Chapter 11: Interrogation Protocol
The first thing Julian noticed was the absence of warmth. He woke slowly, swimming up through layers of deep, uncanny sleep, his hand reaching across the expanse of cool sheets. Empty. His eyes snapped open.
Alistair’s side of the bed was vacant, the indentation of his head still in the pillow. Julian sat up, a jolt of pure, cold fear slicing through the post-sleep fog. His heart hammered against his ribs. He listened. No sound from the bathroom. No movement in the main room.
His own injuries protested as he swung his legs out of bed—a sharp twinge in his knee, a dull ache across his shoulders. He grabbed the black tactical knife from under his pillow, the one from the cracked mirror stash, its handle cool and familiar. He moved silently, barefoot on the polished floor.
The main room was bathed in the eerie, shifting light of the simulated savannah sunset. Empty. The orange sofa held only shadows. He checked the bathroom. Steam still clung to the air from their shower hours before, but Alistair wasn't there.
Then he heard it. A low, muffled sound. Not from the apartment. From beyond the main door. A voice, strained. Alistair’s voice, but stripped of its usual calculated calm. It was razor-edged.
Julian moved to the door, pressing his ear against the cool metal. He couldn’t make out words, just tone. A threat, flat and deadly. Then another sound—a wet, pained gurgle.
Shit.
The door’s biometric lock was keyed to both of them now. Julian palmed it, and it hissed open just a crack. He peered out.
The corridor outside was a stark contrast to the curated warmth of their unit: concrete, coldly lit by recessed LEDs, smelling of filtered air and ozone. A few yards down, a door was wedged open—the control room Alistair had pointed out days ago, a nerve center of screens and sensors.
Alistair stood just inside, silhouetted against the glow of a dozen monitors. He was shirtless, the bandages across his torso a stark white against his skin. In the blue light of the screens, the sutures on his shoulder and side looked black, strained taut. His posture was all coiled, violent tension.
A man was on his knees before him. A stranger. Gaunt, dirty, dressed in torn utility gear. One of the man’s arms was twisted behind his back, held in Alistair’s grip. Alistair’s other hand was around the man’s throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a promise. Blood—fresh and vivid—streaked Alistair’s fingers, dripping onto the man’s frayed collar.
“You have five seconds to revise your story,” Alistair said, his voice a low, conversational hum that was more terrifying than a shout. “The motion sensor log shows three separate breaches at the eastern air duct. You were found there. You claim you were ‘just looking.’ That’s a passive activity. The tampering on the filter housing was active. Deliberate. Tell me who sent you.”
The scavenger choked, his good hand scrabbling at Alistair’s wrist. “No one—I swear—just me—”
Alistair’s fingers tightened. Not enough to crush, but enough to silence. The man’s eyes bulged. “Four seconds.”
Julian’s stomach did a slow, nauseous roll. Not from the violence—he’d seen worse, done worse in a past life he’d tried to bury under tailored suits. It was the sight of Alistair like this. The ruthless efficiency, the absolute absence of mercy. The bandages across his ribs were darkening with a fresh seepage of blood, the strain of holding the man tearing at his own wounds. He was hurting himself to inflict pain. It was stupid. It was necessary. It made Julian’s breath catch in his throat with a dark, unwelcome thrill.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the corridor. “Alistair.”
Alistair didn’t turn his head. His focus was absolute, a laser on the man trembling before him. “This doesn’t concern you, Julian. Go back inside.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” Julian walked closer, his steps echoing. He kept his voice calm, neutral. “You’re bleeding. You pop those stitches, we’re back to square one.”
“He was compromising the air supply,” Alistair stated, as if explaining a basic equation. “A slow, particulate-based poison introduced into the filtration system. Trace amounts. Almost undetectable.” He finally glanced at Julian, his blue eyes reflecting the cold light of the monitors. They were empty. “He was going to kill us in our sleep.”
The scavenger whimpered.
Julian looked at the man. Fear had emptied his face. He was just a tool, desperate and used. “Who sent you?” Julian asked, his tone softer, a deliberate contrast to Alistair’s ice.
“Th-they have my kid,” the man blurted, tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks. “Up in the arcology. They said… they said they’d give her food if I got in here. That’s all. Just get in and put the canister in the vent. They didn’t say what it was.”
