SPN Fic: Apocalypse Z: Part Two
Master Post
2.
“Most people don’t believe something can happen until it already has. That’s not stupidity or weakness, that’s just human nature.” - World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, Max Brooks
The zombie apocalypse didn’t seem all that imminent, and they were hungry and tired, so they got a room, some pizza and some beers. The room was blissfully air-conditioned. Castiel declined pizza, beer and rest and said that he would remain in close contact with them, “least you need assistance against the rising hordes of living dead” before disappearing.
The original The Hills Have Eyes was on tv. They finished off the pizza and lay down on the beds, beer cans balanced on their chests.
“Do you think it’s going to be all Dawn of the Dead, with people getting torn apart and eaten alive, or more Shaun of the Dead, where we’ll come up with a bunch of reality shows for zombies?” Dean asked after a while.
Sam grunted. “Night of the Living Dead,” he answered. “We’re going to make it through to morning only to get shot by the army.”
Dean sighed. “Sounds about right,” he said.
* * *
They checked out the window as soon as they got up, but there was only a drunk passed out in his haphazardly parked car.
“Clear on zombie activity,” Dean declared, and Sam could hear the disappointment in his voice.
He went to take a shower and when he came out, Dean had his phone to his ear. “Well, of course I don’t think that!” he was yelling, and someone on the other end was yelling right back.
Sam dumped out his duffle bag and started sorting his clothes. The motel had a laundry room, and Sam thought he’d get a load in before the world ended.
“Just trying to keep you in the loop,” Dean said, somewhat quieter but still harsh, and added, “Yes. Yes, I know.” He finished with, “Fine. We’ll see you then,” and snapped the phone shut.
Sam left the clean things on the bed and shoved everything else in the duffle. “How’s Bobby?” he asked.
“He says he can roll faster than they can stagger so get our butts out there,” Dean said sourly, then dumped his own duffle and started throwing dirty clothes in Sam’s direction.
“Dude, I’m not doing your laundry,” Sam snapped.
“What, I have to fight the zombie apocalypse in dirty underwear?” Dean said. “I’m going to get breakfast.”
He wasn’t back when it was time to put the clothes in the dryer, so Sam called, but Dean answered and said grimly, “Not now, Sammy!” before hanging up.
By the time the clothes were dry, Sam had given up and made himself breakfast of soda and vending machine Moon Pie. He repacked their duffels and channel surfed for any news of zombie activity. It was scant - the Florida rabies, a few random attacks - but news of increasing chaos was everywhere: highway pileups, fires, a man who shot up a funeral home with his machine gun, declaring that they were coming.
Sam didn’t look up when Dean came in. “We better get on the road,” he said, still fixed on the television, where a woman was describing how her brother-in-law had bitten both her and her Pomeranian before her sister had beaten him off with a floor lamp.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
Sam looked up and did a double-take. Dean was covered in blood.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean said, and went into the bathroom without another word.
“Hey, where’s breakfast?” Sam shouted at the closed door. Dean threw the ruined clothes out, hitting him in the face. “Thanks,” Sam added.
* * *
They were outside Philadelphia when the radio DJ started talking about zombies.
“Can you believe it, folks?” he asked the listening audience. “He said they were zombies. And this is no crackpot talking here, this is the commander of the regional State Police post. The trooper pulls over the car and this woman is chewing - chewing - on her husband’s neck while he’s trying to get her to the hospital. When the trooper finally drags her out, she’s eaten open the artery in the neck and this guy is done for. Trooper throws the woman into the ditch, climbs back into the car to try to help the poor fella, and the next thing you know, she’s trying to eat him. He shoots her, twice, in the chest and she just keeps coming, so he finally shoots her in the head. So he’s sitting there, trying to figure out what just happened, and the husband - who was dead, mind you, bled out - suddenly comes to and starts snapping at the trooper, trying to get himself a snack. I mean, zombies? It sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to describe it. Which is what the post commander said, by the way - it sounds crazy, but he doesn’t know what else it could be. I mean -“
Dean pushed AC/DC into the tape deck. It was still playing an hour later when they came across the accident.
Most of the bodies were just that, bodies, some in the road, some still in the cars. Up toward the front, though, was a nasty-looking fat lady zombie in a t-shirt that read, “Proud to be an American.” She was belted in behind the wheel and a small crowd had gathered around her. They pushed their way to the front.
“Now, don’t worry, folks, she can’t get herself out,” a man with a ‘70s porn mustache was telling everyone. “Can’t get out of her seatbelt or open the door.”
Sam fished around in his wallet until he found an official-enough-looking ID and flashed it. “What happened here?” he asked.
“Uh, Agent?” ‘70s porn mustache said. “See, this lady was driving but then she passed out or died or somethin’, and caused this big accident. Then, while people are trying to see if everyone’s all right and stuff, this little kid climbs out of the car. Everyone runs up to him to comfort him, and he starts biting hunks out of folks. Then people start running over the highway, trying to get away from him, and the accident gets bigger. We got the authorities comin’ along, but in the meantime, Proud to be an American here wakes up hungry.”
“Dude,” Dean said, and ‘70s porn mustache said, “I know, man.”
“Where’s the kid?” Sam asked.
‘70s porn mustache shook his head. “I never saw him myself. Must have run off.”
Just then, there was a scream from the back of the crowd, which quickly began to stampede. As people shouted and ran out into the road, the shriek of metal on metal and the squealing of brakes rose up.
Sam and Dean pushed through the crowd until they were in front of a pudgy little boy. His Clone Wars t-shirt was covered in blood, and a hunk of flesh was still caught in his teeth. He was staggering clumsily toward the few horrorstricken remaining people.
The brothers drew their handguns. A lady screamed. Something hit Sam’s arm, and he looked down to see a small, blue-haired lady brandishing her purse against him.
