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The wheat hasn't felt so claustrophobic at first.
Nico has been driving. To where, he does not know. The car is a sports car. Small, with a high-powered engine, good for driving away from things. Not a convertible, but all the same, the roof didn't give much of a fight. For a wonderful while, the weather has been nice and he feels like flying. For a wondrous while, it has been him, the car, and the road. And the wheat. Lots and lots of wheat swaying, dancing to the rhythm of the changing seasons.
He's usually not bad at not getting lost, but everything has looked dreadfully the same for so long it feels like he's been driving on a treadmill. A wheaty treadmill with occasional twists and turns and, as luck would have it, gas stations, but still, it's been a treadmill without any discernible features. At all.
Which is why, after taking the latest left turn, he almost sprains his entire leg slamming on the brakes when he sees... that. Thing. Moving-- thing. Being. Animate being unlike the lifeless road and endless fields of wheat. Animate being that appears to be moving on its own.
The being is orange (or possibly burnt sienna, but this is hardly time for semantics) and at least seven feet tall. And frighteningly not human. There is no way that that is human. And given its intimidating size and eldritch proportions, its humanoid movement just makes it all the more horrifying. The only saving grace is that it's facing away from Nico, stalking away from Nico without any indication of having noticed Nico's existence, which Nico decides is very fortunate.
That is, until he realizes he only has two options in terms of which direction to go. There has been no crossroads of destiny, no junction of any sort, only wheat and the road and wheat-infested gas station after wheat-infested gas station, day after day. So going back would be gravely counterproductive, but going forward is...
Nico clenches his jaw and braces himself. The only way out is through. The only way to move forward is moving forward. Certainly, the task should be surmountable, and might even be simple. Advance forward slowly and quietly so as not to alert the being prematurely, and upon coming within its hypothetical attack range, hightail it the limbo ahead at full speed.
It's as good a plan as any, and yet more cells in his body go into panic mode the closer to it he gets. The road is unfortunately constrictive and there's no wide berth to give. Nico hopes the being has poor peripheral vision.
As he's about to step on the gas, the being turns.
It's the most terrifying sight Nico has ever seen, by far, and that's saying a lot. Wide, bewildering googly eyes that seem to stare into your very soul. Unkempt, unmoved-by-the-blowing-wind fur suggestive of mirthful tenacity and maniacal grit. Gaping maw of nothingness that's unquestionably full of sharp, retractable teeth, all the better to swallow you whole with.
Speak of the devil, Nico can feel his teeth and skull and spine tremble as the being starts making fearsome grunting noise without ever moving its smiling mouth. Then--
"Can I help you?" Nico, barely holding the last shred of his lucidity together, thinks he hears coming out of its-- No, their still smiling mouth. That's a lot of voices talking synchronously as one, most of them deep and mumbling, some of them chirpy and reverberating, all of them making Nico chill down to the endoskeleton.
Under normal circumstances, Nico would leg it, no question, but considering the car has stopped without him ever noticing and there's literally nowhere to run and no one to turn to, he seriously has no choice. So, squeezing his eyes shut he takes in a breath, before reopening his eyes and says, "Do you, by any chance, know where we are?"
It's almost funny how little Nico's life flashes as the being, very menacingly, raises both their anarchic-looking hands, then, less menacingly, takes their head off.
It might be that he hasn't seen another human person in quite a while, but Nico would bet anything that the guy standing before him is not only the most stunning sight he has ever seen but also will ever see throughout this unfathomable universe and until the fateful end of time. Ever.
"No," the guy answers in a normal, non-soul-stirring, albeit still mumbly voice.
Silence.
"You okay?" The guy asks, giving Nico a pointed once-over, followed by a rather concerned look.
And-- Nico is staring, sitting in a car with no roof, wearing white tie, and hasn't taken a proper shower in... a while. "Yes," Nico manages.
"Yeah?" The guy frowns a little, appearing skeptical. There's a brief moment of deliberation before he says, "You're going that way, right?" He gestures with his head, his human one, not the one he's holding. "Mind giving me a ride?"
.
"Seatbelt?" Nico suggests when the guy finishes settling into the passenger seat. The struggling process has taken some time since there isn't much room.
After much more struggling and not much settling, the guy sighs, gets out of the car, then, after some contemplation, his costume.
