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The wooden shed door splintered on Zack's first kick. He heard the satisfying crack when his foot landed just below the lock. On his second kick it busted completely, flying open so hard that it crashed against the wall and nearly swung shut again. The arm of the deadbolt took chips of the door jamb with it, and they spiraled into the darkness, clattering loudly on the plywood floor.
Zack braced his arm on the door to keep it from swinging back and hitting him. The shed was a decent size, and it was absolutely loaded with junk. Zack saw dozens of cardboard boxes stacked precariously in leaning piles, stretching high above his head and nearly touching the wooden beams across the ceiling. Along the left wall were makeshift wooden shelves that sported a hodgepodge of jars, tools, spare parts for cars and other machinery, wooden and metal frames, dirty rags, and a million other things buried in disorganized piles. To his right were other plastic storage bins with smudged writing on them that had long since faded.
There was a path through the mess, so Zack inched forward to scope the rest of it out. Towards the back he saw more household items. A floor lamp, a dirty, bug-and-animal-eaten recliner, old clothes in bags on hangers, cleaners, things put in storage and forgotten. He saw rolls of tarps on long wooden sticks, buckets, and metal and plastic milk crates full of miscellaneous stuff.
The walls were cinder block, and there was a single shoulder-height window that had frosted glass so the shed couldn't be easily peered into, and the entire thing had at least an inch of dust all over it, if not more.
The more dust the better. That usually meant it wasn't often disturbed.
It wasn't the best hiding spot he had ever found, but he didn't have the luxury of time to look for anything better. Shinra was right behind him, and if he didn't find cover soon, they were going to find them. Find them, capture them, and take them back to Hojo's lab.
He would not let that happen to Cloud.
He left the shed and sprinted back outside into the chilly night to grab Cloud where he had left him propped up against the shed wall. As usual, he was right where Zack left him, barely able to function let alone move without help.
"Alright. This looks great. Come on," he whispered to Cloud.
Zack gently grabbed Cloud's shoulder and turned him so that his back rested against Zack's chest. Then he hooked his arms under Clouds and dragged him into the shed, shouldering the door and kicking useless junk out of his way. Cloud's arms and his head dangled lifelessly, lolling with each shift of Zack's weight and each jostle as he wrangled him inside.
Cloud's heels slid along the floor with a heavy scraping sound, leaving two long tracks in the dust in their wake. As soon as they were far enough in, Zack carefully lay Cloud down, placing his hand on the back of his head to keep it from slamming off the floor. He winced as he thought about the off chance that Cloud would move, scraping his skin off the plywood and splintering himself all up, but getting the busted door shut had to take priority.
He pushed the deadbolt in and closed the door, then slid the heaviest stack of boxes that he could find against it to keep it shut. Behind that, he rolled over a massive heavy toolbox and buttressed it up against the boxes. Then he locked the wheels in place.
"Okay. Good enough," he said to himself and to Cloud.
Zack went over to the wooden shelving where he had seen the discarded rags, looking for one that was more the size of a sheet. He didn't find any that were that big, but he found what he thought was the remnant of a beach towel and decided that would work. He lay it down on the plywood then rolled Cloud on top of it to keep his arms and the back of his head off of the splintery surface.
He sat down next to Cloud and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his back against an old mini fridge. In the stillness and the silence, his unease at their situation and their precarious hiding spot threatened to rear its ugly head. His thoughts spiraled without anything else to focus on.
Shinra had near unlimited resources. They had an intelligence network in the Turks. They had hundreds, if not thousands of Infantrymen for manpower and cannon fodder. They had elite hunters in SOLDIER, and all of those departments had as much money and technology that they could ever ask for to try and find them.
A cinder block shed with a busted door and frosted glass window wasn't going to keep anyone away from them. Especially not with the trackers Hojo had implanted in his and Cloud's arms that he had yet to remove. He glanced down at the small, inch-long scar on the fleshy part of his left forearm, right under the bend of his elbow. The scar's light skin sneered up at him in the moonlight that poured through the window.
The trackers created a vicious cycle that he knew he had to break, but had no idea how to make it happen. They had to come out, and they had to come out soon if he ever expected to get away. But they allowed Shinra to stay close enough to continuously find them, preventing the time that he needed to get them out safely. If he actually did manage to get the trackers out, he was afraid that the pain of a wound like that would hinder his ability to carry Cloud and defend them.
He didn't have all the medical supplies to do it anyway. He would need way more than he managed to scrounge up the last time he broke into a veterinary clinic after they closed. All he had was a dangerously thinning roll of bandages and a suture kit, a scalpel, and some medical tape.
Paranoia was closing in, shrinking the walls. There was no chance Shinra lost their trail, and that stress alone was enough to drive pins through his nerves, keeping him on high alert. He gradually became hyper aware of everything outside of their hiding place. The wind occasionally roared. The trees rustled and their branches knocked together. Animals rooted around - or were they footfalls? Were they the clacking of cocking weapons, the screech of a radio transmission, or the deep rumblings of voices that were preparing to charge the place? Everything beat against Zack's senses, forcing his heart up into his throat, but he had to remember not to panic in case he alerted them to his and Cloud's exact location, or startled them into an attack.
