Chapter 9: Refuel
The gravel crackled beneath the tires as Julian guided the Yukon behind the gas station, putting the decaying brick wall between them and the road. He killed the engine. The sudden silence was a physical weight, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the ragged, wet sound of Alistair’s breathing.
“Don’t you die on me,” Julian muttered, not to Alistair, but to the universe. A threat. A plea.
He shoved his door open and limped around the hood, the cold night air biting through his torn shirt where the bullet had grazed his shoulder. A hot, stinging line, already stiffening. It was nothing. He wrenched the passenger door open.
Alistair was half-slumped against the window, his eyes closed, face bone-white under the grime and dried sweat. His hands lay limp in his lap, blood-slick and dark. The makeshift bandage around his midsage was already a saturated crimson blossom.
“Thorne. Look at me.”
Alistair’s eyelids fluttered. His ice-blue eyes were clouded with pain, his focus swimming. “The… back… seat,” he breathed, each word a shard of glass in his throat.
“I got it.” Julian had already dumped the primary medical kit onto the console. Now he reached into the back and hauled Alistair’s precious pack—the one from the panic room, stuffed with his curated, end-of-the-world gear—onto the front seat. He unzipped it, his hands trembling not from fear but from a terrifying, focused rage. He rooted past the high-calorie ration bricks and the water filtration units, past the neatly packed tools, until his fingers closed on a hard, heavy case at the bottom. He pulled it out. It was a professional trauma kit, sleek and black, the kind used by special forces or paranoid billionaires.
He popped the latches. The interior was a museum of medical horror and hope. Sealed vacuum packs, a folding IV stand, bags of saline, packets of Hemostatic gauze he’d only ever seen in war documentaries, surgical suture kits, vials of morphine and broad-spectrum antibiotics.
“Jesus Christ, Alistair,” Julian whispered. Of course you had this.
“Saline… and the QuickClot… combat gauze,” Alistair directed, his voice a thread. “Front zip.”
Julian found it. He laid the materials out on the passenger seat: the gauze, a bag of saline, a sealed IV line, a packet of antiseptic wipes, a roll of thick surgical tape. He then reached in, grabbing Alistair under the arms. “We have to get you flat. This is gonna hurt.”
He pulled. Alistair bit back a groan that turned into a choked cough, a sound that was horribly wet. Julian reclined the seat all the way back until it was nearly horizontal, turning the front cabin into a crude gurney. Alistair lay there, breathing in short, sharp gasps, staring at the stained fabric of the Yukon’s ceiling.
“Light,” Julian said.
Alistair weakly lifted a hand, pointing a trembling finger at the kit. A small, powerful penlight was strapped to the lid. Julian snatched it, clicked it on, and clamped it in his teeth, aiming the beam at the wound.
He cut away the blood-soaked shirt and the pathetic bandage he’d applied on the road. The entry wound was a small, dark hole just below the left rib cage. It seeped steadily. He rolled Alistair as gently as he could onto his side, the man’s body heavy and uncooperative. The exit wound was larger, a torn, ugly star in the hard muscle of his back.It bled more freely.
“Through and through,” Julian said, the words muffled around the flashlight. “That’s something.”
He tore open the antiseptic wipes with his teeth and cleaned around both wounds, the stark smell of alcohol cutting through the coppery scent of blood. Alistair shuddered but made no sound. Then Julian ripped open the packet of Hemostatic gauze. It was a weird, clay-impregnated mesh. He packed it into both wounds, front and back, using his fingers to push it deep into the tunnels the bullet had carved. Alistair’s back arched off the seat, a strangled cry finally escaping his clenched teeth.
“I know, I know,” Julian chanted, a meaningless soothing tone. He held pressure, his own hands now slick with Alistair’s blood. After a minute, the bleeding slowed, then stopped, the gauze doing its miraculous, terrifying work. He taped thick absorbent pads over both sites, winding the tape around Alistair’s torso several times to secure them tightly.
Next, the IV. He’d never done this. He fumbled with the sealed line, tore the end with his teeth, found the port on the saline bag. He spiked it, his hands shaking. He squeezed the drip chamber until it was half-full, then cleared the line, watching a trickle of saline spill onto the dirt-floor.
“Your arm,” Julian said.
Alistair offered his left arm, the one without the knife wound from the diner. Julian tied a rubber tourniquet around his bicep, pulled it tight.The vein popped up. Julian swabbed it with an alcohol pad, the penlight beam trembling. He took the IV catheter. “Deep breath.”
