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The electricity's off now; it's been off for weeks, and Tommy and Adam have had to barbecue almost everything. Not that barbecue is ever a bad thing, but now it's really starting to get cold. This morning, Tommy wakes up and looks out the bedroom window to see a fine carpet of snow on the ground, and he already knows that downstairs is going to be cold as fuck. It's funny, two months ago, they'd been famous (or nearly famous, in Tommy's case), and now he and Adam are little more than haphazard farmers, defending their property against these infected people who wander in.
It's not nearly as often now, one or two a day, and they've got an alert system set up, simple as hell: a tripwire that's totally McGyver'd to a board that drops down over the front door. It's loud enough to alert Adam and Tommy, but not enough to attract anything else that might be in the area.
Then there's the issue of getting rid of the ex-people, which meant that they got a second truck, this one with a flatbed, and on the other side of Maysville is a small dump. So... that's where they dump. Thank god it's cold.
Shivering, Tommy pulls on a sweater and socks, and leans down to nudge Adam's shoulder. "You wanna wake up? We gotta figure out how to heat this place. I'm freezing my ass off." Yes, they sleep together, so what? It's safety in numbers, and besides, Adam's always warm. "I can make some coffee if you want."
"The coffee is shit." Adam burrows deeper under the mound of covers they have on the big bed. They raided the local furniture store and got the biggest, fattest mattress the place had. It's actually awesome. The coffee? Less so since they have to make it in a pot over a propane camp stove.
Cassidy used to joke that Adam is high maintenance. Hilarious now. Though the bathroom cupboard is filled with every box of black hair dye they could find. He simply will not give up some things. He refuses.
They do have to figure out how to heat the house though. The gas generators they found are just to loud; they can't risk not being able to hear. Every once in a while Adam will actually check his IPhone, even though it's dead. Some old habits die really hard. He peers at Tommy over the covers. "Are you okay?"
"I'm freezing my balls off, but... yeah. I'm okay. It snowed last night." And he's still pretty tired; it still feels like he's always listening for what could be out there. Maysville, as it turned out, was completely gone, the people infected or altogether dead, and Tommy wonders where the occasional wanderer comes from, or how far they've traveled. Or how they even know that there are survivors inside the house. "Fine, ya big baby, I'll make you tea. I'll have the shitty coffee." Their last luxury, at least, is running water, and as for music, Tommy's still hoping that maybe Adam'll start singing again. "Bet there's like, firewood and shit in town. There's a fireplace in the livingroom downstairs, but I was never a fuckin' boy scout. I have no idea if it's safe or anything."
"Hey, wait. C'mere." Before Tommy can get too far, Adam pulls him back under the covers and spoons him, wrapping his larger body around the smaller one. Tommy's gotten even skinnier. Adam can feel his ribs through his clothes.
He refuses to think of what he would do if something happened to Tommy.
"If we build a fire, they'll see the smoke," Adam tells him again. "Maybe during the day, but not at night." He pauses, then says, "I can cut your hair if you want."
"Does it really matter?" There's a little laugh there as Tommy pushes back against Adam, back to chest, and shivers. "It's not like anyone looks at me except you, anyway, you know? If you want to, sure." Tommy voices something that almost sounds like a purr as he starts to warm up, and with that, comes feeling heavy-eyed. No. Coffee. Must have coffee. "You can't see smoke at night unless there's something to reflect it. And we got a system to tell us if anything's coming, right?" Us. The both of them. Tommy can't imagine doing any of this by himself; he's sure he'd go insane if he didn't have anyone to talk to. Or eat with. Or even sleep with, just for the company. "You wanna take today off? Or do you wanna see if we can get that fireplace going? Oh man, I bet IGA still has marshmallows."
"We have to figure out how to heat the house." And store the food and get more food. Winter is coming. Winter, Adam corrects himself, is here. They can't take the day off. There is no such thing, actually, as a day off.
Adam presses a dry kiss to the back of Tommy's neck and urges them both up and into layers of clothes, all taken from the store in town that was a combination post office/outdoors/hardware store. Yes, that means Adam is wearing Carhardts. Somewhere, he likes to think Brad is laughing.
Both armed, they go into town and Tommy gets his marshmallows and they take as much as they can of whatever they can. Adam's pretty sure they're the only 'shoppers,' but he doesn't look too closely. They rush; always, to best be ready for whatever might come. Then they load as much wood as they can into the back of the truck that's stained with blood; Adam doesn't look at that, either.
It's when they're driving back that Adam stops in the middle of the road and points. Something moving on the other side of the silo.
They don't even need to talk when they see one of the infected people, anymore. Tommy nods and motions for Adam to keep an eye out. Instead of a rifle, he's got a pair of handguns, one with a flashlight just in case it needs to be used at night. He takes aim, fires, and whatever it was that was moving - man, woman, whatever it once was - topples like a scarecrow. Then it's back in the truck where Tommy sits in silence until they're back to the house. It's still hard to pull the trigger. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it.
Once the wood's unloaded and the food is put away, Tommy pulls open the gate on the fireplace. "Wanna give me a hand? I think there's some kind of chute to keep the inside of the fireplace from catching on fire, or something." It's definitely much colder downstairs than upstairs, and even with his layers, Tommy's shivering. "What d'you wanna do for food, after?"
Tommy still mourns for Whoppers, sometimes.
"Remember when we got manicures for Gridlock?" Adam asks, as he finagles himself on his back to look up the chimney for something that looks like a chute or a door or whatever. "Soup sounds good, doesn't it? We can ... just throw stuff in a pot. It'll be warm. You need to eat more." He reaches up, pulling a chain and ... hey! Look! the sky. "Got it."
Sitting up, on the floor, Adam wipes black hands on his pants. "You got this? I'll start soup?" He wants to just sit sometimes, hold Tommy and tell him it's going to be all right. That's what he wants to do. He just doesn't believe it enough to say it.
"That seems like a hundred years ago." Tommy casts a smile at Adam, trying to get wood set up in some kind of teepee shape so he can stuff newspaper inside and try and light it up. "Sometimes I wonder if anyone around here has a guitar, you know?" Slowly, the fire starts to take, and Tommy blows on it to get the wood to catch. "Soup sounds fine with me. I eat enough, it's fine. Thanks for getting that thing open for me, huh?" Until the downstairs warms up properly, Tommy can't help but shuffle toward Adam to leech just a little more of his body heat. "What kinda soup? I think there's some chicken in the cold cellar, still. It should be okay." Crash-course in farming, in keeping animals. Things Tommy printed off from the internet before they lost that privilege. "Are you okay?" More often than not, he wakes up curled up against Adam, a head on his shoulder, an arm thrown across his waist. "Man, it's gonna be nice to be warm."
"I'll put chicken in the soup; I'm just gonna toss in stuff that sounds good together." For Adam, it's been a crash course in food preparation; nothing elaborate, just opening cans and heating things, but it's more than he'd done before. He puts an arm around Tommy, pulling him close. "Sometimes I miss my life so much I think I might go a little crazy." But that's all he says, lightly, and he kisses Tommy's hair and starts for the kitchen and the pantry. "We should find you a guitar. Maybe up at the school," he says as he pulls cans from the shelves; tomatoes, chicken broth, some beans.
Tommy can only nod; he knows exactly what Adam's talking about. "You're actually a pretty good cook, y'know." Adam kisses his hair and Tommy involuntarily tips his chin up, looking for something that he can't rationally comprehend. "And if I'm playing guitar, then you're singing, okay? I miss music." With Adam in the kitchen, Tommy pokes at the fire, listening to the pop of the wood. "Once this thing is burning okay, I'm gonna go check the trips and grab some eggs, okay?" Which means Tommy checks his guns, making sure they're fully loaded. They've both gotten to be pretty good shots, and that's a sad fact. "Hey, Adam?"
