Being Human: Good Times, Bad Times [Hal/Cutler + ensemble] 2/?
Title: “Good Times, Bad Times”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans.
A/N: This chapter is all about decisions, decisions. ;)
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2
Our Group Decision
“He needs blood,” Cutler says, wondering how many more times he must repeat it before they get it into their thick heroic heads: Hal will die unless he feeds.
“Sure!” Alex throws her hands up. “Pump an addict full of heroin. That’ll help.”
Previously on The Life and Times of Nick Cutler: the shit has hit the fan, they have made their spectacular escape, Hal got semi-staked, and now they are in the forest, arguing about how quickly Hal should bleed to death.
Tom carefully removes the wood chip and bandages the wound. Hal’s breathing becomes more rapid and laboured.
To Cutler’s surprise, Annie backs him up.
“He’s right.” Her voice trembles slightly. She rocks Eve who has finally stopped screaming in her arms. “When Herrick stabbed Mitchell, even transfusions didn’t help. He needs to…” She trails off, but there is no necessity for her to spell it out.
‘What about donor blood?” Alex suggests. “I could rent-a-ghost into a hospital and-.”
“I love that show!” Cutler lets slip. The women flash him odd looks; Tom is apparently not in on the joke. “Anyhow, it won’t work. It hasn’t got the lifeforce to sustain him. He needs it warm and fresh.”
He steps away from the van, very deliberately avoiding to look at Hal. He doesn’t feel like returning to the vampire-infested town, but he isn’t about to let Hal die. Here’s hoping Mr Snow’s remaining gang hasn’t gobbled up all humans yet.
Alex blocks his way. There is hardly a point to it, since he can just as well walk around her (it’s not like the forest is dotted with keep-off-the-grass signs; even if it were, Cutler is enough of a bad boy to ignore them). He gives the insufferable woman a sour look. He should tread softly now that she can do ghost tricks.
“Maybe this is how it should be,” says Annie. “I’ve seen what he becomes in this future.”
Cutler narrows his eyes. Future talk again. Seriously: what?
“You can debate the pros and cons of this future all you like,” he says pointedly. “While I’m getting Hal his medicine.”
“We don’t know what’s gonna happen,” Tom says. Cutler sincerely hopes that it’s Tom coming to his defense. “’S just a small chip, innit? Maybe he’s gonna heal on his own.”
Cutler snorts irritably. Unlikely, considering how deeply the fragment of the stake penetrated, especially if it has pierced something vital. Besides, leaving Hal’s recovery to chance sounds like the worst idea ever.
He walks around Alex, determined to get out of this damn forest by any means necessary.
“If Hal drinks this much blood, there is no getting him back from it,” Annie says in a steely voice. “He will become a monster. In the long run, maybe this is better. Not just for the world, but for him too.”
Cutler whirls around and stares at her in disbelief. And here he thought these freaks were Hal’s friends.
“It’s not a fucking zombie bite,” he seethes. “It’s not like he’ll lose his mind!”
“Says the guy who’s only too happy to have him go bad,” Alex points out.
That is the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. Cutler gets it: he killed her, so in a way, she’s entitled to some bitching - but for the last several hours he’s been doing nothing but trying to help.
“You don’t know me,” he says through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what makes me happy.” Exorcising her to the ninth circle of hell would definitely produce some endorphins. “Rest assured, his death is not on my happy list.”
He realizes with sudden clarity that it’s true. He is still angry with Hal, but he doesn’t want him dead. And he sure as hell is not going to sit around and watch it happen.
Close-up: Hal’s face, a death mask, as he ruins everything.
“No blood,” he whispers, and repeats, just to twist the knife in Cutler’s gut: “No blood.”
* * *
Flashback: 1950, a young, prospective solicitor dies in a holding cell, and nobody even notices. Except those tasked with covering it up of course. Evil Roy (he fits the trope so perfectly it’s not even remotely funny), Fergus, Dennis, Louis. The whole fucking lot of them.
