And the Embers Never Fade 3/5

[turps]

Before, Frank knew little about engines. He’s learned through necessity, fixing on the fly and gaining knowledge through reading scavenged books and trial and error. Today he leans over the engine of the Trans Am, watching intently as Bob tightens a bolt.

His every movement is sure, confident as he explains each step, looking up occasionally to ensure Frank’s understanding. Which Frank does, mostly, when he’s not wondering about Bob.

He knows the basics -- Bob Bryar, works as a mechanic out of zone 6, rebellion sympathizer in theory, hardly ever seen in person -- researching him is one of the first things they did when Mikey was brought home. But after that there’s nothing, and Frank’s curious. Especially why Bob’s actually here, when their every Intel said he usually keeps hidden.

Frank pulls back a little, careful not to hit his head on the raised hood of the Trans Am, says, “So what’s your deal?”

Bob tightens the final bolt. Positioning the wrench, he twists his hand and says, “About what?”

Frank could say, about everything, but he settles for, “This traveling around shit, you’re what, some kind of mobile mechanic?”

“Sometimes,” Bob stands, his hand in the small of his back, says, “I’m getting old,” and then, “Mostly I work from the workshop.”

“With that other guy, the one with the scowl and hat?” Frank asks, remembering his own visit.

Bob shakes his head. “Patrick, and no. He’s not a mechanic.”

“Okay,” Frank says, and this feels like he’s pulling teeth to get actual answers. Except, after so long together there’s not a thing Frank doesn’t know about Ray, Mikey and Gerard, so this chase almost feels good. “So this Patrick’s your what? Friend, brother, accountant, boyfriend, mechanical fucktoy?”

“Mechanical fucktoy? Really?” Bob says, and picks up the water bag that’s been left in the shade of the Trans Am. He takes a long drink and offers the bag to Frank. “You think I look like the kind of person who’d have a mechanical fucktoy?”

“You’ve a hot pink Jeep,” Frank says, taking the bag. “Who the fuck knows what you like?”

Bob wipes his hand across his mouth. “The color of my Jeep has no relevance here.”

“It’s hot pink,” Frank says, unable to resist teasing. “Like those slutty dolls they used to sell back in the day.”

“You mean Barbies, and they’re not slutty.”

Frank knows Gerard wasn’t around a few seconds ago, still Frank’s not surprised to hear his comment. It’s like Gerard has an invisible radar that activates whenever Frank says something Gerard thinks is offensive. Frank looks over his shoulder, and sees Gerard approaching. “Fine, like those dolls with tiny waists and disproportionate tits.”

“Breasts,” Gerard says, and wanders close to Bob. “Or I guess you could say boobs.”

“How about he says nothing?” Bob suggests, looking pained. “I’m about done.”

“You’re the best.” Gerard gives a cursory look at the engine and then turns his attention to Bob’s Jeep. This late the setting sun is catching the paintwork, causing it to glow neon pink, a blazing shock of color against pale sand. “Don’t listen to Frank, I love that you’re so secure in your masculinity.”

“What?” Bob looks from Gerard to his Jeep. “The color isn’t some kind of statement. It was like that when I found it.”

Momentarily Gerard appears thrown, then he rallies. “In that case you won’t mind if I decorate it. Just a few touches to make you blend in.”

Face aching from suppressing his grin, Frank moves to stand next to Gerard and Bob, all three staring at the Jeep. “I think flowers would look good. Big ones.”

“Mutant flowers, yeah,” Gerard says, and he drops to his knees in front of the door, running his fingers over the panel, sketching in the clinging dust. “Or skeletons. Dancing skeletons. With tentacles.”

“Sounds perfect to me,” Frank says, and when he looks to the side and sees Bob standing with his mouth slightly open, like he’s looking for words and failing, there’s no way that Frank can stop himself laughing.

~*~*~*~

Mikey feels exposed, the center of attention as Bob kneels on the mattress, the freshly sterilized scissors and tweezers in his hands.

“They’re cool now,” Bob says and Gerard nods, his chin digging into Mikey’s shoulder, as if that was the question he was about to ask.

Gerard’s sitting behind Mikey, his arms around Mikey’s waist while Frank’s sitting at Mikey’s side, Ray taking position as assistant to Bob. They’re all there for Mikey, ensuring his comfort as best that they can, and Mikey’s grateful, even if the attention is on the verge of being too much.

“Gabe’s good at what he does,” Bob says, and looks over at Mikey. “They’ll come out easily.”

Reassured by Bob’s confidence, Mikey still flinches at the feel of the scissors against his skin. Bob’s starting high on Mikey’s thigh and Mikey watches as he slides the blade under the first stitch, and quickly snips it in half. Using the tweezers, Bob grips one side of the stitch and tugs, pulling out the thread.

It feels weird rather than painful, at least right now, and Mikey settles back against Gerard and asks, “Who’s Gabe?”

Bob drops the stitch onto an old magazine and moves to the next one. “A friend. He’s a doctor, amongst other things. He helped fix you up.”

