This Is the Way the World Ends, Part 13

[semaphore27.livejournal.com]

Author: Semaphore
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG-13 Language.
Summary: It's the end of the world as we know it and no one feels fine. The world of Lotrips mingles with Stephen King’s The Stand. I can't believe I haven't updated this since May 25! In which Elijah is difficult, and Dom has a meeting with one of Mr. King's characters.
Feedback: longed for and appreciated. So many thanks to all who've commented so far!
Disclaimers: This is entirely fictional. No disrespect intended. The people involved belong to themselves. The Stand was written by Stephen King. As I should have said long before, the title, and the piece of "The Hollow Men" quoted here come from T.S. Eliot. Lij's song is a bit of "Gun Street Girl" by Tom Waits.
Previous chapters and other writings can be found at: Caraidean



This Is the Way the World Ends, Part 13

For their entire first day in Weed, Dom gathers, he and Lij hadn’t done anything but sleep. He vaguely remembers Sean and Billy passing in and out of their room, talking in quiet, serious voices. He recalls Elijah snoring faintly beside him, later a cup being held to his lips. He’d tried to drink, and to his very great surprise succeeded, even asking for more once he’d drained whatever it was the cup contained.

He remembers sweetness, juice of some kind.

On the second day, he awakened with his fever gone, but shatteringly weak, so weak Billy had to help him with the simplest things, such as washing, drinking broth or juice, taking a piss—on that one, Bill and Sean had to literally carry him, he wasn’t capable of standing on his own, much less moving, and when they tucked him back into bed, he was shaking violently.

On this morning, their third in Weed—or so Dom guesses, because he’s not entirely certain he hasn’t lost time, even so much as a day in there somewhere--he wakes feeling unwell, manky and restless, very much wanting a change of scene.

These sheets, at least, could stand to be changed, Dom thinks, because there’s an odd sort of smell, then he realizes it’s not that, that the linens could be cleaner than they are, but something else entirely. Elijah’s there beside him, rocking in short sharp jerks as if he thinks he can shake something out of himself with the motion. He’s singing the e-i-e-i-o song again, which Dom can’t take as a good sign. Elijah has always been one of the cleanest people Dom knows, fanatical about it, really, but now he reeks, with a sort of concentrated fear-sweat ripeness, as if he hasn’t washed in days.

“Bills?” Dom tries. “Sean? You anywhere about?”

Elijah switches to another song, one Dom vaguely recognizes as Tom Waits. “’Gone, gone, he’s long gone. Gone to Indiana ain’t never comin’ home.’”

Dom gropes until he can connect with some part of Elijah’s body—what he takes to be Lij’s knee. “Want to tell me where they’ve gone, Lij? Don’t think it’s Indiana, really.”

“'Tellin' everyone he saw, ‘They went thatta way,’” Lij sings. “They left. To get something.” Dom can feel Elijah shift, as if he’s shrugging. “Said they’d be back soonish. Hey, Dom, wanna watch a movie?” He sounds suddenly excited and happy. “’Cause I found some with these guys who look almost exactly like you and Sean and Billy and me, only teeny. Can you believe it? A whole movie of Mini-me’s. Seriously, you should see it, Dommie. Only…” He touches Dom’s cheek gently. “What’s up with your eyes, dude? They look very weird.”

“It’s… er… something like a side effect of being ill, Lij. Don’t worry.”

“Wasn’t worried. I mean, it looks cool on you, but totally strange. Like you’re blind or something.” He shifts again, with something of his usual nervous energy. “Shit, I’m sick of this room, Dommie. Wanna go out to the lounge? We’ll have a party. Popcorn and beer on me.”

Carefully, Dom sits. The previous day’s weakness has diminished slightly. He thinks he might be able to move about a little on his own, if he takes it slowly. “Look, Lij, I need a shower. Would you find me a set of trackies or something?”

“Sure, man,” Elijah answers cheerfully, and Dom can hear him bustling about behind him as he makes his cautious way to the bathroom. By groping, he’s able to locate soap, a towel, shampoo, though stepping over the side of the tub is almost more than he can accomplish. The water, of course, is cold, but not entirely unpleasant for all that. Maybe he’s still slightly feverish, but it feels good on his flushed skin.

By the time Dom’s clean, though, he’s trembling, and has to sit on the side of the tub to towel off again, bending his head down toward his knees until the room stops spinning. Only then does he realize Lij has come into the room with him.

“Doodle?” Dom says.