Cut to the young solicitor waking up, confused, ravenous with hunger. Close-up of a glass filled with dark-red liquid. It scorches his throat. His body is shaking in the grip of some otherworldly fever. He is being watched by the terrifying creature with razor-sharp fangs that lurks behind the façade of the illegal gambler he was called in to consult.
A twig snaps, returning Cutler’s attention back to the present. He opens his eyes. The film reel behind his eyelids is quite boring, but reality is still much worse.
He leans closer to Hal and whispers his name. He even adds: “Please,” since they’re all being so well-mannered now. If all they require is his consent, Cutler is only too glad to get it out of him.
Hal looks away from him. Cutler shifts, and winces as something sharp cuts into his hand. It’s the wood chip Tom has extracted from Hal’s back. It looks much bigger than it did when embedded between Hal’s ribs. It must have gone in very deep.
Cutler picks it up, twirls it in his hand. It’s coated with dried blood. He pockets it discreetly and turns back to Hal who seems to be asleep, or at least pretending to be. Cutler sighs, gets out of the van and looks around.
Tom is talking to Annie. They are not whispering, but Cutler finds it hard and unnecessary to concentrate on what they are saying. The coast seems clear. He begins to move away from the van, careful not to make loud noises.
For all that he is a vampire, his heart nearly stops when Alex appears on the path in front of him.
“Where are you off to?”
“Nature’s call,” he snaps. “Care to oversee?”
“I can smell your bullshit - and I haven’t even got the sense of smell anymore.”
Yeah, he gets it: she’s dead, it’s his fault. Broken record much?
Alex asks quietly, all the venom suddenly drained out of her voice:
“So you’re just gonna kill another person like you did me?”
Cutler feels utterly spent.
“No,” he says. “Not like you. I’m going to find another person, drag them here and force-feed them to Hal. So technically, Hal will be killing them.” The look she gives him makes him feel strangely uncomfortable. “Whatever I am, he made me!”
“When was that?”
Cutler doesn’t see how this is relevant, but he humours her: “1950. Why?”
Alex shrugs.
“Sounds like you’re a little too old to play the blame game.”
She turns and heads back to the van. He could go now; she wouldn’t stop him. But he stays rooted to the spot. Hal’s week voice forbidding them to feed him blood rings in his ears. Decades of being on his own, and Cutler still takes Hal’s every word as an order.
There is a commotion by the van. Cutler pricks up his ears and makes out Annie’s voice:
“…can’t keep making allowances for him just because he is our friend,” she is saying. “George did that for Mitchell time and again; look where it got them both!”
Cutler rolls his eyes. So nice to know he’s not the only person hung up on the past.
He takes the wood chip out of his pocket and looks at it for a moment, then, on impulse, runs his tongue along the length of it. The blood is dry, but he can still taste it. His lips tremble. He bites down on the wood chip to keep from screaming. As usual, Hal’s got it remarkably easy: dying is certainly simpler than dealing with all this insanity.
* * *
When Cutler returns to the van, the others are scattered around in moody silence. Tom is sitting beside Hal, knees pulled up to his chin. He looks a decade older. Apparently lack of sleep, a dash of betrayal, a friend on his death bed and being a first-hand witness to the beginning of the end of the world would do that to you. Cutler would gladly snatch a nap too.
Annie is in the driver’s cab, murmuring something soothing to Eve. Alex is pacing by the van, lifting small twigs with her mind from time to time. A proper Jedi, that one.
Cutler shudders as something cold and wet drops right onto his nose. Another drop slinks beneath the collar of his shirt. Before long, it starts raining. Because life has clearly been too kind to him lately. Cutler climbs into the van, bristling up like a wet sparrow.
“Drip, drip, drop, little April shower,” he mutters under his breath.
The corners of Alex’s mouth quirk up.
