Two (more) Zombieland Fics, Getting Better and Nowhere Else
Another two fics, once again unrelated. They've got a similar sort of depressing but happy vein, but aren't part of the same continuum. I just can't warrant two separate posts for them, so you get a double feature ficture show.
Title: Getting Better
Author: Everett
Rating: Fire (for sexxins)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus, mentions Wichita and Little Rock
Warnings: Character death
Word Count: 2,241
Summary:
Little Rock and Wichita die the same day. No shock there, the two of them were always closer to each other than anyone else. Everyone figured that wherever one went the other would follow. And so they aren’t surprised at all. There are few certainties in Zombieland, not many things you can count on, but the one thing you know without a shadow of a doubt is that someday you’re going to die. It’s not a question of living to a ripe old age; there isn’t any talk about a future without zombies, a time when humans will rebuild. What it comes down to is squeezing out every damn day you can, until it catches up with you. Until the day you get eaten by zombies or crushed by a building or die in a car accident. Shit, you could get tetanus and die of lockjaw. Doesn’t matter how, doesn’t really matter when, all that matters is that someday it will happen, and chances are you won’t be prepared.
When it happens though, it’s just so stupid. So fucking senseless. There’s no big finale. No rule they broke, it just fucking happened. A surprise, no one’s fault, not a slip up or anything, just the wrong place at the wrong time, and one of the sisters went down and the other one was there just as quick, and no one can figure out who fell first because they move together so fucking fluidly. Part of Columbus yells at him to get the fuck out of there, a couple of dozen zombies out of nowhere and the girls are already dead by the time they hit the ground, but he can’t bring himself to move. Tallahassee obviously doesn’t see it as an option, he goes after the zombies with a murderous, silent, harsh rage that isn’t the usual way he greets a battle, none of the grinning and cockiness, no clever tools or quips, just steel and bullets and blood. By the time they’re finishing off the last zombies there is a breathless sort of simmering undercurrent of impotent hatred, so the last one doesn’t go down clean. Columbus puts no less than half a dozen rounds in the bastard, breaking off edges like flint. There aren’t any bodies to burry afterwards. And Columbus wishes to hell he could blame someone, fucking anyone. He whips back to Tallahassee with suicidal determination, but the look in the other man’s eyes stops him from opening his fucking mouth. He just couldn’t bring himself to fucking do it.
The two of them drive off in silence. The girls stuff stays in the car with them. Neither of them mentions it, because what the fuck can you say? Wichita and Little Rock were smarter than anything, but they weren’t survivors. Months later, after days of not thinking about them, it would occur to him that he was surprised they lasted as long as they did.
It gets better. That hurts almost as much.
It takes a couple of weeks for Tallahassee to start really acting like himself again. Almost as long as it takes Columbus. He collects things, just shit; wherever they go he finds stuff that no one else would look at twice. His real talent is taking some seemingly innocuous item and making it into a weapon of mass destruction, a deadly implement, as dangerous as any weapon man has ever devised. They stop by sporting goods stores to stock up on ammo and Tallahassee finds a fucking throwing hatchet like its Christmas time. He gets a crossbow too, but he treats that like it’s too easy. He ends up with a meat tenderizer one day, snatched from a kitchen of a house they haunt for a couple of days. A stevedores hook, which would have seemed awkward with anyone else, finds its way to them after a trip to a salvage yard. The electric turkey carver actually gives Columbus the willies. But Florida’s favorites, his very favorites, are the gardening tools and the farm implements. Not just the big clippers or the chainsaws, but shovels and hoes and those twisty weeder things. One day he ends up with a fucking pitchfork. It sits in the back of the truck for a week before he finally uses it, ending up standing there doing his best impersonation of that fucking classic American farmer painting, a zombie’s head impaled on the spiked end and his sunglasses slid low, and Columbus laughs so hard he can’t breathe, hands on knees as Tallahassee smirks like the smug bastard he is, tossing the thing aside and slapping his hand on Columbus’s back. The little things, right?
Three weeks later Columbus is throwing up on the side of the road, heaving and leaning heavily against the truck, pale and shaking as his guts spill onto the pavement, and Tallahassee just fucking screams at him, rips into him, mean as spit as he yells obscenities and threats with wild eyes. Storms and stomps and rages as the boy pushes himself against the door, too sick to really feel anything but tired about the whole damn thing. He has the stomach flu. Just the fucking flu. Has no idea where he fucking got it, how the virus managed to survive after the humans left. Curls up in the far back of the truck and realizes that’s the first time he’s ever seen Tallahassee scared. Wonders, vaguely, what the man’s going to do when Columbus is dead, because he has no doubt he’ll die first. May be younger, but has never been that good. Thinks he should feel something about all of it but can’t be bothered. Tallahassee is in the driver’s seat, anxious and twitchy, and finds an abandoned house, tears into it with barely controlled madness. Empties the damn thing out and finds some cans of soup while Columbus curls up in the bed upstairs, wrapped around a mixing bowl, knowing damn well he’s not done being sick.
When they get back on the road again, days later, Tallahassee actually bothers to stop when the sun sets, awkwardly crawling over the center console into the back, pushes down the hidden handle that folds the backseat down and makes the whole back of the big fucking truck into a flat surface, scattered here with guns and knives and other shit that Tallahassee’s found. He pushes the lot over into the gap between the front seat and the new flat area, pulls out blankets and curls up. Columbus sits up front for a moment, watching him with that stupid look he gets, downturned lips sticking out slightly as he thinks. Less than a minute later he crawls back as well, manages to catch the blanket that Tallahassee throws at him with his face, awkwardly wraps himself up and sleeps, thinking that they should be okay here, in the middle of nowhere, in this big fuck-all truck. Actually manages to get a full night’s sleep. Wakes up with his head buried into Tallahassee’s side, curled up like a fucking kitten in the curve of the man’s arm and thinks this should probably be strange but can’t manage to care.