He didn’t wait. He pressed the needle against the skin, pushed. It went in, a flash of blood appearing in the chamber. He advanced the plastic catheter, withdrew the needle, and taped the line down with a proficiency that surprised him. He connected the saline line, opened the flow regulator. Clear fluid began to run down the tube into Alistair’s vein.
He had nothing to hang it from. He looked around, desperate, then looped the bag’s hook over the handle above the passenger door. It swung there, a lifeline dangling from a car ceiling.
Julian sat back on his heels in the gravel, his breath fogging in the cold air. For a moment, the world swam. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow, trembling exhaustion. His knee screamed.His shoulder burned. Alistair’s blood was drying on his hands, under his nails, in the fine lines of his knuckles.
Alistair’s eyes were closed. His breathing was a little easier, but his color was still awful, a waxy grey.
“Hey,” Julian said, slapping his cheek lightly. “Stay awake. Talk to me. What’s the access code for the bunker?”
A ghost of a smile touched Alistair’s bloodless lips. “Not… a chance.”
“Fine. What’s the combination to your first bike lock?”
“Didn’t… have a bike.” Alistair’s voice was faint but clear. “Had… security detail.”
“Of course you did.” Julian checked the saline bag. It was flowing. He pulled a foil pack of antibiotics from the kit, pierced a capsule, and shook the powder into a small bottle of sterile water. “Drink this.”
He lifted Alistair’s head, held the bottle to his lips. Alistair swallowed obediently, his throat working. He coughed again, a dry hack this time.Better.
“The calculus,” Julian said, wiping Alistair’s chin. “You said it was unfavorable. You don’t get to decide that. I’m the one doing the math now.”
Alistair’s eyes found his. The arrogance was gone, the icy calculation melted. What was left was just a man, terrifically wounded, watching him from some deep, quiet place. “You’re… messier than I… anticipated.”
“You’re a worse patient than I anticipated. Now shut up and conserve energy.”
He couldn’t stay here. They needed fuel. The gauge was hovering near empty. The fight at the motel, the frantic escape—it had burned through their reserves. He looked at the old gas pumps, skeletal under the moon. A long shot.
“I’m going to check for fuel. Don’t move.”
“Wasn’t… planning… a stroll.”
Julian took the tire iron from the back, using it as a crutch. The graze on his shoulder pulled with every step. The gas station’s front windows were smashed, the door long gone. Inside was a cave of shadows, smelling of stale urine, decay, and old chemicals. He swept his penlight around. Shelves were stripped bare, the floor littered with broken glass and the brittle carcasses of long-dead rodents.
He moved behind the counter. A metal door stood ajar. A storeroom. His light found stacks of empty cardboard boxes, then, in the corner—two red plastic jerry cans. He lunged for them, his knee buckling. They were heavy.Full.
He unscrewed the cap of one, sniffed. The sharp, pungent smell of gasoline hit him. Pure gold.
He dragged both cans out, the weight agony on his shoulder and knee. Back at the Yukon, he spared a glance at Alistair. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell in a steady, shallow rhythm. The IV bag dripped.Good.
Siphoning was too slow, too hard. He found a length of cracked, dirty hose near the dumpster. He ignored the filth, forcing one end into the first jerry can, sucking on the other end until the gasoline hit his tongue—acrid, burning. He spat violently, shoved the hose into the Yukon’s tank, and let gravity do the work.
While the first can drained, he limped back into the station. His light caught a glint behind the counter. A small, laminated map of the state, covered in dust. He grabbed it. Then, on a lower shelf, half-hidden by a fallen rack, he saw it: a few dusty cans of food.Beef stew. He shoved them into his pockets.
He emptied both jerry cans into the tank. It wasn’t full, but it was enough. Maybe two hundred miles. He tossed the cans and the hose into the weeds.
Back in the driver’s seat, he was shaking from cold and exertion. He spread the map on the steering wheel, tracing their route with a filthy finger. The bunker was marked in Alistair’s precise, tiny script—a circle in the remote plains, miles from any named town. They were close.Maybe eighty miles. A straight shot on a thin, forgotten highway.
He could make it.
He started the engine, letting the heater blast cold air that gradually warmed. He looked over at Alistair.Still out. The saline bag was half-empty. In the glow of the dash lights, Julian saw a new problem.
A faint, delicate crust of ice was forming on the plastic IV bag where it touched the metal of the roof. The interior of the car was warming, but the metal above was still freezing cold from the night. Feeding ice-cold saline directly into his veins would send him into shock, if the cold didn’t outright kill him.