"Yeah?" Adam opens cans and pours, opens and pours, stirs. "We need to get more propane; all they have," he notes, as much to himself as to Tommy. They're learning as they go; it's sheer luck they haven't had something really bad happen. "Do you want me to go with you?" He should throw some rice in the soup, too.
"I'm surprised that there's still gas, you know? And I guess barbecue was a main diet staple, huh?" Tommy stops for a second, watching Adam pour cans into the pot before moving forward to hug him. "I'm still scared, you know? That..." There's a little shake to his head before he sends his thoughts in a different direction. "We gotta go somewhere that there's, like, a Wal-Mart or something and really stock up on stuff. 'cause there aren't gonna be any plows or anything like that once the rest of the snow comes." That said, he lets go of Adam and goes outside, gun in one hand, ears pricked to anything that might be out of the ordinary. And there's plenty, once he sees what's in the snow. Footprints. Bare feet. Eggs are grabbed and chickens are fed, and Tommy hurries back inside. "We had company last night. They went into the field behind the house. But-" His cheeks are pink from the cold and from nauseating fear, and he blocks the door. "The prints came right up to the back door."
Without a word, Adam reaches for the rifle that's sitting next to the dead refrig and he walks over to the door to look out. "Did you see where they went?" He looks out at everything that's either white or gray, scanning for anything. Right up to the back door. "We need more protection." What, though, he has no idea. Irrational anger flushes the back of his neck red. Why can't these fucking undead motherfuckers leave them alone?! A trip to a Walmart is probably a good idea. He can't even remember why he hated Walmart so much, before.
"I didn't see anyone at all. Just the prints. And the back yard wire wasn't tripped, so I have no idea how it happened." Are they figuring things out? "I should go back out and look at the trips. You wanna cover me?" The soup is starting to smell really good, and Tommy's stomach growls. "You wanna hear something stupid? I could seriously kill for a loaf of bread. I don't even know how to make it, and you know that none of that stuff is good anymore." At least they've got eggs, and they found powdered milk at the IGA in the bulk section - they'd taken the entire bin, and it sits in the corner of the kitchen - and there's peanut butter and soup and vitamins and plenty of water. "We'll grab everything we can from Wal-Mart. Weapons and stock and food. We can take both trucks? Or we can find something bigger in town, maybe, to take." Anything to not think that one of these things had just sort of moseyed on up to the door like it was no big deal, while the two of them had slept tucked up close for warmth, upstairs.
"I'll go with you." Adam turns down the heat on the soup and shrugs on a coat, Carhardt again, and there are a few extra shells in his coat pocket already. "We should find a UHaul truck. We'll take that and go together." The idea of being in separate vehicles makes him nervous. But that's for later. Right now, they step out onto the porch and Adam fights back to urge to shout at the top of his lungs, Come on, you coward motherfuckers! He looks and looks, seeing nothing. "They didn't go after the chickens?"
Tommy makes a gesture at the coop, and the bare footprints that come in from the field, lead to the door and then away, go nowhere near where the chickens are. "They were fine when I went in... Dottie didn't peck me for once, and Gertrude had two eggs that she was hiding from me." Yes, he's named them. So what. At the edge of the field where the tripwire lines six inches off the ground, Tommy realizes why it wasn't tripped. "There's snow covering it. We gotta move it up higher, like, chest height? That way they can't miss it or whatever." A U-Haul is a great idea, and trust Adam to think of it, right? Then, yeah, they can totally go together and grab as much of everything as they can. Pillows and blankets, gas heaters, Coleman lamps. Food and clothes (new clothes!), and more hair dye for Adam. "Is it too much to fucking ask to just... have some quiet? Not have a day where I don't feel like I'm gonna barf up my lungs because I worry that something's going to get y- us?" He looks up at Adam from where he's crouched on the ground, and then, impulsively, balls up a little bit of snow and tosses it at Adam.
Because Adam wasn't expected it, is, in fact, looking in the other direction for anything, the snow hits him right in the side of the face and he barks out a shocked sound, turning quickly, just reacting. "Oh, you asshole," he says when he realizes just what it was, and he smiles a little bit. He kicks some back at Tommy, but doesn't let go of the gun. "If it's chest-high, they can go under it. Thigh-high." Which he only used to think of in relation to boots. "We'll eat lunch and do that. Food first, okay?" Another look and he starts moving backwards toward the house. "In I am Legend, didn't he have something that if they touched the door, it went off? Something we could set at night? Battery powered or something. I don't know."
"Car batteries!" Tommy crows, getting to his feet, dusting snow off of himself. "You're so fuckin' smart, jeez. I'd be deader than dogshit without you." It was Adam who'd hauled Tommy to his feet in the first place after they'd gotten off the bus, Adam who'd driven them to Maysville (it'll always just be Maysville, never home), Adam who'd learned to cook. "Thigh high, then. It's... it's kinda good to see you smile, you know? And Jesus, you should see your roots. You wanna cut my hair? You should check out your own." Adam's hair, which has gotten long, fast, and it looks good on him. Then again, Adam could probably wear a paper bag and people would go insane for him. In another life. "So, let's eat, and then we'll head into town and see if we can find a big truck. Then... Wal-Mart. Oh man, what if we found a Sam's Club? Wouldn't that be the shit? The motherlode!" And probably full of infected people. That's something else Tommy's put a lot of thought into: if they're just infected with this virus and not zombies, wouldn't they starve to death? Or something? The few that they've seen lately have looked worse for wear, definitely more dead than infected, as if their bodies aren't functioning but are on auto-pilot instead. Tucking his own pistol away, Tommy follows Adam back into the house, barricading the door once they're inside.
"Now you're just trying to make me self-conscious," Adam tells him. He's made it a point not to look in the mirror, actually. He knows, from when he's laid awake late at night, that his complexion is shitty again; stress and fear will do that to a guy. "I think I dreamt of going to a spa," he adds, stirring a can of mushrooms into the soup after he turns the heat back up. "We don't have time before it gets dark," he says, though, "to move the trip wires and go to Walmart. We'll go tomorrow right when it gets light." The days are short now, roughly eight hours of light and the idea of being out at night makes him anxious. "We can make a list, be ready to go." Walmart will have CD players, too. DVD players. Music. Movies, small ones, powered by batteries. That seems outrageously hedonistic. "Tommy?" He finally says, though, watching his spoon stir the soup. "Please don't make jokes about being dead."
"It's true, though." Tommy sits at the table, wishing there was beer, or something. Even if it's warm. Then he gets up to find paper and a pen, and starts on his list, and it looks like they're going on a camping trip until he gets to the necessities: food, clothes (underwear!), soap and bodywash and razors. "You shouldn't be self-conscious. You look fine." And Tommy means it. In the last couple of months, they've both worked so much harder than they had in the great Before, and yeah, Adam might have a bit of a breakout and some gold-ish roots, but there's something lean about his body now, brought from lifting and moving and working hard. "So, I'll move the wires tonight and try and figure out something, like... maybe alarm a pad to the doorbell? God, where's Mythbusters when you need them?"
"I don't know. Just something in case they miss the trip wires." When the chicken is done, Adam pours soup into the bowl. Maybe there's a way to make bread. He has no idea how, but he'll try. He sits and takes over the list, jotting down what occurs to him. Weatherstripping. Maybe plastic to cover the windows. As much water as they can carry and yes, clothes. Battery lanterns. Lucky Charms.
