shoving Arthur away from him or himself away from Arthur, and instantly regretting it when he saw the confused, flushed look on his face.
“This,” Merlin said, panting a little, “is completely neither the time nor the place.”
Arthur sighed, nodded and backed off, running his fingers through his fantastically messy hair as Merlin stood up and straightened his clothes.
“Come on, then,” Arthur said, making for the door but shooting Merlin a look that suggested he had better brace himself when they reached the right time and place.
Merlin shivered again.
***
Morgana was on the second floor, leaning against a wall in the corridor, and her taser was out as they approached. She recognized them, though, and put it away. The sky outside was lightening a bit as the rain let up, and the inside of the house was now merely dim instead of dark.
She looked between them. “Where's Gwen?”
Arthur looked sideways at Merlin.
“Outside, in the car, I hope,” Merlin said. “Are there any Infected nearby?”
Morgana shook her head, and Merlin saw that she had a blackening eye. “I think they've all gone down to the main level or outside by now. I haven't seen or heard anyone at all for a while.” She smiled. “I'm glad to see you're both alright.”
She looked between them and Merlin frowned a little. He sneaked a glance at Arthur and saw him clearly for the first time since their passionate clinch: his lips were puffy, his hair was still a hopeless mess despite the finger-combing, and he was in fact standing somewhat in Merlin's personal space, which Merlin hadn't registered.
He looked back at Morgana, whose smile widened before she turned on her heel to lead the way downstairs and to freedom.
“Off we go, then, boys. Our chariot awaits.”
He fought back a blush as they followed her, Arthur's arm occasionally bumping against his as they descended.
A faint scream echoed from somewhere behind them, audible now that the storm was beginning to blow away, but except for one brief flash of movement to his right that Merlin prayed he'd imagined, the three of them made it to the front door without encountering anyone still alive.
The rear lights of the little blue Fiesta glowed invitingly from where it waited on the drive, pointed toward freedom, and Merlin thought he'd never seen anything so wonderful. They stepped out into the open, into the rain that was merely a light shower now and dampened Morgana's hair into curls, and it was all he could do not to grab Arthur by the hand and drag him at a run all the way down the stairs and to the car. The three of them still seemed to share a thought, though, because they jogged the entire distance, smiling at the crunch of gravel and the rain on their faces. Merlin led the way round to the driver's side, where Gwen sat with both hands on the wheel.
“Have you locked the doors?” Merlin asked.
Gwen looked at him sideways and her face was drawn and ashy-looking through the rain-streaked glass. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't.
“Gwen?” Morgana said.
The rear window descended; Gwen's hands remained visible on the steering wheel.
And it was no wonder she looked petrified, because Maj. Penn had a gun pressed against the back of her seat, ready to shoot her through the chest from behind.
Arthur went rigid beside him.
“You killed my boys,” Penn said softly, with bewilderment. “My own son. You killed them; you set that animal on them and it ripped them limb from limb. My boys.”
“Father,” Arthur started, and Penn pointed the gun at him instead. His arm was as steady as his voice was not.
“Shut up. Shut. Up. They were protecting you. I only wanted to protect you. And you have destroyed me.”
Merlin couldn't stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “You tried to kill your own son!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the madman with a gun, because he had no sense, just as Arthur kept telling him. “You had him taken out to your... your boneyard, and he was going to be shot dead for protecting his friends from that pack of lunatics! Lott was right; you've gone mad beyond rescue!”
The gun moved from Arthur to him, which was a terrifying relief.
“Merlin, you idiot,” Arthur hissed, “he'll shoot you.”
Merlin looked to Gwen, who hadn't moved. She was biting her lip and he could see the whites of her eyes.
“It was you, wasn't it,” Penn said. “You've turned my son against me.”
“I was turned against you years ago,” Arthur said quietly, rage burning under his tone. “You aren't my father anymore. I don't know what you are.”
“You insolent, traitorous...” The major trained the gun back on Arthur, and Merlin got a shove to the shoulder that sent him flying just as a gunshot shattered the air.
“Morgana!” came a scream from Gwen, and Merlin pushed himself upright to see Morgana lying crumpled on the gravel in front of Arthur, clutching her stomach as a puddle of red formed around her.
“She jumped in front of me,” Arthur said, his voice very small and distant as Merlin crawled over to where Morgana lay. He brushed her wet hair from her face; she was still breathing, and she blinked up at him and smiled a bit, like the madwoman she so obviously was.