After this he starts breaking another one of his rules. Stops packing light, starts collecting blankets. The back of the truck looks more like a fucking nest than it does like a weapons stock anymore. Stops wearing his seatbelt when he’s in the back because he doesn’t really have any other choice. One day Tallahassee gets annoyed with having to dig into the strange crevice between the front and back that serves as their weapons locker just to get to his stock of odd death implements and picks up a big fucking toolbox from the back of a truck. Wedges it into one side of the hummer. Leaves less room for sleeping, but since Columbus always ends up nestled into his side like he’s trying to crawl into Tallahassee’s chest he can’t figure it matters much. Keeps their shit together, keeps it from getting lost or going off unexpectedly and blowing one of their heads off in a stupid fucking accident.
And when one morning he wakes up and finds that the kids fingers have worked their way under his shirt he’s not really surprised. Thinks he shocks Columbus a bit when suddenly he’s looming over him, pressing his forehead into the kids, thumbs gliding over his way-too-frail hip bones and wondering vaguely if he’s thinking straight, but then Columbus is pressing up into his hands, all desperation with an edge of nervousness, which is incredibly Ohio and, he admits, a little bit hot.
So he lets his hands slide up further, gliding over the kids soft fucking edges, because despite all the running around and zombie killing he doesn’t seem to put on muscle. No scars, because if he bled he’d have been infected already. Benefit of those stupid fucking sweatshirts the idiot wore, like sweatshirts were really a practical clothing choice for fucking Texas. Course, far as he could tell the kid hadn’t ever left the house often enough to worry about sweltering heat. Callused fingers slide over ribs and Columbus writhes slightly before surprising him, remembering for the first time that he had hands of his own, grabbing roughly at Tallahassee’s side with one hand, the other sliding around the back of his neck, using it like a fucking hand-hold, pulling himself up far enough to get his distressingly pouty lips sealed against Florida’s, and that’s unexpected, and he’s not sure it’s entirely welcome but then again the kid is making little noises against him and digging his blunt fingers into his side and so he figures it’s not really that bad, one hand retreating from the soft belly to pin his hips down, grinding into him once just to judge the reaction. Yep. Sharp gasp, back arched and trying desperately to continue the contact, brow furrowed as he tried to keep a handle on himself. Haha, he could try. Probably wouldn’t manage it, considering how Tallahassee’s hand had pushed his shirt up, dragged his tongue up the kids center, from just above his boxers to the edge of the shirt, puffing hot breath onto his chest, leaving Ohio spouting ridiculous things between gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders and Tallahassee’s not even sure the kid’s using words anymore.
Slides the hand back down Columbus’s side again, hooks the thumb along the edge of cotton, pulls down, eyes focused on his face, watching the miniature panic-attack mix with the neediness and desperation and the edge of real, genuine lust. Surprised again when the kid pulls him back up, insistent press of lips, the edge of teeth that Tallahassee wasn’t expecting but sure as hell wasn’t complaining about. A bit of maneuvering made harder by how god damned distracting he was being with his fucking mouth, which he was beginning to understand could be put to much better uses than its usual incessant babbling. Still he managed, a slight shift of his weight allowing him to press some fucking flesh, and yeah, the kid yelped like a little bitch and arched his back (bendy bendy bendy, he wouldn’t make fun of limbering up again) as Tallahassee managed to get his right hand wrapped around both of them. Dry and dragging and uncomfortable, but god, also so fucking good as Columbus dug his nails into his back and thrust upward as well as he could with a hand pinning his hips to the floor, wedging his face into Tallahassee’s neck and making little noises, nipping and breathing and, yep, moaning. That was a good sound. One of the best.
Couldn’t resist telling the kid that, growling low into his ear as he twisted his wrist and pressed down harder, the broken, anxious panting urging him on, broken rhythm, fingers pressed so hard into Columbus’s side that he was going to leave little bruises that screamed ‘been fucked’ to the whole fucking world, not like there was much of one left to see them. Damn shame too, it was like fine art, deserved to be appreciated, admired by an audience. Growled the kid’s name again, thumb sliding forward, flicking over the top of oversensitive skin and causing the kid to draw a stuttering breath that changed to a sharp, edgy gasp as he came, shaking all over and whimpering like a beaten dog and Tallahassee can’t even blame himself for reacting to that, biting down hard on his neck and snarling as he finished, the space between them, what little of it there was, streaked pale with pent-up emotion and he can barely be bothered to pull one of the kids spare shirts over and slide it between them lazily, a deep rumble in his throat and trying to figure this fucking thing out.
Not a chance of that.
Four weeks later the Hummer breaks down on the side of the fucking road and they have to leave it, packing light again, the big silver box of madness and the pile of blankets abandoned in favor of a duffle and a rolling bag and a feeling of definite loss.
There are other trucks, later. Some are better, some worse. Stops numbering them with the three. Doesn’t feel right anymore. Picks a new number and sticks with it, Columbus’s suggestion, something to do with his retarded list. But it’s okay. It gets better. Little things.
Title: Nowhere Else
Author: Everett
Rating: Hot (for bad words and a bit of badtouch)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings: Insinuated character death
Word Count: 2,618
Summary:
So the thing about it is that they don’t talk about it.
There’s nothing they can really say.
It’s Zombieland. They never should have made the mistake of getting attached in the first place.
They don’t even pretend they didn’t get attached anymore. They don’t talk about going their separate ways. They just don’t talk about it.