He never did spot anything, but he felt eyes on him constantly. Every few minutes he had to pause, straining as hard as he could to hear if anything else was out there. It didn't take long for him to crack. He decided that the trackers were coming out. He couldn't stand the pressure anymore.
The moment Zack moved to get out the supplies he would need, ideal conditions be damned, a large, dark shadow passed across the frosted window. Zack froze, not even sure he had seen it. He kept his eyes locked onto the spot.
Another passed. Then another.
His heart took a nosedive into his stomach, and almost immediately his hands began to shake. Zack slowly raised himself to his feet but stayed crouched low to the floor. He tiptoed as delicately as he could over to the window, thankful for the fact that despite four years of captivity and horrific experimentation at Hojo's hands, his SOLDIER stealth training hadn't left his muscle memory. He kept his eyes on the junk around him so that he didn't accidentally knock something over, and when he made it to the window he put his back against the cinder block.
He ever so slowly straightened his knees until his eyes were level with the frame. The shadows that he had seen were still there. There were ten, maybe twelve masses, all standing or swaying or twisting around outside.
They were people-shaped. They all had a head that was wide and squiggly at the sides, the shape of the Shinra Infantryman helmets. Three red lights were distorted by the finish on the glass, but they were shining brightly in their triangle. He could tell by the familiar positions of their arms that their hands were clasped around what was unmistakably guns with long barrels.
Another shadow passed by the window, joining the group, and Zack ducked down quickly. "Shit!" he whispered. "Shit, shit!"
A routine that was growing more and more familiar that never became less terrifying began to play in his head.
First, secure Cloud.
He skirted the junk back the way that he came. He took Cloud's arms one at a time and threw them over his back, then he let out all the air in his lungs so he didn't accidentally make a sound before he hefted Cloud's limp, dangling body weight over his shoulder. He pressed Cloud into him and walked slowly, carefully, head swiveling to ensure Cloud didn't bump into the stuff. He carried Cloud behind a particularly large stack of boxes and sat him down with his back against it. He wouldn't immediately be visible.
Second, go back and get their supplies.
He didn't have any supplies that weren't already on him. He had to ditch most of everything they accumulated the last time they nearly got chased down.
Third, cover his tracks.
Their footprints were everywhere in the dust, and Zack cursed again softly, throwing his hands on top of his head. He couldn't get that close to the door without risking being heard. He just had to hope they bypassed the shed entirely, only bothering to comb the whole area and not get into the every specific locations they could possibly be hiding.
Four, get ready to fight.
He could change his routine, just this once. Zack crawled behind the boxes where he left Cloud. As his reactive anger grew, he decided he was done making this easy for Shinra. He was done with allowing them to be two steps behind him and Cloud instead of the ten he knew he was smart enough and fast enough to put between them. He dug around in his pockets for the tiny medical hoard he had stolen. He withdrew the pathetic roll of bandages and the suture kit in its own little box, prying it open. Inside was the curved needle and enough of the thread-like material to last them a while. He also pulled out the small alcohol wipes for disinfectant, but he realized he didn't have any gloves. In his haste to get out of the vet clinic before the authorities were called, he had forgotten to pick them up. No gloves, and no anesthetic to even try to dull the pain of what he was about to do in the name of their safety.
He just had to hope that the alcohol pads would be enough to prevent infection.
And he had to pray that his willpower was enough to withstand the agony of carving something out of his own flesh. He couldn't scream. He couldn't even cry out. Their freedom depended on his ability to keep quiet without any shred of pain relief.
The group of people was talking. He heard open vowel sounds and deep, rumbling tones, but the cement blocked out the finer timbres. He was going to run out of time if he didn't work soon. He sat down next to Cloud and braced his own back against the boxes with his feet out in front of him.
Zack took his leather gloves off for better control. He didn't realize his breath was coming short with the anticipation until he got to work. It was going to hurt. It was going to hurt bad. He had nothing to help him dull the pain. The alcohol after was going to burn. He tried to psych himself up, trying to muscle his way through the psychology of self-injury.
"You were in SOLDIER. You were shot at and cut up and stuff. Hojo did the most horrific stuff to you. This is nothing. You can do this."
He didn't believe it.
He wished Aerith was there. He wished she was there to talk to him with her sweet voice, to distract him through this. Tell him about her tiny wishes while she put him to sleep with Materia so he didn't have to feel what he was about to feel. He wished he could feel the warm, soothing sensation of her White Magic reaching into his body and easing his pain. His heart clenched. His jaw ached, and a lump formed in his throat. He had to do this on his own.
He took one of the alcohol pads and tore it open as softly as he could, scrubbing it on the little scar in his left forearm where the tracker had been implanted. Then he took up the scalpel. He touched it to his arm. The point dug into his flesh, the threat causing knots in his stomach, and he sucked in two more heavy, fast breaths before he drew the scalpel over his scar.