Mikey tries to remember seeing this Gabe, but the first days at Bob’s are hazy, more flashes of scenes than actual memories. “I can’t remember seeing him.”

“Not surprising, you were unconscious at the time.” Bob snips again, and Mikey feels a tug as another stitch is pulled free. “He saw you, though.”

“Well tell him he’s got a friend in the Killjoys,” Gerard says, his breath warm against Mikey’s ear.

Bob drops the stitch on the other and points the tweezers at Gerard. “I haul Mikey’s ass from the desert, put up with his shit for days, give him my pants, bring him home and get threatened for my trouble. Gabe stitches him up and is an instant friend? The fuck?”

“Gabe didn’t keep Mikey,” Frank says. “You did.”

“Not by choice,” Bob says, frowning as he starts on the next stitch.

“Whatever, it’s not like I wanted to be there either,” Mikey says, and winces when the stitch is pulled free. Reaching out, he goes to wipe up the droplet of blood that’s beading on his thigh, but Frank slaps at his hand as Ray steps forward with a clean cloth.

“I’ll do it,” Ray says, and gently dabs at the blood.

Bob looks over at Mikey, serious as he says, “Want me to get those mittens? Because I will.”

“Or I’ll get the fucking restraints,” Gerard says, and tightens his hold. “Don’t think that I won’t.”

Mikey knows that he will, it’s why he stays still, hands in tight fists as he fights against the urge to touch his legs, or stop Bob from moving relentlessly forward, the removal of the stitches more painful as they curve over bone.

Bob never asks if he should stop. If he had Mikey would have refused, but by the time Bob’s over his knee, Mikey’s drawing in quick breaths, his eyes tightly closed as Gerard murmurs meaningless words of comfort.

A last tug, and finally Bob announces, “Done, for this leg anyway.”

Mikey opens his eyes and looks at his leg, complete with fresh scars, each one red and inflamed. They’re not the first that he’s got, but they are the most extensive, and Mikey can’t look away from the raised lines that slash over his skin.

“They’ll settle down,” Bob says, and rests his hand briefly above Mikey’s knee.

Carefully, Ray wipes away the last trickles of blood. “They don’t look that bad.”

“They look fucking bad ass,” Frank says, his brash words at odds to his expression as he watches Mikey’s face.

“They’re part of you,” Gerard adds, and presses a kiss against Mikey’s neck. “That means they’re beautiful.”

Mikey knows that they’re not, and he turns his head, his cheek against Gerard’s, Frank’s finger tips against his own, Ray’s hands on Mikey’s leg. Taking comfort in offered lies.

~*~*~*~

The family camps are a protected secret within the zones. Their locations guarded but directions available to those genuinely in need.

Often those directions change, the camps moving when the authorities get too close. It’s not an ideal situation, but for many the camps have become home. Escapees from the city, second generation children, the battle scarred and weary. They’re all welcomed and kept safe.

While he doesn’t visit often, Bob enjoys the times that he does. Seeing a community forged through adversity is inspiring, and while no one in the camps actually goes out and fights in a physical way, their rebellion is constant and on-going.

Which is why Bob helps all that he can, and he nods at the guard as he drives into the camp, towing a van behind him.

“Bob, hey.” Lindsey runs forward and jumps, balancing on the side of the Jeep. She’s clinging onto the roll cage with one arm and leans in, kissing Bob’s cheek.

“Lindsey,” Bob says, and wipes at his face when he looks in the mirror and sees the lipstick kiss, bright red and gritty with sand. “I’ve got your van.”

Lindsey grins, “So I see, you’re a fucking superstar.”

Bob shrugs and keeps looking straight ahead, all too aware of how Lindsey’s skirt is catching the wind, fluttering up and exposing her thigh.

“God, you’re adorable,” Lindsey says with a laugh, and kisses Bob’s cheek again. “Damn zone runners getting to you before I could.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Bob mutters, and pulls to a stop on the outskirts of the camp, where Lindsey’s mini tank is parked alongside the other vehicles. “You want it here?”

“Park it up next to Alicia,” Lindsey says, pointing to where someone’s legs are poking out from under a car. “And don’t think I didn’t see that deflection.”

“What deflection?” Bob asks, but Lindsey’s already jumped down, and is running over to the other car. Dropping to her knees she folds forward to talk to the person underneath.

Maneuvering the van into place, Bob kills the engine and steps out of his Jeep, heading for the back. A few minutes and he’s lowering the van down, the winch groaning as Bob takes a step back, and jumps when something grabs his ankle.

“Hey.”

Bob looks down and sees Alicia, grease on her forehead and hair pulled back in tight braids. Wiggling, she worms her way out from under the car and then stands.

“Sweet ride, you’ve tricked out the engine?”

“Power, handling and brakes,” Bob says, and pops the hood so Alicia can look inside. “And something extra. Watch.”

Leaving Alicia at the front of the van, Bob gets inside and starts the engine. Then, when he’s sure there’s no one behind them, he flicks a switch, causing flames to shoot out from hidden pipes.

