a way out
It is terribly quiet outside. Frighteningly, unnaturally quiet. It is not the sound of civilisation, not the sound of a city, but the sound of fear.
Peter has a sinking feeling that things are going to get really bad, really quickly.
He steps onto the pavement and stops, just for a second, unsure of where to go. He knows which city he’s in, knows roughly where he’s located within it, but doesn’t actually know how to get out of it. he was usually in a car, when he was leaving the house. And that wasn’t very often, and it was usually for some formal dinner or fancy business arrangement, and Peter never paid much attention to the roads.
When Adrian took him on holidays, which has happened twice in the years that Peter has spent with him, they’d always go to the airport and then fly out, but Peter doesn’t remember that road, either.
Panic zips up his spine, and he’s terribly aware that he’s out in the open, terribly aware of the darkness surrounding him and what could be lurking where he cannot see it. he’s terribly aware that he has no idea what he is doing, what he is supposed to be doing, that he is just as hopeless and helpless as he was told he was going to be when he was thirteen years old.
He turns right, starts walking.
It’s the opposite way from that which he takes when going to the store, the only place he could go on his own, not the sprawling supermarket Adrian sometimes took him to and preferred, but a small store with only snacks and the barest essentials for housekeeping.
Peter knows that place, so he feels, instinctively, that it is closer to the city center, and wants to lengthen the distance between himself and it. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive outside of the city, but he knows he is not going to survive inside of it. He’d rather get eaten by wolves than get killed by some panicked person in the mess of it all.
Because it’s going to be a mess. Peter is absolutely sure of it. it is quiet now, but it is not going to be quiet for long, because in a few hours or in a few days people are going to realize that the power isn’t coming back, that there is no one coming to save them, that they don’t have water and that their food is running out and they are going to come out to the streets.
They are going to come out to the streets and they are going to try to leave the city, and they will do so in droves.
Peter wants to be as far away from here as he can when that happens.
Because he knows, even though he doesn’t want to, that he’s a lot more likely to be taken than he is to be killed. He is a young omega, easy to subdue, without rights even when the lights are on and the police are patrolling the streets, even when the world as he knows it still exists. People have felt entitled to him, to his feelings and his work and his body, and that is not going to change.
And Peter doesn’t want to change hands. Doesn’t want to simply go from one alpha to the other.
So he needs to leave.
He tries to clear his head, though it is a mess of anxiety and looping thoughts, imaginary men lurking around every corner, behind every perfectly manicured suburb bush, tries to just push on. He walks, sees many cars piled up on the road, sees people lying on the street, unmoving.
He thinks they’re dead, but doesn’t stop to check. He wouldn’t be able to help them anyways. He can only help himself.
Peter comes to an intersection, turns right again. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He chides himself, wonders when he got so complacent, so pliant, that he didn’t even consider trying to learn the streets surrounding his home, that he never considered he’d be going anywhere but the stupid restaurants and other fancy houses and the little cursed store. He just thought he’s stay in that house forever, catering to Adrian forever, doing the same things over and over again without ever looking up, without ever trying to find a way out. Maybe Adrian would get tired of him at some point, surrender him back to the state to be picked out by some other alpha, but Peter never thought about that either. If that happened, Peter would just get used to a different man, more or less cruel, more or less demanding, would find a different store to visit when he needed some house bleach or dishwasher tablets.
He feels hatred towards himself, more distinctly than he ever has before, because he has become exactly what he feared most. A perfect, brainwashed omega. Someone who would see the news of the world as he knew ending on the tv, who would see it with his own eyes right outside his house, and just sit on the sofa and wait for his alpha to get back home.
His stomach rises, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He hates it. He hates himself and Adrian and everyone else, every last one of them, the omegas and the betas and the alphas most of all.
Peter gets to another intersection, and it feels like it’s mocking him, the rows of too-similar houses with new, shining cars in the driveways, all the same and never ending. It feels like he’s never going to get out of here, like he’s just going to walk though the suburbs forever, and Peter hates it, hates it even more than he did every day he spent here, in this neighbourhood that he would never choose for himself, because he wanted to live in a house in the woods or he wanted to live in the center of a city but he never wanted to live here.