Things are pretty normal, actually. As normal as they could ever hope to be, during the day they drive, sometimes they stop, get gas, get some food, deliver some wholesale violence. During the night they sleep or they drive or they do both. Columbus learns that if he drives any slower than sixty Tallahassee will stop letting him drive at all, which means that Tallahassee doesn’t get any sleep himself, and when he doesn’t get any sleep he gets cranky. It usually just means that he has some extra aggression to work out on the plentiful hoards of zombies, which wouldn’t bother Columbus much except that he’s worried that someday the man will be stretched too thin and too worn out he’ll slip up. If that happens Columbus won’t have any choice but to drive the car himself, and as much as he likes the car, he doesn’t like it that much.
He’s not sure he’s ever liked anything that much. Never had a friend in his life, figures the one he finally ends up with is a homicidal- sorry- genocidal hillbilly with a NASCAR fetish.
So Columbus keeps it at 61 when Tallahassee sleeps, and sometimes when he’s awake and occupied with something (an ancient gameboy with a yellowed copy of tetris, the pleasant midi tunes making Columbus hum for days) or just too fucking lazy to drive, shoes slipped off in a way that makes Columbus anxious and shifty because you keep your shoes on, it’s one of the rules, and staring out the sunroof at whatever sky they happen to be passing by. When Tallahassee takes the wheel he keeps it at an even 75, except during the times he’s trying to freak Columbus out, simulating racecar noises while the fuck-off engine roars like a caged animal, one time actually managing to make the kid laugh like a stoned hyena, when they drop down a hill at fuck all speeds, back up sharply and down again, banking a hard turn and hooting and hollering like they’re riding a coaster, and they end up giggling like idiots for what seems like forever. They both remember, later, another time and another place and suddenly the whole experience seems a lot less pleasant.
But it works for them. They don’t see anyone for weeks and weeks and Tallahassee tries to teach Columbus the fine art of flag-zombie-football, which doesn’t go over as well as he’d hoped, and later they end up in one of those stores filled with those creepy little figurines of big eyed children carrying ice cream and puppies and crying clowns and shit and Columbus proves he knows a little bit about destruction, mutters something about how he owned Grand Theft Auto and trying not to step on glass as they pick their way out of the ruined remains of the store, through the front windows that Tallahassee personally destroyed using one of those dolphin glass table holder things made of concrete or stone or something before making it back to the truck. Back on the road they reminisce about ice cream for awhile. Another one of those things you just start to miss.
And then one day they actually see someone else. More than one someone else. Driving their truck down the road and someone’s parked on the side in a big ass, heavily armored truck that probably used to be owned by a security company or a bank or something. Looks sturdy and un-killable but slow and hard to replace. Tallahassee stops their truck next to the hulking thing and stares flatly at the people clustered around it. Five humans, and the first they’ve seen in a long time. Fresh faces but for the jaded, slightly aggressive looks they wear, part of the uniform it seems, all turned out in camo and khaki, straps of weapons across their chests, all organized and military. Tallahassee, in his black racing jacket with stripes (lost the snakeskin one when he cut down a couple of zombies with a lawnmower) and his stupid hat and a bowie knife strapped to his hip, and Columbus in his worn sweatshirt and jeans and running shoes, look at these people like they’re fucking nuts. They’re acting like there’s some form of sense in the world, which used to be Columbus’s thing, but even he never pretended to be a green beret. And the leader, who is a classically handsome man with slicked back hair and an attractive scar across one side of his face rolls up, all potential danger, calm and collected. They get the story easy enough. There’s a camp, all fucking fenced in with barbwire, and the people there are starting again. Building a new world. They go out and they find people and they bring them back, teach them to defend themselves ‘properly’, settle them in to their little refugee camp. They’re just pulled over for a bit of food and to stretch their legs before they get back on the road. And all the people have the look that says this journey has been long and people have died and at this point none of them gives a rats ass about anyone but themselves. Columbus listens carefully to the spiel while Tallahassee looks over the group and wonders, vaguely, if Columbus is getting out of the car now, putting on a pair of cargo pants and a shoulder-holster and turning back towards civilization and sensibility.
“Oh, well, good luck,” Columbus says, all genuine and awkward.
“You’re welcome to join us. We always have room for more survivors,” the man, whose name is Dirk, suggests, missing the fact that the kid was trying to turn him down without seeming rude. Tallahassee doesn’t miss it.
“I’m sure you do. But we had something we were in the middle of doing, so we think we’ll just be on our way then,” he says, forced patience, a slight leaking through of annoyance and sarcasm.
“Look, I don’t think you two understand. There’s not future out there. Our only hope for survival is to stick together. We’re all in this together, we can watch each other’s back and we can rebuild. What could possibly be more important than that?”
“You may all be in this together but you don’t know jack shit about us, and you probably don’t give a damn about each other, either. So we’ll stick to our own game plan and be on our way, if you don’t mind. We’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s with our name on it, just a few hundred miles away, and it’s gonna melt if we don’t hurry it up.”
“Are you stupid? Who cares about ice cream?” Dirk snapped, edges already frayed, not a natural leader at all, Tallahassee’s unique character grating on his nerves without care, “You’re not going anywhere, you’re giving us your guns, and then you’re coming with us. Don’t make us fight you about this.”
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin me you pr-“
A hand on his arm, stopping him from leaning any further out the window to snarl in the face of the self-assured asshole just outside the door, Columbus’s stupid sad face making him shut up, long enough for the kid to get a word in edgewise.
“Look, I get what you guys are trying to do. I really do, but to be honest, you don’t have a place for us. Not one where we would be more help than trouble,” a glance at Tallahassee, acknowledgement that the older man was the bigger trouble, “And you really don’t want to fight us, either. Why would you risk the danger? We won’t be useful to you, so why bring in troublemakers, anyway? Just let us go. Ice cream may be a little thing, but it’s what matters to us.”