“Who are ‘they’?” Alistair’s grip shifted, his thumb pressing against the man’s windpipe.
“I don’t know names! A group. They control the upper three floors. They have guns. Batteries. They heard… they heard about this place. About you. The CEO with the fortress.”
Julian met Alistair’s eyes. A fortress betrayed. Someone on the inside had talked. Another resident, maybe. Someone who knew about Alistair Thorne’s “special edition” bunker. The fear in Julian’s gut crystallized into a cold, hard rage.
Alistair’s expression didn’t change. He released the man’s throat suddenly, letting him slump forward, gasping. He wiped his bloody hand on his own sweatpants, leaving a stark red smear.
“Stand up,” Alistair said.
The man staggered to his feet, clutching his bruised neck, his eyes darting between Alistair and Julian like a trapped animal.
Alistair turned to a console, his movements stiff with pain. He typed a sequence. A schematic of the bunker complex appeared on a central screen, a honeycomb of units and corridors. His finger tapped a section. “This is the arcology residential wing. Where is your daughter being held?”
“I don’t know the number—just the east block, third floor. They keep the families there. In the units with the blue doors.”
Alistair studied the screen, then the man. The calculation was almost visible behind his eyes. Julian knew what he was thinking. A rescue was a moronic risk. A liability. This man was already a loose end.
“Please,” the scavenger whispered. “I did what they asked. Just let me go back. Maybe they’ll let her go.”
“They won’t,” Julian said, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. He knew how this worked. Leverage only lasted as long as it was useful.
Alistair looked at him, a silent question in his gaze.
Julian walked over to the scavenger. He saw the man flinch. He reached out, not to strike, but to grip his shoulder. The man was all bone and tendon under the worn fabric. “What’s your name?”
“Milo.”
“Okay, Milo.” Julian’s mind was racing, pieces clicking into place from a hundred shady deals and backroom threats. “You go back empty-handed, they kill your daughter for incompetence. You go back and tell them you succeeded, they wait. When we don’t get sick, they kill her for lying.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “Or, they realize you talked to us. Then they kill her for betrayal.”
Milo’s face shattered.
Alistair watched Julian, a flicker of something like interest replacing the void in his eyes. “You have a third option?”
Julian looked from Milo’s despair to Alistair’s blood-streaked torso. The dark thrill was still there, humming under his skin. But it had shape now. Purpose. “We give them a show. We make them think it worked.”
A slow, sharp smile touched Alistair’s lips. It wasn't pleasant. It was the smile of a predator seeing the path through the woods. “A performance.”
“We contaminate our own air filter. Subtly. Enough for their sensors to pick up if they’re monitoring. We act sick. We go quiet.” Julian’s thoughts were coming fast, formed in the crucible of his own past. “They get confident. They come to claim the prize. And we’re waiting.”
Alistair was already nodding, his mind synchronizing with the plan. “We’d need to isolate the contaminant, replicate its signature. Milo, do you have the canister?”
Milo, trembling, pulled a small, brushed metal cylinder from his pocket. Alistair took it with a handkerchief, holding it up to the light. “Simple aerosolized payload. Easy to mimic.” He looked at Julian. “It’s a risk. We’d have to disable our own primary filters temporarily. Rely on the backups.”
“Better than waiting for them to try again with something we can’t detect.”
Alistair considered Milo. The man was a risk, a variable. But he was also their only source of intel, their only way into the arcology’s layout. “You will stay here. You will be secured. If your information checks out, you may see your daughter again.” The promise was delivered as a cold fact. “If not, you will be the first thing they find when they break in here.”
Milo just nodded, too broken to argue.
Alistair turned and walked back toward their apartment door, his stride uneven. Julian followed, catching up to him in the corridor. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow buzz.
Inside, Alistair went straight to the bathroom, leaning heavily on the vanity. The crack in the mirror bisected his reflection. Fresh blood was blooming through the bandage on his side.
“You’re an idiot,” Julian said, grabbing the medical kit. “You could have torn everything open.”
“It was required,” Alistair said through gritted teeth as Julian peeled back the gauze. The lowest suture had indeed pulled loose, a small, angry red mouth.