Alicia’s eyes widen, and the air around her shimmers with drifting heat. “Holy fuck, you built in a flame thrower.”

“Figured it could come in useful,” Bob says, and turns off the engine, killing the flames. “It’s got its own dedicated fuel tank and will last for up to five minutes.”

“You’re an evil genius,” Lindsey says, sounding impressed. “I like that in a man.” She waits until Bob’s standing outside and links her arm with his. “Come on, to say thanks we’ve a stew with your name on it.”

Torn, Bob debates between the plus of food, that experience shows will be delicious, and spending time as the center of gossip. Not that he debates for long, and Bob allows himself to be dragged forward, keeping step with Lindsey as they head for the community kitchen,

Set in the center of camp, trestle tables and chairs are arranged in front of the tent that contains the actual kitchen. On each table there’s a lantern, the glass painted with brightly colored flowers.

“Linds, did them,” Alicia says as she disappears into the kitchen. Reappearing with two bowls full of stew she sets them on a table before going back inside.

Lindsey sits and kicks out the opposite chair with her foot. “Sit. Eat.”

Bob does so, taking the spoon out of his bowl and swallowing a mouthful of stew. As expected it tastes good, but he’s not sure what he’s actually eating. Not that he’s about to ask, sometimes it’s just best not to know.

“The stringy bits are cactus prickles,” Lindsey says, and blows on a spoonful of stew. “If you boil them enough they don’t jab your mouth.”

Bob takes another spoonful, says, “It’s good.”

“It’s Jamia’s recipe.” Alicia sits opposite Bob, her bowl of stew in front of her, but she’s making no attempt to eat. Just sits with her elbows on the table, showing the tide mark between her clean hands and dirty arms. “She sends it to certain zone runners you know. Fun Ghoul loves it.”

“Talking of,” Lindsey says with a grin, and Bob groans, knowing he’s about to be questioned. “Ashlee says, Pete says, Patrick says that you’re still spending a lot of time with them.”

“A lot of time,” Alicia adds, like they’re some kind of in-sync double act there to drive Bob insane. “‘Fess up, you like them.”

Bob scoops up another spoonful of stew. “I wouldn’t go there if I didn’t.”

“True,” Lindsey says, as if she’s actually conceding the point, and then, “But it’s not like you have to go every day.”

Bob’s spoon scrapes against the bowl as he snaps, “I do if I’ve a lot of work to do.”

Both Alicia and Lindsey laugh, and Bob’s tense, hating that he’s being mocked. About to make his excuses and leave, he stills when Alicia reaches out and rests her hand on Bob’s arm. “Sorry, we’re just teasing. They’re good guys.”

“Good to watch too,” Lindsey says. “There’s always something to see.”

That there’s an implication in her statement is obvious, Bob’s just not sure what that implication actually is. He stares down at Alicia’s hand, at her reddened knuckles and short nails lined with grease. Remembering catching glimpses of stealth kisses, Mikey sleeping on Gerard’s lap, the way Frank hangs over Ray. Things that could be innocent but Bob suspects that they’re not. Still looking down he says, “They’re close. And not just Mikey and Gerard.”

“They are,” Lindsey replies, but this time there’s no accompanying laughter, and when Bob finally looks her way he sees that she’s staring right back. “If they told you that they’re brothers they trust you. Don’t lose your nerve now.”

The conversation’s gone from light-hearted to serious in seconds, and Bob’s struggling to keep up, despite suspecting he knows the answer, he asks, “For what?”

“For snatching some happiness in this god forsaken world,” Lindsey says, deadly serious. “I don’t know you well. I doubt anyone does, even Patrick. But I know engines aren’t a good substitute for human interaction.”

Bob lets his spoon clatter into the half empty bowl. “I talk to people.”

“Not enough.” Lindsey leans back in her chair, and while Bob can’t actually see, he thinks she’s got her hand on Alicia’s knee. “You can tell me to shut the fuck up, but when you drove here you were smiling. If you’ve something that’ll make you happy I say go for it.”

It’s good advice, Bob knows that, but there are also problems. “Okay, fine, I like going over there. I like them but not like that. I’ve only known them for weeks.”

“We could all die tomorrow,” Alicia says, and she wraps one of her braids around her fingers. “Do it loud and do it now.”

“And open your eyes and understand what you’re actually seeing,” Lindsey says, and then, “Don’t fuck this up, Bob.”

Bob still isn’t sure that there’s actually anything he can fuck up, but he still nods and says, “Okay.”

~*~*~*~*~

The first time Frank ghosted a Drac he expected to feel sick, had stood over the smoking body and waited for the nausea to hit. Because that’s what’s supposed to happen when you kill someone, even if that person is only a mindless shell.

Frank hadn’t felt sick, has never felt sick, even years later, with so many kills under his belt he’s lost count. Mostly he feels a sense of acceptance, and deeper, in a place he doesn’t acknowledged often, satisfaction.

Each kills feels like another strike against a world that’s nothing but contrasts. Apathy and control, rebellion and danger. Frank’s suffered the former, and is riding the later, fear and loss replaced by movement and music, and if it wasn’t for the others Frank would be even more wild.