Dirk’s glaring, ready to argue, thumb brushing over the back of his gun distractedly. Tallahassee is this strange, uncomfortable mix of pleased and pissed, and he doesn’t really have the patience for this shit. Opens his mouth, trusts the distrust he sees on the other people’s face.
“Now I don’t know about you people, but it seems to me that this fella wants to put your lives in danger for no reason whatsoever. No doubt you’ve got a pile’a weapons back in your little camp, just waiting for you. So I think it’s probably time we all just move along.”
“Don’t you fucking dare try to fuck with me, you dirty fucking hick bastard, I swear to god-“ and Dirk is fucking pissed, off the deep end, hand on his weapon and Tallahassee is fingering the loaded shotgun next to his seat, is going to be pissed if they die here, because that’s just fucking stupid. But Dirk’s people have pulled him off mid shout, talking in rushed voices, getting into the car without delay, and Tallahassee just guns it the first chance he gets, speeds off down the road, glances over at the kid who’s face is pale, who’s expression is pained, keeping one eye on the tarmac as they speed past the few obstacles in the way. Tallahassee is seething because he could have just fucking lost-
And they’re both silent for approximately half a lifetime, Tallahassee’s eyes flickering to the rearview mirror every so often, paranoid, now. And Columbus’s fingers are digging into the armrest, all tense and quiet. When words finally get said they’re a little bitter, a little defensive.
“Thought you’d want to go with them.”
Columbus shoots him a look of surprise, wide eyed, that stupid fucking fish expression Tallahassee’s so fucking used to, “Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I dunno, nice place, soft bed, probably showers and routines and lists and air-freshener. All the things a guy needs to survive.”
“Not everything,” Columbus murmurs, looks out his window, wants to drop it.
“Really? What, not enough hand-sanitizer? No fashion sense? Dirk remind you of some guy who used to beat you senseless?” Tallahassee doesn’t want to drop it. He wants to know, it’s like an open wound and he just has to pick at it. Never could leave well enough alone.
Columbus is quiet in that hurt sort of way that he knows but hasn’t seen nor heard in a long time. Finally opens his mouth, closes it again, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. And Tallahassee is getting more and more irritated, about to snap again when the kid apparently decides it’s the right time to talk.
“It’s not like I was happy before. I-I hated my life, I think. I wasn’t like you Tallahassee, I was miserable. The little things, god, they’re better than whatever home was before. This is better.”
And it’s, yeah, it’s an open wound. A reminder that they weren’t always who they are now. And Tallahassee knows that the kid’s not lying and he thinks he should feel something good about the fact that he’s not the only one who can’t think of anywhere else to be, but he can’t. Just feels bad. And edge of guilt and buried sorrow. Wonders what the fuck he can say to make that right, when the kid basically tells him that yeah, most of the world is dead and gone, you can’t go to the bathroom without worrying about being slaughtered, but still it’s better than it used to be. Decides he can’t say anything, because while sorry might help it’s just not in his nature. Would probably give the Columbus a heart attack.
Columbus finally dozes off against the passenger side window. Wakes up a little after dark and nudges Tallahassee to trade seats. More driving, Columbus wakes him up before dawn because he can feel himself nodding off and knows that if he crashed the truck that Tallahassee will fucking kill him. They stop on the side of the road and find more comfortable positions to sleep in until the sun is all the way up, burning mist off the grounds. Tallahassee takes the wheel again, and it’s only a few drowsy hours until the reach the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory. And Columbus is fucking smiling again, which is fine by Tallahassee. They clean the place out, actually shoot Ben in the face, which Tallahassee says he feels bad about. But seconds later he starts talking about needing a picture of the guy. Columbus suggests some sort of a photo album of all the famous people they’ve killed. Says it’s already well on it’s way to being full. Counts Ben and Bill and says he swears to god he saw Tallahassee kill zombie Sean Connery, but Tallahassee is pretty sure it was just an old Zombie who looked a bit like Connery. Argues that if it didn’t have an accent it couldn’t have been Bond. Columbus gives him a look like he’s completely nuts before laughing. Once everything is cleared out they get the generators running, figure out, through trial and error, how to make ice-cream. They attract some zombies, but it’s worth it when they make a flavor they dub “Nut Up or Shut Up”, which features both nuts and peanut butter (because you couldn’t talk with it in your mouth, right?), and other flavor called “The Double Tap”, which has twice the amount cherries that are in Cherry Garcia. They decide to stay the night, trying to think of other places to go (Hersey Town, USA? Maine for lobsters? The Statue of Liberty? Worlds largest ball of twine?), and Columbus curls up in the room next to the generators because the sound they make reminds him of the trucks engine, which is better than any lullaby he’s ever heard before.
Tallahassee sits for a long time and thinks about a little of everything. He’s surprised when Columbus shows up in front of him with a blanket over his shoulders and leans over him, expression on his face blank for a long time. Doesn’t resist when Tallahassee pulls him down and steals the air from his lungs, presses their noses together and breaths out again, would be embarrassed to admit it’s probably something like cuddling. Can’t say the words though, has to let actions speak for him. And they do, clever, dangerous hands insist that Columbus is too fucking far away, pull him down onto his lap. Breathes into the kids neck and leaves little marks from the scrape of teeth, allows himself to wrap an arm around the center of the his back, to pull him close and flush against him, pushes clothing where it’s in the way and wonders how much longer this chair will support both of their weight. Columbus is mostly quiet, but pliant and needy and clings like he’s afraid he’ll fall off. There’s something awful about all of this, Tallahassee is pretty sure it’s breaking all kinds of rules on both of their sides, but, god, he almost lost the kid, to that fucker with his slick fucking operation, to frantic, meaningless violence, shots fired by other people. Almost lost him a thousand times to a zombie who’s faster than they would have thought, to a secret space where one of the bastards is hiding. To time and tide and just fucking everything, so he can’t really blame himself for hanging on now. After all, there’s nothing else left, for either one of them.