“Required? You looked like you were two seconds from crushing his larynx.” Julian’s hands were steady as he cleaned the wound, the antiseptic smell sharp in the air.
Alistair watched him in the mirror. “And you looked like you enjoyed the show.”
Julian’s fingers stilled for a second. He didn’t deny it. He met Alistair’s reflected gaze. “It was effective. Don’t make it a habit.” He placed a fresh bandage over the wound, his touch firm. “We need to be smart now. Not just brutal.”
“They are not mutually exclusive.” Alistair caught Julian’s wrist, his grip warm and solid. The blood was still under his nails. “You offered a good strategy. We will implement it. But understand, Julian—the moment they step into this corridor, it ends. No performance. No mercy.”
Julian looked down at the hand holding him, then back up. The dark arousal was still there, a thread woven now with something fiercer. Partnership. “I know,” he said quietly. “Now let go so I can finish. We have a lot of work to do.”
Alistair released him, a ghost of that predatory smile returning. They had a plan. They had an enemy. And for the first time since the world ended, they weren't just surviving. They were hunting.
They were hunting.
The next forty-eight hours passed in a tense, meticulous blur. Milo, secured in a disused storage closet with rations and a bucket, became their intelligence source. Alistair, moving with a stiffness he refused to acknowledge, cross-referenced Milo’s descriptions of the arcology’s east block with the bunker’s original architectural schematics on the control room screens. Blueprints glowed in the dark, a maze of ventilation shafts and service corridors.
“They’ll come through here,” Alistair said, tapping a point where a maintenance tunnel intersected their wing’s outer shell. His finger left a faint smudge on the screen. “It’s the only structural weak point not covered by the primary defense grid. They must have someone who worked construction.”
Julian leaned over his shoulder, smelling the antiseptic from the re-stitched wound. “So we let them pick the lock. And then we’re the trap.”
They spent hours preparing. Alistair accessed the bunker’s secondary security protocols, a system separate from the main grid, known only to him. He synced it with Julian’s tablet, granting him live feeds from hidden cameras in the ventilation and corridors. Julian, using skills from a past life he never discussed, rigged non-lethal surprises in the designated kill zone—canisters of industrial-grade pepper spray hooked to motion sensors, EMP charges to fry electronics.
They ate in silence, mechanically consuming the tasteless, efficient food. They slept in shifts, one always watching the screens. The digital savannah on their wall cycled from day to night to day again, a beautiful, irrelevant lie.
On the third night, the screens flickered.
A silent alarm appeared in the corner of Julian’s tablet. Two figures, clad in dark, padded gear, were slicing through a secondary airlock grate in the maintenance tunnel. They moved with a quiet, professional precision that set Julian’s nerves alight.
“Showtime,” Julian murmured, shaking Alistair awake from a light doze on the sofa.
Alistair was up instantly, eyes clear and cold. He moved to a panel by their door, opened it, and pulled out the concealed pistol and spare magazines. He tossed a compact submachine gun to Julian, along with two extra clips. “Security team is already mobilizing to our flank. They know the plan.”
Their plan was simple: funnel, disorient, eliminate. Julian watched on his tablet as the first two invaders crept into the access corridor, weapons raised. They passed the first camera. Then the second.
He tapped a command on his screen.
The canister of pepper spray detonated with a soft hiss. The corridor flooded with an opaque, burning cloud. The invaders staggered, coughing, their night-vision scopes suddenly useless. One fired blindly, the crack of the shot shockingly loud in the confined space. The round pinged off reinforced concrete.
“Go,” Alistair said, his voice a flat line.
They moved out of their apartment and into the adjacent corridor, falling in with three members of the bunker’s security detail—sharp-faced men and women in dark uniforms. No words were exchanged. Nods sufficed.
The firefight that erupted was a stark, deafening ballet of violence. Light strobed from muzzle flashes, illuminating the choking haze in jagged snapshots. Shapes moved in the fog. Julian fired controlled bursts, the kick of the submachine gun familiar and hated. He saw a dark shape loom and fired. It dropped.