“Seriously? Bambi?”
The way she looks at him, one would think Cutler personally took part in killing Bambi’s Mum.
Tom snaps up his head.
“That’s it!”
He leaps out of the van and dashes into the thicket without any explanation. Cutler honestly hopes Tom just has a grudge against children’s films and it’s not what it looks like.
Half an hour later: Yeah, it’s totally what it looks like. It looks like Tom dragging a baby deer and holding a big knife in his hand. Cutler cringes. It’s positively satanic.
“You said lifeforce,” Tom reminds him as he shoves the deer into the van, cuts its throat and lets the blood dribble over Hal’s mouth. “C’mon, Hal.”
Hal’s lips part, letting the blood trickle inside. He inhales spasmodically and presses his mouth to the wound, digging his fangs into the animal’s flesh. His body jerks as he swallows, harder and harder. The wet sucking sound makes Cutler’s throat tighten and his own fangs ache. Alex turns away, looking vaguely revolted.
When Hal is done, Tom throws the carcass out and sits back. His lips are pursed. Cutler wouldn’t put it past him to feel guilty. Hal lies still for a moment and then rolls over, sticking his head out of the van, and dry-heaves. Nothing comes out. He breathes in and out noisily, coughs and spits off a clot of blood-red saliva. Tom holds his shoulders gently and helps him to sit up. Cutler watches them both, huddling in the corner of the van, nostrils flaring at the stench of the animal and its blood.
Hal finally stops shaking. He looks at Tom and nods wordlessly. Tom responds with that boyish smile that makes him resemble a puppy.
One dead deer for bad luck, Cutler thinks sullenly. Check.
* * *
In the aftermath of the rain, the air feels fresher. Hal wanders away from the van and Cutler follows him, wading through the damp undergrowth and getting mud stains all over his trousers. His shoes and his suit are ruined, to say nothing of his life.
“How did it taste?” he asks.
Hal dips his hands into the shrubs, collecting raindrops, and wipes the blood off his face.
“Disgusting.”
“You’re up and about, so no harm done.”
He sidles closer, watching Hal attentively. The general air of passive weariness about Hal irritates him.
“What do you want, Cutler?” Hal asks.
It’s a tricky question. Besides, what does Cutler want? Right now, a rocket ship to Mars would come in handy.
“An explanation.” Cutler pushes Hal against a tree trunk. “Fifty-five years. You led me to believe you were dead - and yet, here you are, hanging out with a lyco, collecting ghosts and babysitting the War Child! What is this?”
There are red streaks still visible on Hal’s chapped lips. Cutler takes in the scent, the mingled aroma of blood, sweat, rain and, underneath all that, Hal himself.
“My life,” Hal answers, He is not even looking at Cutler.
“What about my life?” Cutler exclaims. “All of my lives! Destroying me once wasn’t enough, was it? You just had to-.”
“It had nothing to do with you,” Hal protests dryly.
The knot in Cutler’s stomach tightens. His hand slides down Hal’s chest, circles his body, getting in between him and the tree, and rests over the wound on his back. He presses at it with his fingers and watches Hal squirm.
He takes the wood chip out of his pocket again and brings the tip up to the base of Hal’s throat. It barely grazes the skin, but for a moment Cutler imagines that he could puncture Hal’s neck and lap at the flowing hot blood.
“After all the arguments,” Hal whispers. “Isn’t this a waste of effort?”
“I don’t give a shit about those delusions Annie has about the future,” Cutler says. “What she thinks you’re going to become. Feel free to turn into a Pokémon for all I care. You can’t die. You hear me? You can’t die.”
Hal leans forth, resting his forehead against Cutler’s. His skin feels hot and damp.
“Then why did you obey when I said I didn’t want blood?”
Cutler freezes.
He staggers back, dropping the wood chip, and looks at Hal helplessly. His head hurts.