By the time the soup is done, the list is two pages long. They both eat two bowls and the rest gets stored in the basement where it's cold enough to work as a refrig. Then they load up the fireplace and go back into the cold to move the trip wires. It's getting dark by the time they're done, but there's something about accomplishing something in this way that has Adam breathing a little easier when they're back inside and locked in. He crouches in front of the fire, warming his hands. When he hears Tommy come up, he turns, "I think I'm going to color my hair. Do you want to do yours?"
Tommy washes his hands in the kitchen, peering, as always, out into the dark. Coast is clear, for now. "Yeah, I guess. You didn't happen to grab any of that Blondissima stuff, did you? 'cause my hair looks shitty. Or I can just go all black, like you." He comes up behind Adam to rest his hands on Adam's shoulders, squeezing for a second before crouching down beside him. "I was thinking about Zombieland - did you ever see that? - and maybe we should get, like, an RV or something. Just in case we really need to move." It's been okay so far, after the first couple of weeks where they'd all but cleaned out the population of Maysville. And in other places, there might still be hydro, and there might still be other people alive, like them. It's just a thought though, and Tommy goes back to Adam's hair. "Do mine and I'll do yours? It's gotta be really hard to do it in the dark."
"Haircolor by candlelight. It's romantic." Adam snorks out a soft laugh. "Sure," he says to the RV idea. Can't be too safe. That's what they're learning. Maybe, he tells himself, he'll feel more like himself if he's colored his hair. He watches the way the flames flicker and asks, "do you think there are others?"
"There has to be, you know?" Tommy scruffs his hand through his own hair, overgrown and irritating as fuck, now. "I mean, we can't be the last two people in the States, right?" He stands, pressing his hands to the small of his back, then offers a hand to Adam. "Oh come on, romantic?" Okay, it might just be, but he and Adam are just friends, right? Yeah, they curl up together, but it's because of the dawning cold and the need to just be near someone who's living and breathing and okay. "Come on, let's go upstairs. I'll get a couple of lanterns and meet you in the bathroom, alright?"
"It's a date." Adam couldn't resist, smiling a little bit more. What if, though, he wonders, they are the last two people in the United States? The idea of there being other people out there actually frightens him but he doesn't say that, ever. It's alarming how quickly he got used to being alone, just with Tommy.
When he has dye in his hair and is working on Tommy's, it's surprising how reassuring this is; something he knows without even thinking about it. "There are clippers in the bathroom. I'll see if they still have a charge; we can clean you up easy." Using a dead man's razor and clippers; this is his new life. It won't, he has to keep telling himself, change.
Tommy holds still, looking a bit chagrined at having Adam cut his hair, and the clippers buzz dully when Adam clicks them on. "You look good with long hair, by the way. I saw some pictures from..." There's that word again, a life that they don't have anymore, capitalized inside his head for its importance. "...Before, and it looked really good on you. I think there might be batteries downstairs for the clippers if you want me to check? And I can put the burner on for tea if you want some." Somehow, it makes Tommy feel good to do little things for Adam, when he honestly believes that he wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for the other man. Tommy rubs his palms against the thighs of his pants; it's still cold in here, but not quite as bad as earlier. And with no lights on, there's nothing to show off the smoke coming out of the chimney downstairs.
"It's nearly done. I don't know if long hair is practical, you know?" Until it gets long enough to pull back, anyway. Suddenly, Adam has to stop what he's doing and realize what he's said.
Practical. Adam isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. He closes his eyes for a minute, hand on Tommy's shoulder. His voice is a little rough, throat feeling dry when he speaks again. "Want me to shorten your bangs?"
The tone in Adam's voice makes Tommy stop him, and he looks up at Adam, brows drawn together. "Just wait a sec huh?" In the weird organic light that comes from the lanterns, Tommy studies Adam's face before wrapping his arms around Adam's waist, hugging him tight. "Trust me, you don't want me cutting your hair. Just wear hats. It's not like I'm gonna make fun of you for having bad hair or anything." His hands move, holding the sides of Adam's jaw, and Tommy touches their foreheads together. "I'm gonna go do a quick round downstairs and make sure everything's closed up. You get in the shower, and I'll come up and keep watch." It's a routine now, taking turns doing things, except sleeping. Now, they sleep together.
Ice cold showers. Something Adam has learned to survive as well. Maybe tonight, he'll dream of sushi with his mom and Neil and that just makes him think that come spring, assuming they're still alive, Adam and Tommy should learn to fish. "Fuck my life," he whispers to himself. He takes the scissors to his wet bangs, though, and at least shortens them, then starts to rinse out his hair.
When Tommy comes up, it's with a steaming cup of tea for Adam that he sets on the little vanity. "Everything's clear outside, and it's snowing again. We really gotta do something tomorrow. You want me to grab you some blankets for when you're done freezing yourself? I thought cold showers were only good for one thing." He laughs at himself a little, sitting down on the closed toilet seat. Thank god the water still runs, even if it's cold. "I'm... wow, I sound like an old guy. I'm already ready for bed. After we eat some more soup, maybe?"
"Yeah." That way they'd be up early and ready to go when the sun comes up; something else he never thought he'd say. "I can't bear a cold shower, though." Adam instead gets a washcloth and some soap and wipes down the parts that get smelly. He needs to put mud facial mask on the list for tomorrow because when he does look in the mirror, he looks away quickly. "Let's sit by the fire, huh? Tomorrow, we'll get hair bleach for you." He runs his (icy) fingers through Tommy's hair, tea in the other hand. "Unless you want to shower?"
"I totally want to shower, actually. Working outside always makes me feel disgusting." But for a moment, Adam's fingers are in his hair, and impulsively, Tommy gets up on his toes and kisses him. It's not like the kiss at the AMA's, but it's not like any of the casual affection that Adam normally shows him. It's something else, something that makes Tommy feel momentarily warm before he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers to step into the tub. "I'm a man, I can totally deal with shrinkage. I just... can't get used to bathing out of a sink." The water comes on and Tommy winces, shivering, until he's all wet, and then there's shampoo that's rubbed in and rinsed out, and the wet t-shirt is stripped off so he can soap up. At least it's not Camay anymore, it's Zest, and he doesn't smell like a grandma when he steps out. Five minutes in water like that? Way more than enough. "Is it weird that I'm kinda excited to go to Wal-Mart tomorrow?" His words are shuddery and broken until he gets wrapped up in towels. "Let's hit that fire. We got marshmallows to toast." Something so incredibly simple, but he's looking forward to it.
Marshmallows, Hershey's bars and graham crackers. After soup, of course. They sit on the floor, a blanket around Adam's back and he sits curled around Tommy, cocooning them both. Tommy's on marshmallow duty. Adam can rest his chin on Tommy's shoulder and watch the fire change colors, listening to it crackle. Even though a rifle sits right by his knee, he lets himself ease, just for the moment. "I love you," he says, quietly, because it feels right to say. Because it would be something he never forgave himself for if something happened and he didn't say it.
For a second, Tommy's still and quiet, and then he lowers his head, letting the marshmallow burn right off the end of the straightened hanger. Then there's a hitch to his shoulders and he presses his hand to his eyes. It's the first time since the first couple of days, and it's right in front of Adam. Christ. "I love you too," he answers, low and hoarse. "I'm just... I'm really glad you're here with me." The warmth of Adam's body combined with the fire means that Tommy isn't shivering for once, and he tucks himself closer to Adam, resting the back of his head against Adam's shoulder, much as he'd done when they'd be on stage together. Adam's arms tighten and they just sit.