The guy is-- not wearing much underneath, a pair of shorts and presumably underwear, and is in good shape. Extremely good shape. The costume now lies in the backseat, not that Nico pays it any mind because the guy is looking straight at him, as if daring him to say something.
Nico gives the guy his coat, from on his back.
It's a bit too small, and the guy leaves it unbuttoned, which isn't very sensible, considering the weather, or, well, maybe he's from the north. The resulting ensemble should be well ridiculous but the guy pulls it off, sliding into his seat and fastening his seatbelt with poise and ease. The shorts are mostly made of ventilated mesh fabric, and under them is what seems to be an athletic supporter. Nico might be dying a wheaty, fiery death in the near future but he'll have a great view doing so. "My name is Nico."
"Patty, you can call me Nolan," the guy, Nolan, says. "And that's Gritty."
"Your costume has a name," Nico doesn't turn to look, doesn't ask. The costume's decapitated, dehumanized form is more mischievous-feeling than when Nolan was in it.
"That," Nolan begins as Nico starts the car, "is the bane of my sanity."
It is strangely not weird. They don't talk while they drive, but the quiet is companionable. Nolan fidgets with the radio a bit before giving up while Nico tries his best to focus on the road and not crash and burn. There are still some broadcasts, recorded and the opposite of reassuring. The rest are nothing but static.
"So are you like, a human cake topper or something?"
Nico pulls over before answering. No rush, one of the perks of not knowing where you're going. "This is my last wearable set of clothes."
Nolan hums, lounging in a way that can be regarded as very distracting, some might even say provocative. "Don't, like, take this the wrong way, but how've you survived this long?"
"The roof was torn away before I got in the car, and there have been gas stations that weren't too overrun by wheat," Nico says, meeting Nolan's gaze. "I have some food if you are hungry. And beverages."
"And what about...?" Nolan doesn't finish, makes a gesture with his hand that Nico surmises means the carnage and pandemonium of downtown everywhere.
"I have been luckier than most," Nico doesn't mean to sound cryptic, but. "It will be easier to show you," he settles on saying, reaching to open the glove compartment to offer Nolan the stash of snacks, to which Nolan responds with a grunt before taking a package of assorted jerked meat and tearing it open. "Where are you heading, if you don't mind me asking?"
"That way," Nolan says with half a mouthful, gesticulating towards the long road ahead with a piece of venison jerky, doesn't elaborate. Nico takes that as his cue to continue driving.
.
Some distance later, the car slows to a stop.
Nolan, who's ostensibly been catnapping, opens his eyes to investigate. "You're out of gas."
"That, we are," Nico confirms, not scowling at the dashboard. "There hasn't been any chance to refuel in a while."
When Nico turns to look at him, Nolan has this slightly surprised micro-expression on before he leans back, looks skyward, and closes his eyes.
"...?" Nico begins, but trails off when Nolan holds up a finger.
For a moment, everything seems to stop. For a brief moment, nothing happens. All the wheat stands still and the air becomes dead, all the while Nolan seems at peace, golden and halcyon and making Nico's heart stutter. Then Nolan breathes and things breathe with him, coming to life with him. The wheat around them waves and gentle gusts of wind blow. As though Nolan is one with nature. As though he has a say in the ebb and flow of the cosmos and plays an active role in the magical noumenon of the universe.
When Nolan's eyes meet Nico's again, what Nolan says is,
"There's a rest stop a couple kilometres ahead."
.
They walk. Nolan still hasn't buttoned the coat but has at least put on pants. Well, the bottom half of the costume, which can pass as pants, though the wide waistband still leaves little to the imagination.
About a kilometer in, there's "Why're you limping?" coming from Nolan's direction.
"I-- am not," Nico supplies, correcting his gait. The shoes are new, is the thing. They haven't been broken in yet and/or aren't made for walking, and hence are slowly killing Nico from the feet up. "This is fine."
In response to Nico's admittedly unconvincing performance, Nolan does a series of actions. He stops walking, openly glowers at Nico, appears to assess Nico's physical condition, appears to ponder the implications of his assessment, appears to devise a promising course of action, lightly sighs, steps closer then in front of Nico, turns 180 degrees, assumes a half-squatting position with his back towards Nico, repositions his arms, turns his head sideways in preparation to address Nico, and says, "Come on."
