Chapter 4

Ivan liked being right. In a setting where making good judgment calls could mean the difference between life and death, being right was a requirement. When death wasn't a possibility, being right just felt good.

This was neither of those cases.

Already the awkwardness of the situation was making itself prevalent even with the need to sneak passed David and his cronies. That was some potent social discomfort, to be felt even in the face of gunfire. Fortunately, Ivan was pleasantly surprised to find that Alfred was rather street smart, or the post-apocalyptic version of street smart. He knew to keep his head down and always be ready to dive out of the way, a habit that had taken Ivan awhile to master which Yao tried to grind into his head ever since…well, tragedy waits on no one. Ivan had never been particularly close with Yao's siblings, but their fate shook him almost as badly as Irunya's. Yao liked to think he was too stoic for such displays, but oh, he showed it.

"Who are those creeps?" Alfred breathed from his spot crouched beside Ivan.

Ivan paused, watching one armed man turn and march towards the warehouse they had just abandoned. "Cruel men," Ivan answered softly. "We stole from them; the less guns they have the better off everyone else is. But they are not about to let that go." He tugged at Alfred's arm and they moved slowly on. The maze of crates arranged almost like soldiers in formation across the dock provided nice places to hide and take cover, but of course created some blind spots, particularly when turning corners. Ivan's ears were ringing from the strain of trying to pinpoint each man's location. The vibrations from their footfalls reverberated just enough to assist in mapping out their tracks.

A series of rough taps on the shoulder alerted Ivan to Alfred's wide, worried gaze. Silently, Alfred pointed to somewhere over Ivan's shoulder; turning, he saw David himself strolling along the docks, gun up and ready to fire. His eyes swept ahead of him; they were just beyond his sight, but if he turned much further left, they could be in view of him behind the crates.

"Chyort vazmi," Ivan swore under his breath; in his haste to move away his hand landed firmly on Alfred's shoulder, not registering the contact at the time, nor how Alfred tensed beneath his touch. With steady nudges, Ivan guided them further down the row, glancing every now and again over his shoulder. David was continuing his path, his back to them; now, he was turning, looking right down the row of crates they hid behind. He was marching over, but now alarm had been raised. One step closer, another, one more. The barrel of his gun glinted in the setting sun. Onward Ivan and Alfred crept, hearts pounding. Another step. Another. If they moved so much as a centimeter too high, they would be visible. One more step. One more.

And the next time Ivan looked over his shoulder, David met his gaze. The barrel of his gun rose.

"Go!" And with a mighty shove Ivan sent Alfred reeling five feet to the side as a small crater erupted where he had crouched moments ago. David let out a poisonously sweet laugh as he reloaded his gun, Ivan dove aside right as a bullet whizzed by and impeded itself in the nearby crate. His outstretched hand quickly latched onto Alfred; both wasted no time scrambling to their feet and, still half-crouched, sprinting as best they could down the aisle and vaulting over another row of boxes. Men were yelling. The blasts of gunfire pierced the twilit air, shattering all pretenses of serenity this seaside location might have had before. All the while, Ivan's arm remained draped over Alfred's shoulders, continually trying to keep him leaning low. His free hand had pulled his handgun free and was returning fire. A moment of triumph arose when he heard a cry of pain that most certainly came from David.

Alfred did not take well to the prolonged contact. Swooping low, he unlatched himself from Ivan's grip and sprinted on.

"Hey!" Ivan called, torn between astonishment and anger. Who was this newcomer to pull away from his protection? He and Yao had been burdened with escorting him, and here he was running away from his services. Ivan pelted after him, only half focusing on the vengeful crooks behind them.

That was a mistake.

With a crash and a roar, one of the gunmen charged into Ivan from the side, and the two crashed painfully into a broken-down forklift. A stabbing pain blossomed in Ivan's shoulder blade as, beside him, his attacker groaned and began to regain his bearings. Through the throbbing in his shoulder, Ivan flung himself atop the man, gun tossed aside, as he pressed his hands to the man's throat. Fingers clawed fruitlessly at his wrists, trying to pry him off. Ivan pressed harder still against the man's windpipe, relishing in how his eyes bulged.

"Ah!"