“Do you intend to shoot that child?” she demanded. “Barbaric! You’re a lunatic!”
“Lady, he’s a zombie,” Dean said when Sam couldn’t come up with a response other than, “Ah.”
“Then you’re a lunatic too!” the woman yelled. “It’s that devil-music and those accursed video games!” She turned to the other bystanders. “They’re about to murder a child! Save the boy!”
The cry went up and someone grabbed for Sam’s gun. Other people ran to give cover to the boy. Sam heard one of them scream, “Oh my god, he bit me!”
Sam wrested his gun back while Dean beat off a large, red-faced trucker. “Car!” Dean yelled, but Sam was already pushing his way back to the Impala, forging a path for them both. They broke through the crowd and into a run. Behind them, there were more screams, some of pain and some of reprobation for the child-killing lunatics.
They dove into the Impala and Dean slammed into reverse, then shot into the grassy median to drive around the pileup. The car bounced violently and Dean was wincing and saying, “Oh, man,” when someone threw a rock that bounced off the hood and left a sizable dent. Dean gunned it, pulled back onto the highway and tore away.
They started taking the back roads.
* * *
Castiel called at nightfall and promptly appeared in the back seat. Sam was driving, but from what he could see in the rearview, the bedhead was worse than ever. There was also a streak of dirt on Castiel’s forehead. He was panting.
“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked, twisting around.
“Yes,” Castiel said, but he was a little wild-eyed. “I have found zombies on every continent except Antarctica. There were only penguins there.”
“Zombie penguins?” Dean asked hopefully, and when Castiel only stared blankly at him, he coughed and said, “Yeah. It’s all over the news now. Sam found it on NPR earlier. Seriously, NPR talking about zombies. It’s on.”
“I have found no sign of Lucifer or Pestilence, however,” Castiel said. “I will continue my endeavors. What are your plans?”
“Going to Bobby’s,” Dean said. “Away from populated areas, heavily fortified and armed.”
“A reasonable strategy,” Castiel said. “Have you encountered more undead? Have you had difficulty disposing of them?”
Dean shrugged. “There’ve been a few more. It’s not like they move fast though. Make easy targets.”
Castiel gave him a strange look. “They are not … ravenous, in your opinion?”
“Ravenous?” Dean said, and shot Sam a look. Sam looked at Castiel in the rearview again, but, as always, the angel only had eyes for his brother. “Well, they’re hungry. They’ll chomp on you if they can get you.”
“Oh,” Castiel said. “I have encountered a number that were … quite enthusiastic about the prospect of eating me.”
“Well,” Dean said with a lecherous smile, “you are a tasty treat.”
“I am not,” Castiel said with offense.
“I just meant -“ Dean started, but Castiel cut him off with, “I will call soon for your progress,” and disappeared.
Dean turned back around. “Touchy,” he said.
“He looked like he was having a bad day,” Sam offered.
“Everyone’s having a bad day,” Dean pointed out, and Sam had to agree.
* * *
“Find a reliable automobile. Zombies don’t drive.” - Field Guide to the Apocalypse: Movie Survival Skills for the End of the World, Meghann Marco
It was slow going on the back roads. They took turns driving and sleeping. They turned north at Columbus, because they could see the glow from the fires miles away.
They were southeast of Chicago by the next afternoon, and things were getting really hairy, and without any zombies to even shoot at.
“People!” Dean said in disgust, trying to maneuver the Impala on the grassy shoulder, because the road was deadlocked. They’d caught a glimpse of the interstate a ways back and it looked even worse, like a city of vehicles. “Where do they think they’re going?”
“They’re just trying to get away, Dean,” Sam said. He could see into a mini-van. No one was in the driver’s seat, but a woman was in the passenger seat, hiding her face in a weeping toddler’s hair. A friendly looking golden lab woofed at him out the window, its tail wagging.
“Stop it,” Dean muttered. “We can’t save them. Not like this, not one at a time. We gotta get to Bobby’s, gotta make a plan, find a way.”
They passed the mini-van, pulled up beside a revving motorcycle with a sidecar. The biker gave them a thumbs-up as they passed.
The Scorpions’ “Send Me An Angel” burst out of Dean’s phone, and Sam snatched it up off the seat between them. “I’m changing that ringtone,” he informed Dean before answering it and rattling off their location.
Castiel appeared in the backseat. One of his trenchcoat sleeves was ripped. “Hello,” he said, and then did not elaborate.
“Hi, Cas,” Sam said. Dean was torn between looking at his angel in the rearview mirror and watching the road, or side of the road, as it were.
“There are more zombies today than yesterday,” Castiel finally said.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “It’s going to take forever to get to Bobby’s.”
Castiel nodded. “I will travel with you,” he said. “You may need protection.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said.
They finally maneuvered around the worst of the traffic jam and got moving again, albeit slowly, and put in another 30 miles before Dean had to slam on the brakes to avoid a sudden and complete stop of traffic. Sam squinted down the road of stationary cars in front of them.
“What the hell …” Dean started, and then a pair of screaming teenagers thumped up against the Impala as they ran past. A man carrying a little boy was next. The child was crying in terror.
“Shit,” Sam said, because now it was a horde of people, all of them screaming and crying and running for their lives, carrying children and pets and luggage bags, weaving around cars and pushing out onto the shoulder. A man leapt onto the hood of the Impala and ran right over the top of it, clambering down the trunk and continuing down the road.
Sam and Dean opened their doors at the same time and dashed for the trunk, where they both loaded shotguns and stuffed their pockets with ammunition. Castiel blipped out of the backseat, and seconds later was back beside them.
“How many?” Dean asked grimly.
“A dozen, at least,” Castiel said. “The crowd is in a panic. They’re stampeding people further up.”
Sam grabbed his curved knife and hung it from his belt while Dean snagged a hatchet and did the same. They both took off at a dead run down the road.
