Stupid Teenagers Must Die!, Part II
Originally posted here and here.
Title: Stupid Teenagers Must Die!, Part II
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero.
Rating: R for swearing, gruesome zombie death, and eventual boysex. Possibly.
Summary: After realizing Belleville is full of the walking dead, Gerard, Frank, Ray, and Mikey escape to the only sanctuary they can find- Aunt Beth's home-made bomb shelter.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: Bob's still chilling with the Used and thus will not be used as zombie cannon-fodder.
Beta: redheaded_itch
Aunt Beth's house was small and dark and unremarkable except for the overwhelming smell of cat. Frank let them in through the back door with the key left under the mat.
"She'll be upstairs," he told them, holding open the door. "She never really gets out of bed anymore- just to piss, feed the cat, and watch Days of our Lives." Gerard paused at the threshold, gestured for him to go in first, but Frank just laughed and pushed him gently through, shutting the door behind him.
He had a weird laugh, Gerard thought- high-pitched, but not girlish so much as ghoulish.
"She's got a bomb shelter in her basement, but she leaves the key under the mat?" Ray asked incredulously.
Frankie shrugged and shoved it in his pocket. "Hey," he replied, "if the Japanese eventually decide to get revenge they ain't gonna come through the back door."
He had a point, of course.
"Aunt Beth?" he called as they made their way up the stairs. The walls going up were covered in framed photographs of the whole Iero clan, stiffly posed in the finest Wal-Mart tradition. Gerard could only identify one of Frankie; he was three years old, well-groomed, and clearly unhappy about it. "Hello? It's Frank- Frankie- the ne'er-do-well? Hey, come on, it's your disappointing grand-nephew! Beth?"
The single bedroom upstairs was empty, the bed neatly made. There was no sign of how long the old woman had been gone or why she had disappeared. Frank looked suddenly cheerier.
"Well, at least now we won't have to tell her why we're crashing in her basement," he said, bounding back down the stairs. Ray looked after him with a puzzled frown.
"Hey, wait. Aren't you worried?" he asked. Frank crash-landed on the landing and turned to look at him.
"Of course not. If she had enough time to make her bed with hospital corners she's probably fine. Are you coming into the basement? There's cable."
*
Cable turned out to be unsurprisingly useless. Like the radio, all the channels were white noise except for the BBC.
"You'd think that what with the impending doom and all, they'd show something other than Are You Being Served?," Ray muttered.
The basement was shabby and comfortable-looking, more like a D&D haven than a last resort against the inevitable triumph of the shogunate. There was a fridge stocked with bottle water and a cupboard filled with canned food. There was a low bookshelf full of books apparently deemed inappropriate for its doily-encrusted doppelganger in the living room upstairs. (Gerard had looked through the books- they mostly seemed to revolve around breathless, impetuous Highland maidens and their dangerous-yet-vulnerable kilt-wearing suitors.) There were overstuffed couches, suspiciously stained on the cushions. Mikey was curled up on one now, more asleep than awake, his glasses askew over one ear. He had watched British sitcoms for the past few hours without saying a word. Every now and again he looked at Gerard in a searching sort of way, out of the corner of his eye.
When he was a little kid and Mikey was even littler, they used to go to a playground a few blocks away from their house. A kid who hung out there by himself- older, dumber, meaner- decided that Mikey wasn't allowed to play there anymore, and when their mother wasn't watching or had turned her attention on Gerard he used to hold Mikey down and make him eat sand. Gerard remembered the day he'd discovered that, this enormous asshole sitting on his baby brother's face and daring him to do something about it. He remembered Mikey's nose running, his chest hitching with angry, painful sobs, his skinny arms flailing. But what he remembered most of all was the sinking feeling as he realized that he was failing as a brother, because he couldn't protect him. Not from the important things.
He was starting to get that feeling again.
On the couch next to him, Frank yawned and stretched expansively. "I'm thirsty."
"Check the fridge," Ray muttered, eyes locked on the screen.
"That's all mineral water and shit. I want something real. I'm gonna go check the fridge upstairs." He nudged Gerard with his foot. "Want to come?"
Gerard glanced at Mikey, whose mouth had fallen open. Any minute now he'd begin to snore.
"Go on," Ray said, sparing him a glance. "I won't let the zombies eat him, I promise."
In his sleep Mikey frowned and mumbled, as though the word had punched through into his dreams. Gerard hesitated another second, but Frank had already started up the stairs.
And, well, he was thirsty.
By the time he got to the kitchen Frank had already pulled out most of the fridge's contents.
"The shit she kept in this fridge," he marveled, tossing things over his shoulder. "Prune juice, old lettuce, pickled beets, really old cheese- aha." He pulled out a tall glass bottle with a flourish. "Vodka."
"Your great-aunt keeps vodka in her fridge? Isn't she, like, ninety?"
"All the more reason. No kids, no responsibilities- just sit down to The Price is Right and do a shot every time Bob Barker shares the shit out of you. Trust me, dude, old age is prime time for alcoholism." He plonked the bottle down on the counter and reached up to the top cupboard, straining on his tiptoes. His T-shirt rode up, and Gerard could see a pale strip of his back between the hem and his thick black belt. He looked away, blinking. "Got 'em!" Frank seized two shot glasses triumphantly and set them down next to the bottle.
"You know," Gerard said thoughtfully, staring at the bottle, "when you said you wanted a drink I thought you meant some apple juice or something."
Frank snorted and poured them both shots. "Pussy. Here." He tossed his back with the studied ease of someone who'd been drinking alone in front of a mirror.