Title: Getting Better
Author: Everett
Rating: Fire (for sexxins)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus, mentions Wichita and Little Rock
Warnings: Character death
Word Count: 2,241
Summary:
Little Rock and Wichita die the same day. No shock there, the two of them were always closer to each other than anyone else. Everyone figured that wherever one went the other would follow. And so they aren’t surprised at all. There are few certainties in Zombieland, not many things you can count on, but the one thing you know without a shadow of a doubt is that someday you’re going to die. It’s not a question of living to a ripe old age; there isn’t any talk about a future without zombies, a time when humans will rebuild. What it comes down to is squeezing out every damn day you can, until it catches up with you. Until the day you get eaten by zombies or crushed by a building or die in a car accident. Shit, you could get tetanus and die of lockjaw. Doesn’t matter how, doesn’t really matter when, all that matters is that someday it will happen, and chances are you won’t be prepared.
When it happens though, it’s just so stupid. So fucking senseless. There’s no big finale. No rule they broke, it just fucking happened. A surprise, no one’s fault, not a slip up or anything, just the wrong place at the wrong time, and one of the sisters went down and the other one was there just as quick, and no one can figure out who fell first because they move together so fucking fluidly. Part of Columbus yells at him to get the fuck out of there, a couple of dozen zombies out of nowhere and the girls are already dead by the time they hit the ground, but he can’t bring himself to move. Tallahassee obviously doesn’t see it as an option, he goes after the zombies with a murderous, silent, harsh rage that isn’t the usual way he greets a battle, none of the grinning and cockiness, no clever tools or quips, just steel and bullets and blood. By the time they’re finishing off the last zombies there is a breathless sort of simmering undercurrent of impotent hatred, so the last one doesn’t go down clean. Columbus puts no less than half a dozen rounds in the bastard, breaking off edges like flint. There aren’t any bodies to burry afterwards. And Columbus wishes to hell he could blame someone, fucking anyone. He whips back to Tallahassee with suicidal determination, but the look in the other man’s eyes stops him from opening his fucking mouth. He just couldn’t bring himself to fucking do it.
The two of them drive off in silence. The girls stuff stays in the car with them. Neither of them mentions it, because what the fuck can you say? Wichita and Little Rock were smarter than anything, but they weren’t survivors. Months later, after days of not thinking about them, it would occur to him that he was surprised they lasted as long as they did.
It gets better. That hurts almost as much.
It takes a couple of weeks for Tallahassee to start really acting like himself again. Almost as long as it takes Columbus. He collects things, just shit; wherever they go he finds stuff that no one else would look at twice. His real talent is taking some seemingly innocuous item and making it into a weapon of mass destruction, a deadly implement, as dangerous as any weapon man has ever devised. They stop by sporting goods stores to stock up on ammo and Tallahassee finds a fucking throwing hatchet like its Christmas time. He gets a crossbow too, but he treats that like it’s too easy. He ends up with a meat tenderizer one day, snatched from a kitchen of a house they haunt for a couple of days. A stevedores hook, which would have seemed awkward with anyone else, finds its way to them after a trip to a salvage yard. The electric turkey carver actually gives Columbus the willies. But Florida’s favorites, his very favorites, are the gardening tools and the farm implements. Not just the big clippers or the chainsaws, but shovels and hoes and those twisty weeder things. One day he ends up with a fucking pitchfork. It sits in the back of the truck for a week before he finally uses it, ending up standing there doing his best impersonation of that fucking classic American farmer painting, a zombie’s head impaled on the spiked end and his sunglasses slid low, and Columbus laughs so hard he can’t breathe, hands on knees as Tallahassee smirks like the smug bastard he is, tossing the thing aside and slapping his hand on Columbus’s back. The little things, right?
Three weeks later Columbus is throwing up on the side of the road, heaving and leaning heavily against the truck, pale and shaking as his guts spill onto the pavement, and Tallahassee just fucking screams at him, rips into him, mean as spit as he yells obscenities and threats with wild eyes. Storms and stomps and rages as the boy pushes himself against the door, too sick to really feel anything but tired about the whole damn thing. He has the stomach flu. Just the fucking flu. Has no idea where he fucking got it, how the virus managed to survive after the humans left. Curls up in the far back of the truck and realizes that’s the first time he’s ever seen Tallahassee scared. Wonders, vaguely, what the man’s going to do when Columbus is dead, because he has no doubt he’ll die first. May be younger, but has never been that good. Thinks he should feel something about all of it but can’t be bothered. Tallahassee is in the driver’s seat, anxious and twitchy, and finds an abandoned house, tears into it with barely controlled madness. Empties the damn thing out and finds some cans of soup while Columbus curls up in the bed upstairs, wrapped around a mixing bowl, knowing damn well he’s not done being sick.
When they get back on the road again, days later, Tallahassee actually bothers to stop when the sun sets, awkwardly crawling over the center console into the back, pushes down the hidden handle that folds the backseat down and makes the whole back of the big fucking truck into a flat surface, scattered here with guns and knives and other shit that Tallahassee’s found. He pushes the lot over into the gap between the front seat and the new flat area, pulls out blankets and curls up. Columbus sits up front for a moment, watching him with that stupid look he gets, downturned lips sticking out slightly as he thinks. Less than a minute later he crawls back as well, manages to catch the blanket that Tallahassee throws at him with his face, awkwardly wraps himself up and sleeps, thinking that they should be okay here, in the middle of nowhere, in this big fuck-all truck. Actually manages to get a full night’s sleep. Wakes up with his head buried into Tallahassee’s side, curled up like a fucking kitten in the curve of the man’s arm and thinks this should probably be strange but can’t manage to care.
