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“Pull over.”
Etho’s pulling over before he’s fully registered the request, their pickup truck grinding to a stop on the shoulder of the road. “You good?”
Bdubs doesn’t answer, just jumps out and starts pacing. He’s doing the huffing thing again, puffing his cheeks and grimacing, dramatic facial expressions and loud noises. He didn’t close the door behind him, so Etho can hear him heaving for all he’s worth.
“You should get out too,” Bdubs says. He doesn’t pause, still doing laps around the whole thing, but he gives Etho a meaningful look the next time he passes the driver’s side window. “Get the blood going.”
Privately, Etho thinks that if he falls asleep while driving, it won’t be because he sat still in the car for three minutes. It’ll be because driving is exhausting on the best of days, and this isn’t the best of days. It’s hour fifty-one of being awake. He’s starting to think he knows what caffeine itself tastes like, to say nothing of what they put in energy drinks. If he falls asleep while driving it’ll probably be because of heart failure.
But if he falls asleep while driving, Bdubs will be in the passenger seat. Bdubs, who hasn’t so much as blinked in over two days if he didn’t absolutely have to. Bdubs, who asks him to pull over every twenty minutes so he has an excuse to get up. Bdubs, whose breathing is sounding less like exercises and more like a panic attack every time he does it.
Etho gets out of the truck. Stretching his legs won’t hurt.
#
Bdubs is calling the shots. It doesn’t grate on Etho, exactly, so much as it sits wrong around his shoulders like a too-small sweater. He’s always liked being able to make his own decisions. But if anyone else is going to make the decisions he wants it to be Bdubs.
They found the truck a couple states ago. Etho already had a truck, but this one is a little nicer and a little smaller, just that bit less comfortable. “That bit could be the difference between life and death,” Bdubs had said. And, well, nobody knows how to stay awake the way that Bdubs does. Or, more accurately, nobody knows how to sleep the way that Bdubs does.
Before – two and a half days ago, but that’s Before, at this point – when Etho couldn’t sleep he would call Bdubs. And Bdubs would complain about being woken up, but he would always help. He would say things about sleep hygiene. Screentime. Routines. Meditation. More nights than Etho wants to admit, he has fallen asleep just listening to Bdubs talking about how to sleep. The guy has a reputation for shouting but Etho knows him better than that, knows him in the quiet.
So here they are, After. Breaking routine. Physical activity, but not enough to wear them out. Caffeine and stimulants and arguments about turning on the radio and sore throats. Driving, because it has to be better than sitting in one place and waiting to fall asleep.
#
It’s blazing hot, mid-afternoon sun beating punishingly down every time they escape the truck. Not for the first time, Etho wishes that the world had the good grace to come to an end in March, or maybe a pleasant late October. Instead they’re in the thick of summer and three quarters of the world is dead.
“You don’t know that,” Bdubs says, when Etho makes the mistake of saying something along those lines. He’s a little sharp around the edges as he says it, like Etho has casually smacked him in the face. “You don’t know.”
They’ve been passing abandoned cars on the road for hours. Etho has seen a lot of dead bodies. Bdubs either hasn’t or is acting like he hasn’t. Which is his prerogative, if he wants to be like that, but it leaves Etho reeling without anything to say.
“I don’t know,” he says eventually, and turns back to the road. “You want a turn driving?”
“Are you getting tired,” Bdubs says, a question except for the way that he’s audibly panicked, not asking so much as double-checking.
“Are you?” Etho asks, and he at least means it as a question.
“No,” Bdubs says. It comes out a little flat. Etho decides he doesn’t want to interrogate it.
Driving was his idea, because if the end of the world is going to find them, then Etho doesn’t want it to catch him unawares at home. Bdubs had agreed and gotten in the passenger seat of Etho’s truck, digging his nails into the meat of his palms, and Etho had waited until they were on the road for an hour to reach over and, carefully, try and uncurl Bdubs’s fists.
He hadn’t believed the reports at first, but who had? Everyone who goes to sleep doesn’t wake up. It sounds made up. It sounds nightmarish. It sounds like something Etho used to think when he was young and trying to convince himself that it was okay, actually, that he had trouble getting rest, that he couldn’t just sleep like the rest of the world.