Sam kept having to push people aside to move forward, the crowd growing thicker and more panicked with each step. He passed a car where a young woman sat, still seatbelted, behind the wheel, windows rolled up, holding a cat to her chest and staring at the scene around her in terrified disbelief. He passed an SUV with open doors and the sound of a baby crying pouring out of it.
Finally, he pushed through the vehicles to find an opening, hearing the moaning and snarling before he saw the zombies as he came around an overturned truck. His shotgun was up before he’d completed his turn around the vehicle, and he blew two zombies’ heads off before they even noticed him there.
Dean must have fallen behind, because there was no accompanying gunfire beside him. Sam aimed and hit another one in the neck. Gurgling, thick blood pouring down its chest, it turned toward him, staggering, and he finished it off.
Castiel appeared on the other side of the opening in the vehicles, grabbed the nearest zombie by its scruff and bashed its head into the side of a Ford 2500. Its skull actually cracked open and Castiel dropped its lifeless body, moving swiftly on to the next zombie. Sam fired twice more, sure he got one, not sure about the other, before grabbing his knife to behead a creature drawing near to his side.
The zombie staggered past him with a heartfelt, “Bwlfff!” and went right for Castiel. Sam hesitated, surprised, then grabbed the thing from behind and hacked its head off in a few brutal strokes. When he looked up, four more zombies lay dead at Castiel’s feet, and seven more had gathered around the angel. They were … slobbering. And vocalizing. Kind of like Dean at a steakhouse.
“What the fuck?” Dean said in his ear, before yelling, “Cas! Get outta there!”
Castiel bashed the head of the nearest zombie into a vehicle and then rematerialized next to the brothers. He brought two zombies, one clinging to the back of his trenchcoat, the other flat on the ground and wrapped around his ankle, with him. Dean whipped a pistol out from the back of his jeans and shot both of them in the head.
Sam put bullets in three more heads and Dean finished off the last one. They stood there, panting, listening for sounds of more undead activity, but all they could hear was the crowd, now further away, still screaming and stampeding, and the baby, still crying.
“Wow,” Dean said, looking at Castiel, “they do think you’re nummy.”
Castiel grimaced and disappeared.
Sam and Dean trudged back to the Impala. They helped up a few fallen people on the way, and carried the body of someone who had been trampled to death off to the side of the road. At the SUV, Sam climbed in and took the crying baby out of the car seat. It was wearing a yellow onesie that said, “Cutie Pie!” It quieted against his chest, seeming to feel safe again, and Sam let its warm weight fill up his hands, breathed steadily with it. Just as the Impala came into sight, a woman ran up sobbing and reached her arms out for the child. “I was trying to get her out,” she gasped. “The crowd pulled me right away, I couldn’t get back to her.”
In the end, they had to push the Impala off the road completely, and then Dean steered while Sam pushed whenever they got stuck. “You know who could help with this?” Sam yelled while they tried to get the car over the edge of a ditch. “Castiel.”
“I am here,” the angel said from beside Sam, then put his hands on the trunk and helped Sam push, the car finally clearing the obstacle.
“Thanks,” Sam said, and wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. “Can you, uh,” he flapped a hand, not sure what word to use, “fly the car somewhere less congested?”
“No,” Castiel said, and got into the backseat. Sam sighed, and got into the passenger seat.
They went about 50 more miles, and then it was dark and traffic showed no sign of improving and Sam was starving, sweaty and cramped. They passed a little motor inn, and Dean pulled into the parking lot.
“Tell me you have a room,” Sam demanded of the clerk, leaning and sweating against the desk.
“One room,” the guy told him. “Cash only.”
Fortunately, just that morning they had gone to an ATM and emptied out every available credit card with cash advances. Sam slapped the money down and got a key. There was a gas station/restaurant beside the motor inn, and Dean got them takeout. Sam went straight for the shower, and when he came out, Dean was on his second burger and staring in rapture at the television.
“Dude,” Dean said around a mouthful. “This Air France plane just landed at JFK. Only people on it who aren’t zombies are the pilot and copilot. They locked themselves behind their terrorist-proof door while the infection spread in the fuselage. NTSB is trying to figure out how to get the pilots out.” He took a long pull of beer and then said, “And you think flying is safe.” He snorted.
Sam opened a beer and downed half of it before sitting down and grabbing a burger. Castiel stood in the middle of the room, intently watching the news report. “You staying?” Dean mumbled at him.
“Yes,” Castiel said. “It is imperative that both of you arrive safely at Bobby’s. I can resume my investigation into this outbreak after that.”
“Then sit down,” Dean said. “Stop being creepy.”
Castiel cut Dean a sideways look, then pulled out a chair and sat down. The three of them sat in silence and watched the world fall apart.
* * *
Sam woke to find the television still on, Castiel still watching it. “How are things?” he mumbled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Worse,” the angel said tersely.
Sam stood and stretched, cracking his neck. He went over to the window and found the curtain strings, knowing full well that the morning light was going to catch Dean right in his still-sleeping eyes and wake him up. He yanked and the curtains whipped open.
Five zombies were lined up at the window, their faces pressed to the glass. They groaned with enthusiasm at the sight of the room’s occupants. It was like, Sam thought, the world’s worst paparazzi.
Dean groaned. “I’m still sleeping, Sam,” he grumbled, and shoved his head under the pillow.
Sam got dressed, making as much noise as possible. He kicked Dean’s bed. “Get up,” he said. “We need to get moving, big time.” Dean shot him the finger. “Coffee?” Sam asked, and the finger came down.
“Please,” came Dean’s muffled reply.
Sam loaded the shotgun, stocked extra ammo in his pockets, and grabbed his knife. “Come with, Cas?” he asked.