Arthur dropped to his knees beside Merlin, breathing hard, and a loud revving from the car made Merlin's head snap up in alarm. He watched wordlessly as Gwen reversed the car straight back to the edge of the drive and then onto the grass, stopping at the stairs. Where Mailor and another infected marine were standing, blinking up at the rain and at them.
Mailor saw the car stop and immediately rushed forward, putting a powerful fist through the back window. Merlin could just hear Maj. Penn's screams as the two Infected reached through the broken window and yanked him out by the lapels. They had him out as far as his legs when Gwen hit the gas again to drive forward, and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, still screaming. Merlin looked away.
Morgana, whose head was now in his lap, was trying to speak, and the edges of her mouth stained red with her blood as she tried to draw breath. He shushed her, stroking her hair, and so instead she reached to take his hand in hers, heedless of the blood, and grabbed for Arthur with the other. Her point, he thought, was well-made.
Arthur's fingers tightened around hers. “I knew you were fucking mad,” he whispered.
Gwen emerged from the car and collapsed to the ground on Morgana's other side, shaking. Morgana smiled up at her as well, and then with one last squeeze to Merlin's hand, she was gone.
***
Merlin woke up to sun on his face and squinted, throwing an arm over his eyes.
“Have you let her take the fucking curtains, as well?” he growled.
Arthur made a noise into his pillow that suggested he wasn't listening to his perfectly legitimate complaints. Merlin poked him in the side and he jerked awake, glaring.
Merlin just pointed at the rare winter sunlight that was streaming in to warm the mattress.
Arthur looked up muzzily, rubbing at his face in a way that Merlin was determined not to find endearing.
“Where are the curtains?” he asked, his voice slurred with sleep.
Merlin sighed loudly and flopped back down.
“It's bad enough we have no sheets,” he complained. “Next she'll want the last blanket.”
“I'll fight her for it,” Arthur mumbled, sliding across the bare mattress to attach himself to Merlin's side. He traced the scars on Merlin's forearm, something he did often. He'd played with the scar on Merlin's head as well, until his hair had grown over it. “At least it's sunny for a change.”
Merlin had to concede that one. Winter in Devonshire might indeed be warm, but it was also wet. They hadn't had sun in days and would probably be living off the tinned vegetables instead of the garden for some time yet.
“Should probably go and see if she needs help,” he said eventually, as Arthur breathed softly against his skin and the rattling of the sewing machine reached his ears. Arthur grunted and Merlin wormed out of his octopus-like grip, shaking his head as Arthur just rolled back onto his own pillow, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder.
“Who's a lazy git, now?” he said without any bite, grabbing his jeans and hauling them on before digging for a clean shirt. He made sure to shut the bedroom door softly behind him.
The one corridor of their farmhouse had cracked linoleum covering the floor, and he regretted not wearing socks as the cold shocked his bare feet. Merlin walked as quickly as he could to the front room, where Gwen sat in front of the ancient, pedal-powered sewing machine, her foot moving steadily as she sewed a line across one of the missing curtains and a worn tea towel.
“Have you stolen every bit of fabric in the house yet?” he asked.
“I'm sure there's something I've missed,” she said. The rooster that was always perched on the windowsill squawked, in full support of her thieving ways because she fed it from the table at mealtimes.
Merlin made to grab a chair, but Gwen spoke up. “I'm nearly finished here; could you go outside and have a look round?”
“Yeah, alright,” he said, and went to grab his trainers, forgoing a coat so he could enjoy the sunshine properly. It was a bit chilly as he made for the garden gate but he figured the walk would warm him.
They had seen their first jet contrail on a sunny, blue-sky day about one week after the Event They Avoided Discussing, when Gwen was still bursting randomly into tears and Arthur would occasionally acquire that thousand-yard stare that Merlin had once read about soldiers experiencing after combat. The evidence of human life that possibly gave a shit about their existence was heartening for all of them, especially when the jets began flying overhead twice a week, doing low passes over the countryside where Infected were beginning to collapse, weakened and gasping.
The sign had been Arthur's idea and Gwen's execution, and her feverish quest to steal every sheet and bolt of fabric large enough in the whole house had kept her busy and distracted, which had in turn made her easier to live with, and the thousand-yard stares had even diminished somewhat in frequency. Three weeks later, Merlin dared admit to himself that they just might make it.
