Chapter Text
There's an empty drawer abandoned in the hallway, it's been upended and tossed aside. In Aaron's experience that's usually how these things go – grab everything you need and everything you care enough about to want, fuck the rest and run.
He's panting, can hear his own breath heaving and backs up against the wall. Sam's down the hall, catches Aaron's eye and motions him forward. Aaron shakes his head, he's right near the bedroom door, passing it would be suicide no matter what Sam thinks; Aaron knows. He knows.
Everything is still. The empty house is stagnant, long enough deserted to cloak itself in dust and echo with the weight of their sudden intrusion. They aren't supposed to be here, no one was supposed to come back here.
Aaron edges around the door frame, rifle first like always. The bed's unmade, sheets torn to hell, there's the dresser with the missing drawer, it's three brothers hanging open and bare. There's still a picture on the table beside the bed; a young couple laughing.
There's a rumble to Aaron's left and he swings around, doesn't wait for back up before heading to the adjoining bathroom. He can hear her whimpering inside, like a wounded dog, lungs clogged with blood.
Fuck. That means he missed. Aaron never misses.
He must move, must have breathed wrong or something because the door splinters open in a shower of wood and she's on him before he can get a shot out. Dead eyes and cherry stained teeth, claws curling in his shoulders.
He hears Sam shout over the blood rushing in his ears.
The Shell's a little kid, no older than ten, and this is how he's going down.
:::
He doesn't die. That'd be too easy and fuck knows the world would hate to give him something simple.
Aaron comes to in the medical tent, Sam must have dragged him back to base after he put the Shell down. The other beds are empty which at least means the others had successful missions. That should feel like a good thing.
“Glad to see you back with us.” Cain's perched on a locker beside Aaron, still in his fatigues and weary.
Aaron pats himself down, still breathing, still rational, but he can't feel his legs. It's totally possible that's the first sign, how the fuck would he know.
“She get me?” he asks, because he's built a career out of not giving a shit, no point starting now.
Thankfully, Cain shakes his head, “Sammy put her down first, close call from what he said, almost didn't make it in time.”
But he did. He did. Aaron could fucking kiss Sam.
“That's good.”
Cain's face ripples like it isn't and Aaron's heart beats triple time again.
“Doc says your left knee's shot.”
Aaron lets his eyes fall closed. They both know what that means. You're no use in the field with a busted knee.
“For good?”
He hears Cain breathe, nothing moves. “Maybe.”
That means yes.
Fucking man up Dingle.
He opens his eyes, fixes Cain with his mother's stare. “Give it to me straight Colonel.”
Cain shakes his head, balls a fist under his chin with a sigh, “You're on the truck back to the city in the morning. Doc says your best hope is a fuck load of physical therapy and we'll see where you are in six months.”
And just like that. Aaron's life is over.
:::
Leeds used to be a proper city, full of life and trees, rolling green around the edges. Aaron's mum used to talk about it like salvation, everything good that ever was and ever would be.
That was before.
It's far from desolate now, of course. A sprawling city scape of glass and concrete, ash where life used to thrive. Aaron doesn't think his mum would be proud to see him here now. But Aaron's out of options, his busted knee no use in the war zone.
Here is the third floor of Home Farm Corp, armed guards at the door behind him and a pretty little brunette plying him with coffee. He'd forgotten the taste of proper coffee; used to grinding it dry between his teeth, straight from the packet and just another way to stay awake that little bit longer, keep going.
“You know why you're here, Lieutenant?” Chrissie White is a beautiful woman, all dark hair and sharp edges. Her stare cuts through him, rattles his bones. Aaron's been warned about her before.
“You tell me,” he doesn't smirk at her. He's not an idiot.
Her nails tap at the glass of her desk, assessing. Aaron can feel her measuring him up. She must see something she likes though, because she flicks her wrist suddenly and the room empties out. Aaron's not going to lie, he feels a little more at ease without assault rifles trained on the back of his neck. He always has.
She sighs once they're alone, leans forward.
“Home Farm's been fostering a sort of...breeding program for a while now. All very hush hush. I'm the only one outside of the division who knows about it.”
Aaron bites at the inside of his cheek. “So why tell me?'
It's not as though it's a secret that the population's failing. Half the country got emptied out before the war even started and they've been picked off steadily since then. Nothing but Shells on the west coast, according to the newspapers. A breeding program's a little skeevy sure, but someone's gotta keep their arms staffed and the world turning.
Chrissie shrugs. “You come highly recommended, we could use your help.”
Aaron scoffs. “I'm not really in the market for starting a family.”
“Good. It's not you we're breeding.”