“Got lonely,” Elijah says. “You ever feel like there’s no one left in the world, Dommie? Why isn’t there anyone else here in this hotel? Shouldn’t there be cars and bright lights and shit?”

“Yes, Lij,” Dom tells him softly. “There should.”

A second later, Elijah’s come across the room, dropping down onto the edge of the tub beside him. “You’ve gotten really skinny, Dom. Are you okay?”

“I’ve been a bit ill, Doodle,” Dom explains. “But now I’m okay. How are you feeling?”

“Strange,” Elijah answers, and for a moment he sounds almost like himself, almost sane. “Just… strange.”

“Want to use the shower, now I’m finished?”

“Why?” Lij sniffs at himself. “Do I smell bad?”

“Honestly?” Dom laughs, “A little.”

Elijah sniffs again. “Christ, I do! Man, what’s up with me?”

Dom feels Lij’s leg bump against his as Elijah raises it up to get at a sock, but after that he just seems to lose interest, sitting still and quiet until Dom nudges him. “C’mon, now, Lij. You can do this.”

Except it seems Elijah apparently can’t, though he cooperates in an absent-minded way, standing or lifting his arms to be undressed like a child. When the cold water hits his bare skin, he squeals softly.

“Sorry,” Dom tells him. “Hot’s all gone.”

“You used it up? Greedy bastard.”

“Nah. Wasn’t any for me either.”

“Must’ve been Sean or Billy, then. Damn cheap-ass hotel.”

Elijah ducks his head, letting Dom rub the shampoo into his hair, then rinse it out again. It’s amazing, really, Dom thinks, what he can do by touch. He passes Lij a face flannel, telling him, “Now, wash.” But Elijah only stands forlornly with the cloth in one hand, the soap in the other, until Dom, exasperated, takes them back again to scrub him clean.

“C-c-cold,” Elijah stammers as Dom shuts off the taps.

“We’ll get you dried off, then. You’ll soon warm up again.” Dom pulls on his own tracksuit trousers first, then finds another set for Elijah, along with pants and socks and a t-shirt. By the time he’s assembled their clothes he’s panting, worn out with even that small amount of activity. He’d like to lie down and rest again, except that Lij is still shivering. Between his own weakness and Lij’s apathy, it’s a job of work to get him into the fresh clothing.

He wishes strongly that Billy and Sean would return, or at least he knew where they’d gone to.

Lij begins to bounce on the bed, annoyingly. “Movies, movies, let’s watch movies,” he chirps, in a child’s sing-song tones.

“Jesus, Lij, give it a rest already, won’t you?” Dom finds himself snapping, regretting his harshness the moment the words leave his mouth, especially when Elijah starts crying heartbrokenly.

“How come you’re yelling at me?” he’s sobbing. “Aren’t we friends anymore, Dommie?”

“Yeah, we’re friends, Lij. We’re friends. I’m sorry.” Elijah’s head thumps down on his shoulder, and Dom strokes his damp hair softly. “See, we’re friends. Best mates, eh?”

“Best mates,” Elijah echoes. “We don’t have to watch movies if you don’t wanna, Dom. We could do Playstation instead.”

It knocks Dom back a moment, thinking of the things he’s lost, the things he’s taken for granted, the things he’ll never do again. “Nah,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Don’t think I feel much like Playstation today, Doodle. Let’s just go ahead with the film, why don’t we?”

“Okay!” Elijah bounces off the bed again. “Hey, aren’t you coming?”

“Right behind you,” Dom tells him, though the moment he steps out the door, he wishes he’d asked Lij to wait for him, because out in the corridor there’s nothing to navigate by, nothing but a sense of endless stretches of carpet and a heavy, oppressive silence. He can hear nothing whatsoever of Elijah’s footsteps.

And in that moment, as he strains to listen, the hotel hallways flies away, and Dom can see again.

He’s walking in the desert, all low scrub and cactus, the sky huge and pale blue above him, with thin brush-strokes of cloud. There’s a man coming toward him, a scarecrow figure in tattered clothing, trousers belted with twine, his trainers held together with bits of duct tape, which is frankly ridiculous, Dom thinks, in a world where all such things are available for the picking up and taking. The way he moves is like some odd kind of dancing, a twitch and a shimmy, a jerk of his head and a waving of his arms, as he alternates muttering to himself with an odd little piece of syncopated singing.