There’s a roundabout, next, and Peter’s legs are hurting. There’s the most spectacular car crash yet inside it. A car has flipped over, is lying on its roof next to the road.
Peter walks until the sun starts coming up, and then stops to put his bag down and pull out one of the water bottles. He drinks in big, hasty gulps, his mouth parched and his muscles aching. He hasn’t walked this much in forever. Maybe since he was a child.
He takes his bag and takes it to the side of the road, where he cannot be so easily seen between the sprawling gardens. It’s the beginning of autumn, and there’s lots of vegetation to hide behind. Peter doesn’t even want to consider what the upcoming winter is going to be like.
He hears voices near him, jerks from where he’s wiping his face with his shirt. Goes very still. Goes so still he stops breathing.
“We go left from here, onto Hutchinson Riv. It’s the fastest way out”, a voice says, clearly male, clearly authoritative.
“I think we should go back inside”, a woman says, and she sounds old, sounds worn, sounds like she won’t last ten minutes out in the streets, calm as they are. Peter wonders what she looks like, but doesn’t dare move to look. Getting seen now could easily be a death sentence.
“We should wait for the army to come out”, another man says, voice deep but panicked.
“We’ve been talking about this for hours. We need to leave. Follow me”, the first man says, ignoring the woman completely, and then Peter can hear steps. Every last muscle in his body tenses, even though it would help him none, even though it would be no help at all, if he were seen.
The rush of relief he feels when the steps start moving away from him instead of towards him is dizzying. He listens to the sound of the voices getting further away, still arguing but following the man’s plan.
And he’s right, Peter knows. They do need to get out of there. They’re the first people he has seen outside, instead of huddled in their homes, and they are right.
And they know a way out.
Peter doesn’t want to consider it, but he has to. He has to consider that he’s not going to get out of the city on his own. That he’s not able to get out of it on his own.
It’s a big risk, but he decides to follow the group. He’ll keep his distance, keep from getting noticed, but he’ll follow them from as far away as he can, until they get out of the city. Then he can break off on his own.
Peter grits his teeth, feels them grinding against one another, feels his hands shaking terribly in his lap. He listens to the voices and the steps until he can’t hear them anymore, and then stays still for another minute. Then he zips up his bag again, pulls it up onto his shoulder, and stands until he can see over the hedge he was hiding behind. When he looks to the end of the street, he can just barely see the people walking away from him in the distance. There’s either five or six of them, Peter’s not sure because he’s so far away and because they’re sticking so close together, and they’re a mix of men and women, carrying bags and backpacks. He even sees one four-wheel luggage being dragged by a woman.
He steps out from his hiding space, keeps as low to the ground as he can, and starts following them.
The group makes stops frequently, probably because of the old woman who is among their numbers, and Peter appreciates it greatly. He uses every chance he gets to rest, because he was already terribly tired when he started following them and because trailing a group of people in an empty street while trying not to get noticed is very difficult.
The group comes across another one, about an hour into their walk or so, the sun already decently up in the sky, and they exchange brief words that Peter can’t hear before going their separate ways. The new group continues towards Peter, and he quickly hides in a yard so he won’t be seen.
He stays still and crouches low to the ground, as hidden as he can be without breaking into a house. He hopes that there is no one inside the one story building to his left, that if there is someone that they won’t think to look outside the window right this moment.
He hears someone shout something, but it is not aimed at him and it is far enough away that he does not immediately panic, and then he hears footsteps nearing. Terribly fast, and not human.
He has just a second to realize that it’s a dog before a German Shepherd rushes through the bushes, long-haired and beautiful, has just a second of relief over it not being a person before he starts being afraid again.
The dog looks at it, its ears pointed up. Its tail is very stiff, pointed back.
“Betty!”, a voice yells, closer now, “Come back here!”