“Yes,” Castiel said. He was standing in front of the window, frowning and looking at the zombies, who were climbing over each other in a vain attempt to tear the angel’s throat out.
They left the room and dispatched of the zombies before they could even get away from the window. Sam scanned the area carefully, but no more undead presented themselves, so they crossed the parking lot to the gas station/restaurant.
The door was unlocked, but the inside was deserted. The power was still on, though, so Sam let himself into the kitchen and started fresh coffee brewing. He was pulling out eggs, bacon and biscuits to make them some quick sandwiches when he heard a clatter from the aisles near the register.
“Cas?” he said, and then heard the now-unmistakable sound of zombie skull breaking open. Castiel came around to the kitchen wearing an expression of great distaste.
“It bit my ankle,” he said, indignant.
“Uh, zombie,” Sam reminded him. He set down his supplies and crouched down, pushing up Castiel’s pant leg. It looked like the zombie had taken out a hunk of flesh and sock. Sam squinted up.
“It won’t affect you, right?” he asked.
Castiel looked disdainful. “I am an angel of the Lord, Sam,” he said. “I do not get sick. This is a sickness.”
Sam nodded and stood up. “Good,” he said. “Well, heal it up and then give me a hand here.”
Dean was up and dressed when they returned, and enthusiastic about Sam’s provided breakfast. They finished eating, stripped the room of blankets and pillows, raided the store, filled spare gas containers, loaded the Impala and ventured back onto the road.
* * *
Today Dean was going for real back roads, using a compass and the instincts born of a life on the road to keep them moving west. They were forced south for most of the day in order to avoid the outpouring of people from Chicago and its suburbs, but by mid-afternoon were finally able to start veering north again.
There were no gas stations, restaurants or other signs of life on the narrow paths that Dean was choosing. Every so often they came across another vehicle, and a couple of times, convoys of them, but Sam was willing to bet that most of the people living out here had dug in to ride this out, and the desperate refugees from the city had foolishly stuck to roads that were on the map. The radio continued to provide bad news, and sometime just after noon, the Emergency Broadcast System went off. Sam was hoping that the automated voice would tell them that zombies must be killed by removing the head or destroying the brain, but instead they were repeatedly told not to travel, to stay in their homes until the all-clear was sounded, and that help was on the way.
That’s us, Sam thought. Sorry, world.
In the back seat, Castiel’s stomach growled.
Sam turned around, and Dean looked into the rearview. “All right back there, Cas?” he asked.
“I am fine,” Castiel said peevishly.
Sam jerked his chin. “How’s the ankle?”
“I am fine,” Castiel repeated, louder, so Sam turned around and shut up. The emergency alarm continued going off, and the announcer continued telling them to stay inside. Sam fiddled with the dial and found that most stations were playing the emergency signal. He found two, however, that were praying, and when he switched to AM, Rush Limbaugh informed them that this was the result of health care reform, were they happy now?
Castiel’s stomach growled again. Sam stared straight ahead, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard it. Dean pushed Metallica in and if nothing else, it drowned out everything else.
* * *
They were going to have to get back on a main road to cross the Mississippi. After careful inspection of the map and serious debate, they settled on Niota, which would take them across to Fort Madison, Iowa. Dean came into town on sidestreets, and on seeing abandoned cars and broken storefronts on the main streets, tried to run parallel to downtown without actually going into it.
Sam turned around to ask Cas if he could go scout ahead for the best route and then paused with his mouth open. What finally came out was, “Castiel, are you sunburned?”
“No,” Castiel said, staring stonily out the front windshield.
Dean twisted quickly to look at the angel. “Dude, you’re sweating,” Dean said, and pulled the car over. He was out in a second and in the backseat, putting the back of a hand to Castiel’s forehead.
“Shit, you’re scorching,” he said. “What is that? What’s wrong?”
“I am not scorching,” Castiel informed them. “I am an angel. I am perfectly capable of regulating my body temperature.”
“Except you’re bright red and all sweaty, man,” Dean said, and started yanking at the trenchcoat. “Take this thing off, we need to cool you down. Sam, grab him some water, would you?”
Castiel twisted out of Dean’s grasp. “Angels do not need water, Dean,” he insisted, and when Dean yanked at trenchcoat again, climbed out the other side of the car.
Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean looked baffled, but something was clicking in Sam’s head. He got out of the car and stood beside Castiel, who looked fraught. Sam crouched down and pulled up his pant leg.
“Cas!” he yelped, because the bite looked like it was festering. It also stunk. “Why didn’t you heal it?”
Castiel looked all around, then up at the sky, as if searching for rescue. Dean got out of the backseat and crouched down beside Sam.
“What the fuck?” he yelled. “Is that where it bit you?”
Castiel tried to pull out of Sam’s hold, but Sam gave the ankle a gentle squeeze and instead he hissed in pain and shifted his weight to his other leg.
“Since when do angels hurt, Cas?” Sam asked seriously, and Castiel pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Or get hungry?”
Dean stood up, his mouth open in disbelief. “Did that zombie de-angelfy you?” he asked.
Castiel blinked, looked down. “I don’t know,” he said. “Something is wrong. I feel - I feel wretched. Trapped inside this body. The world does not speak to me. I could not heal myself.”
Sam stood up. Dean put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Okay,” Dean said in that calm voice that steadied victims and witnesses. “So the zombie bite did something to you. But it didn’t zombify you. And maybe this is temporary. Damping down your powers or something. So we’ll just fix up this ankle so it heals, get some food into you so your stomach shuts up, and see what happens from there.”
Castiel shook his head, distressed. “I do not think this is temporary,” he said, but then he allowed them to take off his trenchcoat, suit jacket and tie. Sam cleaned and wrapped the ankle and Dean persuaded Castiel to eat a granola bar and drink a bottle of water.
They crossed the Mississippi at sunset in silence.