“Fuck!” he screams. He can’t contain it any longer. “Fuck you and your mind games! And them! And this!”
He spins around and starts walking, eager to get away from Hal and all the bloody rats in his attic. He might as well find Mr Snow and ask the old fart to chew his head off - because what else is there? His plan was good. More than good; it was fucking brilliant. But no, Hal had to fuck it all up. And somebody had to nick his videos. And-
“Why do you care if I live or die?” Hal asks.
Cutler trips over a creeping root and nearly loses his balance. He turns to face Hal, breathless with anger.
He always knew his maker was an insensitive prick. Hell, Rachel’s murder was a bit of a tell-tale sign. Hal Yorke’s cruelty was the stuff of legends; yet he was never quite so cruel before as he is now, standing at a distance, gaunt, worn out, in bloodstained clothes, looking at Cutler with feverish, expressionless eyes.
“Do you have to ask?” Cutler whispers. “What is wrong with you?”
Hal starts saying something, but what comes out is Cutler’s name, spoken in an alarmed tone, as he looks past Cutler. Nick sighs tragically.
“If I look around, there’ll be danger, won’t there?”
Hal grabs his wrist and pulls him into a run. Cutler hates running, especially when there is a need for stealth.
They delve deeper into the thicket. Cutler shivers when an entire waterfall of raindrops gushes down on him from a tree branch. Hal’s knees wobble. Cutler instinctively reaches out to support him. He can always continue hating him later, provided they don’t get turned into fertilizer now.
They hide behind a thick tree and watch a group of men quietly work their way through the forest.
“Snow’s werewolf,” Hal whispers.
Cutler gulps down nervously. How the hell did the hound find them so quickly?
“Next time,” he mutters, “when I say let me kill the baby, please let me kill the baby.”
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R
Timeline: canon divergence mid-Episode 4x08, “The War Child”
Summary: When Cutler comes to Honolulu Heights with the purpose of killing Eve, it is Hal who opens the door. And he doesn’t let him enter. From here on out, it’s either a horror show or a sitcom. Cutler is not quite certain what the difference is. [Hal/Cutler]
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC. Epigraph and title from “I Need Some Fine Wine, and You, You Need to Be Nicer” by The Cardigans.
A/N: This chapter is all about decisions, decisions. ;)
Part 1 - Our Heroic Moments
Part 2
Our Group Decision
“He needs blood,” Cutler says, wondering how many more times he must repeat it before they get it into their thick heroic heads: Hal will die unless he feeds.
“Sure!” Alex throws her hands up. “Pump an addict full of heroin. That’ll help.”
Previously on The Life and Times of Nick Cutler: the shit has hit the fan, they have made their spectacular escape, Hal got semi-staked, and now they are in the forest, arguing about how quickly Hal should bleed to death.
Tom carefully removes the wood chip and bandages the wound. Hal’s breathing becomes more rapid and laboured.
To Cutler’s surprise, Annie backs him up.
“He’s right.” Her voice trembles slightly. She rocks Eve who has finally stopped screaming in her arms. “When Herrick stabbed Mitchell, even transfusions didn’t help. He needs to…” She trails off, but there is no necessity for her to spell it out.
‘What about donor blood?” Alex suggests. “I could rent-a-ghost into a hospital and-.”
“I love that show!” Cutler lets slip. The women flash him odd looks; Tom is apparently not in on the joke. “Anyhow, it won’t work. It hasn’t got the lifeforce to sustain him. He needs it warm and fresh.”
He steps away from the van, very deliberately avoiding to look at Hal. He doesn’t feel like returning to the vampire-infested town, but he isn’t about to let Hal die. Here’s hoping Mr Snow’s remaining gang hasn’t gobbled up all humans yet.
Alex blocks his way. There is hardly a point to it, since he can just as well walk around her (it’s not like the forest is dotted with keep-off-the-grass signs; even if it were, Cutler is enough of a bad boy to ignore them). He gives the insufferable woman a sour look. He should tread softly now that she can do ghost tricks.