“Down to Cibola
Bumpty bumpty bump”

Oo-kay, Dom thinks—it hardly takes an expert to tell this bloke’s entirely round the twist, in ways that make poor Lij look like a mental health poster boy. His eyebrows appear to have been singed off, his face burnt and the front of his hair shriveled.

When he sees Dom, he stops, swaying slightly, his lips still shaping the words of his strange little song.

“You’re not here,” he says, sounding affronted. “You’re imaginary.”

“It’s okay, mate,” Dom tells him, as the scarecrow clutches his rags around himself, arms hugging his hollow chest. “I won’t hurt you. Are you lost? What’s your name?”

“Don’t call me Trashcan Man. Or Trashy. Don’t like to be called Trashy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate,” Dom answers soothingly. “What’s brought you all the way out here, anyway?”

“Have a secret.” The madman leans in closer—his breath is foul, as if he’s rotting internally. “My life. My life for him.”

“What kind of secret? Or can’t you tell me?”

“Mr. Donald Merwin Elbert. That’s my name.” The tattered man straightens, tugging at his rags as if that might somehow put them in order, bringing to himself a kind of broken dignity.

“Pleased to meet ya, then, Donald,” Dom tells him quietly, stretching out his hand. God knows he’s met enough odd types in his time, and though this bloke’s far stranger than most, there’s no excuse to be rude to anyone. “You’re a long way from home, mate.”

The man touches his hand briefly, then cringes away, reminding Dom, strangely, of Gollum. Something in his eyes fills Dom with the same sort of pity he’s always felt for that character—that this is a person damaged horribly by forces beyond even his comprehension. He’s like a dog that expects to be beaten, yet still hungers for affection, fawning against the hand that hurts him. He curls up on himself, squatting, bony arms wrapped round his knees. “Home. Home. My life for him. My life for him.”

“Oi,” Dom says softly. “You okay? I won’t hurt you.”

Gingerly, he touches the man’s ragged shoulder. “See? I won’t hurt you. What is it you need, mate?”

“They say to me, ‘Hey, Trashy, hey Trashcan Man.’ They throw things at me. They hate me. All of them hate me, wherever I go. Even Cibola.”

His skeletal fingers stretch out, brushing against Dom’s jeans-clad leg briefly. “Pretty. Pretty and shiny, like a little fire. Can see you burning. Nothing prettier than fire.” Suddenly, both his hand clutch round Dom’s legs, the top of his head butts against Dom’s thighs. “Burning, burning, but I don’t want to die. My life for him. I don’t want to die.”

Dom can feel hot salty wetness, the ragged man’s tears, soaking through his jeans. He lays a hand across the top of his head, because it’s right to feel bad for, and try to comfort, people who are hurting. That’s what his mum always taught him.

If his mum was here, she’d know what to do. Dom himself is confused, which always makes him feel helpless.

“You don’t have to die,” he says quietly, not knowing what he’s saying, really. “Come away now. Doesn’t have to end like this. Just come away.”

There’s a thunderclap loud enough to deafen, and a powerful darkness flies up between them, alive with the rattle of sharp black wings that beat at Dom's face, opening up a dozen or more cuts like the thin, stinging lines of razors.

“I keep what’s mine!” roars a voice out of the dark. “I keep what’s mine, you fucking meddler!”

And Dom’s back in the corridor of the anonymous hotel, flying up against the wall, bruised by the impact of his skin against plaster, his forehead and cheeks and chin still stinging.

With some difficulty, Dom pulls himself up from the carpet, which is rough, and smells dusty. He raises a hand to his brow, not surprised, somehow, to feel the wetness, not surprised to feel the sting of salt on his skin.

“Dom!” Elijah’s screaming. “Dom, where’d you go to? You were gone for a minute.” Elijah’s hands grip his arms. “Hey, you’re bleeding. What happened?”

Dom can’t answer for a moment. Lij sounds like himself. He sounds like Elijah.

“Dunno, Lij.” Dom dabs at his cheek again. The blood’s already clotting. “Just… something fuckin’ strange.”

“Hey, look—“ Elijah’s bending down; Dom can feel the air move with his motion. “Found a feather! Isn’t that s’posed to be lucky?” There’s a thin, high-pitched whistle as Elijah spins the feather round between his fingers. “It’s a nice one. The black has blue and purple in it.”

Dom hates, suddenly, for Elijah, innocent Elijah, to touch such a thing. “Put it down, Lij,” he snaps. “Don’t touch it.”

Elijah only laughs at him. “Maaaan, you sure woke up cranky.”