It's the most nerve-racking piggyback ride Nico's participated in, or any mode of transportation for that matter. And so during the ride Nico talks, about football of all things, largely to keep himself from inhaling too much of Nolan and prevent his body from exhibiting any inappropriate reaction.
After about half an hour of monologue, all Nolan has to say is, "You mean soccer."
"Association football," Nico clarifies, just as they arrive at their destination.
The service plaza has a convenience store and a garage, among other unidentified facilities, and is deserted as far as Nico can tell, which is simultaneously terrible and terrific for a lot of reasons. They can resupply and hopefully find some maps, and maybe get some rest since it's going to get dark soon. But first order of business is to search for fuel containers to fill up and bring back to the car.
"Or we could just go," Nolan says, surveying the rows of abandoned vehicles. "If we could get one of these to drive."
It might be nice to have some sort of roof over their heads as well as eco-friendlier fuel consumption rate. "What about your costume?" Nico feels obligated to ask.
Nolan tries the driver's side door of a fairly undamaged SUV, and when the door doesn't cooperate, picks up a nearby steering wheel to smash the rear passenger window with. "What about him?"
As it turns out, neither of them can hotwire a car, any of the cars, and whoever the owners of these cars were, they took the keys with them.
Disappointed but not discouraged, the two of them go to check the garage, which despite missing some support beams and a wall has what they need but they still end up having to siphon gas out of cars since the pumps don't work, which would go a lot faster if they didn't have to take a break to hunt for flashlights and knew what they are doing. It's well past nightfall when they finish.
The convenience store proves to be convenient as well as fruitful. There are non-water-reliant personal care products and utilitarian underwear that comes in packs of three, and novelty baseball caps, of course, and food, which they eat, and sewing kits, which might come in handy. And sandals, comfortable sandals that were designed with practicality and function and not fashion (certainly not fashion) in mind.
Seeing as the garage's structural integrity issues haven't fixed themselves and all the other facilities are either way out of order or wrecked beyond identification, there's no debate of where to hunker down. The security measures of the store may be what most would deem flimsy, but it is the best they have at the moment.
"'Night," Nolan mumbles. And in the cold and gloom of chaos and uncertainty, Nico feels warm all over.
"Good night."
.
The road is gone when Nico wakes up.
So is everything else, if Nico's eyes are to be believed. The road, the parking lot, the cars, all gone. Everything is gone. Everything but wheat, gone. There's only wheat. Nothing except the encroaching wheat. For as far as Nico can make out through the shuttered storefront windows, wheat.
Fearing he might be losing his grip on reality, Nico turns towards Nolan, or where Nolan should be, given how they fell asleep huddling next to each other, only to discover that the costume, Nolan's costume, that Nolan left the head and top half with the car and grudgingly wore the bottom half just so as not to be barefoot and ditched that too once they got hold of the sandals, has found its way here, in all its frightful glory, on Nolan, beside Nico. Or at least that's what Nico hopes, direly, that Nolan is inside the costume.
Feeling his sanity dwindling by the second, Nico calls out to Nolan, his disused voice weak and hoarse, yet he continues trying with desperate doggedness, and just when he is about to lose faith and fall into despair, the costume moves, turns its head and googly eyes and gaping maw towards Nico, and with harmonic bloodcurdling voices comes "Morning."
Silently, Nico doesn't scream.
Nolan takes the head off thousands of long milliseconds later, as if just realizing he's in the costume at all, then the top half, followed shortly by the bottom, which requires some shimmying. And Nico looks, transfixed, and keeps on looking, because he can't not, because he doesn't not want to, because who cares if humanity has screwed itself over twice when Nolan looks like this in the early sunlight? Not Nico, not now, and if he's truly lucky, maybe not ever.
Nolan is frowning slightly, looking back at Nico, down at himself, clad only in black boxer-briefs from the three-packs, then up at Nico again.
"Gritty, where's the coat?"
In Nico's peripheral vision, the tailcoat comes flying out of the bottom half of the costume and knocks over a shelf of elements-braving paraphernalia.
"You can ask," Nolan says when silence returns.
"Is it alright to be afraid to know?" Nico asks after careful rumination.
"Yeah," Nolan answers, one corner of his mouth twitching.
.
The road is back when Nico comes out of the restroom.