When the sun comes up the next morning, bright through the clouds, they've already committed two felonies: breaking and entering and vehicle theft. But Adam is driving an eighteen foot Uhaul out of Maysville back toward I-80 and he would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous as hell. It's near the outskirts of Iowa City when they find the Walmart and there are cars in the driveway, all covered with snow, undisturbed. He pulls around back to the loading docks and, after a few tries, backs into one of the docks. When he shuts off the engine, he grabs his gun and looks over at Tommy. "Are we ready?" It's the first time they've done something like this outside of Maysville. His heart is beating hard enough that he's sure his clothes are moving with it.
There aren't any other tire tracks. That's what strikes Tommy first. No tire tracks means no other people have been here in the past couple of days, and he shoulders the rifle, feeling the weight of the two guns he's got under his coat. "Should grab a bat from sporting goods," he murmurs to Adam. "Don't wanna have to reload if there are... things in there." It's his way of saying he's ready. "Walk quiet, you know?" Of course Adam knows. "So we don't draw attention. We don't know what's in there." They don't even know if the dock door will slide up. "Get your gun ready, can you cover me?" Same routine, cover, shoot, protect. I love you. Adam's words that made Tommy feel warm.
Adam just nods, pocketing the truck keys. They open the back and the loading dock door and they wait. Silent so far. His boots don't make any sound on concrete as they move and there is so much more to look out for than in Maysville. He's already feeling panicked and paranoid. Near the doors to the store floor, there's a wide rolling bin, clearly for someplace to toss things; when he moves it it doesn't squeak. They'll use that to load things. Tommy gets that, Adam has his rifle and he nods. Here they go.
Tommy's answer is a nod, and they push out onto the floor of the store. Just because it's quiet doesn't mean they're alone, and Tommy upnods toward someone standing in the dark, just to let Adam know. The wheels are quiet enough, but once they start filling the bin, it'll be less than silent. There's a vague smell in here of rotted food and old blood, and for a second, Tommy has to hold his breath. Just as at the house (in Maysville, a house, not a home), it's cold in here, and when Tommy lets his breath out, it's a cloudy plume. "Where to, first?" he whispers, looking up at Adam. "Sports?" An aluminum bat might not be a bad idea. Or maybe an axe. And that second thought makes Tommy's stomach knot.
They're in the shoe department, in the corner of the store and when they get to a bigger aisle, Adam looks around, pointing instead of answering. Crafts is to their right, to their left is sporting goods, housewares, electronics and beyond that, the grocery section. That's the way they'll go. The less talking the better.
Clearly, the store has been ransacked before. Stuff litters the floor and Adam goes first, kicking the way clear for Tommy and the bin. He just starts tossing things in, things on their list and things they might not have thought of. They aren't alone, though. He can sense it.
It's reassuring to know that people have been in here already, that there are other people who could loot. The first thing Tommy grabs is a bat, because that's the nearest, clearest thing on the list. Have to have something that doesn't need to be reloaded. Besides, Adam has a gun. When Adam puts DVDs and a portable DVD player into the bin, Tommy looks up at Adam with awe and more than a little bit of surprise. They're going to be able to watch movies. If When they get out of here. A discman (yes, those are still around! unbelievable!) and speakers are tossed in the bin, and when Tommy turns down another aisle, he lets out a sudden, surprised sound. Not because they've got walking company, but because there are bodies, obviously infected, lying on the floor. They're dead. This is... it's a good sign. But then: "You hear anything? I thought I heard-"
"Tommy." Adam's voice is quiet and firm and he's looking over Tommy's shoulder, the rifle coming up slowly, almost lazily. "I need you to get down." And when Tommy disappears for Adam behind the bin, Adam fires. Not once, but twice and he slides to bolt to reload.
The ex-person who'd appeared behind Tommy is splattered over the Christian music section. There is an irony there. Adam puts his hand on Tommy's shoulder. "They know we're here now. We have to move fast."
"Or we can just clear them out. It doesn't sound like there are a lot in here." Well, not at first, but after those two shots, Tommy can hear that familiar shuffle, a gathering of voices that are rusty, as if it's some kind of ex-person cadence to arms, but it doesn't change Tommy's mind. He pulls out his guns and squares his shoulders. "It's been done before. People have been in here already and done it. There can't be that many." And he and Adam aren't even close to finished gathering what they need. Both of his guns have 30-bullet clips. Adam protected him and now he can return the favour. "No running. We can stand our ground. We have shit we need."
For a moment, Adam just watches Tommy's face and the strength there, different from just months ago, makes him nod. "Okay. Okay." He reloads the rifle and he turns, ready.
He has to fire seven times by the time they get to the grocery department. It's worse there; the smell of rotten meat and fish seems to have drawn the worst of them, so they walk the bin back to back and they shoot and shove things into the bin as they go.
Adam sweeps out the Lucky Charms shelf into the bin and a lot of oatmeal too.
Tommy grabs Corn Pops with one hand and shoots an ex-person who's gnawing on a piece of rotten meat with the other, and the smell of cordite almost drowns out the smell of bad produce. Tommy just can't decide if he prefers the smell of gunpowder, though, because both smells mean death. Tommy sweeps tubs of peanut butter and jars of jam into the bin, steering Adam around the corner into another aisle, and there's the stupid stuff that horror movies don't talk about: toilet paper, kitchen towel, dish soap, laundry detergent. Bulk sizes for the win! "Anything in your direction?" Tommy whispers, aiming toward cosmetics and pharmaceuticals. Toothpaste, mouthwash, hair dye. Shampoo and conditioner. Body wash and soap, bandages and ointments. Anything and everything they can fit into the bin, at this point. "I'm clear on my side."
Adam grabs Clearasil and Neutragena and that goes in the bin too and he's got the rifle in his free hand. The bin is piled higher than his head and they haven't even gotten the water and propane yet. "Let's load this and make one more sweep," he says as he starts to pull it. The bin is much harder to navigate now and he has to split his concentration. "I can't see over this. Watch behind you."
Tommy's got his back to the bin, so they're still back to back, but with the giant mound of supplies between them, and he pushes, trying to make it a little easier for Adam. "We're good," he mutters. "We're good, we're okay, we're gonna get out of here." Only to come back and get what they couldn't fit in on the first trip. "Lemme just push it, okay? You just steer." When they reach the loading dock, the same ex-person is still there, still swaying as if being moved by a breeze that only it can feel. It's got a Wal-Mart apron-thing on, Tommy notices, but then he's pointing his gun at the soft spot behind its ear and rendering it completely harmless. They've worked too hard for it to be alerted by either of them, or have it hurt him. Or Adam. Especially Adam. I love you, his mind plays again, and it feels like his throat closes for a moment. "We'll just-" He clears his throat and tries again. "Just shove this on the truck and grab a new bin, huh? The longer we're here, the worse it could get."
The bin bounces off the far wall of the truck and before heading back into the store, Adam goes left, into the storage area. There's a pallet of bottles of water. He uses a jack to wheel that into the truck, then he has Tommy's back and they're headed to sporting goods. All the stoves that are still there are taken, same with all the lanterns. More than they imagine needing. Guns, all of them, bows and arrows too, though Adam knows jack shit about firing a bow and arrow; bullets. "It's time to go," he finally whispers, touching Tommy's arm. It's nearly unbearable, the need to get back to the house in Maysville. Please.