Day one: spent at home waiting for news that it’s a hoax. Night one: realizing it wasn’t a hoax at all, as his neighbors went to sleep and stopped breathing within minutes. Day two: grabbing Bdubs and getting the fuck out of dodge.
They have a direction, but not a destination. Not even a goal. They’re going south, but not too far south, because Etho’s a little worried that Bdubs is going to burst into flames if they make it to the desert. He’s not sure what they’ll do if they make it too far. Turn around? Drive back, like it matters at all?
Etho’s life expectancy has gone from years to days. Even that feels optimistic. Hours. Decades to hours.
He doesn’t know how to make the hours matter. But next to him Bdubs is taking shallow breaths through his nose, face turned away from Etho, something dangerously close to a sniffle encroaching.
So he puts on the turn signal, and pulls over, and says, “Get out.” And Bdubs does, and even if this time he leans against the car and takes shuddering, nauseated breaths for ten minutes, it still feels like Etho’s doing something.
#
He’s not expecting it when they run into people.
And why would he be? They’ve been going aimlessly south for what feels like weeks, because time has melted into syrup, stopping every half an hour and siphoning gas and praying for the best, and they’ve been doing it alone. Etho’s world has narrowed down to him and Bdubs, with some part of him settling in relief at the thought.
They stop for food, a small town general store with a gas station a block down the road. Bdubs suggests splitting up, and Etho can’t think of a reason to say no beyond I don’t want to, so he doesn’t. Bdubs gets out of the car at the store, and Etho nearly drives onto the median because he’s busy watching Bdubs in the rearview, and then he’s busy hoping that this gas station is functional. Money doesn’t mean much at the end of the world, so he’s been running up his credit card and hoping that the bank decides to be forgiving.
When he gets back to the store, Bdubs is standing outside with two other men.
Etho parks the truck and looks at Bdubs, who’s busy chatting away with one of the guys. The other one is staring at Etho, something sharp-eyed about it, not that Etho can blame him at all.
After a minute’s consideration, and a minute’s dragging his feet because he doesn’t want to rearrange the truck to fit two new people, and a minute’s dragging his feet because he’s a little worried he’s forgotten how to have conversations, Etho gets out of the truck. “Bdubs.”
“Etho!” Bdubs whips around, grinning ear to ear, and spreads his arms. “I found us friends!”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He’s cautious when he moves towards them. There’s no real reason for it, call it paranoid, call it cautious. Etho would rather be either of those than naive. “You guys from around here?”
“You’re not,” says the glarey guy. Blond, red-eyed. “What’re you doing traveling?”
“Didn’t want to stay still.”
It’s not a stand-off, exactly. Etho’s not sure what it is. Bdubs seems to realize eventually, and gives Etho a look that’s probably telling him to knock it off.
Etho can’t knock it off. The stakes probably don’t have to be as high as they are right now, as high as they feel, but at the same time his world has just doubled in size, and he can’t say that he likes it.
At last, the friendly guy, the one with sharp blue eyes, says, “We’re from town. We didn’t see much point in leaving, but there have been rumors.”
“That’s what I was going to say,” Bdubs cuts in exasperatedly. “Skizz, tell him about the rumors. Etho, you’re gonna love this.”
Etho, as a rule, isn’t a rumor guy. But he gives Skizz an expectant look.
Skizz doesn’t seem bothered about being interrupted. “There’s a lab out east, sort of by the coast, that’s doing research, trying to find a cure. They need as many people as they can get. They’re trying to get the word out.”
“How did word get to you?”
“A couple other people. And then they were saying it on the radio. It’s about fourteen hours away. A friend of ours–”
“Skizz,” says the red-eyed guy.
Skizz ignores him. “Went east. And we’ve been waiting to hear from him for over a day, and we haven’t heard anything.”
“That’s why you’re staying,” Etho realizes. “If he comes back.”
A fourteen hour drive, and a day’s wait. Etho can do that math. He can figure the odds of this guy being okay. The thing about sleep research is that by necessity, people go to sleep. A willing death sentence.
Skizz and the other guy exchange a look. Etho takes the opportunity to look at Bdubs. “We need to talk.”