“Perfect,” Julian hissed. He carefully unhooked the bag, cradling it in his hands, trying to warm it with his own body heat. He couldn’t drive like this.
He rummaged in his own pack, finding a spare, threadbare sweater. He wrapped it around the bag, creating a clumsy insulating cocoon, and re-hung it. It would have to do.
He put the truck in drive, eased back onto the main road. The headlights carved a lonely tunnel through the endless dark. The world had shrunk to this: the hum of the engine, the rhythmic click of the turn signal he’d forgotten to cancel, the soft drip of the IV, and Alistair’s shallow, rhythmic breathing.
An hour passed. The plains were a black void.
A sound from the passenger seat—a low, pained murmur.
Julian glanced over. Alistair was awake, his eyes reflecting the green dashboard glow. He was watching the IV bag sway with the motion of the truck.
“You’re driving,” Alistair said. His voice was sandpaper, but coherent.
“Astute.”
“The bullet?”
“Went through. I packed it. You’re on antibiotics and fluids. Don’t get up.”
Alistair was silent for a long minute. Julian could feel the weight of his gaze. “You should have left me at the motel,” Alistair said finally. “The logical play. I was… am… a liability.”
Julian’s grip tightened on the wheel. The road stretched on, featureless.“Yeah, well. I’m not a spreadsheet, Thorne. I’m a person. And I don’t leave my investments half-finished.” He paused. “Besides, you still owe me for the suit you ruined.”
A faint, breathy sound escaped Alistair. It might have been the beginning of a laugh, cut short by pain. He closed his eyes again.
“Don’t sleep,” Julian ordered.
“Resting my eyes.”
“Same difference.Talk. Tell me about this bunker. Is there a hot tub?”
“Geothermal heating,” Alistair murmured, barely audible. “Four-posture climate control. A bartender AI named Nigel.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about Nigel.”
Julian found himself smiling, a cracked, foreign feeling on his face. The headlights caught a road sign, bullet-holed and rusted. It listed a town name that meant nothing, with the distance: 42 miles.
They were getting close.
The sky in the east began to soften from black to a deep, bruised grey. Dawn wasn’t far off. The endless plain started to reveal itself in shades of gloom—fences with missing posts, the husks of distant farmhouses, rolling hills of dead grass.
Alistair’s breathing had evened out into something approximating sleep. Julian kept driving, one hand occasionally reaching up to adjust the sweater-wrapped IV bag, checking its warmth.
His own eyelids grew heavy. The pain in his body was a constant, low symphony. He rolled down the window, let the freezing air slap him awake.
According to the map, the turnoff was coming up. A non-descript service road, unmarked. He slowed, squinting into the predawn gloom. There—a break in the fence line, two parallel ruts leading off into a field of tall, brown grass.
He turned. The Yukon jolted onto the rough track. Alistair stirred, a low groan escaping him as the truck bounced.
“Almost there,” Julian said, more to himself than to his passenger. “Just hold on.”
The track wound for two miles, then ended abruptly at a stand of dense, skeletal pine trees.A dead end.
“This is it?” Julian whispered, a cold knot of doubt tightening in his gut.
Alistair had opened his eyes. He was staring at the tree line with a fierce, focused intensity. “There,” he said, lifting a weak hand. “Between the two largest. A service panel. Looks like a utility box.”
Julian saw it now—a grey, innocuous metal cabinet mounted on a concrete post, half-obscured by brambles. He drove closer, stopped. He got out, his legs stiff and protesting. The world was utterly silent in the grey pre-dawn light.
He walked to the box. It was locked with a heavy-duty padlock. He looked back at the truck. Alistair was watching him, his face pale in the window. He gave a slight, shaky nod.
Julian turned back. He hefted the tire iron. The first clang against the lock sounded obscenely loud in the stillness. The second blow sheared the hasp.The lock fell away.
He opened the cabinet. Inside was not a maze of wires, but a single, sleek biometric scanner and a keypad, glowing with a soft green light. He returned to the truck.
“It wants a fingerprint and a code,” Julian said.
Alistair moved his right hand weakly. Julian helped him, pulling off the tactical glove. Alistair’s hand was cold, the fingers trembling. Julian supported his wrist, guiding his index finger to the scanner pad in the cabinet. A beep. A green light flashed.
“Code,” Alistair breathed, his eyes closing again.
“Thorne. The code.”
Alistair’s lips moved. Julian leaned in, his ear almost touching Alistair’s mouth.
“Seven… nine… Alpha… Tango… Zero… Niner,” Alistair whispered, the old NATO phonetic clear even in his weakness.