Adam's answer is a jerky nod that sends Tommy's too-long hair into his eyes, and after what happened in the grocery section, he can feel his composure starting to crack. He wants to run. He wants to be back in Maysville, where he knows they're safe and protected, with their tripwires and familiarity, knowing the creaks in the floors and the rattles in the windows. The bin is pushed into the truck and that's that; the door is pulled down on the U-Haul, secured in place, and Tommy climbs back into the truck, hands shaking and mouth pressed into a tight line. "Let's go, huh? I just... I wanna be... not here." The moment Adam's in beside him, Tommy takes one of his hands and squeezes it.
They pull away. Adam can't see the sun; it's got to be near noon and already he's exhausted. When they're on the country road again, he squeezes Tommy's hand tight in his, tight enough that his knuckles go white. They could talk about what they can do now, the traps they can make with the car batteries, how they found a few kerosene space heaters that they can use in the bedroom, but he doesn't say any of that, eyes scanning on the road as he drives, hearing the carts in the back roll from side to side; they should have secured them.
They didn't have time, panic didn't allow for it. They've got enough of some things to last for months, while others, like the heaters, might just barely last the winter. They'll do it, though. They'll survive. It's been two months already. By the time they pull up to the house, Tommy's shuddering, teeth chattering in sporadic bursts before he clenches them. They're back and they're safe and they have so much stuff. "Let me have a look around before we unload, huh?" At least for footprints, or signs that the house had been visited while they were gone. Snow sits light and clean over everything, softening the tracks from yesterday and leaving a fresh bed for anything new.
"Not by yourself." Adam shoulders the rifle again after he's got the truck backed up by the door. "Let's hurry." His stomach aches, a combination of hunger and nausea.
There is some kicked up snow by the tripwires, but that's it. Then comes the long process of unloading everything into the house. That takes another two hours. By that time, Adam's shaking from all-out fatigue that comes from overstimulation, but he's starting to use the kerosene stove to heat up canned ravioli for both of them. "Let's get the truck tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay." Tommy takes both of Adam's wrists and walks him away from the stove to make him sit down in one of the kitchen chairs. His own legs are shaking, but he can at least make dinner-lunch-meal for the both of them. "Relax for a sec, okay? Just... sit. I can heat up Chef Boyardee. You look like you're about to fall over." After they eat, they can move their supplies to their proper places, the heaters upstairs in the bedroom, the portable DVD player, the discman and speakers. Tommy almost can't believe that they've got stuff like this now, when it's been so long. And then Tommy has a thought. "We could put a heater in the bathroom." The ravioli's warming up, so Tommy sits down across from Adam and lets out a shaky laugh. "Ever notice that the customer service at Wal-Mart sucks?"
The joke so surprises Adam that he laughs before he even realizes that he's laughing. And when he starts laughing, he can't stop. It turns hysterical and he puts his face in his hands and he doesn't try to hold it back any longer, the sobs come in heaved gasps of air that shake his body, curling it up, his elbows on his knees.
"Adam." Tommy looks shocked for half a second, then he's moving quick enough that the chair dances on its two back legs before falling to the floor. Tommy gathers Adam up as much as he can, trying to soothe him, stroking his hair and just holding him. "I know," he whispers against Adam's ear. "I know." He kisses Adam's hair, then his temple, tipping Adam's face up so he can clean it up with little swipes of his fingers. "Come on, let's go get the fire going again and warm up. We can eat in a little bit." Tommy looks Adam square in the eyes, dark to light, and he sees the abject misery that's there. "We're gonna get through this." His mouth is soft when he kisses him.
Closing his eyes, Adam holds Tommy's face with soft fingers and kisses him back in small tastes since his nose is stuffed. "I'm sorry," he whispers after a moment. "Tommy." Another kiss and another and a hunger he'd all but buried heats in his belly, showing in the back of his eyes when he looks at Tommy again. "I know."
"Don't be sorry for feeling what you feel, huh? That's just stupid." Tommy can't look away from Adam, not right now, and his words make perfect sense, even if the tone is distracted. "I'm gonna get a fire going... come with me, okay? And I- I should... I should probably clean up. I probably smell like gym class." But first, he cups Adam's face in his hands and kisses him again, the angle of his head answering the look in Adam's eyes.
Before he pulls away again, Adam's teeth slide along Tommy's lower lip and he's flushed just the slightest bit. "I'll finish up the food while you clean up," he says. He's slow to let go, though, even as a small smile finally shows itself. "You get to pick the movie." He's not even sure what he grabbed; hopefully there's something worth watching.
Suddenly, there's something sweet, something special and secret amidst all the shit.
"Okay," Tommy answers, and this time his tone is faint not because he's afraid, but because he isn't afraid. He's not even sure what the kiss means, or what made him do it in the first place, but it feels good and right. "I'll be like, five minutes. Bring the food up? I'll take up a heater and the batteries and the player and stuff." He's talking too much, isn't he. Even if it's in a husky whisper as shadows begin to shroud the house in preparation for night. "Meet you in bed." Where it'll be warm, and they can huddle around the tiny screen and actually watch something.
Tommy presses his mouth to Adam's one more time, and it's a kiss that Adam's far more familiar with, and then Tommy's pulling boxes up the stairs, and a few minutes after that, there's the sound of running water. Did Tommy mention he's thankful that the water still runs? Yeah, thought so. A couple of times. But he's still glad.
When Tommy gets out of the shower, there is ravioli, Chips Ahoy and red wine next to the bed and Adam is sitting there, going through the DVDs, sorting them by genre. It seems he grabbed the most from the horror and the comedy sections and somehow ended up with five copies of Poltergeist. The traps have been set and Adam is perfectly content to pretend as hard as he can tonight that things are some fucked-up form of normal.
Tommy grabbed a whole bunch of TV series DVD's: Seinfeld, Weeds, Three's Company, A-Team, and even Thundercats. He's barely shivering at all when he steps out of the bathroom, thanks to the heater that's there, and he has a tentative smile for Adam. "I have new underwear. You have no clue how exciting that is." Except that Adam probably does, seeing that he's got new underwear, too. And pajamas, and clothes, socks, even new blankets. They raided everything they could. "Pour out, I'm gonna go grab some stuff." A hoodie's pulled over Tommy's head and socks onto his feet, and he pads downstairs, pausing on the landing to grab the bat, just in case, and shuffles through the dark until Adam hears a faint "Ah-ha!" The stairs creak when Tommy returns, and he's got a pair of pajama pants with the Metallica ninja-star printed all over them. "So what're we watching, Chef Lambert?" Tommy curls up in bed beside Adam, reaching for his bowl of ravioli.
Holding out a glass of wine for him, Adam announces, "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure." He should shower, too, but he's too tired and he'll live until the morning, contenting himself with clean sweat pants and an Iowa Hawkeyes sweatshirt. Settling back against the headboard, Tommy pulled under his arm, Adam settles the little player on his knees and hits the play button.
For the first time since the world ended, there is a sound from something other than themselves, nature or not-dead people. For a second, Adam thinks he might just cry again.
They've been alone long enough that Tommy feels the change in Adam's body language, and he hits pause on the movie to look at him. "Hey? Are you sure you wanna watch this? I heard that it's really serious." Maybe trying to eke a smile out, a real one. One that's been as rare as diamonds since they got here. "Or we can watch the movie later, okay?" Outside, the wind is picking up; Tommy can hear it, like a whistle. He's not used to it, being from California, and it's just a little unnerving. His hair leaves a damp spot on Adam's shoulder when he curls up against him, trying to get Adam into a side-by-side hug.
"I want to watch the movie. It was one of the few good things Keanu Reeves ever did," Adam tells him. He wants to beg Tommy to give him a reason not to be scared, just for a little while. The kernel of the kisses is that; he doesn't want it spoiled, not yet.