He stopped and listened carefully; beyond the chirping of birds that seemed to multiply upon itself with every week the land stayed empty of humans, he thought he could hear something. He paused. Yes, definitely the roar of a jet engine. He ran for the house and banged into the kitchen so abruptly that the rooster took off in a puff of feathers.
“It's here,” he panted.
“Arthur!” Gwen shouted, jumping to her feet and breaking the threads in the sewing machine as she and Merlin wadded up the fabric.
“Come on, it's here!” Merlin shouted along with her, dragging his end of the sheet outside.
Arthur appeared on their heels as they ran past the low fence, hurriedly dressed and still cramming his trainers on as he ducked to grab a trailing bit of sheet.
The jet was coming closer but they were almost at the place where they would lay down the 20-foot-high letter O they were carrying. Merlin and Arthur spread it out in the breeze with a snap as Gwen scrambled for the large rocks they weighed the letters down with. They were good at this drill, and had the sheet secured when the plane came into view, several hundred feet overhead but close enough to see that it was military. They began to jump up and down, waving wildly, as their homemade sign cried, 'HELLO'.
THE END
The shed was probably the safest place on the estate but after waiting ten minutes, Merlin ventured back out into the rain and made his way to the house; the rain washed the mud from his skin but only made his clothes and makeshift bandage worse, and by the time he made it indoors again, the water was running off his clothing and the slopping noises his jeans were making made it difficult to be stealthy. He crept along as best he could.
Mailor had started in the kitchen; Jones lay on the floor next to the counter, with his limbs splayed around him and a butcher knife sitting several inches away from his outstretched hand. A bowl of peas had been upended all over him and they had rolled as far as the doorway.
Moving toward the front of the house and keeping to the copious shadows (for there were no lights running during the daytime even when they were needed; the generators had more important uses), he came across the remains of two more soldiers. One of them was still clutching his gun in death; perhaps he had used it and Mailor had shrugged it off, or perhaps it had failed him, but he was dead anyway, his throat ripped open. The other body was missing its head; Merlin stepped closer and saw that it was Pvt. White, but he didn't care to look for the head.
He hesitated for a moment, fighting with himself, but after a moment started patting down White's corpse. He turned up a knife in its sheath and finally White's sidearm. He checked the safety (damn Arthur anyway for teaching him things he hadn't even wanted to learn) and then stuffed it down the back of his sodden jeans, feeling faintly ridiculous about it but glad for the extra weapon. Hopefully it was loaded; his lessons had only gone so far. Impulsively, he also clipped the knife to his belt before moving on.
Another body lay in the entry to the supply room, gored but still in one piece. He stepped over it to scout the room and found Morgana's Maglite and near that, their car keys.
“Of all the bloody luck,” he murmured, pocketing the keys. The torch, though, he ended up leaving. It would likely draw too much attention to him and he was better off using his night vision, such as it was.
He took a deep breath. Up the stairs, then.
He was two steps from the top when he heard the telltale screeches that indicated Mailor was nearby-probably too near by for his comfort, strange abilities or no. He listened harder, straining his ears to hear around the rush of blood in his own veins, and then he nearly gasped out loud.
There were definitely two Infected up there.
It shouldn't have been a surprise, really, but it wasn't exactly good for Merlin, either. There was a human shout, male, from farther down the corridor, followed by a thump. He crept up to the landing and slipped into the first room available, Arthur's bedroom, only to be assaulted by the sound of harsh breathing.
“I got no bullets,” the man hissed. He was cowering in the corner behind the door.
Merlin shut the door softly behind him. “Shut up,” he hissed.
“Are-are you going to help?”
Merlin crossed to the window and pushed it open, letting in gushes of rain that soaked the drapes as he leaned out into the night. There was a short roof just below, hopefully a sturdy one. He looked back at the marine in the corner. He sort of hoped that it was Moore.
“No. No, I'm not.”
An anguished wail from the man and the bang of the door hitting the wall followed Merlin out into the night.
He raised his face to the rain; he was so thoroughly wet that the storm was beginning to feel pleasant, and the flickers of lightning in the distance made him smile a little. Holding the pry bar out for balance against the slippery pitch of the roof, he half-crawled his way along the side of the house, passing two windows and peeking into the last, the room where Morgana had slept.
