Chapter Text
“We lost Vince and Jorge.”
Newt pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, dragging in a slow, measured breath as Frypan’s voice pitched into panic beside him.
“Brenda’s sick again.”
Frypan kept going, the words tumbling out too fast, too loud. A headache was beginning to bloom behind Newt’s eyes, sharp and dull all at once.
“Frypan, I’m fine. Shut up,” Brenda cut in, her voice tired but firm. “Look—we need to figure out where we’re going.”
Newt exhaled, arms falling limply to his sides. Brenda sat hunched atop a pile of rubble, Harriet and Sonya beside her . Thomas stood just a few feet off, staring into nothing, trapped somewhere inside his own mind. Frypan, on the other hand, was making enough noise for all of them.
Newt stepped away from the group, eyes scanning the horizon. The sun was sinking fast, painting the sky with a dull, burnt orange. “They drove west. I saw lights in that direction,” he said, smoothing the wrinkles from his dust-covered jacket. “I don’t know… feels more logical than staying here with Cranks on our backs.”
He turned to look at the others,
“But what if that just puts us closer to… you know. Them.” Frypan’s voice dropped to a whisper on the last word, like saying WICKED out loud might summon them. Brenda only scoffed at the notion “Saying WICKED doesn’t conjure them from thin air, Frypan.” She rolled her eyes and winced slightly, fingers brushing the bandage on her leg.
“You don’t know that,” Frypan muttered , " Our lucky hasn't been that great" shoulders hunching as Brenda shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
A small rock clattered down from above, drawing everyone’s attention upward. Sonya crouched on a ledge above them, pointing toward the faint glimmer of lights in the distance. “Kinda looks like another city that way,” she called down. Newt nodded his head , reaching to touch Thomas’s shoulder, gently pulling him back to reality. “It’s there or here, Tommy.”
Thomas blinked at him like he was waking up from a long dream. His gaze flicked to the horizon, uncertain.
“Since when is Thomas in charge of what we do?” Harriet asked, shifting on the rubble, already preparing to climb down.
“Newt’s right,” Thomas sighed, “We can’t sleep out here—it’s too risky. And we still need to find Vince and Jorge.” Thomas ran a hand through his hair, expression tight, They were out of time with the sun falling away from them,
The streets just cracked concrete veins stretching through crumbling buildings that leaned like they’d given up the fight. Sunlight bled through the haze, turning the air gold and sickly, heavy with heat and ash. People drifted like ghosts between the shadows, wrapped in torn cloth and desperation. Some huddled in the doorways of half-collapsed shops, clutching bottles like lifelines. Others muttered to themselves, eyes wild, skin too thin, too pale.
Garbage littered the gutters. Rusted-out cars sat like graves no one bothered to bury. Somewhere, someone laughed—sharp and broken—and somewhere else, a bottle shattered, followed by the dull thud of a fist hitting something softer.
At the end of the block, tucked between two collapsing towers, was a bar that might’ve once had a name, long since swallowed by scorch and time. Its flickering neon sign sputtered like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to keep existing. The door hung crooked, and inside was nothing but smoke, heat, and noise. Tables were crowded with scavengers, mercs, and drifters, all looking for something—booze, a fight, a deal, a place to forget the sun for a while.
“You really think this is safer?” Harriet whispered. Newt didn’t even look at her. “Looks more predictable,” he muttered back , his tone just as sharp.
The group slid into a worn, half-collapsed booth near the back of the bar. The cushions, once plush, had long since given up; Newt leaned against the splintered backrest and winced as the exposed wood prodded at his spine.
“We could just sleep here,” Frypan offered, trying to sound hopeful. “Surrounded by this ?” Harriet shot him a look, gesturing at the hazy room—drunken voices, broken bottles, and people with eyes like empty wells.
“We keep our heads down,” Newt interrupted, “stay out of trouble. Someone in here knows something. And there’s got to be somewhere to sleep.” Brenda shifted uncomfortably, drawing her injured leg closer to her chest and rubbing at it through the torn fabric of her pants.
“You okay?” Thomas asked softly, leaning in beside her. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” she whispered back , forcing a small smile. “Just sore.” she offered, but Thomas's eyes narrowed seeing the flush of her cheeks and hear the wheeze in her breathing.
Before either of them could say more, a voice broke through from across the booth.
“Couldn’t help overhearing,” it said. “You folks look like you’re from out of town.”
Thomas looked up. A teenage boy leaned on a battered walking stick, maybe their age—maybe younger—with a wiry build and a worn, half-cocked grin that looked practised. Dusty brown tussled hair. His eyes flicked across each of them, sharp but not unkind. Almost friendly look about him that didn't fit the backdrop.
“Who—?” Harriet started.