His skin split open to either side of the blade. Muscle and sinew tore as easily as tearing paper, but it hurt worse than he ever could have prepared himself for. He pressed his lips together and held back a gasp. The initial, searing burn was already bad, his senses sharpening with adrenaline and his hands shaking, but as he stared down into the wound at fluffy-looking tissue and instantly welling blood, he realized he hadn't cut deep enough to reach the tracker. He was forced to take the scalpel to it again, and the real agony began.
There was a sickening, moist sucking sound of damp tissue peeling apart beneath his hand. Every coherent thought was knocked away from Zack's mind. His fist clenched impulsively as the indescribable torture flared through his entire arm, down into his fingers and aching up in his elbow. His legs jerked and his back arched. He threw his head back, thumping it against the boxes, and a scream threatened to tear its way out of him. Zack quickly dropped the scalpel into his lap to slap his uninjured hand against his mouth and nose, blocking his airways and keeping it down. Tears sprang to his eyes and his chest heaved with every effort to suck in enough breath, but he didn't let go until he was able to will his voice under control.
The wound was hot. He broke out in a sweat, and he prayed he cut low enough this time, clenching his teeth. Jamming the scalpel in for the third time, he dug through the blood that poured out the sides of his wound and down his fingers. He wriggled the tool left to right, back and forth, feelign like he was scraping against every individual nerve ending that he had. He heard and felt the metal scrape on bone, and he bit his tongue against every instinct he had to scream until his throat bled.
He felt it.
Zack levered the scalpel to the side and a small, metal device no bigger than a fingernail popped out of his skin, pulling gummy fibers of flesh with it. Zack snatched it up, reared back, and threw it across the shed. He grabbed a second alcohol wipe, squeezing his eyes shut and lifting his head again, unwilling to watch as he scrubbed it down the incision. It burned evilly, forcing him to shake it out, flicking blood all around the two of them and the junk. But it was like his body had become too exhausted to force him to feel the full effect of it, and he was mildly grateful for that. He popped upon the small suture kit and began to slowly, sloppily stitch himself up, tears and snot leaking from his eyes and nose. Each stab of the needle into the sensitive skin rocketed through him.
The stitches were lopsided. They were uneven, and they were definitely placed at different depths than each other. But his hands were shaking too badly, and he didn't have another hand to help him. Blood still leaked from a space that he had missed, but he promised himself he'd worry about it later. He wrapped a few loops of bandages around his arm and tied it off with his teeth.
He cleaned the scalpel with an alcohol wipe and glanced at Cloud. His chin was to his chest. He was just as lifeless as he always had been since their escape. For once, Zack hoped and prayed that he stayed that way. He pulled Cloud into his chest and lay him down flat on the towel, then sat next to him with his knees tucked up underneath him. He stretched Cloud's arm across his lap. He scrubbed the area with another alcohol pad and touched the scalpel to Cloud's arm.
There was a sudden, loud pounding on the door of the shed. Zack startled, looking over his shoulder. The door rattled the tools in the tool box, and the cardboard box pile teetered precariously. Zack's panic surged. He had to get this done. He couldn't wait. If he and Cloud got away, Shinra would only follow them.
"Buddy," he said to him. "I'm really sorry for this. I don't have any way to numb this, so I hope you can't feel this. I need you to be brave, okay?" Just in case Cloud responded to the pain, Zack used his bandaged left arm to brace his hand against Cloud's mouth, silencing any kind of noise. The blood that was still dripping down his hands and fingers smeared across Cloud's face, and Zack scolded himself for not handling it before.
"I'll clean you up later, Spike," he promised him mentally.
Another harsh slam punched into the door and into the barricade, harder than before. It sounded like they were throwing their whole weight against it, trying to get through. Zack didn't have the time to be careful. He dug the scalpel into Cloud's skin further than he initially thought he had to based on the location of his own tracker. Cloud didn't blink. He didn't tense. He didn't moan or groan against Zack's hand. Zack pushed and prodded and dug, blocking out the wet squelch of flesh moving. When he felt the little metal chip, he popped it out.
He didn't get the chance to stitch or bandage Cloud. With a final crash, the boxes were thrown into the shed as the door burst open. They bumped and thudded all over the garage, cardboard tearing and knick knacks scattering, and the tool box tipped over and smashed on the plywood. Zack launched to his feet and reached behind him for the Buster Sword, but as he drew it in front of him and hefted it, each movement aggravated the ache in his arm. His grip was weak, but he forced himself to stay strong, lifting the sword. He hardened his gaze and stepped in front of Cloud, standing protectively over him and ready to ambush whoever came around their corner of boxes.
It was like a huge weight had been lifted off of him despite being cornered. He could fight his way out. He could get them away from there. He could take care of Cloud. And once they ran from there, leaving the trackers behind, they could hopefully truly disappear for at least a little bit, and he could properly rest.