Alistair fought beside him like a specter of calculated fury. He used the walls for cover, his movements economical despite the pull of his injury. He was protecting Julian’s flank, always positioning himself between Julian and the deepest thrust of the invaders’ push. Julian saw him twist to fire at a target emerging from a side passage, the motion wrenching his torso. Alistair’s jaw tightened, but his aim never wavered. The shot took the attacker in the throat.
But the invaders kept coming. Four more breached the outer door, weapons blazing. The security team leader went down with a choked cry, a bloom of red darkening her shoulder. The dynamic shifted. The corridor became a choke point of noise and lead.
Alistair saw a gunman taking aim at Julian, who was focused on another target. Without a second’s hesitation, Alistair pushed off the wall and stepped into the line of fire, his own pistol barking twice. The attacker fell. The effort was a physical tax. Julian saw Alistair stumble, a hand flying to his side where fresh blood was now soaking through his black shirt.
“Alistair!” Julian yelled, dropping his empty magazine and slamming in a new one.
“I’m fine,” Alistair gritted out, but his voice was thin, strained. He was breathing in short, sharp gasps. He fired again, but his stance was off, his strength fading.
Then Julian was there. He shoved Alistair back against the relative safety of a structural support column. “Stay down,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He took Alistair’s position, becoming the barrier. His mind quieted, settling into a cold, hyper-focused state he’d long thought buried. He picked targets. Two shots. A man fell. He pivoted, fired at movement near the ceiling—someone climbing. The body crumpled to the floor.
He fought with a brutal efficiency that mirrored Alistair’s own, but fueled by something new, something fiercely protective. He cleared the forward space, coordinating with the remaining security team member with hand signals. Together, they pushed the last invaders back into the cloud of pepper spray. The final shots echoed, then there was only the ringing silence and the sharp, acrid stink of gunpowder and blood.
It was over.
Julian’s ears hummed. He turned. Alistair was leaning heavily against the column, his face ashen, one hand clamped over his bleeding side. The pistol hung loose in his other hand.
“Med team to Sector Seven,” Julian barked into the radio clipped to his shoulder, his voice surprisingly steady. “We have wounded.”
“No,” Alistair said, pushing himself upright with a visible wince. His eyes were glazed with pain but intent. “Not the med wing. Our apartment.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’re bleeding again.” Julian moved to support him, his arm sliding around Alistair’s back, his hand coming away warm and wet.
“The med bay is a sterile box full of strangers and morphine drips,” Alistair hissed, sagging against Julian. His breath was hot and ragged against Julian’s neck. “I don’t want a stranger. I want you to fix it.” He looked at Julian, the arrogance gone, replaced by a raw, startling need. “Please.”
Julian assessed him quickly. The bleeding was from the torn suture, a reopened wound, not a new one. It was messy, not mortal. The security team member was watching them, waiting for orders. “We’ve got it,” Julian said to him, his decision made. “Secure the perimeter. We’re heading back.”
He half-carried, half-walked Alistair down the blood-slicked corridor, away from the bodies and the lingering chemical burn in the air, back toward the sleek, sealed door of their apartment. Back to the orange sofa and the artificial sunrise. Alistair leaned into him, his weight a solid, trusting burden. The door hissed shut behind them, sealing out the carnage, sealing them in together.
The door hissed shut behind them, sealing out the carnage, sealing them in together. Alistair’s weight sagged against Julian fully then, a sharp, pained exhale escaping his lips. The façade of invincibility crumpled, leaving only a man bleeding on expensive polished concrete. “Left side,” Alistair grated out, his voice tight. “It’s just the suture.”
“Just the suture,” Julian muttered, steering him toward the orange sofa. “You say that like it’s a scuffed shoe, not a bullet hole you keep ripping open.” He lowered Alistair down, the leather sighing under his weight. The black shirt was sodden, clinging unpleasantly. “Arms up. Let’s see the damage.”
Alistair complied, lifting his arms with a stiff, pained slowness. Julian peeled the fabric up, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. The bandage beneath was a dark, ruined red. Julian fetched the medical kit, his movements efficient. He used shears to cut the old gauze away.
The wound was angry. The lowest stitch had torn clean through, leaving a small, vicious gape that seeped steadily. The flesh around it was swollen and hot. Julian cleaned it meticulously, the antiseptic wick cold and sharp. Alistair flinched, a sharp intake of breath the only sign.