Part Three
2.
“Most people don’t believe something can happen until it already has. That’s not stupidity or weakness, that’s just human nature.” - World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War, Max Brooks
The zombie apocalypse didn’t seem all that imminent, and they were hungry and tired, so they got a room, some pizza and some beers. The room was blissfully air-conditioned. Castiel declined pizza, beer and rest and said that he would remain in close contact with them, “least you need assistance against the rising hordes of living dead” before disappearing.
The original The Hills Have Eyes was on tv. They finished off the pizza and lay down on the beds, beer cans balanced on their chests.
“Do you think it’s going to be all Dawn of the Dead, with people getting torn apart and eaten alive, or more Shaun of the Dead, where we’ll come up with a bunch of reality shows for zombies?” Dean asked after a while.
Sam grunted. “Night of the Living Dead,” he answered. “We’re going to make it through to morning only to get shot by the army.”
Dean sighed. “Sounds about right,” he said.
* * *
They checked out the window as soon as they got up, but there was only a drunk passed out in his haphazardly parked car.
“Clear on zombie activity,” Dean declared, and Sam could hear the disappointment in his voice.
He went to take a shower and when he came out, Dean had his phone to his ear. “Well, of course I don’t think that!” he was yelling, and someone on the other end was yelling right back.
Sam dumped out his duffle bag and started sorting his clothes. The motel had a laundry room, and Sam thought he’d get a load in before the world ended.
“Just trying to keep you in the loop,” Dean said, somewhat quieter but still harsh, and added, “Yes. Yes, I know.” He finished with, “Fine. We’ll see you then,” and snapped the phone shut.
Sam left the clean things on the bed and shoved everything else in the duffle. “How’s Bobby?” he asked.
“He says he can roll faster than they can stagger so get our butts out there,” Dean said sourly, then dumped his own duffle and started throwing dirty clothes in Sam’s direction.
“Dude, I’m not doing your laundry,” Sam snapped.
“What, I have to fight the zombie apocalypse in dirty underwear?” Dean said. “I’m going to get breakfast.”
He wasn’t back when it was time to put the clothes in the dryer, so Sam called, but Dean answered and said grimly, “Not now, Sammy!” before hanging up.
By the time the clothes were dry, Sam had given up and made himself breakfast of soda and vending machine Moon Pie. He repacked their duffels and channel surfed for any news of zombie activity. It was scant - the Florida rabies, a few random attacks - but news of increasing chaos was everywhere: highway pileups, fires, a man who shot up a funeral home with his machine gun, declaring that they were coming.
Sam didn’t look up when Dean came in. “We better get on the road,” he said, still fixed on the television, where a woman was describing how her brother-in-law had bitten both her and her Pomeranian before her sister had beaten him off with a floor lamp.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
Sam looked up and did a double-take. Dean was covered in blood.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean said, and went into the bathroom without another word.
“Hey, where’s breakfast?” Sam shouted at the closed door. Dean threw the ruined clothes out, hitting him in the face. “Thanks,” Sam added.
* * *
They were outside Philadelphia when the radio DJ started talking about zombies.
“Can you believe it, folks?” he asked the listening audience. “He said they were zombies. And this is no crackpot talking here, this is the commander of the regional State Police post. The trooper pulls over the car and this woman is chewing - chewing - on her husband’s neck while he’s trying to get her to the hospital. When the trooper finally drags her out, she’s eaten open the artery in the neck and this guy is done for. Trooper throws the woman into the ditch, climbs back into the car to try to help the poor fella, and the next thing you know, she’s trying to eat him. He shoots her, twice, in the chest and she just keeps coming, so he finally shoots her in the head. So he’s sitting there, trying to figure out what just happened, and the husband - who was dead, mind you, bled out - suddenly comes to and starts snapping at the trooper, trying to get himself a snack. I mean, zombies? It sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to describe it. Which is what the post commander said, by the way - it sounds crazy, but he doesn’t know what else it could be. I mean -“
Dean pushed AC/DC into the tape deck. It was still playing an hour later when they came across the accident.
Most of the bodies were just that, bodies, some in the road, some still in the cars. Up toward the front, though, was a nasty-looking fat lady zombie in a t-shirt that read, “Proud to be an American.” She was belted in behind the wheel and a small crowd had gathered around her. They pushed their way to the front.
“Now, don’t worry, folks, she can’t get herself out,” a man with a ‘70s porn mustache was telling everyone. “Can’t get out of her seatbelt or open the door.”
Sam fished around in his wallet until he found an official-enough-looking ID and flashed it. “What happened here?” he asked.
“Uh, Agent?” ‘70s porn mustache said. “See, this lady was driving but then she passed out or died or somethin’, and caused this big accident. Then, while people are trying to see if everyone’s all right and stuff, this little kid climbs out of the car. Everyone runs up to him to comfort him, and he starts biting hunks out of folks. Then people start running over the highway, trying to get away from him, and the accident gets bigger. We got the authorities comin’ along, but in the meantime, Proud to be an American here wakes up hungry.”
“Dude,” Dean said, and ‘70s porn mustache said, “I know, man.”
“Where’s the kid?” Sam asked.
‘70s porn mustache shook his head. “I never saw him myself. Must have run off.”
Just then, there was a scream from the back of the crowd, which quickly began to stampede. As people shouted and ran out into the road, the shriek of metal on metal and the squealing of brakes rose up.
Sam and Dean pushed through the crowd until they were in front of a pudgy little boy. His Clone Wars t-shirt was covered in blood, and a hunk of flesh was still caught in his teeth. He was staggering clumsily toward the few horrorstricken remaining people.
The brothers drew their handguns. A lady screamed. Something hit Sam’s arm, and he looked down to see a small, blue-haired lady brandishing her purse against him.
“Do you intend to shoot that child?” she demanded. “Barbaric! You’re a lunatic!”