“Spencer,” he said quickly, cutting her off. “Name’s Spencer. You’re not exactly among friends here,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of rough-looking bar regulars who had already lost interest in the newcomers. “But you could be. Mind if I sit?” He nodded toward Harriet, who sat closest to the edge of the booth. She didn’t move, just gave him a look that could kill.
Newt sighed and shifted to the side, nudging Sonya gently. She got the hint and scooted over, eyeing Spencer warily around Newt's lean frame.
“Are you—” she began, but Spencer beat her to it .
“Missing a leg? Yeah.” He tapped his crutch lightly against the floor, then leaned it against the side of the booth. “Decided it was weighing me down,” he said with a shrug and a crooked grin.
Harriet raised an eyebrow, folding her arms on the table. “How’s someone like you surviving out here?” Frypan shot her a sideways glance. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”
Spencer didn’t flinch. “I’ve got connections. Best buddies with the Doc. And out here, no one messes with the guy who can patch you up when the world’s falling apart.”
Thomas perked up. “A doctor?” he asked, voice low. “Like… WICKED?”
Spencer’s smile faded into something more serious. “Careful throwing that name around here,” he said quietly. “They’ve got a compound not far from here. No one likes them, but the Doc? She steals meds from ’em. Brings them back to us.”
The group fell quiet, Thomas glanced at Newt, the same shared thought between them, ' We might’ve just found our next move '
The stairs creaked beneath their feet, every step groaning under their weight as they climbed a crooked wooden staircase attached to yet another half-collapsed building. Tattered, stained white cloth fluttered in the breeze—poor replacements for curtains in shattered windows.
Spencer moved ahead with surprising speed, pushing open the weathered door at the top without waiting for them.
“He’s climbing faster than us with one leg ,” Sonya muttered to Harriet beside her. “Why do you girls keep bringing up his leg?” Frypan his sed, exasperated. “He can hear you, you know!”
Newt resisted the urge to groan out loud. His patience—like his energy—was running dangerously thin. A proper night’s sleep would solve everything, and yet that simple luxury was becoming a rarer dream with each passing day.
“Ann!” Spencer called out, bracing the door with his shoulder as the group filed into the dim interior.
To their surprise , the inside wasn’t nearly as decrepit as the outside. A mismatched set of couches lined the living room—stained, sunken, but mercifully whole, save for one rogue spring poking out like a warning. Beyond the seating area, a small kitchen peeked out from behind a half-wall, and through an archway stood another room and a staircase leading higher.
“What?” came a voice from above. A teenage girl—close to their age—rounded the staircase and stepped through the archway. She paused, her eyes sweeping across the strangers now crowding the entry.
“What are—” she stumbled over the words, her brows knitting in confusion.
Back by the door, Thomas hung back, offering his hand to Brenda as she reached the last step. She took it gratefully, leaning into him to take the weight off her injured leg.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly. “Awesome,” she said, flashing a tired smile. She didn’t let go of his hand. Thomas helped guide her forward, his voice dropping. “This doctor might actually help…”
Brenda’s smile faded. “No one can cure the Flare, Thomas.” Her eyes, tired and honest, cut through him. It wasn’t bitterness—it was resignation.
Truth.
And it hurt.
He didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. The idea of reaching Paradise without her—without any of them—twisted something deep in his chest.
The group settled into the worn living room with the weight of exhaustion hanging heavy in the air. Frypan immediately claimed one of the couches, stretching out like he owned it, arms flung over the sides as if daring anyone to challenge him. Newt dropped into a battered armchair, legs sprawled in front of him, eyes already shut, clinging to whatever silence he could steal.
Harriet leaned against the wall near a dusty old bookcase, fingers tracing the spines of forgotten paperbacks, flipping through the occasional page in search of something—anything—worth the distraction.
The front door creaked open again, the old wood groaning on rusted hinges.
A girl stepped inside—lean, sharp around the edges. Her short black hair was tousled by the wind, strands falling across her face. She wore a cracked leather jacket that had seen better years and a fraying backpack slung over one shoulder like it had been part of her longer than her own shadow.
“The Doctor arrives!” Spencer announced theatrically from his seat flinging his arms wide as if introducing royalty.
Everyone stirred, heads lifting, attention snapping toward the doorway with equal parts curiosity and caution.
Brenda sat forward, wincing slightly as she adjusted her leg, eyes narrowing as she studied the girl in the doorway. She didn’t look like a doctor—not the kind they were used to anyway. No white coat, no clipboard. Just someone who looked as road-worn as the rest of them.
Harriet straightened up from the bookcase, arms folding across her chest. “ She’s the doctor?” Her tone wasn’t mocking—just skeptical , edged with fatigue.
Frypan muttered, “She doesn’t look like a doctor…” and then quickly added, “Not that I’m judging, just—y’know.” He made a vague gesture at her boots, which looked like they’d survived both a flood and a fire.
"Spencer, I patch people up with duct tape and stolen meds—stop introducing me like I’ve got a medical degree! I'm no damn doctor"