Mailor was inside, along with another freshly infected soldier. He ducked quickly out of the way and hoped they didn't see the movement.
He was, however, running out of options. The ledge he was on disappeared back into the wall only two feet away, and there was nothing back the way he'd just come. But another flash of lightning, slightly brighter, illuminated a trellis that climbed the bare wall. He looked up; yes, a jut of moulding against the bricks that he could just hang onto, and more windows above, on the third storey.
He had to leave the pry bar, but he jumped onto the trellis and climbed. A section broke off under his foot, dropping him several inches, and his fingers dug into the wet, splintering wood, but it held until he reached the ledge above, and he gripped the moulding for dear life as his toes scrabbled for purchase on the bricks, edging his way along to the nearest window. It would have to be safe in the room beyond, or he was going to die.
Merlin missed his pry bar immediately, because the window was closed and the pane of glass whole. Perhaps the butt of the gun... but could he reach it, in the back of his trousers, without falling, and would breaking the glass attract someone who wanted to kill him?
His fingers began to slip and panicked him into action. Pulling on some yet-untapped reserve of strength (adrenaline, he thought wildly, was magical), he hauled himself up to lean an entire forearm on the moulding, gripping with every inch of skin he thought he could, the edge diggging into a nerve in his arm, and pulled his head up to peek over the windowsill and inside the room as he groped behind him for his gun. There was no movement inside, so he ducked his head and swung the butt of the gun with his free hand, as hard as he could without knocking himself off the side of the house.
The window cracked with two hits and the third shattered it, making a wretched noise and leaving horrible-looking shards sticking up from the bottom of the frame. Merlin could have cared less, and merely knocked out one particularly large and scary piece before throwing his already-perforated arm over the ledge and dragging himself inside.
There was a worrying moment where he thought he'd end up facedown in the glass shards that covered the carpet but he managed to stay on his feet. He brought the gun up, watching the door, but either it was locked or no one was on this floor, because no one burst in to kill him. Anyway, the safety was still on, he realized, and he lowered the gun, feeling his cheeks go hot, and put it back in his waistband.
A noise reached him, either Gwen or Morgana, and whoever it was, she was not happy. Merlin considered the gun again but finally drew the knife instead, carrying it down by his side as he eased the door open. He paused in the hallway and listened some more, and there it was again: one of the girls was making noises of struggling. It was easy now to move like a ghost, all of his senses trained on the corridor around him: the smell of his own blood as it dripped down his arm, the bandage now dirty and soaked and useless; the crunch of bits of glass stuck to the soles of his trainers as they were ground to powder under his weight; the glint of the knife blade as flashes of lightning reflected from it in the darkness.
The door to the room was open and the soldier's back was to him as he held a hand over Gwen's mouth. She looked like she was trying to bite him. The element of surprise made up for the weight difference between them as Merlin slung an arm around the man's neck and yanked him off her, throwing him to the floor. The air rushed out of Blakely's lungs as his back hit the hardwood and Merlin felt a smile tug his face in an unnatural way as he knelt down and drew the blade across Blakely's white throat.
Gwen, endless font of strength that she was, watched with a calm expression from the wall as the sergeant gurgled to death. Merlin grabbed the handgun from the man's shoulder holster.
“Here.” He handed it to her. “You should get outside, and be careful. Arthur and Morgana?”
She stared at him for a moment as if he had just spoken in tongues.
“You, you're not coming? But it's, I mean, it's dangerous, not that I don't think you can handle it, from the looks of things, but, well. You look like something the cat dragged in. A bit. Are you sure you're alright alone? With your arm, I mean; it's bleeding all over the floor!” She flailed at him, at the blood he felt running down his arm with the rainwater. “Shouldn't we stick together?”
Merlin smiled, warmly this time, feeling it in his extremities, and dug in his pocket to toss her the keys he'd grabbed.
“Start the car, Gwen. And lock yourself in,” he added. “Now. Have you seen Arthur and Morgana?”
“We were separated by some Infected downstairs,” she said, still looking worried. “Merlin, are you sure--”
He held up a hand, still smiling, and stepped over Blakely's legs to stand in front of her. “Go, Gwen. I'd rather someone live to tell the tale than all of us die.”
She looked down. “You think there'll be someone to tell?”
“There must be.”