Ivan let out a choked gasp as a second assailant joined the fray, reaching from behind to press a metal pipe against his neck and drag him back. Ivan coughed, moving backward in an attempt to free himself from the constraint, but the second man merely pulled further until Ivan was pressed against his chest, throat closed off as the pipe dug into his neck. His elbows flew left and right, trying to strike his attacker, but they both merely ended up twisting and writhing where they stood, Ivan's lips gradually paling as he lost more air.

Wham!

Alfred came diving out of nowhere, all thoughts of planning and sneaking forsaken as he crashed into the taller man. It was enough. With a deep inhale of blessedly fresh air, Ivan spun, elbow plowing into his attacker's stomach; the man doubled over, retching as Ivan scooped up his gun and, in one single fluid motion, levelled the barrel at the man's head and fired. He fell with a dull thump to the ground, blood pooling beneath his cracked skull.

Victory was short lived but fruitful nonetheless. Grabbing an ashen faced Alfred in a vicelike grip, Ivan sent them tearing off in the opposite direction as reinforcements came. The gang was slowed; David was injured. The odds were in their favor as the pair sprinted away from the docks, feet hammering, hearts pounding even more. The sight of abandoned buildings was a blessing. Cover. They had cover now.

In this little strip of civilization, just outside the barrier of relentless patrols, one could take a tentative rest. There was always a guarantee of running into Infected, but holing up in a well-fortified area offered more protection than any other place available to them at the moment. And so Ivan did not permit them to stop until they were within a cookie cutter suburban home that had once surely been charming, a welcome sight for its inhabitants after a long day. The people who called this house home were gone now, though; Ivan suspected some of them must have been the Runners he and Yao faced when they first stumbled across this area some time ago.

Panting, Ivan slid down the wall to rest on the musty floor. In front of them, Alfred was doubled over, hands on his knees as he tried to regain his breath.

"That…was really…close," Alfred said between pants. "I didn't think…we'd…hey!"

Ivan had risen and seized Alfred by the collar of his jacket. "What were you thinking?"

Blue eyes widened behind square spectacles. "What the hell?" he demanded.

"You go tearing off like that?" Ivan said, English ready to slip from his mind in his annoyance. "What do you think all of this is for? We just finished arranging with the German to escort you, and you go off on your own?"

Alfred scowled, shoving one of Ivan's large hands from his shoulder. Ivan immediately replaced it again. Alfred's scowl deepened and the process repeated once more. "Prussian," he said suddenly, stepping back so he was out of Ivan's range.

"What?"

"Prussian. He's really particular about that. Not German- Prussian."

Ivan stared. "I do not care if he is descendant of Atlantis," he said almost shrilly. "He is annoying and abrasive, and gave clear instructions. Why make my and Yao's job harder by playing hide and seek?"

"Dude, you gotta chill, I wasn't even out of your line of sight, we were being fired at and I just wanted to get away from the manhandling."

"Manhandling?" Ivan echoed.

"Yeah, Red, manhandling. You're way too touchy feelsy. Or at least way too touchy."

"My name is not Red."

"I know, dude, it's a joke."

"Where is the punch line?"

"You probably ate it," Alfred muttered, eyeing Ivan's great size. It was said under his breath, not even meant to be heard by the Russian, but oh, he heard. Violet eyes narrowed.

"Oh, I see now. Because of my accent. And that is why you thought I was from the mafia."

"Y…yeah. Like I said, joke."

"Or KGB?"

"Yeah."

"What if I told you my great-uncle Vadim was arrested and tortured by the KBG? Still funny?"

"Dude, look, I'm sorry!" Alfred waved his hands through the air in frustration. "Won't happen again, Red. I was never told Russians don't have a sense of humor."

"This can be very easy," Ivan said slowly, advancing upon Alfred. "Or this can be very, very painful. Which will it be, Yankee?"

Alfred bristled, chest puffing out defiantly. "Well, at least it'd be interesting."

They stared, amethyst meeting sapphire, a battle of wills. Ivan's eyes were narrowed, lips pursed, ready to continue this silent challenge indefinitely. Those glasses glinted softly in the dying light coming in from the window, partially obscuring the defiant irises behind them. At long last, Alfred sighed, a deep thing that seemed to deflate his entire body. He suddenly found intense interest in the laces of his sneakers.

"I'm sorry, man, all that stuff was apparently really stupid and I shouldn't have said it."

Ivan did not back down. He did not tense further, but his posture remained stiff as a board. Alfred's eyes slowly dragged themselves up from his shoes, a confused look adorning his features as he waited for some kind of reaction. After a few moments longer in utter silence, Ivan figured he'd let him suffer enough. Ivan too sighed.