It seems narrower, somehow, and Nico blinks, as you do. There shouldn't be enough heat for any mirage to form just yet, and yet somehow the roadside wheat seems to be parting before his eyes, as though clearing a path for them towards where they left the car.
Nico shakes his head, chalking it up to the room-temperature instant coffee he and Nolan put together earlier, which Nolan spat out right away whereas Nico was drowsy enough to have let a few sips pass through his esophagus.
They cart their loot back to the car on a cart they found in the back of the garage. And it's good that they've brought all they need since they never see that rest stop again even after it's been days and raids and there's no wheat in sight anymore.
It's also raining.
"It would be nice to have some sort of roof over our heads," Nico shouts, trying to cover the non-water-resistant commodities in the backseat with a tarp.
The rain thickens.
"It'd be nicer if the sky weren't falling," Nolan shouts back from the driver's seat, turning on the high beams and squinting at the marginally flooded road.
They keep driving in spite of the onslaught of water surrounding them on all sides and pouring over them from above, not wanting to risk stopping for it's been established that out in the open they're sitting ducks. It's not until suspension cables start appearing mere arm-lengths from them that they slow down and pull over. A bridge won't provide much protection, but it'll at least limit the angles of possible attacks.
There's a traffic jam on the other side of the barrier. Cars, parked bumper-to-bumper, headed towards the other direction. All sorts of cars including an RV, which they break into, only to careen right back out for it's hauntingly occupied. The lesson here is that people who intend to leave as fast as possible on foot don't tend to lock their cars behind them. If they intend to leave at all, that is.
They are making room in the back of a station wagon when the second best idea hits Nico.
"We should take this opportunity to take showers," Nico says, exteriorizing the stack of boxes Nolan diverts his way.
"What?" Nolan's lips move in sync with a crack of thunder.
"Shower!" Nico shouts over another crack of thunder, takes off the plastic poncho and baseball cap he's been wearing. And after some intensive pantomiming and Nolan still looking befuddled, strips down to his underwear.
Nico congratulates himself on a job well done when Nolan crawls out of the wagon and starts disrobing, too. Until a major flaw in his plan presents itself and he realizes they will have to go back over the barrier to get toiletries from the car. But then Nolan steps towards and close and closer to Nico, and there's practically no space and nothing separating their bodies and Nico's heart is threatening to beat out of his ribcage and Nolan reaches out and one of Nolan's hands brushes against Nico's skin and, and--
Nolan produces bottles of body wash and shampoo seemingly out of wet air and presents them to Nico. And smiles, bright and breathtaking and brilliant in the miserable late evening and Nico-- Nico's breath catches, taken, because this is it. The moment. Life-changing and revelatory and do-or-die. The sort that gives you faith and makes you believe all at once, that just because things may have taken turns for the worse doesn't mean things won't turn for the better, that no matter what horror of horrors the universe may throw at you you can make something and the most of it, that life is more than worth living and should be enjoyed the hell out of. And Nico smiles back, lets Nolan lead them out from what little shelter they have under the propped-open hatchback and into the unrelenting downpour waiting for them.
(And no, it wasn't a miracle. The bottles came from the topmost box on the stack behind Nico.)
.
Settling in for the night in the back of an unfamiliar forsaken car, Nico can't help saying, confessing, really, "I wish I had met you sooner."
It isn't pelting so heavily anymore. The storm has eased up some, and under the relatively dry blankety darkness, everything feels syrupy sweet and soft and tender.
"Think you'd've picked me out from the masses?" Nolan finally responds over the pitter-patter of the rain, of outside, of the world they're not a part of, not right now.
"Yes," Nico affirms with a nod, with confidence he didn't know he has, with assuredness he can feel deep in his soul. And maybe Nolan can feel it, too, for they both shift, gravitate towards one another, fumble their paths to each other and meet halfway as things start to slot into place.
(The costume can mind its own business in the front seat.)
.
The next morning finds them blinking awake still tangled together and with some good news as well as bad news.
The good news is, the sky's done falling, which means their visual range has gone from the wingspan of a fruit bat to the stratosphere. The bad news is, a city's just snuck up on them.
Also, the car is dead.
"This isn't good," Nico concludes, defeatedly aware they've exhausted every scrap of knowledge they've got on the arcane science of automobile maintenance.