She left, going back the way Merlin had come to reach the staircase, and Merlin followed shortly after, darting down the hall with the knife still in hand, turning the lightning red now.
He was searching the frontmost room, a large games room with a ripped and dusty billiards table, when the door slammed open behind him and Arthur barged in. His gun was already drawn as Merlin whipped around in surprise and they stared at each other for a full minute. Recognition flickered on Arthur's face at about the same time as Merlin was able to identify him, but he didn't lower his gun. All of a sudden, Merlin realized how he must look: wet, dirty, bloody and wild-eyed, with his chest heaving from exertion. He licked his lips, eyeing the barrel of the gun that was pointed steadily at his chest.
“Arthur,” he said, and his voice came out scratchy. He dropped the knife and slowly raised his hands, and thank fuck, Arthur lowered the gun.
“Merlin,” he said, “I thought you'd died, you insane bastard.”
Merlin had no response to that, so he tried a smile, and Arthur swooped forward and hugged him.
Arthur was still wet too, and a little bloody and scratched himself, but warmer than he had any right to be, and Merlin felt the last dregs of manic energy ooze out of him and gave in at last, clinging for dear life. Arthur's hold just tightened more and his breath tickled Merlin's neck.
He shut his eyes against the world, and for a long moment, Merlin just concentrated on the skin contact and breathing in and out. He was not wet or cold or bleeding or going into shock, and Arthur was softly nuzzling his neck and making him smile in a way he never had, small and privately.
Then Arthur's hands shifted against his back and he mumbled something into Merlin's collarbone that sounded like 'idiot', and Merlin relished the scratch of stubble on his cheek as lips dragged slowly up his jaw and sought his own.
They were still for a moment, breathing each other's air and perhaps getting used to the feeling (Arthur's lips were chapped and bitten a little and Merlin couldn't deny that it felt perfect just then), but finally they moved, sharing soft, experimental kisses. Merlin slid his hands up Arthur's biceps, feeling the play of muscle under skin as he felt his way over Arthur's shoulders to his long, tan neck and up, to bury his fingers in Arthur's tangled hair. Using his advantage, he tugged Arthur's head to a better angle to slide his tongue between the rough, parted lips and then everything abruptly shifted gears and Merlin felt the backs of his legs hit the pool table and Arthur's hands up the back of his shirt as they kissed like they'd just invented it.
If he could climb inside Arthur's skin then perhaps he would get warm, Merlin thought as their tongues slid against each other and they pressed as close together as they could. He sat on the table a bit, hoping it wouldn't collapse, and hooked an ankle around the back of Arthur's calf to pull him, stumbling, closer. Arthur laughed into his mouth and redoubled his assault, nibbling at Merlin's lips and trying to touch every inch of his back and ribs under his shirt. Merlin settled for messing up his hair a bit more in return, and while he couldn't speak for the shock and the likely PTSD just then, he figured he was starting to warm up just fine on his own. His only shivers now were from the gentle slide of fingertips against his side.
His knee had gotten between Arthur's thighs and he pressed forward, his leg rubbing against Arthur's groin. Arthur moaned into his mouth and as if someone had just slammed a door, Merlin was jerked back into the present. He broke off the kiss, shoving Arthur away from him or himself away from Arthur, and instantly regretting it when he saw the confused, flushed look on his face.
“This,” Merlin said, panting a little, “is completely neither the time nor the place.”
Arthur sighed, nodded and backed off, running his fingers through his fantastically messy hair as Merlin stood up and straightened his clothes.
“Come on, then,” Arthur said, making for the door but shooting Merlin a look that suggested he had better brace himself when they reached the right time and place.
Merlin shivered again.
***
Morgana was on the second floor, leaning against a wall in the corridor, and her taser was out as they approached. She recognized them, though, and put it away. The sky outside was lightening a bit as the rain let up, and the inside of the house was now merely dim instead of dark.
She looked between them. “Where's Gwen?”
Arthur looked sideways at Merlin.
“Outside, in the car, I hope,” Merlin said. “Are there any Infected nearby?”
Morgana shook her head, and Merlin saw that she had a blackening eye. “I think they've all gone down to the main level or outside by now. I haven't seen or heard anyone at all for a while.” She smiled. “I'm glad to see you're both alright.”
She looked between them and Merlin frowned a little. He sneaked a glance at Arthur and saw him clearly for the first time since their passionate clinch: his lips were puffy, his hair was still a hopeless mess despite the finger-combing, and he was in fact standing somewhat in Merlin's personal space, which Merlin hadn't registered.