Julian rushed back, punched the sequence into the keypad. 7 9 A T 0 9.
For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened.
Then, with a deep, subterranean groan that vibrated up through the soles of his feet, the earth began to move. A hundred yards ahead, a seamless section of the hillside, covered in grass and scrub, lifted upward on massive, silent hydraulics. It revealed a sloping, concrete ramp leading down into a lit, polished tunnel.
Julian stood frozen, staring at the impossible door to a secret world. The cool, filtered air that wafted from the tunnel smelled of ozone and cleanliness.
He heard the weak, insistent tap on the truck’s window.He turned. Alistair had managed to roll it down. His face was grey with exhaustion and pain, but his eyes were clear, holding Julian’s across the distance.
“Drive,” Alistair said, the command barely audible. “Before it closes.”
The Yukon’s engine roared as Julian stamped on the gas, shooting the truck forward into the revealed concrete throat of the earth. The massive door began its descent behind them the moment their rear bumper cleared it, plunging them into a long, downward-sloping tunnel lined with glowing white panels. The air was sterilized, cool, and utterly silent except for the hum of their tires.
“Stop at the first checkpoint,” Alistair breathed, his head lolling against the window. His voice was fading again. “They’ll scan… the vehicle.”
The tunnel opened into a vast, domed cavern lit like an airport hangar. A barrier of polished steel blocks rose from the floor ahead, and four figures in crisp, grey uniforms stepped forward, their movements synchronized and devoid of haste. They carried sleek, matte-black rifles not for show.
Julian brought the battered, blood-smeared Yukon to a halt. He kept his hands visible on the wheel. One guard approached his window, her expression neutral, her eyes taking in the bullet-starred windshield, the dried gore, Julian’s ragged appearance. Another went to Alistair’s side.
“Identify,” the guard at Julian’s window said, her voice calm and devoid of inflection.
Before Julian could fumble for a lie, Alistair raised a trembling hand and pressed it against the glass. The guard on his side saw him, and her professional mask slipped for a microsecond into genuine alarm. “Med-team to Vehicle Entry Delta, immediately,” she barked into a wrist-mounted comm. “Resident Thorne is code crimson.”
The steel barriers retracted. A silent, electric cart glided up, followed by two people in pale blue medical uniforms pushing a gurney.They moved with terrifying efficiency. Julian’s door was opened. “Sir, please step out,” his guard instructed, not unkindly.
He stumbled out, his knee buckling. He had to lean against the filthy truck. They had Alistair out and onto the gurney in seconds, cutting away the bloody sweater and his makeshift bandages with shears. One medic started a new IV line while the other attached wireless sensors to his chest.
“Gunshot, left lower quadrant, through-and-through,” Julian heard himself say, his voice a raspy relic from another world. “Hemostatic gauze front and back, approx four hours ago. One gram of cefazolin, intramuscular, at the same time. Saline running but likely hypothermic.”
The lead medic, a man with a close-cropped beard, glanced at him, nodded once. “You the one who packed it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good work.” It was all he said before turning back. “BP is sixty over forty. Let’s move.”
Julian limped after the gurney as it was wheeled swiftly toward a set of wide, silent doors. The guards fell in beside him, not restraining him, but ensuring he followed. One took his elbow as he stumbled. “Easy does it.”
They passed into a bright, white medical bay that smelled of antiseptic and ozone. It was all clean lines and muted lighting. Alistair was transferred to a real bed, surrounded by soft-chirping machines. A doctor in a white coat was already there, reviewing a tablet that had somehow synced with Alistair’s vitals.
Julian hovered near the doorway, a piece of living decay in this pristine world. He watched as they cut away the rest of Alistair’s clothes, revealing the brutal purple and black bruising that had bloomed across his side and back. The doctor examined the wounds, nodded at Julian’s handiwork. “Clean it.Imaging. I want a full abdominal scan. Prep for surgical exploration if the scan shows active bleed.”
People flowed around Julian. A young woman in blue scrubs approached him. “Sir, you’re injured as well.” She gestured to his shoulder, the dark stain on his torn shirt.
“It’s a graze. It’s fine.”
“It requires attention. Please.”
He let himself be led to a separate bed, a curtain drawn partway for privacy. He sat on the crisp sheet, the sterility of the place making him feel even more feral. A different medic, a woman with kind eyes, cleaned the bullet burn on his shoulder. It stung, but the pain was distant. She applied a clear, spray-on sealant that formed a flexible, waterproof bandage. She then gently cut his trouser leg away and unwrapped his knee, hissing sympathetically at the swollen, angry joint. She scanned it with a handheld device, her eyes on a small screen.