The lesson of the day is that even the people who don't spare their time to lock their cars will still take their keys with them. If it's at all viable, that is. Which is unfortunate since he and Nolan haven't improved upon their hotwiring skills even after much practice. It's moments like this that Nico misses the internet and resents anyone who ever thought it'd be a neat idea to put all of a person's keys conveniently together on a person's key ring.
"We need to get moving," Nolan says, binoculars glued to his face, scanning the city from a vantage point perching over a tank sat partially on a hearse. "Why're you heading that way, anyway?"
"I..." Nico hesitates, "feel like it? It just-- is hard to explain," never mind sounds crazy when he thinks about it. "I just have this fuzzy feeling that I should go in that specific direction. And you?"
"Same, I guess," Nolan says, lowering the binoculars before picking up the big sniper rifle. "But instead of some vague fuzzy feeling I hear indistinct voices calling for us."
Behind them, the sun is rising over inundated ruins of civilization. Below them, a river is overflowing with great volume of whatever couldn't hold their own and got swept away by rushing streams of good old H2O. Before them, is what they need to get through to get to where they need to be, wherever that may be. "Us?"
Nolan shrugs, readjusting, aiming. "Me. You, I'm pretty sure. And, I don't know, others like us."
.
"I don't see how this can work," Nico says to Nolan behind him, who's attempting to fit them both into the costume, starting from the bottom.
Grumbling, Nolan surrenders in frustration. "Got a better idea?"
The flood is steadily subsiding, revealing what remains of destruction and death, and some wheat growing along the riverfront. In their vicinity on the bridge there are bicycles scattered around, some look fairly durable, and a canoe strapped to the top of one minivan, which can't be helpful, as wreckages of boats much larger than it can be seen afloat and ashore.
Nico maneuvers out of wild orange furry deathtrap and turns to face Nolan. "You should wear it. I will..." Nico closes his eyes, concentrates hard, reopens them, "be fine."
"Was something supposed to happen?" The worry is palpable in Nolan's tone.
Nico still can't make it happen on command, but he's survived this long and he trusts in the pair of them.
.
"I don't see how this can work, either," Nico says from deep within the deathtrap. "I can't walk or see well with this on, let alone run."
They've agreed that being alone is dangerous and that parking structures, even those packed with cars like sardines in multileveled concrete cans, are most definitely lost causes, and decided to try their luck at a police station they've been casing from afar, one that apparently still has a variety of police vehicles stowed neatly inside. The key to their operation, then, is locating and obtaining the keys.
"Would you at least wear the head?" Nolan asks when Nico is free again. According to Nolan, things with at least zero working brain cell tend not to mess with the costume, which is why it's very important to Nolan that Nico takes part in having it on his person, which Nolan insists doesn't count as messing with it.
With some more strategizing and preparations, they're as ready as they can be.
.
At high noon, they embark into the water-washed streets on their quest for transportation, having figured waiting for darkness would not only be to their disadvantage but also dumb.
Nico has somewhat expected it, but it still catches him off guard, how staggeringly agile Nolan can be in the costume minus the head and with a fire helmet. Nico himself is trailing behind on a gnarly mountain bike in a sundry amalgamation of firefighting/military gear plus the head, and therefore is doing alright regardless of being unable to see much of anything.
Venturing deeper into the city, Nico can imagine how it must have once been a major metropolitan area, a busy urban center, can picture the comings and goings of people, their liveliness, how the establishments must have prospered and provided for their ways of life. Hardly a second goes by without a sign of a former inhabitable world, now ramshackle. Every so often there are things to navigate around, fallen drones, children's playthings, civilian riot gear, adult playthings, medical gurneys, haute couture roller sock sneakers, military-grade concertina, selfie sticks, all sorts of things that used to matter, left behind.
.
"$#!+ fu(|<!n9 90d d@mm!+," Nolan says concisely, following the discovery that the police have left a maze of many locked doors behind them, rendering many parts of the building inaccessible.
And they would break in, except that the station is well-appointed for preventing such attempts, and simply unloading assault rifles on every complication would make too much noise and could attract-- Well, Nico is not one to tempt fate or give the universe ideas.