“Lady, he’s a zombie,” Dean said when Sam couldn’t come up with a response other than, “Ah.”
“Then you’re a lunatic too!” the woman yelled. “It’s that devil-music and those accursed video games!” She turned to the other bystanders. “They’re about to murder a child! Save the boy!”
The cry went up and someone grabbed for Sam’s gun. Other people ran to give cover to the boy. Sam heard one of them scream, “Oh my god, he bit me!”
Sam wrested his gun back while Dean beat off a large, red-faced trucker. “Car!” Dean yelled, but Sam was already pushing his way back to the Impala, forging a path for them both. They broke through the crowd and into a run. Behind them, there were more screams, some of pain and some of reprobation for the child-killing lunatics.
They dove into the Impala and Dean slammed into reverse, then shot into the grassy median to drive around the pileup. The car bounced violently and Dean was wincing and saying, “Oh, man,” when someone threw a rock that bounced off the hood and left a sizable dent. Dean gunned it, pulled back onto the highway and tore away.
They started taking the back roads.
* * *
Castiel called at nightfall and promptly appeared in the back seat. Sam was driving, but from what he could see in the rearview, the bedhead was worse than ever. There was also a streak of dirt on Castiel’s forehead. He was panting.
“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked, twisting around.
“Yes,” Castiel said, but he was a little wild-eyed. “I have found zombies on every continent except Antarctica. There were only penguins there.”
“Zombie penguins?” Dean asked hopefully, and when Castiel only stared blankly at him, he coughed and said, “Yeah. It’s all over the news now. Sam found it on NPR earlier. Seriously, NPR talking about zombies. It’s on.”
“I have found no sign of Lucifer or Pestilence, however,” Castiel said. “I will continue my endeavors. What are your plans?”
“Going to Bobby’s,” Dean said. “Away from populated areas, heavily fortified and armed.”
“A reasonable strategy,” Castiel said. “Have you encountered more undead? Have you had difficulty disposing of them?”
Dean shrugged. “There’ve been a few more. It’s not like they move fast though. Make easy targets.”
Castiel gave him a strange look. “They are not … ravenous, in your opinion?”
“Ravenous?” Dean said, and shot Sam a look. Sam looked at Castiel in the rearview again, but, as always, the angel only had eyes for his brother. “Well, they’re hungry. They’ll chomp on you if they can get you.”
“Oh,” Castiel said. “I have encountered a number that were … quite enthusiastic about the prospect of eating me.”
“Well,” Dean said with a lecherous smile, “you are a tasty treat.”
“I am not,” Castiel said with offense.
“I just meant -“ Dean started, but Castiel cut him off with, “I will call soon for your progress,” and disappeared.
Dean turned back around. “Touchy,” he said.
“He looked like he was having a bad day,” Sam offered.
“Everyone’s having a bad day,” Dean pointed out, and Sam had to agree.
* * *
“Find a reliable automobile. Zombies don’t drive.” - Field Guide to the Apocalypse: Movie Survival Skills for the End of the World, Meghann Marco
It was slow going on the back roads. They took turns driving and sleeping. They turned north at Columbus, because they could see the glow from the fires miles away.
They were southeast of Chicago by the next afternoon, and things were getting really hairy, and without any zombies to even shoot at.
“People!” Dean said in disgust, trying to maneuver the Impala on the grassy shoulder, because the road was deadlocked. They’d caught a glimpse of the interstate a ways back and it looked even worse, like a city of vehicles. “Where do they think they’re going?”
“They’re just trying to get away, Dean,” Sam said. He could see into a mini-van. No one was in the driver’s seat, but a woman was in the passenger seat, hiding her face in a weeping toddler’s hair. A friendly looking golden lab woofed at him out the window, its tail wagging.
“Stop it,” Dean muttered. “We can’t save them. Not like this, not one at a time. We gotta get to Bobby’s, gotta make a plan, find a way.”
They passed the mini-van, pulled up beside a revving motorcycle with a sidecar. The biker gave them a thumbs-up as they passed.
The Scorpions’ “Send Me An Angel” burst out of Dean’s phone, and Sam snatched it up off the seat between them. “I’m changing that ringtone,” he informed Dean before answering it and rattling off their location.
Castiel appeared in the backseat. One of his trenchcoat sleeves was ripped. “Hello,” he said, and then did not elaborate.
“Hi, Cas,” Sam said. Dean was torn between looking at his angel in the rearview mirror and watching the road, or side of the road, as it were.
“There are more zombies today than yesterday,” Castiel finally said.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “It’s going to take forever to get to Bobby’s.”
Castiel nodded. “I will travel with you,” he said. “You may need protection.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said.
They finally maneuvered around the worst of the traffic jam and got moving again, albeit slowly, and put in another 30 miles before Dean had to slam on the brakes to avoid a sudden and complete stop of traffic. Sam squinted down the road of stationary cars in front of them.
“What the hell …” Dean started, and then a pair of screaming teenagers thumped up against the Impala as they ran past. A man carrying a little boy was next. The child was crying in terror.
“Shit,” Sam said, because now it was a horde of people, all of them screaming and crying and running for their lives, carrying children and pets and luggage bags, weaving around cars and pushing out onto the shoulder. A man leapt onto the hood of the Impala and ran right over the top of it, clambering down the trunk and continuing down the road.
Sam and Dean opened their doors at the same time and dashed for the trunk, where they both loaded shotguns and stuffed their pockets with ammunition. Castiel blipped out of the backseat, and seconds later was back beside them.
“How many?” Dean asked grimly.
“A dozen, at least,” Castiel said. “The crowd is in a panic. They’re stampeding people further up.”
Sam grabbed his curved knife and hung it from his belt while Dean snagged a hatchet and did the same. They both took off at a dead run down the road.