The wine is not great, but it's been long enough that half a glass makes him the very slightest bit dizzy; Adam shouldn't have more. "Come on, glitterbaby," he soothes, a finger combing through Tommy's hair, giving back for the comfort given to him earlier.
Tommy barely touches his own wine; he was a beer guy Before, and he's still a beer guy. Or Dr. Pepper, or maybe Pepsi if he's desperate. But Adam's touch does soothe him on a deep, instinctual level, and being called glitterbaby after so long only makes him laugh in a sharp, sad sound. "We used to have a drinking game when I was a teenager... every time they said 'excellent!' or 'bogus!' or air guitared, you had to take a shot." They can't get drunk now, they have to be sharp and keep watch. So Tommy presses play and keeps his head on Adam's shoulder until he's comfortable enough, warm enough, that he lifts his chin to kiss the side of Adam's neck.
Surely, Tommy can feel the shiver that the kiss garners and Adam's arm around Tommy's shoulders tightens. The colors on the screen, the sounds, seem almost too bright, too sharp after the quiet of so long. Adam turns down the sound until they can barely hear it, but they can hear what goes on around them, too, the storm starting to whip around the house.
Later, when it's dark again and quiet, Adam lies on his side, facing Tommy, his cheek resting on the pillow, covers pulled up to both their noses. "We ate the whole package of cookies," he says, thinking in the dull light that comes from the space heater reminds him of dance clubs from Before.
"I grabbed Oreos, too," Tommy murmurs. "I just kinda stuck my arm into the second and heaved it all out. We should get everything sorted out tomorrow." Hopefully if there was anything outside, it froze in the storm. Now, the quiet is like crystal, fragile and clear, and Tommy moves a couple of inches closer to Adam, so they're nearly nose to nose in the dark, and he can rest a hand on Adam's waist. "It's okay that I touch you, right? I just... I just need to make sure you're right there."
Instead of saying anything, Adam covers Tommy's hand and pulls it up, over his heart and he holds it there. He feels as quiet inside as he has since they'd gotten to Maysville, months ago, and there's a peace in that, however tentative. He tilts his chin forward and kisses Tommy. He's here. He's right here.
Somehow, Tommy's hand ends up on bare skin, underneath of Adam's sweatshirt and still over his heart, and he's kissing him back easily, feeling the same kind of heat that Adam had, in the kitchen. Forgotten to the point where it almost feels entirely new. Let's be honest: the only time Tommy's touched himself is when he has to whiz, or when he's in the shower cleaning up; anything even resembling sex has been the furthest thing from his mind. He sighs through his nose, moving just a little so that Adam can be over him, if he wants. Because Tommy realizes that he wants that.
Adam's leg slides over one of Tommy's, settling between them. Adam holds Tommy's cheek in his hand, short kisses, sweet kisses that make him dizzier than the wine did. When he gets hard and he rocks his hips against one of Tommy's, the spike inside him is sharp enough that he moans.
"Do you want-?" That's all Tommy gets out between kisses, and for all the times that they've flirted, onstage and off, this is real. This is something... really fucking special. With nothing but death and unpeople around them, this makes Tommy feel alive, brightly, hotly so, and his other hand pets down Adam's back to cup his ass, to urge him to move his hips again. He wants to hear Adam make that sound again, because it's good, so far from fear and panic and helpless anger, and Tommy's not even surprised that he's hard, too. He nods, only knowing with the vaguest sense what he's agreeing to.
The clothes they have on are new, clean, and Adam can't get that thought out of his mind. Leaning his weight on one elbow, mouth never far from Tommy, tasting, licking, kissing, he reaches between them, urging down the Metallica pants, then his sweat pants and his hand, so much rougher than it had been Before, wraps around them both. Just one stroke and he moans almost helplessly. "Tommy."
"Hnn." Tommy's answer is helpless and soft, hips pushing up into Adam's grip. For a moment, he wonders if anything's ever felt like this. This perfectly clear, perfectly perfect thing, done for all the right reasons and for none of the ones that any of the stupid fucking paparazzi would say. "Adam," he whispers. "Yeah." Permission to take the reins on this, to guide Tommy through what he might not know physically, but knows very well somewhere on the left side of his chest.
Just this. Like teenagers who are afraid of getting caught and too excited to do anything about it. Adam strokes again. One more time then another after that and he would be embarrassed coming like this, except that it feels so good, rendering him breathless, flushed and warm all the way through for the first time in a long time. He rests his forehead against Tommy's temple, panting for breath, still pulling, eyes shut so that he can see stars against his lids.
"Oh my god," Tommy breathes, hips moving up into a grip that's hot and slick, now, and his orgasm hits him so sharp and so quick it feels like a smack of pleasure, body arched up tight under Adam's. Adam can feel the shake in Tommy's fingers as they card through his hair, and how the pant of his breath goes from spent to damp as he turns his face against Adam's neck.
They're warm again, and clean after a wet cloth. Adam washed his face, too; it feels tight from the clearasil; he should've gotten some moisturizer. But he holds Tommy tight to his chest, curled on his side around him. Fatigue weighs him down, making him feel heavy, but for once, for this amazing moment, he smiles into the back of Tommy's neck.
Tommy says Adam's words, the ones he'd used yesterday, but there's a different note to them. So close to sleep, vulnerable and warm (and what a luxury that is, to not be huddled under blankets, shivering), they're in their truest, most honest form. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Adam tells him and when he closes his eyes to sleep, for once, he doesn't dream, hardly moving, waking up in the same position he'd fallen asleep in, nose buried in Tommy's hair.
~~
When they get the Pilot back, Adam slides a CD into the player and the music surrounds them. Even soft, the music almost seems like too much; sensory overload. Gaga, of course; he'd made a point to grab her CD. He doesn't cry, but he does go still, eyes wide, almost as if he can't believe it. Music.
It reminds Tommy of when they went to the show together, and he sits in the passenger seat with an odd little smile. How long ago was it? It seems like... forever. He looks at Adam, at the awe on his face, and his smile grows. They both know it can't be turned up too loud; even with the amount of snow they got last night, there are shuffle-marks through it in the center of this little town. Wanderers. "We have to go," he reminds softly, touching Adam's thigh. "We have to get back through this snow."
"Yeah. Okay." But Adam still pauses a while longer before he puts the vehicle in drive and heads them back toward the house. The town is familiar by now, the silo on the left, the old gas station on the right, the bank, the furniture store, the general store, the farmhouse that is before theirs. He pulls into the driveway and parks, sitting a while longer before moving to get out. "I never thought I'd live in Iowa."
"The only Iowa I ever knew was the Slipknot album," Tommy answers by way of agreement. "Don't forget the CD." He ejects it from the stereo and tucks it in his pocket, pulling the pistols out of their holsters. Hah. Tommy wears gun holsters. But it's what they always do, a quick check to make sure everything's where it's supposed to be. They've been doing this for two months (two months!), but he's still nervous to be outside. The storm didn't do much to the chickens, and Tommy makes sure there's enough straw in place that they're protected. Adam can hear him talking to them. "We listened to music... I forgot how much I missed it. Not that you care, 'cause you're a bunch of dumb chickens, but you keep us in eggs and the unpeople aren't into you." Tommy comes out with a sheepish smile for Adam, picking up on the conversation again. "What's it like living here, to you?"