As they explore the depths of the supposably once action-packed headquarters, Nico keeps reminding himself that one does not simply find oneself in a horror story. It's uncanny, how eerily serene everything seems, the leftovers of everyday life, uncomfortable chairs waiting to be sat on, wanted posters hung on bulletin boards, cardboard cutouts promoting the pursuit of a better tomorrow, maps of the precinct in the squad room, holding cells languishing to be opened, a smörgåsbord of half-eaten rings of fried dough in the bullpen, like someone wanted a taste of every flavor but was half-conscious of their calorie intake.
It could almost very well be business as usual, like everyone's conspiring for a surprise party or simply out to lunch, if one could ignore certain telltale signs.
"We need something real quiet, like high-energy lasers," Nolan muses, glaring at an impracticably fortified door, its impracticality and fortitude accentuated by streamers of light filtering in through a strategically-placed barred window.
"Blowtorch?" Nico suggests, in time with a not entirely inhuman bleat from right outside.
.
Nico doesn't particularly know what happens, but one split second he is carrying his vision impediment under an arm and the next the window is gone (as well as a section of the reinforced wall) and Nolan is in full masquerade and suplexing what Nico supposes can be best identified as a weresheep into a garbage truck.
"You okay?" Nolan asks, and when Nico shudders uncontrollably, takes the costume's head off and reiterates.
"I am," Nico answers, feeling oddly calm, in time with an earthshaking chorus of more not entirely inhuman bleats from the distance.
.
The not so distant distance.
"They're were-bighorn-rams," Nolan says with the costume's multi-voices. And yes, Nico can concur that that's a generally more accurate term to describe the fast-moving, deranged-sounding, wet-sheepy-smelling, phytophagous-seeming, murderously malevolent multi-hybrids that are angrily chasing after them.
They're running, the pair of them, and by that Nico means Nolan is running and negotiating obstacles while Nico is hanging on and going along for the ride. They can double back to the car later or just skedaddle and never return, either way it can't be productive to lead the rampaging contingent back to their hoard of supplies.
For the record, this is now the most nerve-racking piggyback ride Nico's participated in.
Epinephrine coursing through his blood vessels and clinging for dear life, Nico realizes it's not Nolan underneath the costume, at least not just, can tell from having been in the costume himself, which was a grueling experience but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he hadn't expected. Unlike this, now, where he can feel solid flesh and powerful muscles, something fierce, unwelcoming and loyal, and--
"Exactly what are you wearing?" Nico can't help but shakily ask over the cacophonous bleating and demolition.
"It's Gritty. Things really, really don't like Gritty," is Nolan's resounding answer. Chancing a gander around, most things really do steer clear of the costume, such as the generic shambling zombies and the garden-variety trolls and the run-of-the-mill urban spirits. But it also means that whatever can remain resolute and undeterred will be really, really--
"Finch!" Nico yells, louder than he ever has, as they jump to an intersection and he gets a smashing view of an oncoming, well, finch. Whopping humongous monstrosity of a finch that emerges out of left field from behind a cluster of skyscrapers and plunges smack-dab into them.
"Northern cardinal, is what this is," Nolan yells as he wrestles the infernal redbird off some twenty barrel rolls away, ramming home how there's always time for semantics.
As Nolan appears to be managing just fine, Nico turns his attention back to the wererams, the majority of which have continued on bleating and rampaging in a straight line except for some, one of which is hulking in size and making direct eye contact with Nico, big horned head low and hackles raised, stomping thunderously as if readying to attack...
Then comes charging.
At where Nico is picking himself up off the sun-drenched ground.
There is nothing to hide behind, no time to get out of the way.
Somewhere behind him, Nolan roars, sonorous and boomy voices resonating through the streets.
It's an apocalypse and here they are, the ones fighting an armageddon. Nico doesn't know about the 'the' or the capitalization, doesn't think this is the first but is sure this won't be the last. As long as there is humanity, someone will fight.
It happens.
.
And Nico does know what happens, this time, for everything feels like it happens in slow-motion.
There's not much fanfare or anything, only red tendrils of fluxing magic manifest and coalesce on the sides of his head then sprout and branch and flatten and fork into prongs and beams and lobes and tines. His upper back, his coccyx, his feet, burgeon forth more fluxing magic that coalesces into igneous bone and lurid cartilage and galvanic muscle and burning tendons. All these as Nico is about to be rammed to kingdom come, just in time for him to lock horns with antlers and headbutt the hulking wereram away over a hot dog cart into an overturned ambulance.