Bdubs’s eyes flick from Etho to Skizz to Etho, and stay on Etho for a long few seconds before he nods. “I’m taking the sandwiches,” he announces, and grabs a couple of shrink-wrapped pre-made sandwiches, the kind that got Etho through overnight shifts back in the day. “We’ll be back.”
“Sure,” Skizz says, like he believes it. Or, no. Like he expects it.
Etho waits until the doors to the truck are closed to lower his mask and tear into his sandwich. The glorious process of eating is interrupted by Bdubs saying, “We’ve gotta take them.”
“Why,” Etho asks around a mouthful of dry turkey and provolone.
Bdubs holds out a couple of mustard packets, like it’s an afterthought, and starts unwrapping his own sandwich. “They’re just people, you know? You don’t need to be so…” he makes a wiggly hand gesture that Etho understands, immediately, is supposed to be making fun of him. “They seem nice.”
“They’re strangers.”
“They’re the first people we’ve seen in days.”
“They can drive themselves.”
“Sure,” Bdubs says, “but you like driving.”
“I don’t know them.”
“I’d want them to do it.”
Etho stops mid-bite. “You’d want them to do what?”
“This guy that they’re looking for.” A frown pulls at the corner of Bdubs’s mouth as he systematically tears at his mayonnaise packet. “The way they talked about him – you should’ve heard Tango, he’s worried. They’re two peas in a pod missing the third pea.”
“Yeah,” Etho says slowly. “I get it. It sucks for them, but I don’t get what you mean.”
“If it were me,” Bdubs says slowly, His eyes tick up to Etho’s and then away, spreading his mayo with a determination that rivals most nuclear engineers. “And you had left to try to find an answer, and I got tired of waiting. I’d want them to say yes.”
Etho can’t move. Etho doesn’t know how to verbalize that there’s no form of reality, no train of thought, that could possibly lead to him leaving without Bdubs in the passenger seat. But that’s not what it’s about.
Etho doesn’t like when he can’t see Bdubs. He has to admit he hasn’t paid much thought to the reverse being true.
“Fine,” Etho says at last. “But we need to stock up on food. And they need to be okay with as many breaks as you want to take.”
“We don’t have to take breaks,” Bdubs says. Etho turns to face him, and Bdubs looks back, stubborn, frowning in a way that Etho doesn’t completely understand. “Not as many.”
“Bdubs.”
“I’ll tell them. After we’re done.”
Right. Alone time is about to be at a premium. Etho leans back and tries to enjoy his terrible sandwich with terrible mustard, and tries not to look through the windshield, and tries not to feel watched by two pairs of eyes.
#
“You need a break from driving?” Skizz asks.
He probably means it as a kindness, Etho reminds himself. This is a stranger. A nice enough guy. Even Tango has eased up now that they’ve said yes. It’s a kind offer.
“I fall asleep in moving cars,” Etho answers, and the open, warm look drops off Skizz’s face. “So I’d rather not.”
#
Somewhere across state lines, as sundown tips into midnight, Tango starts talking. It’s not what Etho was expecting: he’s an inventor by trade and by hobby, he’s fiddling with some little puzzle as he talks, and he’s funny. Visibly scared, but who isn’t? They’re some sixty hours deep into the end of the world.
Together, Tango and Skizz tell stories about Impulse, the guy who insisted on going alone to “some fucking secret lab,” as Tango calls it. He’s a scientist. He had reasons. He was optimistic.
Etho keeps trying to catch Bdubs’s eye, because optimism is a foreign language, but Bdubs keeps not looking at him. He talks, asks questions, tells stories, but he’s not looking at Etho.
Whatever. He should probably keep his eyes on the road anyway.
The guys are understanding about the breaks. Bdubs explained in painstaking detail: it’s about blood flow and breaking routine.
“Sure, dude,” Skizz had said, and that was that, and that’s good. It’s supposed to be a good thing.
Most of the time, Etho treats it like a cigarette break. He doesn’t smoke, although Tango does occasionally, never inside the truck. They’ll get out and walk around a bit and then hang out, not really talking, just existing. Skizz likes to do aerobics.
Bdubs likes to leave.
Etho’s not sure when it starts, but he notices it around the fifth break they take together, when they find a scenic overlook, a hill on the borderline of being a cliff and an empty lot. Skizz is pointing out constellations and Etho turns to look at Bdubs to see the soft look of wonder he knows will be on his face, and there’s no Bdubs to look at.