As it is, he still charges head first into danger, but now at least he has a reason for caution -- knowing he’s got people who’re always waiting, always have his back.

It’s something that makes him stronger. It’s also something fucking terrifying, and Frank’s always aware of what he could lose. It’s why he’s sitting outside now, on the hood of the Trans Am, heels on the bumper, staring into a darkness that’s rich with shadows and blurred shapes.

“Frank.”

Briefly light spills into the dark, long and bright and then abruptly cut off as Ray walks outside. There’s a thud as he lets the boards at the door swing back and then Ray’s sitting at Frank’s side, mirroring his position.

“There’s been another raid,” Ray says, his voice low, like even his words are carrying weight. “The Rats from zone two.”

How bad?” Frank asks, knowing that anything that makes Ray sound like this has to be bad.

Ray pulls in a sharp breath, says, “They got them all.”

Frank makes a tight fist and wants to punch the nearest hard surface. “That’s the fourth raid in as many days.”

“They’re planning something,” Ray says. He’s staring ahead, the wind catching his hair and t-shirt, the fabric rippling. “And it’ll involve us.”

“It always involves us,” Frank says. “Korse is fucking obsessed.”

Ray nods, and it’s so quiet that Frank can hear Ray swallow before he unexpectedly says, “If things go bad, remember you matter too.”

Frank turns toward Ray, says, “Don’t say that shit. It’s not going to happen.”

“It could happen.” Ray grabs hold of Frank’s arm, holding on so he can’t slide off of the hood. “And if it does. Keep them living, but don’t forget you.”

“I’m always good to myself,” Frank says, and his chest is tight as tries for a leer, one that Ray sees right through.

“And you’re better to them, especially when things get rough.” Ray rubs his thumb over Frank’s wrist. “Bob’s a good guy, he could help if it was needed.”

Frank agrees to an extent. He likes Bob and is starting to trust him too. But that’s different to what Ray’s saying he should do. Not that that’s ever going to happen, and Frank states, “It won’t be needed.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ray says.

Frank rests his head on Ray’s shoulder and listens to him breathe.

~*~*~*~*~

Despite understanding why he’s worried, Mikey’s on the verge of sneaking away while Gerard’s not looking. Mikey won’t, he’s not that cruel, but he is tempted, especially when Gerard’s incessantly pacing.

“You’ve got everything you need?” Gerard says, and retraces his steps. He stops in front of Mikey, his hands twitching before he reaches out, barely stopping himself from touching Mikey’s gun that’s already in his thigh-holster.

Patiently, Mikey repeats, “Yeah.”

Gerard’s frowning, his mouth pinched, and right now he’s unrecognizable as the person who stares from the wanted posters. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Mikey says, and holds his hand behind his back, flipping Frank off when he snorts in response.

Mikey heads for the exit. It’s been too long since he’s been away from the diner, and even before that he was stuck bedridden at Bob’s. All Mikey wants to do is get on his bike and ride, or second best, ride shot gun in the Trans Am, music on the radio and the highway stretching for miles.

It’s something that the others are aware of, and even though Mikey knows this supply trip is nothing but an excuse to get him out on a soft run, he doesn’t care.

“Ready?” Frank asks, already in the driver’s seat as Mikey walks more slowly, the pull of still-healing scar tissue a reminder to take it easy.

“Days past ready,” Mikey says, lowering himself into the car. He looks over to the diner, and nods at Gerard and Ray, who’re both standing watching, then turns toward Frank. “Floor it.”

Frank grins, and does so, the Trans Am’s wheels spinning up dust as Mikey switches on the radio and turns up the volume. This escape into the desert needing a backdrop of music.

Hand braced against the door-frame, Mikey steadies himself as Frank turns a tight corner, bumping from a track to the actual highway. Momentarily the Trans Am is air-born, before crashing back down, the tires screeching as Frank straightens out without slowing.

“Showoff,” Mikey says with a grin that Frank mirrors right back.

“Jealousy is a sad thing,” Frank says, and his eyes gleam as he increases their speed even further. “Just because you wiped out.”

Mikey rests his arm along the edge of the open window, his sleeve puffing with air. He splays out his fingers, feeling the wind pressure against his palm. “I’ve done that once.”

“Once is enough,” Frank says, and he reaches to the side with one hand, briefly touching Mikey’s thigh. “Want to go faster?”

“Always,” Mikey says, his head hitting the headrest at the resulting surge of power.

“Bob’s made this baby purr,” Frank says, driving with one hand as he turns up the music. “And the speakers he added are fucking sweet.”

They’re also loud, the bass thumping and Mikey leans back in his seat, feeling the vibrations in his chest and stomach. It feels good to give himself over to something so base, when nothing else matters but sound and speed and the blur of the road.

It’s ten songs later that they finally slow, Frank steering for Rest Stop twenty-nine. It’s one of the smallest in this zone, a stark oasis of white and metal against a backdrop of sand and Mikey has never understood why it’s actually here. But he’s glad that it is, especially when it provides such easy pickings.