Which is very lucky, considering he doesn't know how he does it. Or what triggers it or why it happens or anything about any of it at all.
The action, however, unluckily causes the other straggling wererams to come charging, too, that yet again call for immediate headbutting away, which in turn attracts more wererams, and--
Well, antlers are rakish and snazzy and all that but they're very ungainly as weapons. Nico doesn't know how moose do it.
So when the whole herd change course, Nico reckons it would be advisable to run and regroup with Nolan and perchance assist him with his persistent avian problem. With that concrete master plan in mind Nico executes a sharp one-point turn, looks over to survey the situation, and lo and behold there Nolan is, having gained leverage and in a well-timed feat of feisty strength flinging the cardinal and sending it flying, careening, corkscrewing over Nico into the rampageous line of attack.
"So this is how you've survived this long," Nolan deduces while waiting for Nico to join him so they can run together. Together-together. Gone are the days of nerve-racking piggyback rides for Nico is a lot more mobile now that his feet have red glowing semi-transparent extensions that end in hooves that effectively lengthen his stride and allow him to gallop, sort of. Which, luckily, he somehow knows how to.
There's another intersection, a crossroads of circumstances and fate, where a choice must be made that will determine their destiny, whether they'll succumb haplessly or come out on top. Which is to say they must choose wisely which direction, along with its corresponding adversities and hardship and cold comfort, to hurtle themselves into.
"That way," Nolan proclaims with undeniable certitude, body-checking a couple of skeletons that can't keep up with their friends back into the stampede where they belong.
"Towards the zombies," Nico says, not a question, only to hear it be said out loud.
The wererams are gaining on them and the cardinal is back to being airborne and looking impossibly cross. And in the spirit of faith and suspension of disbelief, he takes a leap of faith, figuratively not literally, as they take a right turn and make their way towards the horde of slow-moving carnivorous-seeming zombies, a thousand strong, plausibly more.
Rushing side by side with Nolan, Nico does his best to assume the tackling position of the obscure sport he's never cared for, bracing himself for a high-speed and provenly non-concussive impact, only for Nolan to sally forth and cut in front of him and then--
Wheat.
Not out of nowhere, but shooting right out of the zombies. Wheat.
Wheat that's making an unobstructed path for them as they get closer, growing into and against each other to push aside the zombies before parting themselves so Nolan and him can run past in tandem. Wheat that then springs back and pullulates like mad to barricade and form a grassy roadblock against the onrushing woolly tsunami.
Wheat.
.
"Zombies're basically fertilizer," is Nolan's murmurous explanation when they come out on the other side of the field of living deadly grown cereal and are side by side again, which makes sense while at the same time begs some questions. Questions they do not have time for since the fast-flying humongous cardinal is in no way appeased by the spontaneous wheat cultivation and in hot pursuit still.
They keep running.
Nestling among the blocks in the unevenly razed downtown is a beer garden, and adjacent to that, an arena. An arena that seems grotesquely out of place due to its intactness. An arena that is, apparently, where they're thrusting their luck into next.
Not an indefensible plan, Nico thinks. Too soon, probably, for as they're approaching the facility, suddenly, a bear. A blue bear. A blue polar bear that's growing several sizes bigger with every step it takes and every move it makes, presumably to defend its thus far intact territory.
Beside Nico, Nolan doesn't show any sign of hesitation, doesn't slow down, takes the costume's head off, before exclaiming, "Please grant us respite and refuge, for we may have strayed down the wrong paths but have since recognized our oversight and are on our ineffable journey to prove our love and dedication to the game." And Nico...
Nico isn't sure what to think or how to feel or whether he's dreaming or if anything has ever been real, ever.
The polar bear nods almost imperceptibly, which Nico hopes translates to 'You shall pass' and it won't try and kill them when they pass through between its legs. It then opens its mouth, revealing a mouthful of friendliness, and sings. Honest to heaven, sings. Well, not sing-sing but a song comes out. There's music, something old-timey, maybe blues?