“Severe ligament strain, minor meniscus tear. No surgical intervention needed.” She sprayed a cool mist over it that immediately numbed the deep ache, then wrapped it in a self-adhering, supportive bandage that felt both firm and light. “This should help.Rest it. You’ll have a limp for a week or so.”
The entire process took ten minutes. When the curtain was drawn back, he saw Alistair was still in the bed, but now covered with a thin sheet, connected to more monitors. An image of his abdomen glowed on a wall screen, intricate and colorful. The doctor was pointing, speaking in low tones to a colleague.
“No active hemorrhage,” the doctor said, turning to include Julian. “The packing did its job. The bullet missed major vasculature by millimeters. It nicked the spleen, but the bleed has clotted. We’ll watch it. He’s severely hypovolemic—lost too much blood. We’re correcting that now. He’ll be weak for days, but he’ll live.”
The weight that left Julian’s body was physical. He sagged, his hands gripping the edge of the bed. “Okay,” he said, because it was the only word that came.
“He’s asking for you,” the doctor said, a hint of curiosity in his clinical tone. “He’s lucid, briefly. The pain management is making him drowsy.”
Julian walked over, his steps uneven on the polished floor. Alistair looked pale against the white pillow, but the grey, deathly hue was gone from his lips. His eyes were half-open, the brilliant blue dulled by drugs and exhaustion.
“Told you,” Alistair murmured, his voice slurred but audible. “Nigel… makes a good martini.”
“You’re an idiot,” Julian said, but there was no heat in it.
A wheelchair was brought. With the help of an orderly, they got Alistair into it, his IV pole attached to the back. He was dressed in soft, grey patient scrubs. Julian was given a set too, to replace his blood-crusted clothes.
“Resident Thorne’s quarters are in the Aurora Section,” an orderly said. “I can guide you.”
“I’ll push him,” Julian said. It wasn’t a question.
The orderly nodded and led the way. They left the medical ward through a different set of doors, entering a corridor that looked nothing like a bunker. The walls were a warm, polished walnut. The floor was some resilient material that looked like oak. Recessed lighting glowed softly from the ceiling. It was quiet, calm. The air smelled faintly of lemongrass.
They passed a few other residents. A man in a tailored sweater and slacks gave them a polite, distant nod. A woman reading a tablet on a bench glanced up, her eyes lingering on Julian’s battered face and their medical scrubs before looking away without expression. It was a curated normalcy, unsettling in its completeness.
The orderly stopped at a featureless section of wall. He placed his palm on a panel. A door, seamlessly hidden in the woodgrain, slid open with a soft hiss.
“Your biometrics will be registered tomorrow, Resident Thorne,” the orderly said. “Rest well.”
Julian pushed the wheelchair over the threshold.
The room beyond was a vast, open-concept space that defied the concrete reality buried around it. It was a love letter to the Atomic Age, but with a present-day budget. The far wall was a curved vista of what looked like a living forest, projected with such depth and clarity it took Julian a moment to realize it was a screen. The furniture was all sleek, tapered legs and organic shapes: a long, low sofa in burnt orange velvet, a chair like a sculpted seashell in olive green. A prominent, stylized wooden console held a turntable and a collection of vinyl records.
Light came from elegant sputnik chandeliers and glowing, mushroom-shaped floor lamps. The kitchen area was all brushed steel and rounded edges. Doors led off to what were presumably a bedroom and bathroom.
It was silent, warm, and immaculate.
Julian parked the wheelchair by the spectacular view, the artificial twilight of the forest scene casting dappled shadows on the floor. He sank onto the orange sofa, the softness of it feeling alien against his battered body.
Alistair’s head was nodding forward, the drugs pulling him under. He fought it, his eyes struggling to focus on Julian across the lavish room.
“Home sweet home,” Julian said, his voice echoing slightly in the spacious quiet.
Alistair’s lips moved, the words slow and thick. “You… saved the asset.”
“Yeah. The asset’s a real prick, by the way.”
A ghost of that familiar arrogance touched Alistair’s face, then melted into something raw and unguarded. His eyelids fluttered shut, then open again, a losing battle. “Julian.”
“What?”
“The suit…” Alistair whispered, his consciousness fading. “I’ll get you… a new one.”
Then he was out, his breathing deep and even, the steady beep of the portable monitor the only sound in the luxurious, silent tomb. Julian sat in the profound quiet, staring at the fake, perfect trees, and for the first time since the world ended, he had absolutely no idea what came next.