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It’s dark. The woods are alive, thick, inky blackness twisting and wailing with rage in every direction Alan looks: wildly, frantically looks, desperate for the glow of a safe haven to catch his eye. None come, just the flickering of his nearly-dead flashlight, the rough movement of his arms as he runs the only thing spurring on its momentary bouts of life. His legs burn from the exertion, and he gasps for air, heart hammering in his chest; the only thing keeping him from outright collapsing is terror. Not just for himself, either: if he dies here, he’ll never save Alice. An axe flies past his head, misses by mere inches. The owner jabbers unhappily from somewhere behind him.
He pushes himself harder. How far is he from the road, the car? Is he even still headed towards it? It’s not like he has a map, and even if he did he couldn’t read it right now.
His foot hits something that doesn’t feel like earth. He barely has time to remember Rusty’s warning, to feel his heart drop, before jaws of complete agony clamp down on his ankle, sending him toppling over into the dirt. His vision goes white for a moment, everything but the pain shooting up his leg, the metal teeth digging unrelentingly into his flesh, the tearing as he unconsciously writhes and oh god please make it stop it hurts it hurts it hurts is a hazy afterthought.
When the world starts to return to him, he finds himself sobbing, screaming, already hoarse from all his yelling at the kidnapper. It takes a great deal of effort to choke the sound off, and even then it still breaks through his clenched teeth in groans and whimpers. The Taken draw closer, babbling angry nonsense about hiking trails and bear season and tenants paying rent. Alan’s flashlight is gone from his person, lying dead somewhere in the grass just as he soon will be.
His revolver, however, had survived the fall, still clutched in his hand with a white-knuckled grip. Its almost unbearable to raise it from where he’s fallen prone, and even the minute kickback of each discharged bullet sends a wave of pain through his body. Why is he even trying, still? It’s useless without the light, he’s just delaying the inevitable.
His vain efforts are brought to an end when he pulls the trigger, and it does nothing but click at him. A desperate sound tears its way out of his throat as he’s forced to watch the Taken he’d been beating back advance, chucking his revolver at the nearest one in raw panic. It bounces harmlessly off a leg.
And then, right as a woman raises a knife, her lip curled up in a snarl, a beam of light cuts across her face. Alan brings his arms up to defend himself from the blade as she drops it, hissing, stumbling backwards to avoid the burn. A few seconds later an ear-splitting bang fills the forest, and she hits the ground lifelessly. The process repeats... a few times. Everything’s starting to get fuzzy, it’s hard to count exactly how many gunshots he hears.
When they finally stop, though, someone crouches beside him. Instinctively he lurches away, and then regrets it when he tugs on his injured leg, a shout almost like a bark forcing itself from his throat.
“Easy, Al! Jesus, fucking hell, you really did it now, huh? I knew I shouldn’t’a let you go off alone, what was I thinking... oh, fuck, what do I do? I don’t– I don’t know how to–“ the voice is unmistakably Barry’s, and despite the uncertainty with which the man talks, Alan finds himself flooded with relief. After all, he’s never gotten into a mess Barry couldn’t get him out of.
The feelings lasts for all of three seconds, because Barry starts to fumble with the bear trap in an attempt to find the release latch, and it hurts like a bitch.
Alan yelps, nails sinking into the ground beneath him, tearing grass up by the root. He’s pretty sure he’s crying again. “S– ow, fuck, stop– stop–“
“I’m sorry!” Barry says quickly, ceasing all movement. He’s panting, be it from the run here– how did he know where to go?– or from the anxiety. “Shit, I– I have to get this off of you, though. Dammit, god, how do I...”
A pause.
“Wait, I think I get it. Hey, if I open it, can you pull your foot out?”
“... yeah,” Alan says, despite really not knowing. His mind’s full of static right now.
“Okay. Okay, whoo boy, here goes nothing. Okay. Three, two–“
There is no ‘one’ before the metal jaws begin to creep open unbearably slow. Alan doesn’t scream, but he really, really wants to.