The sudden silence ringing, Mikey reaches into the foot-well, and picks up the vend hack from its position attached under the dash.

“This place is fucking creepy,” Frank says, getting out of the car. It’s his usual comment, one that Mikey agrees with. It always seems wrong to see the row of vending machines, each one bright and glossy when sense says they should be scarred by the elements and empty. They never are, and the back of Mikey’s neck prickles as he approaches the first machine, squinting against the reflected light.

The actual hack is second nature by now and Mikey stands in front of the machine, hitting each button in turn. Each time there’s a slight buzz, and he imagines tracks moving inside, the selected products falling with a clang.

Bending, Mikey starts to scoop out batteries, making a pile on the packed down dirt.

“You’d better get more kibble cans,” Frank says, and starts to gather up the batteries. “Our stocks are low.”

Mikey grimaces but still moves to the next machine. “We could tell Gerard there was none.”

“He wouldn’t believe you,” Frank says from where he’s putting the stash of batteries in the trunk of the Trans Am. “And it’s not that bad.”

Mikey glares at the can that drops with a clatter. “It tastes fucking rancid, and smells worse.”

“Not as bad as some things in the diner,” Frank says, and even though Mikey can’t see his face he knows that Frank’s grinning.

“You’re no bed of roses yourself,” Mikey says, and bends, going to grab for the can. Which is when he sees the Drac.

It’s running around the side of a dune, slipping in the sand, and Mikey knows others will be close behind. It’s what they do, attack in packs, and in this case they’ve obviously been lying in wait.

The Drac brings up its gun about to fire.

Mikey yells, “Down!” and draws his own gun, firing as he leaps forward. Landing hard, Mikey rolls until he’s against the wheels of the Trans Am, looking under it to where the Drac is lying on the ground, its chest blackened and plastic mask pulled up slightly, exposing a pale neck.

“The fuck did that come from?” Frank says, his own gun drawn.

Mikey pushes himself up onto his side, and then upright, poised and waiting for the next Drac to appear. His legs throbbing, he leans against the bumper, says, “I think it was waiting.”

“Fucking bastards, changing their tactics.” Frank holds his gun steady, watching for more Dracs. “Make a run for it or wait to attack?”

The sensible option is to go while they can, but all Mikey wants to do is wait and burn through adrenalin and let out Kobra Kid, someone who’s been suppressed for too long.

He looks over at Frank and says, “Stay.”

Frank grins in reply.

~*~*~*~

“Of all the stupid, fucking idiotic things to do,” Gerard yells, and all but slams the first aid kit onto the table. “Did you even think what could happen? It was fucking stupid.”

“You’ve said that already,” Frank says, and bites at the inside of his cheek as he peels fabric from the burn on his chest. It comes away in damp pieces, scraps of t-shirt and skin fused together. “And Mikey’s fine.”

Gerard crowds onto the bench with Frank, and sits to the side, his knee pressed against Frank’s. “I know he’s fine.” And then, all anger suddenly spent, Gerard says quietly, “But you’re not.”

Frank makes an aborted shrug. “It’s a minor burn, we’ve all had worse.”

Gently, Gerard rests his hand under the burn, his fingers over Frank’s heart. “A change in angle and it would have been a kill shot.”

“But it wasn’t,” Frank says, and he slumps back, his eyes half closed. “Things are changing, Gerard. Those fucker’s knew we were there.”

“And we’ll find out how,” Gerard says, and pulls the kit toward him. Opening it up he takes out packets of antiseptic wipes and a tube of balm. One of the few left inside. “We need to restock, and while I’m in the city I’ll ask around. See if anyone else has noticed a change.”

Frank opens his eyes fully, says, “I’ll go with you.”

“Okay,” Gerard says, and tears at the packet with his teeth. Taking out the wipe, he carefully cleans the burn, then swaps the wipe for the salve.

Unable to help himself, Frank flinches at the first touch of the cool gel, but as always, that initial sting soon turns to relief. Pain dulling he uncurls his hands and takes a deep breath. “Thanks.”

There’s a rustle, Gerard crumpling up packets, and then, “You could have died today.”

Frank’s tired, but pushes himself upright, turns to Gerard and repeats, “We didn’t.” To emphasize that, Frank curls his hand around the back of Gerard’s head and pulls, until their mouths are brushing together. “Not today.”

It’s Gerard that closes the distance, and his lips are dry, the kiss almost hesitant, like Gerard’s holding himself back. Which isn’t what Frank wants at all. Gerard’s hair tangled in his fingers, Frank deepens the kiss, his eyes closing as Gerard scrapes his fingernails over Frank’s bare back.

He stops at Frank’s shoulder blades, hands two warm spots, holding Frank close. Then Gerard pulls back, says, “Come to bed with me.”

It’s not a question, and even if it was, Frank would have said yes.

~*~*~*~

If there’s one thing Bob knows, it’s that it’s impossible to predict the weather. Some people try, using science or the ache of their bones. But the truth is, conditions change so rapidly it’s usually a lost cause. Bob’s thankful if he gets any warning at all before the acid rain hits, or a tornado cuts through the desert. This time he gets nothing.