After this he starts breaking another one of his rules. Stops packing light, starts collecting blankets. The back of the truck looks more like a fucking nest than it does like a weapons stock anymore. Stops wearing his seatbelt when he’s in the back because he doesn’t really have any other choice. One day Tallahassee gets annoyed with having to dig into the strange crevice between the front and back that serves as their weapons locker just to get to his stock of odd death implements and picks up a big fucking toolbox from the back of a truck. Wedges it into one side of the hummer. Leaves less room for sleeping, but since Columbus always ends up nestled into his side like he’s trying to crawl into Tallahassee’s chest he can’t figure it matters much. Keeps their shit together, keeps it from getting lost or going off unexpectedly and blowing one of their heads off in a stupid fucking accident.
And when one morning he wakes up and finds that the kids fingers have worked their way under his shirt he’s not really surprised. Thinks he shocks Columbus a bit when suddenly he’s looming over him, pressing his forehead into the kids, thumbs gliding over his way-too-frail hip bones and wondering vaguely if he’s thinking straight, but then Columbus is pressing up into his hands, all desperation with an edge of nervousness, which is incredibly Ohio and, he admits, a little bit hot.
So he lets his hands slide up further, gliding over the kids soft fucking edges, because despite all the running around and zombie killing he doesn’t seem to put on muscle. No scars, because if he bled he’d have been infected already. Benefit of those stupid fucking sweatshirts the idiot wore, like sweatshirts were really a practical clothing choice for fucking Texas. Course, far as he could tell the kid hadn’t ever left the house often enough to worry about sweltering heat. Callused fingers slide over ribs and Columbus writhes slightly before surprising him, remembering for the first time that he had hands of his own, grabbing roughly at Tallahassee’s side with one hand, the other sliding around the back of his neck, using it like a fucking hand-hold, pulling himself up far enough to get his distressingly pouty lips sealed against Florida’s, and that’s unexpected, and he’s not sure it’s entirely welcome but then again the kid is making little noises against him and digging his blunt fingers into his side and so he figures it’s not really that bad, one hand retreating from the soft belly to pin his hips down, grinding into him once just to judge the reaction. Yep. Sharp gasp, back arched and trying desperately to continue the contact, brow furrowed as he tried to keep a handle on himself. Haha, he could try. Probably wouldn’t manage it, considering how Tallahassee’s hand had pushed his shirt up, dragged his tongue up the kids center, from just above his boxers to the edge of the shirt, puffing hot breath onto his chest, leaving Ohio spouting ridiculous things between gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders and Tallahassee’s not even sure the kid’s using words anymore.
Slides the hand back down Columbus’s side again, hooks the thumb along the edge of cotton, pulls down, eyes focused on his face, watching the miniature panic-attack mix with the neediness and desperation and the edge of real, genuine lust. Surprised again when the kid pulls him back up, insistent press of lips, the edge of teeth that Tallahassee wasn’t expecting but sure as hell wasn’t complaining about. A bit of maneuvering made harder by how god damned distracting he was being with his fucking mouth, which he was beginning to understand could be put to much better uses than its usual incessant babbling. Still he managed, a slight shift of his weight allowing him to press some fucking flesh, and yeah, the kid yelped like a little bitch and arched his back (bendy bendy bendy, he wouldn’t make fun of limbering up again) as Tallahassee managed to get his right hand wrapped around both of them. Dry and dragging and uncomfortable, but god, also so fucking good as Columbus dug his nails into his back and thrust upward as well as he could with a hand pinning his hips to the floor, wedging his face into Tallahassee’s neck and making little noises, nipping and breathing and, yep, moaning. That was a good sound. One of the best.
Couldn’t resist telling the kid that, growling low into his ear as he twisted his wrist and pressed down harder, the broken, anxious panting urging him on, broken rhythm, fingers pressed so hard into Columbus’s side that he was going to leave little bruises that screamed ‘been fucked’ to the whole fucking world, not like there was much of one left to see them. Damn shame too, it was like fine art, deserved to be appreciated, admired by an audience. Growled the kid’s name again, thumb sliding forward, flicking over the top of oversensitive skin and causing the kid to draw a stuttering breath that changed to a sharp, edgy gasp as he came, shaking all over and whimpering like a beaten dog and Tallahassee can’t even blame himself for reacting to that, biting down hard on his neck and snarling as he finished, the space between them, what little of it there was, streaked pale with pent-up emotion and he can barely be bothered to pull one of the kids spare shirts over and slide it between them lazily, a deep rumble in his throat and trying to figure this fucking thing out.
Not a chance of that.
Four weeks later the Hummer breaks down on the side of the fucking road and they have to leave it, packing light again, the big silver box of madness and the pile of blankets abandoned in favor of a duffle and a rolling bag and a feeling of definite loss.
There are other trucks, later. Some are better, some worse. Stops numbering them with the three. Doesn’t feel right anymore. Picks a new number and sticks with it, Columbus’s suggestion, something to do with his retarded list. But it’s okay. It gets better. Little things.
Title: Nowhere Else
Author: Everett
Rating: Hot (for bad words and a bit of badtouch)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings: Insinuated character death
Word Count: 2,618
Summary:
So the thing about it is that they don’t talk about it.
There’s nothing they can really say.
It’s Zombieland. They never should have made the mistake of getting attached in the first place.
They don’t even pretend they didn’t get attached anymore. They don’t talk about going their separate ways. They just don’t talk about it.