When Barry gives a strained, “Go, go, go–“ Alan drags himself forward by the arms with every ounce of willpower he has, sweat beading down his forehead, certain Barry’s grip will fail and the jaws will snap back down on his toes at the speed he’s moving. They don’t, though. Its only when his mangled foot touches the dirt that Barry releases the trap, and the sound of it clanking together makes Alan flinch.
He drops limply against the ground, trying to breathe through the throbbing pain and failing.
“Oh, fuck, that’s a lot of blood...” Barry says, sounding significantly more queasy than he had before. “How... I mean, what do I–?”
“The light. I... you have to...”
Barry makes a noise of horror. “Don’t go into the light, Al!”
“No,” Alan snaps. “The flashlight. It...” fuck, what’s the word? “Helps.” Nope. “Heals.” That’s it.
“What? That doesn’t make any–“ Barry stops then, likely realizing it isn’t any less ridiculous than monsters possessed by shadows. “Fine, sure, yeah, why not.”
Alan can feel when the light hits the injury because the pain stops immediately. He once more risks pushing himself up on his elbows, angling himself to look at it. He regrets that decision as soon as he’s made it; watching his muscle slowly bubble back out into skin is rather grotesque.
When the process seems to be done, no indication he’d ever been hurt in the first place other than his torn, crimson pant sleeve and the murder scene smeared between him and the bear trap, he tries to stand. It... does not work out. Judging by the way the world is still doing loops around him, the magical healing process hadn’t replaced all the blood pooled around him.
“Woah, easy...” Barry holds both his hands out towards Alan placatingly, urging him to stay down. Alan wants to listen, but he can’t, they don’t have the time. “You... I don’t think you should be walking right now.”
“Don’t have a choice,” he says, and makes a second attempt.
“Okay, alright–“ this time Barry springs up, helping Alan to join him.
Alan stumbles immediately, and Barry grabs him by the shoulders, holding him straight. His legs still feel unsteady beneath him.
“Jeez, man, you’re shivering... this is not good.”
Gee, really? He hasn’t noticed. Barry scoffs, so Alan might’ve said that out loud.
Then again, he really hasn’t noticed how cold its gotten, he’s suddenly freezing. Which is weird, because this jacket is usually pretty warm, and despite it being September the wind hadn’t been so biting before he’d... oh, he sees what’s happening. He’s written enough characters bleeding out to remember the symptoms. He’d gone on and on about Alex Casey’s mind leaving him, losing feeling in his limbs as he watched them lose color, his body wracked by tremors.
If Alan’s writing is coming true, does that mean he’d really killed a man?
It’s the last coherent thought he has before he opens his eyes to daylight. Not, not daylight– its the interior light of a car, that he just so happens to be staring right at. He’d made it to the road?
A look around shows him to be in the backseat, laid out a bit awkwardly, with a familiar red jacket behind the wheel. Barry had gotten him to the road.
“Where’re we going?” Alan slurs, pulling himself up by the shoulder of the passenger’s seat. Tries to, anyway, because Barry nearly jerks the damn car off the road when Alan speaks, and it sends him sailing back down.
“Jesus! Oh, shit, sorry.” Alan struggles back up into a sitting position, and Barry glances back at him through the rearview mirror more than can possibly be safe. “How’re you feeling? How’s your head, are you–?”
“I feel... better.” Which is weird, because– unless its been a lot longer than it seems like it has, or Barry had somehow pulled off a transfusion– there is absolutely no reason for him to feel better.
“Oh, thank christ. You passed out back there, man, scared the shit outta me, I thought you were fucking dead. The light helped, so I figured I’d get you into more of it, and then those things showed up, so I just– I just drove.”
“Good call.”
He still feels a little woozy, but it’s nothing compared to before.
“Yeah, I’ll add it to the list of you-owe-mes. Keep this up and I’m gonna be bald by the time I’m forty, Al– and I’m making you pay for the hair transplant.”
Alan chuckles despite himself.