Gerard was convinced they were being followed.

The sun had set, and they were still walking despite the drizzle and the exhaustion. They were both so incredibly tired, but neither wanted to pitch up on the side of the road (especially if they were being followed), so they decided to keep going. And Gerard couldn't tell if he was imagining things or not, but it felt like something was close behind.

The rain soon turned to a heavy downpour, probably from the North, and Gerard began to shiver. He kept glancing behind him, anxiety only rising when he saw nothing, and he chewed heavily on his lower lip, tearing shreds of skin from it.

"Do we have the tent?" He asked, his voice shaking, and Bert slowed to a stop.

"Yeah. Do you want to set it up?" Gerard glanced around and nodded, replacing his lower lip with his fingers, looking truly distressed. "Hey, are you okay?"

He nodded again. "Just tired. And it's cold. And dark."

So they set up the tent, huddling up as the rain poured, and Bert soon fell asleep. Gerard was still scared. It only peaked as the wind blew, shaking the tent, and thunder rumbled in the sky. Even though Bert was here, his arms around him, he still felt alone.

He could hear things outside; the crunching of twigs, the snapping of branches, the shuffle of leaves. Something was out there, he knew it. He just didn't know what. It could be animals, probably a possum of sorts, but then again, he doubted it.

He pulled the blankets up over his head, the childlike feeling of 'if I can't see anything, it's not there' being the only thing running through his head. He was still shaking, though he didn't know if it was from cold or fear. Everything was building up and Gerard didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

He began to cry, pressed against Bert, his tears soaking the older man's shirt. Bert instinctively wrapped his arms around him, holding him close as he trembled. He was scared of what would happen if they found Mikey, if Mikey was alive at all. Frank had said he was; he had to trust him...right?

What if Mikey hated him? What if he didn't want to join them? What if what if what if what if what -

Gerard froze. There was no way a possum could've made that much of a thump, unless it had fallen out of a tree. But it wasn't like there were an abundance of possums anyway - shut up about possums you fucking idiot!

"Bert." He whispered, throwing the blanket from his head. He refused to look anywhere but at the sleeping man beside him. "Bert!" He shook him, knowing that he'd be pissed at only getting two hours sleep, but there was something out there and he was one broken twig away from shitting himself. "Bert, wake up, please -"

"Whaaaaat?" He grumbled, peeling his eyes open.

"There's something out there!"

"No there isn't -"

"I swear to God Bert there's something out there and it's been following us for hours and I -"

"Hey, hey," he cupped Gerard's face in both hands, stroking his tangled hair. "I'm sure there's nothing out there. I'll go look, okay?" Gerard nodded and let him stand, peering out the tent. He left it completely, walking around the perimeter, and in those twenty-three seconds, Gerard was the most tense he'd ever felt. "There's nothing out there." Bert said upon his return, soaking wet and rather cold if he did say so himself. He plopped down beside Gerard, running his fingers through the younger's hair. "That might be because it's dark, but there's nothing there, Gee. Nothing at all."

Gerard's lower lip trembled, his eyes wide. "But - but -"

"Shh, honey, shh," he pressed his lips to Gerard's forehead, feeling him slump slightly. "As soon as the sun rises we'll go and get the gas, and we'll be back with the others by afternoon. Unless..."

"Unless?"

"Unless...we, y'know, just leave and go our own way."

"We can't. Frank promised me we'd find Mikey. I need to find Mikey."

Bert sighed. "Okay. Come on, then."

He lay down and Gerard joined him, but neither could fall asleep; they lay awake together, listening to the rain and the wind and the footsteps that weren't quite there.

~

"They should be back by now!"

Ray sighed for what had to be the hundredth time, closing his eyes in exasperation as Frank refused to cease his incessant pacing. The teenager had his hands in fists, his hair on end, not even bothering to hide his eyepatch behind his hair, much less the scarring on his face.

"It's what, twenty miles? Is that what Bert said?"

"Yes, Frank."

"And the average walking speed is something like four miles an hour?"

"Yes, Frank."

His boots were loud on the wooden floor, an annoying rhythm that almost annoyingly lulled Ray to sleep. "So it would take five hours to get there, and five to get back."

"Yes, Frank."

"It's been what, seven hours now?"

"I don't know, Frank. Just sit down. They'll be back soon."

Frank looked at him as if he was the insane one. "I can't sit down. I need to know what's happened to him - them."

Ray rolled his eyes for what was probably the thousandth time. "It's fucking raining, Frank. I'm sure they've just pitched the tent and decided to sleep. They're fine. Just sit the fuck down."

"There are zombies out there -"

"Sit down!"

The teenager grumbled, finally sitting on the floor right where he'd been stood, folding his arms and scowling. "I'm bored."

The curly-haired man tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows drawn together. "You're beginning to crush on him, aren't you?"

At this, Frank only scowled further. It'd been said that he had the mentality of a child, and now it was definitely showing. "What?"

"Gerard. You like him."

"No." His lower lip jutted out and he grumbled under his breath.

"You do. Or you're starting to."

"I don't." Ray's eyebrows rose. "I just...I just - I don't know - care, I suppose. I don't want to lose anyone else. I want to be able to take him to his brother."

"But you like him."

"I don't fucking like him!" Frank shot to his feet, marching upstairs. "I'm going to bed. Call me if they come back."

Ray remained downstairs, listening to the rain hitting the house, with the occasional clap of thunder. He lifted his long legs up onto the couch, crossing them and glancing around. His eyes lingered on the spot where Frank had been sat, the filthy beige carpet giving no hint that the teenager had once sat there.

He tried to think back to before the zombies, but he couldn't. Even though Gerard's memories had been replaced by newer ones, he could still recall them unexpectedly or if he so wished; Ray couldn't remember even if he wanted to. As far as he was aware, pre-2014 was black. He didn't know how or why it had happened, but one morning he'd woken up and it was as if someone had obliviated him. Of course, this wasn't Harry Potter, so the process wasn't quite so magical, but it was the same thing.

It only made sense that he remembered the day it all started, Z-Day as it had been affectionately named (stolen from Shaun of the Dead, as were most things people did); he didn't know what happened the night before, but he woke up the following morning to see some guy (his father, though he didn't know that anymore) having his head ripped off.

He also remembered the day he woke up in some sort of laboratory with a rather large headache and no sign of life.

He'd rather not think about that, if that was okay.

A sigh left his lips, but he hardly ever sighed, so he allowed himself this one. Just this one. No more were allowed after this, or that was what he told himself.

Ray Toro was a strong man, even through the occasional pounding in the back of his head, or the incessant tingling at the tips of his fingers. He never cried, though he rarely had anything to cry about. It wasn't as if he'd ever lost anyone important. It wasn't as if he'd ever been hurt particularly badly, either...

His hand drifted to his side, and he pulled up his shirt. He had no idea if the damage Lindsey had done was healing, and he didn't know if it would ever heal. Lindsey was a madwoman - she'd make sure her mark stayed for sure. The skin around it was bruising, blackened and nasty-looking. Frank had actually done a decent job with the stitching, despite being an annoying little shit with the brain of a ten-year-old.

Lindsey's words, obviously.

He prodded the area and winced, deciding that that wasn't exactly the best idea. He fixed his shirt, glancing around once more, and he sat there for what felt like hours. He let his eyes droop, and his head drop, and...

...then the front door crashed open and it was suddenly morning and Bert was shouting and Gerard was shaking and Frank was rushing downstairs and Ray leapt up and something was wrong something was very wrong but nobody could quite pinpoint what and -

- and for some reason, Bert and Gerard were covered in blood.

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