As he unlocks the door and steps aside for Tommy to go first, then steps in and locks it, setting the 'alarm,' Adam shrugs as he shrugs off his coat and gloves. Before last night, he would've answered differently. As it is now, he looks over at Tommy and says, "I never thought I'd live in Iowa." And he smiles, just a little. Nothing - not one thing, except his hair color - is like it was. Everything is changed. But he cups Tommy's cheek and kisses him, lingering just for a moment, before moving to the pantry. "... I was thinking... I've seen deer in the fields. We should try to get one."
Wow. Shooting a deer. Tommy wouldn't even know what to do with a dead deer if they got one, but the idea of fresh meat makes his stomach growl, loudly. For now, though, he's too glad to see Adam smile, even if it's just a little one, to put much thought further into that. Adam's kiss, yes. It's the one thing that's inescapably good in this strange life that they've still not quite settled comfortably in, and Tommy has a smile of his own. "Put music on the discman. We can listen to it while we organize all the shit from yesterday." Yesterday, which feels like a million years ago, already. "And then I'll go see what Gertie's hiding from me that we can cook up for something to eat."
Queen. We Are the Champions. The little player and speakers are set on the kitchen counter and started, low, but loud enough that Adam hums along as he organizes their suddenly-full pantry. He doesn't know how to dress a deer either. But yes, fresh meat. Canned tuna, canned chicken and even Spam just aren't that great after a while (not that Spam was ever great. Or meat), though Adam has found he likes jerky. He organizes by food type; vegetables, fruits, meats, meals, other, with a whole shelf devoted to breakfast cereal alone. It shouldn't feel this good to do this, but it does.
But organization means control, the ability to get one's way without any difficulty or trouble. Adam takes care of the food, Tommy takes care of what's in the livingroom, getting a fire going between sweeps of air-guitar to Brian May, and then he starts unwrapping blankets and comforters, folding them and leaving them in a stack, tossing extra pillows on the couch to take upstairs, figuring out what else needs to go upstairs, what should go in the kitchen, and what should be put in the cold cellar. Red meat. Real meat. Deer. The cold cellar in the corner of the basement is by far cold enough to preserve meat, if they manage to shoot something, and for a second, Tommy thinks he should go to the library and find a book on how to hunt. When he comes up, it's to find Adam, rest his hands on his waist, turning him around so he's facing Tommy. "Thank you."
"For what?" Adam has a jar of peach jam in one hand and a tub of peanut butter in the other when he's turned. He looks down at Tommy, head cocked. "We need to cut your bangs," he adds, apropos of nothing.
"For being here." For a lot of things, things that Tommy doesn't even know the words for. So instead of trying to find the words, Tommy gets up on his toes and kisses Adam's mouth, sweet and brief, and settles back with a smirk. "Yeah. Otherwise I'm gonna have to start wearing barrettes, and nobody needs that." From there, Tommy goes back to the livingroom, hauling things up the stairs, using the spare bedroom for storage of all the extra stuff. And, as usual, he peers out the windows to make sure they're alone.
They're not. Out in the field, not only does he see deer, but there are three-four-five unpeople coming in their direction. They've been making noise, moving things around, getting upacked, and the music. "Adam!" Tommy hisses. "Turn the music off. We've got company. Bad company." Tommy takes the stairs two at a time to grab his rifle, and he nods for Adam to come upstairs with him. "We'll get 'em from the windows." Five? Slow moving? No big deal. They'd done so much worse yesterday at Wal-Mart. But there's something new and shiny and precious that Tommy needs to protect. Not just Adam, but this sweet thing that's come up between them.
How are they still moving in the cold? It's so fucking cold outside that Adam can't even imagine. He peers through the backdoor and shakes his head. "If we open the windows, it'll get cold up there." He looks at Tommy as he picks up a rifle of his own. "C'mon." For some reason, this is Adam's home and those motherfuckers are on his lawn. He puts his jacket back on, feels for bullets in the pockets and opens the back door, stepping onto the porch.
The snow is knee deep and the things see him and try to move faster, but they can't seem to. Adam aims at the first, the chest. Blam.
Tommy appears beside him, having exchanged his own rifle for the two handguns that are easier for him to handle. These unpeople are greyish-blue with the cold, their eyes both avid and vacuous with hunger, and one of his bullets takes one of them in the thigh, and a second hits the shoulder, making it stagger, and then fall. "Good shot," he tells himself. He still hates this, but seeing the confidence in Adam's posture helps. In Wal-Mart, Tommy had been so desperate to get what they needed that they'd both done what they had to, but here, in the house, all he wants is quiet. Safety. "Good shot," he whispers, but this time, it's for Adam.
Two more. Then one. Then none. It sounds like the crackle of the gunfire is echoing around them, but it's just in Adam's ears. He wades out in the snow after he's reloaded the rifle and he stands a few feet from the things. Words come without him even being aware of it.
"I hate you. I fucking hate you for coming here to my house and making me do this. We weren't hurting you. We were just - we just want to be left alone and you fuckers come and now we have to go to the fucking dump and FUCK YOU!"
It's his words that drift off over the cold landscape. Adam looks up and around, as if daring others to come. Why not? He's fucking ready. Goddammit.
But what he sees makes him go still and he points. "That ... Tommy. Is that a cow?"
For a second, Tommy's not sure what Adam said, after yelling like that, all but putting them out as bait for anything that might still be lurking around in the skeletal corn. Then he sees the movement that Adam saw, and lets out a harsh, almost hysterical laugh. Here they were, talking about shooting deer, and there's a cow out there. For real. "Yes!" he yells, pointing at it with the barrel of his gun. "That's a fucking cow! Let's get 'er, Tex." Red meat. Real red meat, something he's familiar with. Beef. They've got dehydrated potatoes, canned carrots, and it'd be easy to make powdered gravy. Oh god, Tommy's mouth waters, and the stupid cow's just standing there like... a stupid cow.
"Holy shit." A cow. Adam watches it in the cornfield, nosing around for something to eat, it seems.
For a ridiculous moment, he thinks of leaving the poor thing alone. It wasn't hurting them. But they can have steak. He even has teriyaki sauce in the pantry, just grabbed because he missed Japanese food. He can marinate it. "Shoot ... shoot at the neck, not the body. Just ... "
For some reason now, his hands are shaking. Adam takes a deep breath and raises the rifle. "Cover me." He takes two more steps and he fires. Once, then again.
For now, it seems as though they're alone, except for the cow, who lets out an indignant moo before staggering. "One more," Tommy encourages, unable to wipe the grin off his face. Beeeeeef! He hasn't even begun to think how they're going to get the cow up to the house, because there's the sound of stalks cracking even before Adam can fire again. The cow falls, hooves pawing at nothing before going still. "Oh my god, a cow!" Unpeople completely forgotten for a moment, Tommy holsters his guns and starts pushing through the cornstalks toward their glorious kill. "How the fuck are we going to skin this thing?!" They can dump the unpeople later; they're not going anywhere, and they'll be frozen really soon. "Oh my god, you did it!" Tommy fistpumps the grey sky above them.
"Tommy, be careful!" Adam chides, not moving for a moment. I'm sorry, he tells the cow, which is stupid, but he feels better after saying it. "We need to get it into pieces we can move inside." Which means the chainsaw.
It's nearly dark when they have the last of the part of the cow they're going to use in the house. There are bones, hooves, guts, and the head in the field and in the distance, they can hear howling. Coyotes sound, Adam realizes, eerie. Both Adam and Tommy are covered in cow blood and Adam's muscles ache from using the chainsaw as Tommy wielded the long, sharp knife. "We need to get inside," he said. Where they can shower and have dinner. Tomorrow, though, is a trip to the dump. No denying it now.