On his way home, he looks toward the horizon when the light changes, early evening gold dimming with each second. It’s a dust storm, one of the big ones, rolling forward rapidly and turning the sky black. Bob swears and makes a tight turn.

He’s about five minutes from the diner, but there’s a good chance Bob won’t make it in time. Already he’s coughing, and drags his bandana over his mouth, hoping to filter out the dust that’s thickening the air.

It helps, a little, but Bob’s eyes are streaming and he has to consider other options. Whether it would be better to stop and huddle in the back of the Jeep, hoping the cloud isn’t as big as it seems. Except this dust storm is huge, Bob can feel it, and already the sun is hidden, night sudden and cloying.

The only thing he can do is keep driving, foot to the floor and his nose and mouth covered, in a race made deadly by dust.

It’s a race Bob barely wins. By the time he reaches the diner his exposed arms are stinging and he wheezes as he screeches to a halt and jumps out of his Jeep. Hunched against the wind, Bob covers his eyes with his hand and forces himself forward, pressing himself against the wall when he finally reaches the door.

Bob knocks, hard, and he rests his forehead against the rough planks and cups his hands around his face, trying to create a space where he can actually breathe.

Finally, when Bob’s lungs are aching and his throat feels bone dry, the planks that cover the door are pulled to one side, and Ray reaches out, grabbing hold of Bob’s arm.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

Bob all but collapses inside, remaining upright due to Ray’s hold alone. Tugging down his bandana he hacks up dust, spitting into his own hand.

“Use this.”

Frank appears and hands over a crumpled piece of material. Bob takes it, wiping down his hand and mouth as he takes in a shuddering breath. “Thanks.”

Frank doesn’t stick around to reply and Bob bends forward, his hands on his knees as Ray says, “He’s dust proofing the window. Mikey and Gerard are doing the back.”

While he’s talking Ray picks up a t-shirt and starts jamming it in the gap at the bottom of the door. As a barrier it’s effective, and Bob rubs at his eyes and straightens, noticing that throughout the room clothes have been used to plug gaps.

“It looks like a rainbow exploded in here,” Bob says, his voice rasping as he takes in the yellow t-shirt wedged in the space between two boards and a line of bandanas that circle the closed off window. Then, being wedged in the top of the door. “Are those my pants?”

“The ones you gave Mikey, yeah,” Ray says, and keeps on forcing the leg into a gap.

Technically the pants had never been actually given to Mikey, but Bob doesn’t care, especially when finally he can breathe clean air. Outside the wind is still howling and Bob runs his hand through his hair, feeling how it’s gritty and coated.

“Nearly done,” Ray says, and he’s stretching, his t-shirt pulled up and exposing his lower back. “You should go get a drink.”

A drink is exactly what Bob needs, and he drags his attention away from Ray. “There’s nothing I can help with?”

“I think we’re good,” Ray says, studying the door. “Now all we can do is wait it out.”

It’s not something that Bob’s looking forward to. He’s been trapped indoors by dust storms before and each time has ended up stir crazy. The only difference this time is instead of just Patrick, he’ll be spending the time with four others, and Bob heads for the kitchen and pours water into a mug. Taking a long drink, he watches as Frank jumps down from a chair that he’s got pushed close to the window.

“Dust storms fucking suck,” Frank announces, and kicks at the chair, sending it clattering across the floor. “Suffocation outside, terminal boredom inside.”

Bob has to agree, but Gerard doesn’t seem to. Appearing from the bedroom he wraps his arms around Frank from behind and squeezes, says, “We’ll keep you entertained.”

“You’d better,” Frank announces, but looks slightly mollified as he heads toward Bob, Gerard still clinging on. “You’re making dinner?”

Bob sets down the mug and gives Frank a look. “I nearly died and you expect me to make dinner?”

“Yes?” Frank says, and brings up his hands, resting them over Gerard’s arms. “You know where stuff is, and you can’t be a worse cook than Mikey.”

While Bob doesn’t actually mind making dinner, he does have one last protest to make. “I’m a guest.”

Gerard grins and shakes his head, says, “No. You’re really not.”

It’s a good thing to hear. Bob hasn’t known the Killjoys long, but already they feel like friends, even though sometimes Bob can’t figure them out at all. Like now, when Gerard is all but nuzzling Frank’s neck, and Bob doesn’t know if he’s sending some message or just being the Gerard version of friendly.

Unsure, Bob turns his attention to supplies, or else, lack of them, considering the only things on the counter are a few dented cans of kibble and half a loaf of bread. Bob taps the loaf, which feels dry and hard. “This is all you’ve got?”

“Mikey and Frank had a bit of trouble on their shopping trip,” Ray says.

Concerned, Bob looks at Frank and then toward the bedroom. “You’re okay?”

Frank tugs at the neck of his t-shirt, exposing a fresh burn. “I got winged, Mikey’s fine. He kicked Drac ass.”