Sam kept having to push people aside to move forward, the crowd growing thicker and more panicked with each step. He passed a car where a young woman sat, still seatbelted, behind the wheel, windows rolled up, holding a cat to her chest and staring at the scene around her in terrified disbelief. He passed an SUV with open doors and the sound of a baby crying pouring out of it.
Finally, he pushed through the vehicles to find an opening, hearing the moaning and snarling before he saw the zombies as he came around an overturned truck. His shotgun was up before he’d completed his turn around the vehicle, and he blew two zombies’ heads off before they even noticed him there.
Dean must have fallen behind, because there was no accompanying gunfire beside him. Sam aimed and hit another one in the neck. Gurgling, thick blood pouring down its chest, it turned toward him, staggering, and he finished it off.
Castiel appeared on the other side of the opening in the vehicles, grabbed the nearest zombie by its scruff and bashed its head into the side of a Ford 2500. Its skull actually cracked open and Castiel dropped its lifeless body, moving swiftly on to the next zombie. Sam fired twice more, sure he got one, not sure about the other, before grabbing his knife to behead a creature drawing near to his side.
The zombie staggered past him with a heartfelt, “Bwlfff!” and went right for Castiel. Sam hesitated, surprised, then grabbed the thing from behind and hacked its head off in a few brutal strokes. When he looked up, four more zombies lay dead at Castiel’s feet, and seven more had gathered around the angel. They were … slobbering. And vocalizing. Kind of like Dean at a steakhouse.
“What the fuck?” Dean said in his ear, before yelling, “Cas! Get outta there!”
Castiel bashed the head of the nearest zombie into a vehicle and then rematerialized next to the brothers. He brought two zombies, one clinging to the back of his trenchcoat, the other flat on the ground and wrapped around his ankle, with him. Dean whipped a pistol out from the back of his jeans and shot both of them in the head.
Sam put bullets in three more heads and Dean finished off the last one. They stood there, panting, listening for sounds of more undead activity, but all they could hear was the crowd, now further away, still screaming and stampeding, and the baby, still crying.
“Wow,” Dean said, looking at Castiel, “they do think you’re nummy.”
Castiel grimaced and disappeared.
Sam and Dean trudged back to the Impala. They helped up a few fallen people on the way, and carried the body of someone who had been trampled to death off to the side of the road. At the SUV, Sam climbed in and took the crying baby out of the car seat. It was wearing a yellow onesie that said, “Cutie Pie!” It quieted against his chest, seeming to feel safe again, and Sam let its warm weight fill up his hands, breathed steadily with it. Just as the Impala came into sight, a woman ran up sobbing and reached her arms out for the child. “I was trying to get her out,” she gasped. “The crowd pulled me right away, I couldn’t get back to her.”
In the end, they had to push the Impala off the road completely, and then Dean steered while Sam pushed whenever they got stuck. “You know who could help with this?” Sam yelled while they tried to get the car over the edge of a ditch. “Castiel.”
“I am here,” the angel said from beside Sam, then put his hands on the trunk and helped Sam push, the car finally clearing the obstacle.
“Thanks,” Sam said, and wiped sweat off his forehead with his arm. “Can you, uh,” he flapped a hand, not sure what word to use, “fly the car somewhere less congested?”
“No,” Castiel said, and got into the backseat. Sam sighed, and got into the passenger seat.
They went about 50 more miles, and then it was dark and traffic showed no sign of improving and Sam was starving, sweaty and cramped. They passed a little motor inn, and Dean pulled into the parking lot.
“Tell me you have a room,” Sam demanded of the clerk, leaning and sweating against the desk.
“One room,” the guy told him. “Cash only.”
Fortunately, just that morning they had gone to an ATM and emptied out every available credit card with cash advances. Sam slapped the money down and got a key. There was a gas station/restaurant beside the motor inn, and Dean got them takeout. Sam went straight for the shower, and when he came out, Dean was on his second burger and staring in rapture at the television.
“Dude,” Dean said around a mouthful. “This Air France plane just landed at JFK. Only people on it who aren’t zombies are the pilot and copilot. They locked themselves behind their terrorist-proof door while the infection spread in the fuselage. NTSB is trying to figure out how to get the pilots out.” He took a long pull of beer and then said, “And you think flying is safe.” He snorted.
Sam opened a beer and downed half of it before sitting down and grabbing a burger. Castiel stood in the middle of the room, intently watching the news report. “You staying?” Dean mumbled at him.
“Yes,” Castiel said. “It is imperative that both of you arrive safely at Bobby’s. I can resume my investigation into this outbreak after that.”
“Then sit down,” Dean said. “Stop being creepy.”
Castiel cut Dean a sideways look, then pulled out a chair and sat down. The three of them sat in silence and watched the world fall apart.
* * *
Sam woke to find the television still on, Castiel still watching it. “How are things?” he mumbled, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“Worse,” the angel said tersely.
Sam stood and stretched, cracking his neck. He went over to the window and found the curtain strings, knowing full well that the morning light was going to catch Dean right in his still-sleeping eyes and wake him up. He yanked and the curtains whipped open.
Five zombies were lined up at the window, their faces pressed to the glass. They groaned with enthusiasm at the sight of the room’s occupants. It was like, Sam thought, the world’s worst paparazzi.
Dean groaned. “I’m still sleeping, Sam,” he grumbled, and shoved his head under the pillow.
Sam got dressed, making as much noise as possible. He kicked Dean’s bed. “Get up,” he said. “We need to get moving, big time.” Dean shot him the finger. “Coffee?” Sam asked, and the finger came down.
“Please,” came Dean’s muffled reply.
Sam loaded the shotgun, stocked extra ammo in his pockets, and grabbed his knife. “Come with, Cas?” he asked.