“Maybe this is how it should be,” says Annie. “I’ve seen what he becomes in this future.”
Cutler narrows his eyes. Future talk again. Seriously: what?
“You can debate the pros and cons of this future all you like,” he says pointedly. “While I’m getting Hal his medicine.”
“We don’t know what’s gonna happen,” Tom says. Cutler sincerely hopes that it’s Tom coming to his defense. “’S just a small chip, innit? Maybe he’s gonna heal on his own.”
Cutler snorts irritably. Unlikely, considering how deeply the fragment of the stake penetrated, especially if it has pierced something vital. Besides, leaving Hal’s recovery to chance sounds like the worst idea ever.
He walks around Alex, determined to get out of this damn forest by any means necessary.
“If Hal drinks this much blood, there is no getting him back from it,” Annie says in a steely voice. “He will become a monster. In the long run, maybe this is better. Not just for the world, but for him too.”
Cutler whirls around and stares at her in disbelief. And here he thought these freaks were Hal’s friends.
“It’s not a fucking zombie bite,” he seethes. “It’s not like he’ll lose his mind!”
“Says the guy who’s only too happy to have him go bad,” Alex points out.
That is the last straw that breaks the camel’s back. Cutler gets it: he killed her, so in a way, she’s entitled to some bitching - but for the last several hours he’s been doing nothing but trying to help.
“You don’t know me,” he says through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what makes me happy.” Exorcising her to the ninth circle of hell would definitely produce some endorphins. “Rest assured, his death is not on my happy list.”
He realizes with sudden clarity that it’s true. He is still angry with Hal, but he doesn’t want him dead. And he sure as hell is not going to sit around and watch it happen.
Close-up: Hal’s face, a death mask, as he ruins everything.
“No blood,” he whispers, and repeats, just to twist the knife in Cutler’s gut: “No blood.”
* * *
Flashback: 1950, a young, prospective solicitor dies in a holding cell, and nobody even notices. Except those tasked with covering it up of course. Evil Roy (he fits the trope so perfectly it’s not even remotely funny), Fergus, Dennis, Louis. The whole fucking lot of them.
Cut to the young solicitor waking up, confused, ravenous with hunger. Close-up of a glass filled with dark-red liquid. It scorches his throat. His body is shaking in the grip of some otherworldly fever. He is being watched by the terrifying creature with razor-sharp fangs that lurks behind the façade of the illegal gambler he was called in to consult.
A twig snaps, returning Cutler’s attention back to the present. He opens his eyes. The film reel behind his eyelids is quite boring, but reality is still much worse.
He leans closer to Hal and whispers his name. He even adds: “Please,” since they’re all being so well-mannered now. If all they require is his consent, Cutler is only too glad to get it out of him.
Hal looks away from him. Cutler shifts, and winces as something sharp cuts into his hand. It’s the wood chip Tom has extracted from Hal’s back. It looks much bigger than it did when embedded between Hal’s ribs. It must have gone in very deep.
Cutler picks it up, twirls it in his hand. It’s coated with dried blood. He pockets it discreetly and turns back to Hal who seems to be asleep, or at least pretending to be. Cutler sighs, gets out of the van and looks around.
Tom is talking to Annie. They are not whispering, but Cutler finds it hard and unnecessary to concentrate on what they are saying. The coast seems clear. He begins to move away from the van, careful not to make loud noises.
For all that he is a vampire, his heart nearly stops when Alex appears on the path in front of him.
“Where are you off to?”
“Nature’s call,” he snaps. “Care to oversee?”
“I can smell your bullshit - and I haven’t even got the sense of smell anymore.”
Yeah, he gets it: she’s dead, it’s his fault. Broken record much?
Alex asks quietly, all the venom suddenly drained out of her voice:
“So you’re just gonna kill another person like you did me?”