He looked back at Morgana, whose smile widened before she turned on her heel to lead the way downstairs and to freedom.
“Off we go, then, boys. Our chariot awaits.”
He fought back a blush as they followed her, Arthur's arm occasionally bumping against his as they descended.
A faint scream echoed from somewhere behind them, audible now that the storm was beginning to blow away, but except for one brief flash of movement to his right that Merlin prayed he'd imagined, the three of them made it to the front door without encountering anyone still alive.
The rear lights of the little blue Fiesta glowed invitingly from where it waited on the drive, pointed toward freedom, and Merlin thought he'd never seen anything so wonderful. They stepped out into the open, into the rain that was merely a light shower now and dampened Morgana's hair into curls, and it was all he could do not to grab Arthur by the hand and drag him at a run all the way down the stairs and to the car. The three of them still seemed to share a thought, though, because they jogged the entire distance, smiling at the crunch of gravel and the rain on their faces. Merlin led the way round to the driver's side, where Gwen sat with both hands on the wheel.
“Have you locked the doors?” Merlin asked.
Gwen looked at him sideways and her face was drawn and ashy-looking through the rain-streaked glass. She looked like she wanted to say something but couldn't.
“Gwen?” Morgana said.
The rear window descended; Gwen's hands remained visible on the steering wheel.
And it was no wonder she looked petrified, because Maj. Penn had a gun pressed against the back of her seat, ready to shoot her through the chest from behind.
Arthur went rigid beside him.
“You killed my boys,” Penn said softly, with bewilderment. “My own son. You killed them; you set that animal on them and it ripped them limb from limb. My boys.”
“Father,” Arthur started, and Penn pointed the gun at him instead. His arm was as steady as his voice was not.
“Shut up. Shut. Up. They were protecting you. I only wanted to protect you. And you have destroyed me.”
Merlin couldn't stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “You tried to kill your own son!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the madman with a gun, because he had no sense, just as Arthur kept telling him. “You had him taken out to your... your boneyard, and he was going to be shot dead for protecting his friends from that pack of lunatics! Lott was right; you've gone mad beyond rescue!”
The gun moved from Arthur to him, which was a terrifying relief.
“Merlin, you idiot,” Arthur hissed, “he'll shoot you.”
Merlin looked to Gwen, who hadn't moved. She was biting her lip and he could see the whites of her eyes.
“It was you, wasn't it,” Penn said. “You've turned my son against me.”
“I was turned against you years ago,” Arthur said quietly, rage burning under his tone. “You aren't my father anymore. I don't know what you are.”
“You insolent, traitorous...” The major trained the gun back on Arthur, and Merlin got a shove to the shoulder that sent him flying just as a gunshot shattered the air.
“Morgana!” came a scream from Gwen, and Merlin pushed himself upright to see Morgana lying crumpled on the gravel in front of Arthur, clutching her stomach as a puddle of red formed around her.
“She jumped in front of me,” Arthur said, his voice very small and distant as Merlin crawled over to where Morgana lay. He brushed her wet hair from her face; she was still breathing, and she blinked up at him and smiled a bit, like the madwoman she so obviously was.
Arthur dropped to his knees beside Merlin, breathing hard, and a loud revving from the car made Merlin's head snap up in alarm. He watched wordlessly as Gwen reversed the car straight back to the edge of the drive and then onto the grass, stopping at the stairs. Where Mailor and another infected marine were standing, blinking up at the rain and at them.
Mailor saw the car stop and immediately rushed forward, putting a powerful fist through the back window. Merlin could just hear Maj. Penn's screams as the two Infected reached through the broken window and yanked him out by the lapels. They had him out as far as his legs when Gwen hit the gas again to drive forward, and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, still screaming. Merlin looked away.
Morgana, whose head was now in his lap, was trying to speak, and the edges of her mouth stained red with her blood as she tried to draw breath. He shushed her, stroking her hair, and so instead she reached to take his hand in hers, heedless of the blood, and grabbed for Arthur with the other. Her point, he thought, was well-made.
Arthur's fingers tightened around hers. “I knew you were fucking mad,” he whispered.
Gwen emerged from the car and collapsed to the ground on Morgana's other side, shaking. Morgana smiled up at her as well, and then with one last squeeze to Merlin's hand, she was gone.