Things are pretty normal, actually. As normal as they could ever hope to be, during the day they drive, sometimes they stop, get gas, get some food, deliver some wholesale violence. During the night they sleep or they drive or they do both. Columbus learns that if he drives any slower than sixty Tallahassee will stop letting him drive at all, which means that Tallahassee doesn’t get any sleep himself, and when he doesn’t get any sleep he gets cranky. It usually just means that he has some extra aggression to work out on the plentiful hoards of zombies, which wouldn’t bother Columbus much except that he’s worried that someday the man will be stretched too thin and too worn out he’ll slip up. If that happens Columbus won’t have any choice but to drive the car himself, and as much as he likes the car, he doesn’t like it that much.
He’s not sure he’s ever liked anything that much. Never had a friend in his life, figures the one he finally ends up with is a homicidal- sorry- genocidal hillbilly with a NASCAR fetish.
So Columbus keeps it at 61 when Tallahassee sleeps, and sometimes when he’s awake and occupied with something (an ancient gameboy with a yellowed copy of tetris, the pleasant midi tunes making Columbus hum for days) or just too fucking lazy to drive, shoes slipped off in a way that makes Columbus anxious and shifty because you keep your shoes on, it’s one of the rules, and staring out the sunroof at whatever sky they happen to be passing by. When Tallahassee takes the wheel he keeps it at an even 75, except during the times he’s trying to freak Columbus out, simulating racecar noises while the fuck-off engine roars like a caged animal, one time actually managing to make the kid laugh like a stoned hyena, when they drop down a hill at fuck all speeds, back up sharply and down again, banking a hard turn and hooting and hollering like they’re riding a coaster, and they end up giggling like idiots for what seems like forever. They both remember, later, another time and another place and suddenly the whole experience seems a lot less pleasant.
But it works for them. They don’t see anyone for weeks and weeks and Tallahassee tries to teach Columbus the fine art of flag-zombie-football, which doesn’t go over as well as he’d hoped, and later they end up in one of those stores filled with those creepy little figurines of big eyed children carrying ice cream and puppies and crying clowns and shit and Columbus proves he knows a little bit about destruction, mutters something about how he owned Grand Theft Auto and trying not to step on glass as they pick their way out of the ruined remains of the store, through the front windows that Tallahassee personally destroyed using one of those dolphin glass table holder things made of concrete or stone or something before making it back to the truck. Back on the road they reminisce about ice cream for awhile. Another one of those things you just start to miss.
And then one day they actually see someone else. More than one someone else. Driving their truck down the road and someone’s parked on the side in a big ass, heavily armored truck that probably used to be owned by a security company or a bank or something. Looks sturdy and un-killable but slow and hard to replace. Tallahassee stops their truck next to the hulking thing and stares flatly at the people clustered around it. Five humans, and the first they’ve seen in a long time. Fresh faces but for the jaded, slightly aggressive looks they wear, part of the uniform it seems, all turned out in camo and khaki, straps of weapons across their chests, all organized and military. Tallahassee, in his black racing jacket with stripes (lost the snakeskin one when he cut down a couple of zombies with a lawnmower) and his stupid hat and a bowie knife strapped to his hip, and Columbus in his worn sweatshirt and jeans and running shoes, look at these people like they’re fucking nuts. They’re acting like there’s some form of sense in the world, which used to be Columbus’s thing, but even he never pretended to be a green beret. And the leader, who is a classically handsome man with slicked back hair and an attractive scar across one side of his face rolls up, all potential danger, calm and collected. They get the story easy enough. There’s a camp, all fucking fenced in with barbwire, and the people there are starting again. Building a new world. They go out and they find people and they bring them back, teach them to defend themselves ‘properly’, settle them in to their little refugee camp. They’re just pulled over for a bit of food and to stretch their legs before they get back on the road. And all the people have the look that says this journey has been long and people have died and at this point none of them gives a rats ass about anyone but themselves. Columbus listens carefully to the spiel while Tallahassee looks over the group and wonders, vaguely, if Columbus is getting out of the car now, putting on a pair of cargo pants and a shoulder-holster and turning back towards civilization and sensibility.
“Oh, well, good luck,” Columbus says, all genuine and awkward.
“You’re welcome to join us. We always have room for more survivors,” the man, whose name is Dirk, suggests, missing the fact that the kid was trying to turn him down without seeming rude. Tallahassee doesn’t miss it.
“I’m sure you do. But we had something we were in the middle of doing, so we think we’ll just be on our way then,” he says, forced patience, a slight leaking through of annoyance and sarcasm.
“Look, I don’t think you two understand. There’s not future out there. Our only hope for survival is to stick together. We’re all in this together, we can watch each other’s back and we can rebuild. What could possibly be more important than that?”
“You may all be in this together but you don’t know jack shit about us, and you probably don’t give a damn about each other, either. So we’ll stick to our own game plan and be on our way, if you don’t mind. We’ve got some Ben and Jerry’s with our name on it, just a few hundred miles away, and it’s gonna melt if we don’t hurry it up.”
“Are you stupid? Who cares about ice cream?” Dirk snapped, edges already frayed, not a natural leader at all, Tallahassee’s unique character grating on his nerves without care, “You’re not going anywhere, you’re giving us your guns, and then you’re coming with us. Don’t make us fight you about this.”
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin me you pr-“
A hand on his arm, stopping him from leaning any further out the window to snarl in the face of the self-assured asshole just outside the door, Columbus’s stupid sad face making him shut up, long enough for the kid to get a word in edgewise.
“Look, I get what you guys are trying to do. I really do, but to be honest, you don’t have a place for us. Not one where we would be more help than trouble,” a glance at Tallahassee, acknowledgement that the older man was the bigger trouble, “And you really don’t want to fight us, either. Why would you risk the danger? We won’t be useful to you, so why bring in troublemakers, anyway? Just let us go. Ice cream may be a little thing, but it’s what matters to us.”
Dirk’s glaring, ready to argue, thumb brushing over the back of his gun distractedly. Tallahassee is this strange, uncomfortable mix of pleased and pissed, and he doesn’t really have the patience for this shit. Opens his mouth, trusts the distrust he sees on the other people’s face.