Cutler feels utterly spent.
“No,” he says. “Not like you. I’m going to find another person, drag them here and force-feed them to Hal. So technically, Hal will be killing them.” The look she gives him makes him feel strangely uncomfortable. “Whatever I am, he made me!”
“When was that?”
Cutler doesn’t see how this is relevant, but he humours her: “1950. Why?”
Alex shrugs.
“Sounds like you’re a little too old to play the blame game.”
She turns and heads back to the van. He could go now; she wouldn’t stop him. But he stays rooted to the spot. Hal’s week voice forbidding them to feed him blood rings in his ears. Decades of being on his own, and Cutler still takes Hal’s every word as an order.
There is a commotion by the van. Cutler pricks up his ears and makes out Annie’s voice:
“…can’t keep making allowances for him just because he is our friend,” she is saying. “George did that for Mitchell time and again; look where it got them both!”
Cutler rolls his eyes. So nice to know he’s not the only person hung up on the past.
He takes the wood chip out of his pocket and looks at it for a moment, then, on impulse, runs his tongue along the length of it. The blood is dry, but he can still taste it. His lips tremble. He bites down on the wood chip to keep from screaming. As usual, Hal’s got it remarkably easy: dying is certainly simpler than dealing with all this insanity.
* * *
When Cutler returns to the van, the others are scattered around in moody silence. Tom is sitting beside Hal, knees pulled up to his chin. He looks a decade older. Apparently lack of sleep, a dash of betrayal, a friend on his death bed and being a first-hand witness to the beginning of the end of the world would do that to you. Cutler would gladly snatch a nap too.
Annie is in the driver’s cab, murmuring something soothing to Eve. Alex is pacing by the van, lifting small twigs with her mind from time to time. A proper Jedi, that one.
Cutler shudders as something cold and wet drops right onto his nose. Another drop slinks beneath the collar of his shirt. Before long, it starts raining. Because life has clearly been too kind to him lately. Cutler climbs into the van, bristling up like a wet sparrow.
“Drip, drip, drop, little April shower,” he mutters under his breath.
The corners of Alex’s mouth quirk up.
“Seriously? Bambi?”
The way she looks at him, one would think Cutler personally took part in killing Bambi’s Mum.
Tom snaps up his head.
“That’s it!”
He leaps out of the van and dashes into the thicket without any explanation. Cutler honestly hopes Tom just has a grudge against children’s films and it’s not what it looks like.
Half an hour later: Yeah, it’s totally what it looks like. It looks like Tom dragging a baby deer and holding a big knife in his hand. Cutler cringes. It’s positively satanic.
“You said lifeforce,” Tom reminds him as he shoves the deer into the van, cuts its throat and lets the blood dribble over Hal’s mouth. “C’mon, Hal.”
Hal’s lips part, letting the blood trickle inside. He inhales spasmodically and presses his mouth to the wound, digging his fangs into the animal’s flesh. His body jerks as he swallows, harder and harder. The wet sucking sound makes Cutler’s throat tighten and his own fangs ache. Alex turns away, looking vaguely revolted.
When Hal is done, Tom throws the carcass out and sits back. His lips are pursed. Cutler wouldn’t put it past him to feel guilty. Hal lies still for a moment and then rolls over, sticking his head out of the van, and dry-heaves. Nothing comes out. He breathes in and out noisily, coughs and spits off a clot of blood-red saliva. Tom holds his shoulders gently and helps him to sit up. Cutler watches them both, huddling in the corner of the van, nostrils flaring at the stench of the animal and its blood.
Hal finally stops shaking. He looks at Tom and nods wordlessly. Tom responds with that boyish smile that makes him resemble a puppy.
One dead deer for bad luck, Cutler thinks sullenly. Check.
* * *
In the aftermath of the rain, the air feels fresher. Hal wanders away from the van and Cutler follows him, wading through the damp undergrowth and getting mud stains all over his trousers. His shoes and his suit are ruined, to say nothing of his life.