“Yes,” Castiel said. He was standing in front of the window, frowning and looking at the zombies, who were climbing over each other in a vain attempt to tear the angel’s throat out.
They left the room and dispatched of the zombies before they could even get away from the window. Sam scanned the area carefully, but no more undead presented themselves, so they crossed the parking lot to the gas station/restaurant.
The door was unlocked, but the inside was deserted. The power was still on, though, so Sam let himself into the kitchen and started fresh coffee brewing. He was pulling out eggs, bacon and biscuits to make them some quick sandwiches when he heard a clatter from the aisles near the register.
“Cas?” he said, and then heard the now-unmistakable sound of zombie skull breaking open. Castiel came around to the kitchen wearing an expression of great distaste.
“It bit my ankle,” he said, indignant.
“Uh, zombie,” Sam reminded him. He set down his supplies and crouched down, pushing up Castiel’s pant leg. It looked like the zombie had taken out a hunk of flesh and sock. Sam squinted up.
“It won’t affect you, right?” he asked.
Castiel looked disdainful. “I am an angel of the Lord, Sam,” he said. “I do not get sick. This is a sickness.”
Sam nodded and stood up. “Good,” he said. “Well, heal it up and then give me a hand here.”
Dean was up and dressed when they returned, and enthusiastic about Sam’s provided breakfast. They finished eating, stripped the room of blankets and pillows, raided the store, filled spare gas containers, loaded the Impala and ventured back onto the road.
* * *
Today Dean was going for real back roads, using a compass and the instincts born of a life on the road to keep them moving west. They were forced south for most of the day in order to avoid the outpouring of people from Chicago and its suburbs, but by mid-afternoon were finally able to start veering north again.
There were no gas stations, restaurants or other signs of life on the narrow paths that Dean was choosing. Every so often they came across another vehicle, and a couple of times, convoys of them, but Sam was willing to bet that most of the people living out here had dug in to ride this out, and the desperate refugees from the city had foolishly stuck to roads that were on the map. The radio continued to provide bad news, and sometime just after noon, the Emergency Broadcast System went off. Sam was hoping that the automated voice would tell them that zombies must be killed by removing the head or destroying the brain, but instead they were repeatedly told not to travel, to stay in their homes until the all-clear was sounded, and that help was on the way.
That’s us, Sam thought. Sorry, world.
In the back seat, Castiel’s stomach growled.
Sam turned around, and Dean looked into the rearview. “All right back there, Cas?” he asked.
“I am fine,” Castiel said peevishly.
Sam jerked his chin. “How’s the ankle?”
“I am fine,” Castiel repeated, louder, so Sam turned around and shut up. The emergency alarm continued going off, and the announcer continued telling them to stay inside. Sam fiddled with the dial and found that most stations were playing the emergency signal. He found two, however, that were praying, and when he switched to AM, Rush Limbaugh informed them that this was the result of health care reform, were they happy now?
Castiel’s stomach growled again. Sam stared straight ahead, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard it. Dean pushed Metallica in and if nothing else, it drowned out everything else.
* * *
They were going to have to get back on a main road to cross the Mississippi. After careful inspection of the map and serious debate, they settled on Niota, which would take them across to Fort Madison, Iowa. Dean came into town on sidestreets, and on seeing abandoned cars and broken storefronts on the main streets, tried to run parallel to downtown without actually going into it.
Sam turned around to ask Cas if he could go scout ahead for the best route and then paused with his mouth open. What finally came out was, “Castiel, are you sunburned?”
“No,” Castiel said, staring stonily out the front windshield.
Dean twisted quickly to look at the angel. “Dude, you’re sweating,” Dean said, and pulled the car over. He was out in a second and in the backseat, putting the back of a hand to Castiel’s forehead.
“Shit, you’re scorching,” he said. “What is that? What’s wrong?”
“I am not scorching,” Castiel informed them. “I am an angel. I am perfectly capable of regulating my body temperature.”
“Except you’re bright red and all sweaty, man,” Dean said, and started yanking at the trenchcoat. “Take this thing off, we need to cool you down. Sam, grab him some water, would you?”
Castiel twisted out of Dean’s grasp. “Angels do not need water, Dean,” he insisted, and when Dean yanked at trenchcoat again, climbed out the other side of the car.
Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean looked baffled, but something was clicking in Sam’s head. He got out of the car and stood beside Castiel, who looked fraught. Sam crouched down and pulled up his pant leg.
“Cas!” he yelped, because the bite looked like it was festering. It also stunk. “Why didn’t you heal it?”
Castiel looked all around, then up at the sky, as if searching for rescue. Dean got out of the backseat and crouched down beside Sam.
“What the fuck?” he yelled. “Is that where it bit you?”
Castiel tried to pull out of Sam’s hold, but Sam gave the ankle a gentle squeeze and instead he hissed in pain and shifted his weight to his other leg.
“Since when do angels hurt, Cas?” Sam asked seriously, and Castiel pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Or get hungry?”
Dean stood up, his mouth open in disbelief. “Did that zombie de-angelfy you?” he asked.
Castiel blinked, looked down. “I don’t know,” he said. “Something is wrong. I feel - I feel wretched. Trapped inside this body. The world does not speak to me. I could not heal myself.”
Sam stood up. Dean put his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Okay,” Dean said in that calm voice that steadied victims and witnesses. “So the zombie bite did something to you. But it didn’t zombify you. And maybe this is temporary. Damping down your powers or something. So we’ll just fix up this ankle so it heals, get some food into you so your stomach shuts up, and see what happens from there.”
Castiel shook his head, distressed. “I do not think this is temporary,” he said, but then he allowed them to take off his trenchcoat, suit jacket and tie. Sam cleaned and wrapped the ankle and Dean persuaded Castiel to eat a granola bar and drink a bottle of water.
They crossed the Mississippi at sunset in silence.
Part Three