The coyotes will get rid of anything that Adam and Tommy left behind, but there's still the issue of the unpeople in the yard. Yeah, they'll go to the dump tomorrow. "That was like, the grossest thing I've ever done." But at the same time, intensely satisfying. It feels like they've got about two hundred pounds of meat, wrapped in plastic trash bags and lugged down into the cold cellar to freeze, and pieces left over to cook tonight. "Clean up, yeah. And then... eat." Inside, Tommy pulls his coat off with a grimace and nods for Adam to come upstairs with him. "I grabbed Aleve and Tylenol and Advil yesterday. I don't think we're gonna be able to move tomorrow." But god, Tommy feels satisfied. They have fresh food, thanks to Adam.
"Yes, please." Adam dry-swallows three Advil between peeling off clothes that are stiff with chilled sweat and frozen cow blood. The clothes fall into a heap in the corner and they should take turns but he realizes that the coyotes at this moment might be their friends. If any non-people go after the cow parts in the field, they'll have a fight on their hands.
Tommy turns on the bathroom's space heater to maybe make the shower a little less than bone-chilling, and peels off his own hard clothes. What the hell, there's even blood on his boxers! Urgh. Those are tossed off, too, and there's probably no way these clothes are ever getting clean. "I'll scrub you if you scrub me, huh?" Towels can be grabbed once he and Adam don't look like they've just come off of a killing room floor (which is pretty much the truth), and after, they can eat.
"Just be fast," Adam chuckles a little, dreading so much the icy water. There's not even a chance to savor being together like this, because it's too cold. Even now, what they did last night seems far away, compartmentalized in what's rolling around in his head. Beef, hopefully steak of some kind, marinated, with canned mushrooms, mashed potatoes, yeah, with cheez whiz in them to make them seem less fake. Huge meal. Cookies for dessert.
"Man, I don't even know what I'd do for a hot shower right now." Tommy quirks a smile at Adam, scrubbing as quick and efficient as he can, goosebumps covering them both. "But we've got awesome food downstairs, and I'm do a quick look when we get out." As usual. Five or six times a day, looking outside, checking the wires, checking for new prints in the snow. He hopes that this virus that's changed their lives so much can't be transmitted back to animals. Because then they'd be in a lot of trouble. Oreos and powdered milk. Beef and potatoes. For a second, just a second, things feel normal. "You're done. My turn."
Tommy's so thin, even thinner than before. Adam moves his hands over him quickly, but can't help but notice the jut of his ribs, the cord of muscles, even cleaning, albeit quickly, between Tommy's legs and his teeny, tiny ass so they can both get out and rough their skin with towels to get warmer, warmer still when they're in layers of clean clothes. "I'll trim your hair later," Adam promises Tommy and he stuffs his feet into another pair of boots and heads for the stairs to start cooking. "Will you stoke the fire?"
Tommy's got big thick wool socks on, longjohns and jeans, a hoodie over a shirt. It'll take a little while for the heaters to really get kicking, and that's most important at night. "Aw, don't worry about it. It's just hair. I'll get the fire going. Maybe we'll have a quiet night. Watch another movie, maybe?" In the livingroom, he pokes the fire, feeding chunks of cardboard to it to raise it up again, sending crackling heat through the livingroom and kitchen. "You got enough light in there? I've got a couple of lanterns out here if you want 'em." When the fire's vibrantly alive again, Tommy joins Adam in the kitchen to look over the spread of food that they're going to eat. His hand comes up to the small of Adam's back. "This is gonna be awesome. I can't believe you totally went all Doom with the chainsaw on that cow. That was..." He can't help but laugh, because six months ago, the Adam he knew wouldn't even think of doing something like that. "...awesome."
"Shut up," Adam chuckles out dryly. "That was like something out of a horror movie. Butchers everywhere cringed." Wherever they are, that is. But the meat seems like good meat from what he can tell, and he's got it in a bowl with the teriyaki sauce and he's got the potatoes in a pan on the kerosene stove. But before he can say more, the coyotes howl and they're closer. It makes Adam's skin crawl before he goes back to what he's doing. They should probably skip the movie tonight, but he doesn't say that.
"It's okay," Tommy murmurs, rubbing his palm against Adam's back. "We got the trips, right? And the place is secured." At least it's not like Night of the Living Dead or Thriller or some shit like that, where zombie-arms come pushing through windows and doors and (SHUDDER) floorboards. At first, the unpeople had been quick and aggressive, but now it seems like they're slowing down a little. Power in numbers, though, and that's what Tommy keeps reminding himself. They're just two people in a population of god only knows how many infected, and keeping Adam safe is above everything else. "I think you did an awesome job. I kinda rolled up the hide and stuck it in the pantry, too. We might be able to use it for something, maybe?" The smell of the food is nothing short of decadent, and Tommy's eyes close as he leans in closer to breathe it in.
"... okay." It will start to smell soon. Adam can't even imagine. But after scooping cheez whiz into the potatoes, he sets the jar down and turns, just watching Tommy's face. "Hey," he says quietly, wearing a wry smile. "Why don't we go to Jamaica next year for vacation. A change of pace."
For the first time in months, Tommy sees more than a hint of the old Adam. The Adam from Before.
"Jamaica. Awesome." Tommy grins up at Adam before getting out plates and forks and a couple of bottles of water for when their dinner's ready. It's full dark outside, barely pushed back by the lanterns in the kitchen and the fire in the livingroom, and Tommy slouches down into a kitchen chair. "How're we gonna get there? I don't know if I have enough brain cells to learn how to fly." He's still smiling though, because it's a good thought; having a vacation. Something to dream about maybe, when not that long ago, it would have been easy just to get a plane ticket and take off. No pun intended. Maybe it's the idea of having real food that makes Jamaica seem less than entirely impossible.
"We'll just have to pull the private jet out of storage, then." Just like that, though, the joke wears thin. Adam pulls the potatoes off the stove and puts on another skillet, then puts the meat in that. The smell and the sizzle are enough to make him lightheaded, swallowing because his mouth is watering so much. They aren't going to Jamaica; they aren't going anywhere. If they live through the winter, that in and of itself is an accomplishment.
When the coyotes howl again, they are closer, so close that if he could see outside, Adam imagines that they're right there, right outside the door. He pours mushrooms over the meat after turning it, making sure to keep Tommy in his line of sight.
It's another habit Tommy's picked up since they've been here, talking about nothing at all so Adam knows that he's okay, and where he is. "So, I grabbed like, a box of pillows from Wal-Mart... the cardboard'll be good for the fire... and you can never have too many pillows. They'll keep us warm..." But eventually, he goes quiet, slouched on the couch in front of the fire. In spite of the incredible smell of cooking food, he dozes off, cheek against his arm and legs tucked up under him.
When Adam brings in a plate of food that they can share, he sets it on the small table and he brushes the hair from Tommy's face, gently, speaking as he does to not startle him. "Food's ready, baby. You need to eat." If he shifts forward just a little bit, he can lean against the arm of the sofa with Tommy cradled to his chest. "It smells really good, doesn't it?"
Waking up is never easy for Tommy though, and his head jerks up from his arm, ready for whatever's happening. Oh. Oh, it's just dinner. Just dinner and just Adam, and he relaxes in increments. "Holy damn, that smells really good." He beckons Adam to sit with him so they can eat together, Tommy's hip tucked up against Adam's, and has food ever tasted this good? Has the company ever been this comfortable, this wanted? For a moment, Tommy isn't sure. But they've made their way through one more day, and though nothing lasts forever, there are little things that Tommy wishes, would.