“Good,” Bob says, relieved when Mikey comes into the room, showing that he actually is fine. But there’s still one thing Bob doesn’t understand. “How did you end up in a fire fight?”

Mikey jumps up and sits on the counter close to Bob. “The fucker’s ambushed us at Rest Stop twenty-nine. We think they were waiting.”

It’s not the usual tactic, the Dracs orders always to swarm and attack instead of sneakily waiting, but this is the second time Bob’s heard of them ambushing in recent days. “They did that in zone two, someone got ghosted.”

“Yeah?” Ray asks. “We hadn’t heard that.”

Aware he’s said something he probably shouldn’t have, Bob tries to think of a way to explain how the person ghosted was a tech rebel without giving away his own, and especially Patrick’s involvement in the movement.

“Was it someone you knew?” Gerard asks and he’s moved to stand between Mikey’s legs, taking Frank with him. All three are looking over at Bob, waiting as he tries to think of how to say while Bob hadn’t known him, Patrick had, as part of the tech rebellion.

In the end Bob says, “Not personally,” and hopes that’s enough.

Thankfully, despite Gerard’s considering look, it seems that it is and Bob picks up a can of kibble and announces, “I’m making kibble on uncooked toast for dinner.”

Mikey’s resting his chin on the top of Gerard’s head, says, “You’re a fucking culinary genius.”