Meanwhile, back behind and nearly above them, the cardinal has gotten bigger as well and does a loop-the-loop and, to Nico's anxiety and amazement, poises midair and sings back, loud and clear and nightmarish and sounding like "cheer, cheer, cheer, what, what, what, wheat, wheat, wheat," and after some serious negotiation/singing contest, flies away into the afternoon sun.
Nico makes a strenuous effort not to question good luck, but still.
.
The costume is looking markedly worse for wear, now that Nico has a good look.
"You've been inside him, you can call him by his name," Nolan says, making a disturbing yet valid point while taking the costume, Gritty, off.
Things are silent inside the arena, in the visiting dressing room, where the shrunk-back and now able-to-fit-through-the-doors size blue polar bear has soundlessly led them, a sanctuary for any and all opponents. "Is he going to be alright?"
"Yeah," Nolan sighs, a tender hand on battle-worn orange hide. "Just a little far from home, y'know."
Nico knows. "I am thankful you have him, and thankful you have chosen to come with me. Both of you."
"Glad you didn't just floor it, that you've let us in," Nolan looks up at him, then gets up and takes the few steps to stand before him. "Me, in particular." Pulls him closer, then, "Can't you turn your thing off? I'm not tall enough like this."
And Nico, well. "I don't know how," he concedes, having been trying to reel everything in for quite some time.
Nolan steps back and gives him a once-over, and another. Nico must look like a veritable devil, cloven hooves and pointed tail and devil-like wings and moose-like antlers and all. "Moose antlers are made of bone and skin and hair and blood, your extra appendages are all red squiggly magic. And what's the point of having wings when your antlers spread wider than your wingspan? Can you even fly?"
Or maybe just veritably absurd, seeing as he's shirtless and his fire pants have a sizable hole in the rear. The hooves destroy footwear but they're good for running. The wings just destroy shirts, and the tail, pants. "No. And you grow wheat, so."
.
The red squiggly magic mellows out eventually, but not before Nico persuades Nolan to admit he guesses Nico looks kinda cool or whatever and should by all means keep persuading him in the showers just to be safe. The blue polar bear tactfully comes back at a decent time with a selection of protective gear for them to wear and much snow for Gritty, which is by no means enough and thusly they put on some skates and venture to the rink so Gritty can feast straight from a nice ice-resurfacing machine.
The saintly blue polar bear also helps them find a transport, a sensible armored combat vehicle stranded not too far away, and on their way back they stop by a supermarket to rummage for provisions and (hopefully) clean clothes. Despite the abundant lack of electricity, some of the perishables still hold up and they treat themselves to a hearty spread of non-moldy baked goods, conventionally moldy cheeses, and juicy vitamin-rich irradiated fruits.
They spend the night in the arena, and go to get stuff from the bridge the next morning with help from none other than the cardinal, who is quite apologetic for misreading their respectful intentions. Nico learns this illuminating bit of information from Nolan, who can gather intelligence from his ever accommodating and incredibly versatile wheat via wheat telepathy. Also the wererams are the remnants of something much loved and long gone. Nico doesn't know why he's even surprised anymore to learn that lots of things can commune with lots of other things on account of everything being part of the grand scheme of things, miscommunication notwithstanding.
(There isn't much dignity in saying farewell to the car, first dispossessed and now storm-beaten to decrepitude. The car that has gotten them this far and can't fare anywhere on its own anymore. Their car... that they tow to a peaceful lawn under a tall arch with a lovely view of the river, load a trustworthy amount of explosives into, and douse with a free-spirited sense of lighter fluid for a proper and dignified (and as they find out later, hugely violent) funeral.)
"Thank you, truly," Nico says, standing beside Nolan before the saintly blue polar bear, before their gratitude is enthusiastically met with a crushingly warm bear hug, which they humbly return. The cardinal also accompanies them to the city limits and whistles them goodbye. And then... well.
Onwards to wherever it is that's calling for them. Due west, towards the sunset, a bit to the south.
.
.
.
("Vegas. We're going to Vegas," Nolan announces under the stars, somewhere a mile high.
"Okay," Nico says, can't think of why it matters.
They go back to enjoying each other's company.
Some climactic developments later, Nolan huffs, smiling, incandescent in the afterglow. "You were supposed to ask what's there."
'To the end of the world,' Nico thinks, smiles back. "Okay. What is in Vegas?"
With minimal flourish and foreboding simplicity, Nolan exhales, says,
"Paradise.")