“Bdubs,” Etho says, and there’s no answer. He turns, a slow circle, because if he starts whipping around then – then he doesn’t know. Then he’s showing his underbelly to two people he knows won’t care about it. “Bdubs!”
“What the fuck?” Tango frowns and goes to peer in the windows of the truck. “Where did he go?”
“Maybe he had to pee,” Skizz says. It’s not intentionally soothing, per se, but it rankles Etho as if it is. Bdubs, for all his faults, has never been the type of person to risk his own safety. Making bad choices, making thoughtless choices, sure, but this – vanishing in the middle of the night, into the darkness? That’s a bad sign.
Etho takes a breath and tells himself that he’s not trying to calm himself down. “Bdubs,” he calls again, a little closer to a shout this time. “Where’d you go?”
At first, nothing. Etho bites his tongue, forcing himself to focus on the way his teeth dig into his own flesh, and inhales through his nose, thin and steadying. The odds of running into another person are low, especially in the middle of a dark highway, and he’s beginning to talk himself into risking it when he hears the sound. Rustling, sort of; thudding, sort of.
Tango whips around incredulously. “That’s coming from down there.”
“Did he fall?” Skizz says, sounding just as incredulous. “Wouldn’t we have heard him?”
They would’ve. Bdubs has never done anything quietly, and he’s certainly never been quiet by accident.
Etho goes to the edge of the cliff, pacing quickly. It’s not really a cliff, more of a steep, rocky hill, but in this moment it feels like a cliff. “Bdubs?”
“I’m comin’,” Bdubs huffs. Etho turns slightly and finds Bdubs, fucking climbing up the side. He’s sweating enough that Etho can see it gleaming in the moonlight. He’s not bleeding, but there’s a scratch mark up one forearm. “Don’t get your shorts in a twist, I’m on my way back.”
“God,” Etho wheezes. He can feel Tango and Skizz watching them, and he drops down, lowering his voice. “Tell me you fell.”
Bdubs avoids eye contact as he pulls himself up to the rocky edge of the overlook and then flops over onto his back, staring up at the sky. His chest rises, falls, rises, falls, a little uneven, still steady as she goes.
“Bdubs,” Etho repeats. “Tell me that was an accident.”
For a second, Bdubs’s head lolls over to face Etho, something in his eyes that’s a little bit too sharp, and then he looks away. It’s guilt. That makes it worse. “Adrenaline,” he mumbles.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
It comes out a little too loud, and Etho clamps his tongue back between his teeth, trying to feel it. Adrenaline keeps people awake, but it also comes with a hard crash, and bad decision-making, which Bdubs seems to be ahead of. He half wants to say that Bdubs should take up Adderall or coke instead of becoming an adrenaline junkie. He half wants to kick Bdubs back down the cliff.
He clenches his jaw, and his mouth floods with the taste of blood. Damn it.
Etho lowers to his mask and turns to one side, spitting out a bloody mouthful. It lands a good few inches away from Bdubs, closer than he intended, but definitely close enough to get the point across. “Is this gonna be a problem?” he demands.
“Under control,” Bdubs says. And then, a little louder, “I just fell.”
Tango and Skizz aren’t stupid. But if Bdubs is going to lie, then Etho’s lying with him.
He spits one more time, pulls his mask up, and turns back around. “Time to get back on the road.”
Nobody disagrees with him. Nobody agrees either, but they get in the truck, which is agreement enough.
#
Worse is that Bdubs is acting completely normal in the truck. More normal than he has in a while.
He’s looking at Etho again, for one thing. He’s talking, shouting, arguing, laughing. He’s telling stories. He’s asking for the guys to talk about Impulse. He demands breaks and doesn’t complain when Etho sticks to him like a shadow.
“I was good at sleeping,” Bdubs tells them wistfully. “It was kind of my thing.”
“Oh, kind of,” Etho repeats teasingly. “Nobody knew how to sleep the way Bdubs did. We all knew it, too.”
“It’s important!” Bdubs shoots him a glare, heartachingly familiar. Etho knows how to be like this with him. “Look, there are people in this world – Etho, you’re one of these people – if you don’t sleep, you look normal. You feel bad, right? But you can act normal.”