Aaron feels the colour drain from his face. “What?”
“You grew up in the war zone Aaron. Colonel Dingle assures us he's never worked with anyone who knows Shells like you do.”
Aaron sags back in his seat. He'd been expecting grunt work, maybe paper pushing. Whatever sort of job they normally throw at army kids who can't run anymore. This is not what he signed up for.
“You're joking, right? You're breeding Shells? What the fuck.”
Chrissie shrugs, face blank. “We were surprised too. But something had to account for the growing numbers since we quarantined the uninfected. Only you soldier boys get near them these days.”
Aaron's stomach turns over. He wishes that were the case. Truth is there are plenty of groups still living outside the cities, still thinking they can fend for themselves against the infected.
“So what do you need me for?”
Chrissie rests her chin on a fist. “There's a facility, outside of the city. We've got a team there working with the prototypes. We want you to train them.”
“You want to put me in charge of a team of scientists. What's wrong with you people? I follow orders, I get the job done. I'm no genius.”
She shrugs dismissively. “It's not the team, we want you train.”
Aaron realizes suddenly, exactly what she's saying, what she's suggesting. “That's not even possible.”
“We've had some exciting results so far,” she leans forward on to the desk and meets his eyes. “Aaron. They're too strong and they're too many. The only chance we have is to make our own, make them work for us. You've been out there, you know it's true.”
“This is not what I was trained for.”
Chrissie makes a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Well Lieutenant, consider this a promotion.”
Aaron closes his eyes, rubs a hand across his face and feels far too old to still be here. It's not like he has a choice. There's no way he's getting out of this room knowing this and not on their team.
“Where do I sign?”
:::
The world ended on a Thursday, eight years before Aaron was born. Boom, just like that. The infection hit in New York City, as far as reports can tell and spread like wild fire down the east coast. No escape, nowhere to hide, no one was safe. It crossed oceans before anyone could work out what was happening.
Aaron's heard the stories all his life. If he's honest he can't even imagine what the world was like before it ended. People make it sound like paradise, although Aaron's history books tell him this isn't the first war they've waged.
Not that it ended, of course, the world. That's just something people say.
The government collapsed, society imploded and everyone prayed for the end. Apparently.
Aaron's mum used to talk about Home Farm the same way people sometimes still talk about a God. Lawrence White rounded up the troops, gathered the survivors and started the New World. Nothing in his pocket but worthless pound notes and an iron stomach.
Aaron was born on an army base six miles south of where Emmerdale used to be. Home Farm military is all he's ever known, he had a gun in his hand at nine and he's learnt everything anyone could ever need to know about putting down Shells ever since. The fight, it's just life.
They call it the seption virus, incurable as far as tests can tell. Leaches the life out of its host, the humanity. Aaron's never met a Shell that wasn't feral, like wild dogs. They're definitely still alive though, Aaron's watched them eat.
No one knows where the virus came from, Aaron's mum used to talk about terrorist attacks but this is a world wide plague, no escape. Shells don't give a fuck about politics.
They go down the same as anything else though; shot to head, to the heart.
He's spent his whole life running from the bastards, killing what he could, fighting back because someone has to keep them away from the cities, keep the civilians safe so life can go on.
It has never occurred to Aaron to try and reason with a Shell. It's not possible. It's not how the world works.
:::
The facility, as everyone keeps referring to it, is an hour outside the city limits, close enough to the walls that Aaron thinks it must have been a real fucking idiot who came up with this plan.
It's inconspicuous from the outside, could be a factory building like any of the others on the outskirts. Obviously it's fucking insane inside. Everything gleams, pristine white and plexiglass. It's like the city hospital Aaron spent the last year rotting in and he's not sure why that surprises him.
He's escorted into yet another office as soon as he arrives, bag still heavy on his shoulder and dirt on his boots.
The guy behind this desk is nothing like Chrissie or the other suits up at headquarters. He's dressed up like a doctor, scrubs and white coat, sort of squirrelly looking around the eyes.
He introduces himself as Eric, pathetic little handshake that makes Aaron miss his brothers on the base so suddenly it's like a kick in the teeth.
“Lieutenant,” he says, “We've heard so much about you.”
And frankly, Aaron's sick of this shit.
“Doctor, I've been held in waiting rooms and driven around in circles for the last three days. I've been tested and prodded at and kept in solitary. Now do you want to tell me what the fuck I'm actually here for or do you want to soothe my ego some more?”
The Doc doesn't look impressed by the outburst, but the guy's smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Aaron's military, the guy knows what that means.