“Betty”, Peter whispers so low he can’t even hear himself, tries to smile at the dog. He can’t remember what he’s supposed to do. He was never supposed to be in this situation, “Hi, Betty”
Betty’s ears pin back, and she shows him her teeth. They’re big, sharp teeth, and Peter steps back quickly. She barks once, terribly loud, and then she’s on him before he can blink.
Being bitten by a German Shepherd hurts a lot. Peter doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell, freezes for a moment and then tries to move away, tries to shake off the dog, but it doesn’t work. He can feel her teeth where they’ve punctured his skin and gone into muscle in his right calf, and it burns, and he feels his heart pumping more and more loudly until he can’t hear anything else.
He jerks back again, only feels the teeth go deeper, wants to hit the dog but doesn’t know what to use.
He has the bag. He swings it over his head, hits the dog with it. Hits himself too, but doesn’t feel it. It doesn’t let go. It’s growling, its beautiful eyes full of rage. Peter wonders why the dog hates him, in a moment of hysteria, while hitting it over and over again. The bag is mostly full of clothes, and it’s not a very good weapon, but Peter swings it again and again until the dog’s hold loosens. It whines once, and then lets go, looks at him as he immediately starts running again.
His leg doesn’t hurt, and Peter clutches his bag for dear life as he jumps over one fence and then another, rushes through hedges and trips and falls and gets up again, hears himself panting and making a ruckus. He needs to get away. Nothing else matters right now.
He hears voices behind him, but they get quieter and quieter until he can’t hear them anymore, and Peter runs until he can feel himself slowing, until his ragged breaths start scratching his throat and his eyes start burning. He stops.
He stops and looks around, doesn’t see anyone. Sits down. Puts his head in his hands and breathes.
His face is slick with sweat, his hair wet with it. he runs his fingers through it, scratches roughly at the back of his neck. He feels a twinge of pain in his leg, looks at it.
It’s a mess. His pants are torn and he can see the flesh from where the holes in the fabric are, and there are holes in his leg. His beige sneaker in dyed red in the back, from the blood pouring down his leg.
He has to take care of this. Peter knows this. He knows this but he doesn’t know how to do it, doesn’t know if he is able to do it. his hands shake as he pulls up his pantsleeve, and he winces when he brushes the wound with the fabric as he’s moving it. it burns. It burns and it aches and it’s bleeding. Peter knows dog bites are dangerous.
He knows he should wash out the wound, but he looks at the blood and there is so much of it, he thinks he’s going to bleed out. he’s going to bleed out right here in the middle of a fucking suburbia, on someone’s front lawn.
He’s only been outside of the house alone, without an alpha, without Adrian and his heavy hand resting on the back of Peter’s neck and directing his every move, for a few hours. He’s only been alone for a few hours and he’s been mauled by a dog and he’s going to die like a dog now, too.
Peter unzips the bag with unsteady movements, pulls out the first thing he feels under his fingers. It’s the jeans, and he throws them aside, digs inside the bag again. Pulls out a shirt. He tries ripping it, but his hands are shaking too much and he’s too weak, and the shirt holds strong and it’s so ridiculous, that he can’t even rip a fucking shirt up, that he feels his eyes burning.
He wraps the shirt around his calf, ties it in the back where he’s bleeding the most. It’s messy, and he has to rip his pants to pull it around his leg properly, and it’s terribly ironic that he can rip the pants but not the shirt, but he manages it. his leg hurts terribly, but he pulls the knot as tight as he can, knows that’s the only way to stop the bleeding, grits his teeth through the pain.
Then he reaches up and wipes his face, feels his cheeks are wet. His hand is bloody when he looks at it, and he must have blood on his face too, but Peter doesn’t care right now. He’s not dying here.
He packs his bag back up and gets up, staggers a few times until he figures he needs to put less weight on his injured leg, hobbles onto the street.
The group he was following is nowhere in sight, and Peter stands there for a few minutes and looks into the distance until he decides that he just has to continue, just go straight and hope for the best. Hope this road takes him somewhere.