That’s true. It’s sixty-odd hours of being awake, threatening to tip over into a fourth day without sleep. And Etho isn’t feeling great, exactly, but he knows how to deal with this. He has tricks. He has guesses at tricks.
“You can’t act normal,” he finishes. “You trip over your own two feet.”
“And off cliffs,” Tango mutters.
“Exactly,” Bdubs says, and Etho’s struck by how smooth it is. He’s never seemed like a great liar before, but maybe Etho just trusted him. Maybe he just didn’t think to look for the seams between truths, because Bdubs seems to be pretty good at glossing things over into one slick, perfect surface, not a scratch or doubt to be found.
But it’s exhausting, keeping track of him. Not to mention, bathroom breaks are a thing, and Etho’s not exactly going to babysit Bdubs for that. He needs breaks, and Skizz and Tango don’t seem enthusiastic about babysitting duty.
So Bdubs sneaks away, again, and comes back with a bruise on his upper arm and a huge grin. Or he comes back with a skip in his step and not a hair out of place. Or he comes back with blood, low on his pantleg, small enough that Etho only notices because Bdubs is fiddling with it. He watches that one for a long minute, waiting for the shape of the stain to change, but it doesn’t. It’s not Bdubs bleeding.
Etho starts keeping track of him again after that.
#
Night to day doesn’t feel like a stark change anymore. Even hour to hour, minute to minute, doesn’t matter. Time has never felt more liquid or less impactful.
Etho’s third consecutive sunrise comes and the biggest thought he has is that it’s annoying that they’re driving east, because he has no choice but to stare into it. He ends up demanding a break, and they pile out of the truck to the shoulder of the road. It’s just fields of wheat or some other stupid grain out here, nothing to look at, nothing to explore.
“How far are we?” Tango asks. It’s not impatient so much as nervous, a little antsy.
“Three or four hours, plus stops.” Etho tilts his head back, trying to relish the stretch of his neck. His tongue still fucking hurts. “So, you know. Five or six hours.”
“Etho drives slow,” Bdubs says.
And maybe, maybe if it weren’t sixty-eight hours of being awake and basically sixty-eight hours of being with Bdubs, maybe if it weren’t the end of the world, maybe if Bdubs were acting the way he’s supposed to instead of risking life and limb and making things bleed, maybe Etho could ignore it the way he wants to.
Instead, it lands like a mosquito bite, and before he even thinks about it, Etho says, “Shut the hell up, man.”
Skizz and Tango both tense instantly, because Etho’s tone is clearly pissed, and clearly not messing around.
Bdubs, never one for clarity, doesn’t seem to get the message. “You’re too much of a freak to let anyone else drive.”
“What, you want me to trust you with my life and limb?”
That one gets through. In an instant all the levity drops from Bdubs’s face. “You think I’d risk that?”
“You’d risk yours. You didn’t fall off the cliff.”
“That’s not important.”
“You jumped off a cliff,” Etho repeats, his tongue heavy and slow in his mouth, stinging, stinging. “You can drive if you want, and I’ll knock out in the backseat like I always do, and then there won’t be anyone to stop you from driving right off the cliff.”
“And crashing the truck?”
“Oh, the truck,” Etho spits.
Bdubs takes a step closer to him, putting him officially in Etho’s personal space, practically buzzing with something like electricity, strong enough that Etho can feel it sparking off his own skin and reflecting right back at Bdubs.
“I’m not yours to take care of,” Bdubs says, a little low, a little threatening. “And you’re not mine.”
“Bullshit.”
“You think so?”
Etho knows so. Etho knows, in some distant part of his time, that they’re being exhaustion-stupid. But his heart is pounding and he’s furious and he’s burning with adrenaline, and–
–goddammit. Burning with adrenaline.
“Bdubs,” Etho sighs, and this is the problem, he’s exhausted with it. The high is already fading in the face of the sunlight and Tango and Skizz watching them like it’s a high-stakes tennis match. “You’re picking a fight to keep me awake.”
Bdubs freezes in place like a mouse that knows a hawk just flew overhead. “No,” he says, and that, that’s the unconvincing lie Etho would expect from him.