"All of this is crazy," he muttered, returning to his sitting position at the base of the wall. "We barely know each other and now have to spend all this time together until we reach the Fireflies."

"Yeah." Hesitantly, Alfred came to sit down beside him. A foot of empty space remained between them, a deep trench of tension. But the Russian had made no move to get away. "I just moved off cause, well, if you didn't notice, we were being fired at."

Ivan scowled, not as much venom behind it; it was more fatigue. "When your German friend-"

"Prussian."

"Told us to escort you, I knew I would have to play bodyguard."

"But you don't!" Alfred insisted with a wave of the hands. Ivan jabbed a finger at him.

"Yao and I want to get this done and over with so we can fix the sneaky tricks your friend pulled. "So we need you to cooperate with us."

"Yao's your Asian friend?" Alfred clarified, refusing to agree to Ivan's demands.

Ivan nodded, stretching as he clambered back to his feet. "Da. I have known him for ages. We are very close to pursuing some much nicer arrangements for ourselves. This deal seems to be the final piece."

Alfred raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of understanding, saying airily "Hey, I'm all for that. We'll get it so you two can buy a nice holiday home in zombie hell no problem." He let out a grunt as he too rose to his feet, dusting off the backs of his legs.

"Not a holiday home," Ivan informed him, marching over to the coffee table and taking a quick inventory of his supplies and ammunition. "Now go check to see if there is any medicine or things we could use. And stay close. Let me know where you are."

"Yeesh, yeah, I'll just scout out an entire house while being close and sneak around making noise." Alfred made a huge show of rolling his eyes, sauntering off, footsteps louder than needed. Ivan let out a sigh of relief.

"Help me survive him, Irunya," he muttered, glancing up at the cracked ceiling. "You see what a headache he is already? Why do Yao and I have to work with someone so foolish? This could have been easy." The popcorn ceiling offered no answer. But Ivan liked to imagine he could hear Irunya's musical laugh as she patted his shoulder and reminded him of the good things that came out of being patient. Whatever you put in was what you got in return. "But you did so much," he reminded her, glancing down at his supplies. "And someone who was supposed to protect you…let you die." His voice broke off. No…he couldn't go down that path again, no good ever came of that horrid trail of thought… The cherished pink scarf around his neck suddenly felt very snug. Calloused fingers worked their way under the fabric, loosening it around the damaged neck. All these years and all these scars later, the only thing he had to be grateful for was that they were from other humans rather than Infected. Had one of the Infected bitten into him…well, he knew what he wanted to do.

In truth, although sometimes he and Yao did find bits of useful items each time they returned, Ivan really just wanted Alfred to leave the room so he could have some quiet time. No obligations to force conversation- which was already proving disastrous- and just some time to think, to reflect. Gentle thumping and the sound of drawers sliding, cabinets closing, alerted him to Alfred's continued presence, leaving him free to his own devices.

He was running low on pain killers; the supply would run out soon. Occasionally he would use pills if he was plagued with a migraine or aches around his neck, but otherwise he tried to save them for any injury delivered in the line of his and Yao's "business".

Bullets were easy enough to obtain; he got in so many gunfights that swapping out weapons was as common as changing his socks…actually, he needed new socks. The heels on most of his were worn through and the blisters from that could be unbearable, and he would be doing a lot of walking.

Food came from rations and anything else they found that was salvageable. Ivan had learned firsthand not to place too much trust in nonperishables he came across. The stomach problems he got from the pasta he tried to boil for soup had left him confined to the bed and bathroom for four days. Yao had stayed with him for quite a bit of it, at least. Even as he scolded Ivan for making such a stupid choice, Yao's delicate yet strong fingers continually brushed his bangs out of his face while his free hand rubbed reassuring circles into his back as Ivan wretched into the toilet. He had needed another two days free of vomiting before he could walk properly. Yao had given him two-thirds of his own rations during those two days, to help him build up his strength again.

Wherever Yao was, Ivan thought as he repacked his supplies and went off to search for Alfred, he hoped he was alright dealing with that abrasive albino.

NOTES: Who was Ivan talking about when he said someone who loved Irunya let her die? The gunman who shot her, or…? It's a hard thing to live with for the rest of his life, either way. As always, hope you enjoyed this chapter! Feel free to let me know what you think.