“I've been running this program for over eight years, Lieutenant, I would thank you to respect the work that we do here. It's going to save this country from extinction.”
Aaron takes the seat he's offered and nods. “And what exactly is it that you do here?”
Eric pauses for a second, as though he's actually trying to decide whether Aaron should know or not. There's a potted cactus gathering dust on the shelf behind Eric's desk and Aaron focuses on it until the urge to roll his eyes seeps away.
“Half breeds. We have fourteen in this facility, all fully matured now.”
It's the way he says it, more than anything, so proud of himself.
“You infected kids?” Aaron asks, disgust welling up inside him.
“We engineered them. They carry the virus but their DNA is still human. They speak, they learn.”
“Sounds like you lot have got this thing sewn up,” he says expectantly. Because things can't be going all that swimmingly if they need Aaron here.
Eric looks down. “There have been some casualties in recent months. The prototypes aren't children anymore and they are still part Shell. They're violent, the morality we've attempted to imprint is shaky at best, they fight each other for fun,” he pauses, folds his arms. “We simply don't have the training to get in with them anymore. We've lost men.”
Aaron lets that sink in. Closes his eyes when there's no way to make it easier to swallow. “Let me get this straight. You engineered a bunch of Shells and now you're surprised they've started killing your men.”
Eric frowns, body tightening up. “They're half human.”
“They're half Shell,” Aaron argues.
“That's why you're here. Who knows more about Shells than you do? Your mother-”
Aaron doesn't blink. “You shut your fucking mouth about my mother.”
Eric hold up his hands. “Right. Look, you wouldn't be here if we didn't need your help. They're grown now and getting stronger. They understand reason, they listen when it suits them. We just need you to get them in line.”
He has to laugh. “Doc, they're not fucking pets. I shoot Shells for a living, I don't chat with them.”
The Doctor's gaze flicks down to Aaron's knee. “Well, here's your chance.”
:::
Aaron sleeps most of the afternoon away. It's odd sleeping in a real bed, eleven months and he still wakes up every morning thinking he's back on the base.
There's a set of scrubs at the foot of his bed when Aaron gets out of the shower and he bypasses them for his own jeans. He's not a doctor.
A little guy with a mess of hair and white chapped lips accompanies Aaron down to the prototype wing. The bloke's name is Dan and Aaron finds himself thinking it's no wonder they can't handle Shells if this is the sort of weedy guy they've got working with them.
“We let them socialise during the day,” Dan tells him as they navigate a maze of hallways and locked doors. “It's important for them to have those relationships and conversations,” he explains, “They have to form bonds.”
Aaron nods, unconvinced. “And does it work? Are they a happy little family?”
Dan flushes red. “We separate them if the fighting gets too bad. They sleep alone.”
They duck through another door and Aaron can hear shouting now, not far off. He recognises the sound.
“So honestly, what do you think my chances are of getting in there with them?”
Dan pauses by the next door and stares resolutely at Aaron's shoulder. “When they were smaller, we could go in with them for an hour or so a day, come away with a few bruises,” he shrugs. “You can talk to them, you can teach them, they'll probably make you laugh. They're good kids.”
“But?”
“No one's been in with them in over year and come out in once piece.”
Aaron doesn't know what he's expecting to find in the next room, he has no real concept of anything worse than what he's already lived through.
It's brightly lit, clinical, wall of reinforced glass cutting through the middle.
And there they are.
There are only three of them and they look shockingly normal. Dressed in street clothes, feet bare. One of the girls has her hair tied up. They look like a bunch of civilian kids in a glass cage, they're not snarling, they're not flinging themselves at him with teeth bared (something he's more than familiar with when it comes to Shells) they don't even look up until Dan taps the glass with a knuckle and backs up.
There it is. The eyes. All of them crystal clear, ice blue. Identical. It's always the eyes. Aaron knows good, solid guys who've been turned away from service for having naturally blue eyes. Too much of a risk in the field. Aaron only made it in because of his last name. Because he had nowhere else to go.
The blonde haired girl with the pony tail is up against the glass in a flash, all cat like grace and panther's eyes. She cocks her head and wrinkles her brow, just watching. It's almost childlike and creepy as hell.
She's pretty, Aaron thinks, pouty and pale. He's never let a Shell live long enough to get a good look at one and everything looks different with a bullet in its head.
A dark haired girl moves up behind her, just as self-contained. There's so much power in those slim bodies and Aaron's not even going to pretend he isn't terrified having their eyes on him like this.
“Who's this?” the blonde asks, steely gaze flickering over to Dan.
Dan smiles, pats Aaron on the chest. “This is Aaron. He's going to be spending a lot of time with you guys.”