“How did it taste?” he asks.
Hal dips his hands into the shrubs, collecting raindrops, and wipes the blood off his face.
“Disgusting.”
“You’re up and about, so no harm done.”
He sidles closer, watching Hal attentively. The general air of passive weariness about Hal irritates him.
“What do you want, Cutler?” Hal asks.
It’s a tricky question. Besides, what does Cutler want? Right now, a rocket ship to Mars would come in handy.
“An explanation.” Cutler pushes Hal against a tree trunk. “Fifty-five years. You led me to believe you were dead - and yet, here you are, hanging out with a lyco, collecting ghosts and babysitting the War Child! What is this?”
There are red streaks still visible on Hal’s chapped lips. Cutler takes in the scent, the mingled aroma of blood, sweat, rain and, underneath all that, Hal himself.
“My life,” Hal answers, He is not even looking at Cutler.
“What about my life?” Cutler exclaims. “All of my lives! Destroying me once wasn’t enough, was it? You just had to-.”
“It had nothing to do with you,” Hal protests dryly.
The knot in Cutler’s stomach tightens. His hand slides down Hal’s chest, circles his body, getting in between him and the tree, and rests over the wound on his back. He presses at it with his fingers and watches Hal squirm.
He takes the wood chip out of his pocket again and brings the tip up to the base of Hal’s throat. It barely grazes the skin, but for a moment Cutler imagines that he could puncture Hal’s neck and lap at the flowing hot blood.
“After all the arguments,” Hal whispers. “Isn’t this a waste of effort?”
“I don’t give a shit about those delusions Annie has about the future,” Cutler says. “What she thinks you’re going to become. Feel free to turn into a Pokémon for all I care. You can’t die. You hear me? You can’t die.”
Hal leans forth, resting his forehead against Cutler’s. His skin feels hot and damp.
“Then why did you obey when I said I didn’t want blood?”
Cutler freezes.
He staggers back, dropping the wood chip, and looks at Hal helplessly. His head hurts.
“Fuck!” he screams. He can’t contain it any longer. “Fuck you and your mind games! And them! And this!”
He spins around and starts walking, eager to get away from Hal and all the bloody rats in his attic. He might as well find Mr Snow and ask the old fart to chew his head off - because what else is there? His plan was good. More than good; it was fucking brilliant. But no, Hal had to fuck it all up. And somebody had to nick his videos. And-
“Why do you care if I live or die?” Hal asks.
Cutler trips over a creeping root and nearly loses his balance. He turns to face Hal, breathless with anger.
He always knew his maker was an insensitive prick. Hell, Rachel’s murder was a bit of a tell-tale sign. Hal Yorke’s cruelty was the stuff of legends; yet he was never quite so cruel before as he is now, standing at a distance, gaunt, worn out, in bloodstained clothes, looking at Cutler with feverish, expressionless eyes.
“Do you have to ask?” Cutler whispers. “What is wrong with you?”
Hal starts saying something, but what comes out is Cutler’s name, spoken in an alarmed tone, as he looks past Cutler. Nick sighs tragically.
“If I look around, there’ll be danger, won’t there?”
Hal grabs his wrist and pulls him into a run. Cutler hates running, especially when there is a need for stealth.
They delve deeper into the thicket. Cutler shivers when an entire waterfall of raindrops gushes down on him from a tree branch. Hal’s knees wobble. Cutler instinctively reaches out to support him. He can always continue hating him later, provided they don’t get turned into fertilizer now.
They hide behind a thick tree and watch a group of men quietly work their way through the forest.
“Snow’s werewolf,” Hal whispers.
Cutler gulps down nervously. How the hell did the hound find them so quickly?
“Next time,” he mutters, “when I say let me kill the baby, please let me kill the baby.”
Part 3 - Our Dawn of the Dead