“Easy,” Julian murmured, his voice dropping into a lower register. He pressed a fresh gauze pad against the weeping injury, holding firm pressure. With his other hand, he began to massage the taut, knotted muscles of Alistair’s abdomen, just above the hip. His fingers worked in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the incredible tension there unspool thread by thread.
Alistair’s breath hitched again, but this time it was different. He leaned back into the sofa, his head tilting back, eyes closing. He leaned into Julian’s touch, his body yielding even as his presence filled the room, domineering in its very vulnerability. “You’re surprisingly good at that,” he said, the words slightly slurred with exhaustion.
“Had a client once, a yoga instructor with chronic knots. Commission was worth a few lessons in anatomy.” Julian’s tone was light, but his focus was absolute. He felt another flinch as he applied a new adhesive bandage, sealing the wound. Again, his free hand soothed, kneading the rigid line of Alistair’s obliques. “You’re a mess of them. Feels like steel cable under here.”
“Stress,” Alistair offered, as if citing a quarterly report.
“No kidding.” Julian finished taping the bandage, his fingers lingering on the warm skin. He traced the edge of the dressing, then the older, healing scar higher up. A map of their survival. He looked at Alistair’s face, the sweat on his brow, the pale set of his mouth. “You pushed it too far.”
“It was required.” Alistair opened his eyes. The ice blue was clouded with pain, but the intensity was undimmed. He captured Julian’s wrist, his grip firm. “You were impressive.”
“You hurt yourself protecting me.”
“An acceptable trade.” Alistair’s thumb stroked the inside of Julian’s wrist, a stark contrast to the violence minutes before. He held Julian’s gaze, the silence stretching, filled with the echo of gunfire and the scent of blood and antiseptic. He drew a slow breath. “Julian.”
“Yeah?”
“Take us to the bathroom.” Alistair’s voice was low, stripped bare. “The sunken tub. I want to soak. I want…” He paused, the admission costly. “I don’t want to smell the blood on me anymore.”
Julian nodded. He stood, offering a hand. Alistair took it, pulling himself up with a wince. They moved slowly through the living area, past the serene, oblivious savannah sunset glowing on the wall. The bathroom felt like a sanctuary from a different era, all warm wood and glossy tile.
The sunken spa tub was a dramatic oval of smooth, charcoal-colored stone, set into the floor. Julian started the water, adjusting the temperature until steam began to rise in soft clouds. He found a vial of bergamot and eucalyptus oil in a cabinet and tipped a generous amount into the rising water. The sharp, clean scent cut through the lingering metallic fear in the air.
Alistair shed his ruined pants, moving with stiff, careful motions. Julian did the same, his own body a catalogue of fresh bruises. He climbed in first, the hot water a shocking, welcome embrace on his aching muscles. He held out a hand.
Alistair took it, lowering himself into the tub with a controlled, slow descent. A hiss escaped his clenched teeth as the water reached his wound, but he settled back, letting the heat envelop him. The water swirled, clouded by dirt and dried blood leaching from their skin. Julian watched it dissipate.
He moved through the water, the buoyancy easing his movements. He positioned himself behind Alistair, between his outstretched legs. Alistair leaned back against his chest without a word, his head resting on Julian’s shoulder. The water lapped at their chins.
Julian began to work his hands over Alistair’s shoulders again, kneading the rock-hard trapezius muscles. He felt each knot release under his fingers, each tremor of tension dissolving into the heat. Alistair’s breath deepened, his body growing heavier against Julian’s.
“They’ll try again,” Alistair said, his voice muted by the water and steam.
“I know.”
“We can’t stay here forever.”
“I know that, too.” Julian’s fingers traced the line of Alistair’s collarbone, over the unmarked skin of his chest, avoiding the bandage. “We’ll figure it out.”
Alistair turned his head slightly, his lips brushing the damp skin of Julian’s neck. It wasn’t a kiss, just contact. A silent acknowledgment. The water held them both, weightless. For the first time in days, the only sound was their breathing, and the gentle lap of water against stone. The world, with all its noise and death, was on the other side of a door. Here, there was only heat, and scent, and the profound, aching quiet of being truly seen, and still choosing to stay.