“You know it,” Bob says in reply.

~~~~~~

Being in such close quarters with the Killjoys is strange. Bob isn’t under any kind of illusions that he’s been accepted into their inner circle. The beginning of a friendship sure, but nothing intimate, so being here now is like he’s been given access to parts of their life that very few people see.

He’s always been aware that they’re touchy-feely, that was apparent from the first time he saw them, but how much is a surprise. Sitting on the floor, back against the wall he listens to the wind howl outside, and watches the others interact. It’s like they’re all magnets, pulled together always. Frank swaying close to Mikey as they talk. Gerard trailing his fingers across Ray’s shoulders as he walks past.

It’s like they need to be together always, and there’s part of Bob that feels left out. It’s an illogical feeling, he’s aware of that, but it’s a feeling of isolation that remains, as Mikey and Gerard sit together to read from the same magazine, or when Frank launches himself at Ray’s back.

“I think I need to go to bed,” Frank says, his arms wrapped tightly around Ray’s neck and his toes brushing the ground. “Take me there.”

“You’ve got legs,” Ray says, but he’s already heading toward the bedroom. “We might as well, this isn’t going to end any time soon.”

He’s right, the wind hasn’t eased for hours now and the patter of sand being flung against the diner walls is a constant background sound. Wishing he’d worn his jacket, Bob looks around the room, checking for the warmest and most comfortable spot to sleep.

Considering if he’d fit on the benches of the booth, Bob stands, and heads in that direction, but stops when Gerard says, “You can sleep with us. There’s room.”

It’s an invitation Bob wasn’t expecting, but he’s seen where they sleep and knows there is room. Telling himself that Gerard is just being a good friend, Bob changes direction, trailing after the others. Then stands, feeling awkward as he runs through the etiquette of sleeping so close to people he doesn’t intimately know.

Not that it seems to worry Frank. Already he’s kicked off his boots and is shimmying out of his pants and t-shirt, throwing them onto the chair before stepping onto the mattresses. Throwing himself down, he sprawls out in boxer briefs alone, giving Bob the perfect chance to stare at Frank’s ink, taking in the designs that usually remain hidden.

In comparison to Frank, Mikey’s undressing more slowly. Unlacing his boots he takes them off, and then unfastens his belt. Hands on the buckle he hesitates a moment, glancing over at Bob.

Frank holds up a small tube of some kind of gel. “Come here already.”

Bob looks from the tube to Mikey, who gives him an unimpressed look right back. “It’s stuff for my legs.” In one abrupt movement Mikey pushes down his pants, exposing the angry scars that run from thigh to shin. “It’s supposed to help with the scars.”

“It is helping with the scars,” Gerard corrects, and he bends forward, his hair falling into his face as he starts to unfasten his boots.

“Fine, is helping.” In t-shirt and boxer briefs, Mikey walks over to Frank and folds himself down. Lying flat, his arms at his side, Mikey curls his toes, flexing them as Frank sits and squirts gel on his fingers.

It shouldn’t be hot, but Bob’s transfixed by how careful Frank’s being, the contrast between skin tones where Frank’s knees are against Mikey’s legs, the way that Frank slicks the gel over the scars and at one point keeps going, sliding his fingers over Mikey’s inner thigh, where the skin is pale and perfect.

Mostly though, what Bob sees is their expressions, Mikey’s total trust and the way he momentarily smiles when Frank bends forward and brushes a kiss against Mikey’s right knee.

“Freak,” Mikey says, and Bob expects Frank to grin or tease in reply.

He doesn’t. Instead Frank caps the gel, looks directly at Mikey and simply says, “You know it.”

“Frank does that every night,” Gerard says then, and Bob turns, and sees that Gerard’s watching Bob, and not Frank and Mikey.

Flustered at being caught watching, and unsure if Gerard means Frank putting on the gel, or the kiss, or both, Bob goes for the safe option, “They’re healing well.”

“They are,” Gerard says, sounding pleased. Wiggling out of his pants he kicks them to one side and goes to lie next to Frank, taking the space at the edge of the mattress and nearest the door. Which leaves Ray, who lights a battery powered lamp before turning off the main light.

Hanging the lamp on a hook over the mattresses, Ray’s still wearing his clothes when he settles down next to Mikey, and then indicates the space left beside him. “Come and lie down here. We don’t bite.”

There’s a muffled response, so low and garbled that Bob isn’t sure who said what, but Gerard’s laughing and Mikey rolls his eyes as Frank grins.

It’s a scene that emphasize Bob’s isolation even more. He doesn’t know the joke and even taking off his boots feels weird as he sits on the mattress and lies down. Perched on the very edge Bob tries to get comfortable, and tries not to shiver.

It’s an attempt that fails, and Ray holds up the blanket, says, “Get under.”

It means Bob has to get closer, but it’s either that or freeze. Sliding over a little, he lets Ray drape the blanket over his shoulder and lies on his side, careful not to fall against Ray.

For a while the only sound is the wind and pattering sand, and then Frank sighs, says, “I hate fucking dust storms.”

Lying where he is, Bob can’t see much past Ray, who’s flat on his back, his hair spread out on the thin pillow. Then Gerard comes into view, the blankets and mattress moving before he drops back down and says, “We know. Go to sleep. It’ll be gone in the morning.”

“You wish,” Frank says, sounding disgusted. “Last time we were stuck here for days. I was minutes away from eating Ray’s leg.”

Ray sighs, long and suffering. “Not this again.”

“Yes this.” The blankets move again as Frank props himself up on his elbow so he can look over at Ray. “You’re only bitching because you always get eaten first.”

“No,” Ray says. “I bitch because we always end up having this conversation, and that I always get eaten first.” He turns, looking at Bob. “Can you believe that? Every time it’s me.”

“Because you’re the best choice,” Frank says, using his hands to emphasize his words. “Your thighs are perfect for roasting.”

“Every time,” Ray says softly, then, louder. “Every time it’s my thighs”

Frank pushes himself up even further and looks past Mikey and Ray to Bob. “I bet Bob would eat your thighs.”

“Depends how they were cooked,” Bob says, barely believing that he’s actually taking part in this conversation. “Do they stay on the bone?”

“Of course,” Frank says, as if any other method of cooking is insane. Sprawling across Mikey, he jabs a finger at Ray’s thigh. “See. It has to be you.”

“Yours could work too.” The words blurt out without Bob thinking, because, seriously, he’s going to carry this conversation on? But apparently he is, especially when Ray turns his head and grins, urging Bob on. “I get why you’d say no to Mikey, not unless you just wanted a snack, but you’ve got flesh on your bones.”

“Are you saying I’m fat?” Frank asks, and nips the flesh of his side between two of his fingers.

Frank doesn’t sound annoyed, or look it either, but Bob’s still finding his footing in these interactions, and he’s unsure how to reply until Mikey says, “We can’t eat Frank, he tastes funny.”

Bob doesn’t want to know, he really doesn’t, and yet he finds himself asking, “Funny like what?”

“Like steel, sunshine and fucking awesomeness,” Frank announces, and drapes himself fully over Mikey’s upper body.

Mikey makes no attempt to throw him off, just pushes Frank’s hair to one side where it’s fallen in his face and says, “More like cabbage and vinegar. Like asparagus.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerard says enthusiastically, the only part of him visible a shock of red hair over the top of Frank’s body. “Like when you eat too many of them and your pee turns green and asparagussy.”

“I don’t think it actually went green,” Ray says, and lies on his back, looking thoughtful. “But the smell and taste, yeah.”

It’s an opening Bob isn’t going to touch by asking questions, but he can’t stop his imagination filling with the mental image of Ray sucking Frank’s cock. Which has to be what they’re implying. That or drinking each other’s pee, which wouldn’t surprise Bob either. Focusing on that, and not how Ray’s mouth would look, or the noises Frank would make, Bob shifts in place slightly, pulling up his legs and lying on his side.

“I miss vegetables,” Frank says, still lying heavily on Mikey. “The kind you dig up from the ground. Not that processed fake shit in tins.”

Mikey brings up his hand and rests it on Frank’s back. “I’ve heard there’s a consignment leaving the agro pods soon, corn and tomatoes.”

Frank smacks his lips. “Then we’ll have to intercept at some point. We haven’t had tomatoes in forever.”

Neither has Bob, but mostly what he wants to know is, “How do you even know that?”

“I talked to some people,” Mikey says with a shrug, as if he’s told top secret agro trade routes and schedules every day.

“It’s his secret power,” Gerard says, and the curve of his smile is just visible as he looks at Bob over the top of Frank. “That and getting into trouble.”

“He’s good at that,” Ray says, and then yawns, his hand over his mouth as outside the wind howls.

~~~~

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