“Yes,” Etho argues. “You’re not doing a good job, either.”
“I’m great at picking fights!” Bdubs protests. Despite himself, Etho feels a surge of satisfaction. Bdubs looks a little more with it, eyes less glassy, drawing himself up to his full height. Fighting with Etho is keeping him awake. “Not that that’s what I’m doing, it’s – these are legitimate complaints. I’d like to fill out a form.”
“Mhm.”
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, Bdubs, I’ll shut up.”
“Ugh, whatever,” Bdubs mutters. “This is the thanks I get. Is everyone done? Should we start up again?”
It’s only because Etho turns at the right moment that he catches the look that Skizz and Tango exchange. He doesn’t know what it means, but he knows it’s loaded, and he knows that when they look back at the truck, they’re not smiling.
“Yeah,” Skizz says, and Etho might not know him well, but he knows that’s a lie. “Yeah, sounds great.”
#
They stop at the shoulder of the road. Bdubs jogs a quarter mile away and jogs back and swears that’s all he did, just get his heart rate up. He gets a charley horse ten minutes later, and guzzles water and complains.
They stop at a little bed and breakfast and ignore the sleeping bodies of people slumped over the kitchen table in favor of celebrating access to running water and raiding the continental breakfast. Bdubs grabs him a blueberry muffin. Etho grabs him a mini box of Froot Loops. Skizz and Tango go into another room.
They stop not far off a walking trail. Etho goes with Bdubs halfway down and then lets Bdubs go further, and when Bdubs comes back with blood on his hands, Etho uncaps his water bottle and rinses them until the water runs clear.
They stop at a small town, maybe an hour and a half away from the lab.
“I thought I’d have to siphon gas by now,” Etho remarks as he hops out of the truck. “I’d be bad at it.”
“I’d do it for you,” Bdubs says. “I’d complain, but I would do it.”
“Thanks,” Etho says dryly. “Much appreciated.”
“So,” Skizz says. Etho turns, and knows that something is wrong: he and Tango are a good couple yards away from the truck already, shifting so they’re borderline back to back. “Listen. You guys have done us a solid, and we really appreciate it. But we’re going to grab a truck and take ourselves the rest of the way.”
Etho blinks at them a couple times. The world ended about seventy-two hours ago; he can be forgiven for moving slowly. “Splitting up?”
Skizz half-smiles at him. Honestly, it comes out like a grimace. “Yeah, man.”
It’s because of Bdubs. Etho doesn’t even have to ask. Climbing down a cliff, getting aggressive. These are things that would scare Etho if it were Before. But it’s not Before. “Well, hey. You were good company.”
“Whoa,” Bdubs interrupts sharply. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? You have Etho do the hard part and you’re leaving as soon as it gets close?”
“We offered to drive,” Tango snaps. “He said no, get over it.”
“You’re not even saying thanks?”
“Thanks.”
Bdubs bristles at the flatness of it. “This is – this is embarrassing for you. You can’t handle two more hours of having to stop? You can’t even speak up, you’re just cutting ties?”
“There are barely ties to cut,” Skizz says placatingly. “Bdubs, buddy, we just think it’s a bad fit for us.”
“A bad – this isn’t a marketing firm, it’s a freaking road trip! One that’s almost over!”
“Listen,” Tango says sharply. Too sharp, even before he storms away from Skizz’s side. “We asked to get in your car, we’re asking to get out, it shouldn’t be that hard to say yes. It should be easier to say yes.”
“If you’re going to take advantage of–”
“Take advantage? You’re fucking crazy!”
“We’re fucking crazy?”
“No,” Tango says, too sharp, too sharp, and jabs a finger at Bdubs’s chest. “You’re fucking crazy.”
“Huh,” Bdubs says, “maybe,” and slams Tango’s head into the side of the truck.
It’s so fast that Etho’s brain skips over it like a needle skipping off the record. Tango goes from upright to bloody against the back door, and Bdubs doesn’t even look winded. He’s small but he’s a dense fucker, pure muscle, and Etho has seen people underestimate it before. He’s never seen it like this.
Tango staggers upright, blood dripping down his temple, and lets out a guttural shout, borderline roaring. He lunges at Bdubs and only half hits him, barely catching himself before hitting the pavement.