***
Merlin woke up to sun on his face and squinted, throwing an arm over his eyes.
“Have you let her take the fucking curtains, as well?” he growled.
Arthur made a noise into his pillow that suggested he wasn't listening to his perfectly legitimate complaints. Merlin poked him in the side and he jerked awake, glaring.
Merlin just pointed at the rare winter sunlight that was streaming in to warm the mattress.
Arthur looked up muzzily, rubbing at his face in a way that Merlin was determined not to find endearing.
“Where are the curtains?” he asked, his voice slurred with sleep.
Merlin sighed loudly and flopped back down.
“It's bad enough we have no sheets,” he complained. “Next she'll want the last blanket.”
“I'll fight her for it,” Arthur mumbled, sliding across the bare mattress to attach himself to Merlin's side. He traced the scars on Merlin's forearm, something he did often. He'd played with the scar on Merlin's head as well, until his hair had grown over it. “At least it's sunny for a change.”
Merlin had to concede that one. Winter in Devonshire might indeed be warm, but it was also wet. They hadn't had sun in days and would probably be living off the tinned vegetables instead of the garden for some time yet.
“Should probably go and see if she needs help,” he said eventually, as Arthur breathed softly against his skin and the rattling of the sewing machine reached his ears. Arthur grunted and Merlin wormed out of his octopus-like grip, shaking his head as Arthur just rolled back onto his own pillow, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder.
“Who's a lazy git, now?” he said without any bite, grabbing his jeans and hauling them on before digging for a clean shirt. He made sure to shut the bedroom door softly behind him.
The one corridor of their farmhouse had cracked linoleum covering the floor, and he regretted not wearing socks as the cold shocked his bare feet. Merlin walked as quickly as he could to the front room, where Gwen sat in front of the ancient, pedal-powered sewing machine, her foot moving steadily as she sewed a line across one of the missing curtains and a worn tea towel.
“Have you stolen every bit of fabric in the house yet?” he asked.
“I'm sure there's something I've missed,” she said. The rooster that was always perched on the windowsill squawked, in full support of her thieving ways because she fed it from the table at mealtimes.
Merlin made to grab a chair, but Gwen spoke up. “I'm nearly finished here; could you go outside and have a look round?”
“Yeah, alright,” he said, and went to grab his trainers, forgoing a coat so he could enjoy the sunshine properly. It was a bit chilly as he made for the garden gate but he figured the walk would warm him.
They had seen their first jet contrail on a sunny, blue-sky day about one week after the Event They Avoided Discussing, when Gwen was still bursting randomly into tears and Arthur would occasionally acquire that thousand-yard stare that Merlin had once read about soldiers experiencing after combat. The evidence of human life that possibly gave a shit about their existence was heartening for all of them, especially when the jets began flying overhead twice a week, doing low passes over the countryside where Infected were beginning to collapse, weakened and gasping.
The sign had been Arthur's idea and Gwen's execution, and her feverish quest to steal every sheet and bolt of fabric large enough in the whole house had kept her busy and distracted, which had in turn made her easier to live with, and the thousand-yard stares had even diminished somewhat in frequency. Three weeks later, Merlin dared admit to himself that they just might make it.
He stopped and listened carefully; beyond the chirping of birds that seemed to multiply upon itself with every week the land stayed empty of humans, he thought he could hear something. He paused. Yes, definitely the roar of a jet engine. He ran for the house and banged into the kitchen so abruptly that the rooster took off in a puff of feathers.
“It's here,” he panted.
“Arthur!” Gwen shouted, jumping to her feet and breaking the threads in the sewing machine as she and Merlin wadded up the fabric.
“Come on, it's here!” Merlin shouted along with her, dragging his end of the sheet outside.
Arthur appeared on their heels as they ran past the low fence, hurriedly dressed and still cramming his trainers on as he ducked to grab a trailing bit of sheet.
The jet was coming closer but they were almost at the place where they would lay down the 20-foot-high letter O they were carrying. Merlin and Arthur spread it out in the breeze with a snap as Gwen scrambled for the large rocks they weighed the letters down with. They were good at this drill, and had the sheet secured when the plane came into view, several hundred feet overhead but close enough to see that it was military. They began to jump up and down, waving wildly, as their homemade sign cried, 'HELLO'.
THE END