“Now I don’t know about you people, but it seems to me that this fella wants to put your lives in danger for no reason whatsoever. No doubt you’ve got a pile’a weapons back in your little camp, just waiting for you. So I think it’s probably time we all just move along.”
“Don’t you fucking dare try to fuck with me, you dirty fucking hick bastard, I swear to god-“ and Dirk is fucking pissed, off the deep end, hand on his weapon and Tallahassee is fingering the loaded shotgun next to his seat, is going to be pissed if they die here, because that’s just fucking stupid. But Dirk’s people have pulled him off mid shout, talking in rushed voices, getting into the car without delay, and Tallahassee just guns it the first chance he gets, speeds off down the road, glances over at the kid who’s face is pale, who’s expression is pained, keeping one eye on the tarmac as they speed past the few obstacles in the way. Tallahassee is seething because he could have just fucking lost-
And they’re both silent for approximately half a lifetime, Tallahassee’s eyes flickering to the rearview mirror every so often, paranoid, now. And Columbus’s fingers are digging into the armrest, all tense and quiet. When words finally get said they’re a little bitter, a little defensive.
“Thought you’d want to go with them.”
Columbus shoots him a look of surprise, wide eyed, that stupid fucking fish expression Tallahassee’s so fucking used to, “Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I dunno, nice place, soft bed, probably showers and routines and lists and air-freshener. All the things a guy needs to survive.”
“Not everything,” Columbus murmurs, looks out his window, wants to drop it.
“Really? What, not enough hand-sanitizer? No fashion sense? Dirk remind you of some guy who used to beat you senseless?” Tallahassee doesn’t want to drop it. He wants to know, it’s like an open wound and he just has to pick at it. Never could leave well enough alone.
Columbus is quiet in that hurt sort of way that he knows but hasn’t seen nor heard in a long time. Finally opens his mouth, closes it again, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. And Tallahassee is getting more and more irritated, about to snap again when the kid apparently decides it’s the right time to talk.
“It’s not like I was happy before. I-I hated my life, I think. I wasn’t like you Tallahassee, I was miserable. The little things, god, they’re better than whatever home was before. This is better.”
And it’s, yeah, it’s an open wound. A reminder that they weren’t always who they are now. And Tallahassee knows that the kid’s not lying and he thinks he should feel something good about the fact that he’s not the only one who can’t think of anywhere else to be, but he can’t. Just feels bad. And edge of guilt and buried sorrow. Wonders what the fuck he can say to make that right, when the kid basically tells him that yeah, most of the world is dead and gone, you can’t go to the bathroom without worrying about being slaughtered, but still it’s better than it used to be. Decides he can’t say anything, because while sorry might help it’s just not in his nature. Would probably give the Columbus a heart attack.
Columbus finally dozes off against the passenger side window. Wakes up a little after dark and nudges Tallahassee to trade seats. More driving, Columbus wakes him up before dawn because he can feel himself nodding off and knows that if he crashed the truck that Tallahassee will fucking kill him. They stop on the side of the road and find more comfortable positions to sleep in until the sun is all the way up, burning mist off the grounds. Tallahassee takes the wheel again, and it’s only a few drowsy hours until the reach the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory. And Columbus is fucking smiling again, which is fine by Tallahassee. They clean the place out, actually shoot Ben in the face, which Tallahassee says he feels bad about. But seconds later he starts talking about needing a picture of the guy. Columbus suggests some sort of a photo album of all the famous people they’ve killed. Says it’s already well on it’s way to being full. Counts Ben and Bill and says he swears to god he saw Tallahassee kill zombie Sean Connery, but Tallahassee is pretty sure it was just an old Zombie who looked a bit like Connery. Argues that if it didn’t have an accent it couldn’t have been Bond. Columbus gives him a look like he’s completely nuts before laughing. Once everything is cleared out they get the generators running, figure out, through trial and error, how to make ice-cream. They attract some zombies, but it’s worth it when they make a flavor they dub “Nut Up or Shut Up”, which features both nuts and peanut butter (because you couldn’t talk with it in your mouth, right?), and other flavor called “The Double Tap”, which has twice the amount cherries that are in Cherry Garcia. They decide to stay the night, trying to think of other places to go (Hersey Town, USA? Maine for lobsters? The Statue of Liberty? Worlds largest ball of twine?), and Columbus curls up in the room next to the generators because the sound they make reminds him of the trucks engine, which is better than any lullaby he’s ever heard before.
Tallahassee sits for a long time and thinks about a little of everything. He’s surprised when Columbus shows up in front of him with a blanket over his shoulders and leans over him, expression on his face blank for a long time. Doesn’t resist when Tallahassee pulls him down and steals the air from his lungs, presses their noses together and breaths out again, would be embarrassed to admit it’s probably something like cuddling. Can’t say the words though, has to let actions speak for him. And they do, clever, dangerous hands insist that Columbus is too fucking far away, pull him down onto his lap. Breathes into the kids neck and leaves little marks from the scrape of teeth, allows himself to wrap an arm around the center of the his back, to pull him close and flush against him, pushes clothing where it’s in the way and wonders how much longer this chair will support both of their weight. Columbus is mostly quiet, but pliant and needy and clings like he’s afraid he’ll fall off. There’s something awful about all of this, Tallahassee is pretty sure it’s breaking all kinds of rules on both of their sides, but, god, he almost lost the kid, to that fucker with his slick fucking operation, to frantic, meaningless violence, shots fired by other people. Almost lost him a thousand times to a zombie who’s faster than they would have thought, to a secret space where one of the bastards is hiding. To time and tide and just fucking everything, so he can’t really blame himself for hanging on now. After all, there’s nothing else left, for either one of them.