Skizz shouts something that Etho can’t process and runs into the fray, going to drag Tango away, but Tango shrugs him off. “You,” he spits, “you.”
“Stop,” Skizz says desperately. Etho doesn’t know who he’s asking. “Stop it.”
Tango rushes at Bdubs again, this time aiming low, trying to tackle him back into the truck. It works, and they collide with the truck with a heavy thud. Bdubs’s head snaps against the window, but the glass doesn’t dent, and he doesn’t seem too bothered. At least, not more bothered than before.
Skizz lunges in, trying to pull Tango back again. As soon as he’s back far enough, Bdubs lifts a leg, wedging a knee between their bodies, and then kicks. Skizz and Tango stumble backwards.
Or, Tango stumbles backwards. Skizz is already pulling, too hard. He can’t handle the shift in momentum in time. He can’t compensate.
He falls.
Skizz’s head bounces off the pavement with a loud crack. The blood starts pooling immediately, spreading, spreading.
“No,” Tango rasps, skittering away, trying to get his limbs under control. “No, no, no, Skizz, no–”
Bdubs wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We should go,” he mutters lowly.
Tango whips around. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he says, and it’s not undercut by the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m going to eat you alive.”
He stumbles to his feet, but then a sob wracks his body, and he falls back to his knees, head bent low.
“Get in the car,” Etho says, and Bdubs scrambles to obey. He feels like he’s outside of his body. He wants to apologize, but there’s a pretty solid chance that that puts him in the line of fire too, and he’s not interested in that. He waits for the sound of the door closing. “Tango.”
“Fuck you,” Tango spits. “Fuck you both. We should’ve left. We never should’ve come with you.”
“Yeah,” Etho sighs. Not much to argue with that. "You sure you don't need a ride?"
That gets a real reaction. Tango’s head snaps up. “Are you fucking serious?”
“What’s your plan? You have a head wound, you can’t drive, you’re alone, you don't know anybody here–”
"Because of you."
Because of Bdubs, Etho wants to say, but stops himself. It's because of him, too, isn't it? "At least tell me you have something to do. Some kind of plan, something worth fighting for."
Tango turns away, hatred radiating from him in waves. “I did and he's dead on the ground. Fucking get out of here.”
“Okay,” Etho says, and doesn’t apologize. “Okay.”
As soon as he climbs in the driver’s seat, Bdubs looks at him. “I didn’t mean to,” he says. He’s not apologizing, either.
“I know,” Etho says, and hands Bdubs his water bottle. “Wash yourself off.”
“Can’t we stop somewhere with a bathroom?”
“I want to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“We’re still going to the lab.” They won’t look for Impulse, and if they find him, they won’t say anything. Etho doesn't need to explain this to Bdubs, at least not now. “They say there’s a cure. We can’t keep doing this.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Bdubs says again, a little more urgent. “It was just – Etho, you know – I wouldn’t – Etho, if it - Etho –”
“Bdubs,” Etho sighs. “You wouldn’t hurt me. Close your eyes, we’ll stop somewhere with a bathroom, and then we’ll get back on the road.”
“What do you mean, close my eyes?”
“I mean close your goddamn eyes, and grab the handle.”
He waits until Bdubs follows his instructions, and then he starts the truck. Tango is still bent low over Skizz’s body. His mouth might be moving, saying something that Etho's happy he can't hear.
Etho has never hit a person with his car, but he’s hit deer. It turns out it feels basically the same.
#
They find a hotel, and Bdubs scrubs his hands up to the elbows. Etho hunts from room to room until he finds pants in Bdubs’s size, ones that aren’t bloodstained, and lets him change in peace. He sits on the edge of the bed until Bdubs comes back and stands in front of him.
Etho looks up at him. “Hey.”
“I don’t want to be like this,” Bdubs says, barely a whisper.
Etho takes one of Bdubs’s hands in both of his, and runs his thumb over tender knuckles. “Yeah, I know.”
“It’s an hour and a half to the lab?”
“Yeah, and we don’t have to take breaks.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Bdubs exhales, long and tortured. “I hope it works. I’m not built for this.”
“Neither am I,” Etho breathes. “We’ll get there.”