The brunette smiles a little. “Hi Aaron,” she says and sinks her teeth into the blonde's shoulder, sudden and deep.
Dan sighs and turns to face Aaron, apparently unphased as the girls dive at each other.
“You're not going to do anything about that?” Aaron asks. It's not as though he's not used to pointless violence but it's a little distracting.
Dan quirks an eyebrow. “What would you have me do? Turn a hose on them? They're playing, Lieutenant, this is what they do for fun.”
Aaron absorbs the information. He can work with that, the guys on the base were the same way. Always scrapping and spitting at each other.
Who is he even kidding?
Dan waits until the fight's over and the girls stalk to opposite side of the room to lick their wounds.
“Meet Vic and Debbie,” he introduces, gesturing to the girls. “And Robert.”
The guy's sprawled against the back wall a few feet away. He's built like a fucking truck, skin winter pale from a life time indoors and hair a mess. He's still looking directly at Aaron. He looks bored, uninterested.
Aaron fucking wishes.
“You named them?”
Dan bristles. “They're going to fight for this country. They're still people.”
“Barely,” Aaron snorts, but he's not here to fight. “Do you always keep them in there?”
“In the morning mostly, the fourteen have been split into groups, you'll be working with these three. There's an outdoor area they can use too, that's usually in the afternoon,” he gestures to the door on the far side of the room. “Their rooms are through there. They don't seem to sleep well with company.”
Aaron nods. Why would they?
“What about the rest of them?”
“You're not the only guy out of service who grew up around Shells,” Dan tells him.
“Well you sure know how to make a lad feel special, Doc,” Aaron rolls his eyes, figures all that was just spin to get him to agree to this shitfest. “So what do I do?”
Dan shrugs. “Talk to them, for now. You're safe here, they can't get through the glass,” he pats Aaron one last time. “I'll leave you to it. Security will keep watch outside. I assume you're armed.”
Aaron just looks at him. He's always fucking armed.
He's not exactly sure what to do once Dan leaves. The Shells on the other side of the glass don't seem remotely interested in talking with him.
He sits down, against the wall and a couple of feet back from the glass. Maybe if he just sits with them for a while, they'll get used to him or something. He's flying by the seat of his pants here, he's no animal trainer.
“You don't look like a science geek,” the lad – Robert – calls out, moving across the room. He's as graceful as the girls are and lightening quick.
Aaron's spent his life getting ribbed on by army boys and putting bullets through anything with eyes like this kid. A lifetime of fronting. He's not going turn into some little pussy now just because his knee's shot.
“You don't talk like you were made in a test tube,” he shoots back.
Robert pauses, eyes flickering. They really are feline, Aaron thinks, the way they move, the way they look out at the world. Of course, feline doesn't always mean house cat.
Robert shrugs. “I have a TV.”
“Do you?” Aaron hasn't seen TV in years, there's no power outside the city walls any more.
Robert just looks at him, eyes like glass.
“I'm not a science geek anyway,” Aaron tells him. “I'm military.”
“Like us?” Vic snakes out from behind Robert, comes forward until she's on her knees, close enough to touch if it wasn't for the glass.
He snorts. “Sure.”
Robert sits down too, backhanding Vic out of the way when she doesn't make room for him. “You fight?” he asks, looking slightly more interested.
Aaron nods. “When I have to.”
Vic sits forward, chin on Robert's shoulder and it's weird as hell, watching Shells touch and talk and function.
“Are you going to fight with us?” she asks and the little grin playing around her mouth tells him she's hopeful.
Aaron rubs a hand across is mouth. “I'm hoping not.”
“So why are you here?”
He shrugs, tries not to meet her eyes because that will never stop freaking him the fuck out. “Apparently the science guys are having a little trouble keeping you under control.”
Robert laughs, actually fucking laughs, all normal and shit.
“God,” he says. “You kill one guy.”
Aaron doesn't want to hear about that. “Look, the way I figure it, you guys are pretty much our only hope. You know what you are. I've been fighting your kind all my life and we're losing.”
Robert smirks, doesn't even flinch. “Of course you are. You're weak, so you keep us in cages.”
“I'm pretty sure the cage is mostly so you don't kill anymore guys,” Aaron offers.
“And they think we're going to fight for them,” Robert says to Vic, shaking his head. “Fucking humans.”
“We want you to fight with us. You play the game, you get out of the cage.”
Robert snarls, teeth bared and fists to the floor. He looks feral, just like that. Flip the switch and the mild mannered college boy'll rip your arm off and eat it. That's more like it.
Aaron stands. That's enough for today.