Gerard was a drinker, but he hadn't taken vodka straight in a long time. It burned his throat, making him cough and sputter. Frank grinned at him and gave him another.
"I hope you're not as much of a lightweight as your brother," he said. "He drinks a beer and a half and he's done for the night."
The second one slid down a little easier. Gerard felt his face begin to flush and tingle the way it always did when he drank and held out his glass for a refill. "Do you think we should go back down?" he asked.
"Naw, not if Mikey's asleep and Ray's topping off his supply of Briticisms. They'll be fine."
Frank downed another shot. There was a grace to the way he did it- his movements seemed wild at first, until you realized that really he was restraining himself in some way. He acted through some strange confinement, and Gerard thought about that for a minute, and then Frank turned away to get something from the cupboard and exposed the line of his jaw and neck and Gerard did another shot to keep from looking at it.
Neither of them were lightweights, but after the day they'd had it didn't take long for their tongues to loll a little, or for their minds to blur a bit at the edges. Before he knew what was happening Gerard found himself listening to a story about Mikey's first time getting drunk, and ignoring his dormant protective big brother feelings enough to laugh along.
"And then-" Frank stopped, nearly choking on his own laughter. "And then Alicia stumbles out of the bathroom, right, pissed as hell and covered in his puke, and everyone stares at her, and then out comes Mikey, pants around his fuckin' ankles, drunk out of his mind, and he says, he says, 'I promise it's usually bigger than that!'"
That was funny, Gerard decided after a minute, even though it was his brother, and so he decided to laugh, but then when he started to laugh he forgot why in the middle of it and had to think about it all over again, and that triggered a fresh burst of laughter, and by that time Frank had moved on.
"There was this other party," he started, "right after freshman year, in this kid Tobey's basement- did you hear about that? No? Fuckin' legendary, I'm telling you. I was in the bedroom with Tobey's friend Anthony, and he-"
"In the bedroom?" Gerard interrupted, wondering if he was too drunk to understand. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. "What- were you watching the coats or something?"
Frank stared at him for a minute, his eyes level and steady. "Close," he said, his mouth twitching a little. "I was blowing him."
Gerard waited for the punchline. There didn't seem to be one, and Frank's amused expression solidified after a few seconds into something else. Hostility, maybe, or the expectation of it.
"Oh," he managed, fumbling for another shot. "So you're- oh. That's cool, and all. Uh." He raised his glass, and a thought occurred to him. "You and Mikey- you're not-"
Frank let out one of those strange, explosive little laughs and shook his head. "Jesus, no. You think I want him to puke all over me too?" And Gerard smiled at that, because imagining Frank with his awkward, gawky little brother is just about ten different kinds of ridiculous.
Or maybe, he thought, watching Frank toss back the last shot, noticing the way his fingers wobble slightly, he was just relieved. Although he wasn't sure on whose behalf.
"So, ah," he said, as casually as he could. "You're gay, right?"
Frank glanced at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Me? Nah. I've had girlfriends and stuff, I just like guys sometimes. I mean, I figured out a long time ago that no matter what I did some asshole would call me a fag, so why not do the crime if you've already done the crime?" He grinned teasingly, sprawling back on his elbows. "I don't see what's so gay about blowjobs, anyway."
Gerard was suddenly faced with a pressing need to go to the bathroom.
"I'll be right back," he muttered, and lurched down the hallway to Aunt Beth's tiny, fussily decorated bathroom.
There were, he decided, some places where doilies should not be placed. Toilets were one of them.
He leaned over the sink, turning the cold tap until the water made his fingers numb. He splashed it over his hot face, sputtering as he accidentally inhaled. Stupid. He was a really stupid drunk, and he'd known it ever since his first drunken adventure at age thirteen. The details were a little hazy, but he remembered losing his pants at some point. A very public point. Couldn't remember if it was voluntary or not. He snickered to himself, leaning back against the wall. The light bulb overhead was dimming. He watched it flicker, his eyes half-closed, thinking.
So Frank liked guys, or whatever. No big deal. It wasn't as though Gerard hadn't been to art school, for fuck's sake. He remembered the day he'd gone to school as a chick, just on a whim, not for a dare or as a laugh or anything macho like that, just because- well, he'd been curious. He'd just started to grow out his hair and had had makeup left over from when he and his girlfriend of three whole weeks had gone to Rocky Horror together, and she'd forgotten one of her long skirts in his room when she'd broken up with him for her Physics tutor with the overbite, and it all just came together one morning. No one knew him very well, so it had been easy for him to lose himself in being addressed as "miss," in having doors opened for him, in people treating him more gently and generously. He'd even liked it. And when he'd looked up in his art history class and seen this French exchange student, a guy he'd seen around and even been introduced to once, giving him a subtle once-over, he'd smiled to himself and caught his eye, and the guy had smiled back and blushed, and fuck, he'd enjoyed it. He had.
It was a performance at the time. Sort of.
And maybe he was an asshole for comparing the two things, his day as a girl and Frank's... whatever. But he thought about Frank's aesthetic- the nail polish, the eyeliner- and decided that maybe he'd understand.
Or maybe he'd just had too much to drink and was now thinking too much about... about things.
"Oh, fu-"
There was a crash, then a sound like a sack full of meat hitting the floor. It took a minute for Gerard to realize what was happening, but when he stumbled back into the kitchen he was hit by the smell of rot.
Frank was on the floor, his legs flailing, struggling to keep Aunt Beth at bay with his hands. Her eyes, cast with that same milky film as Gerard's father, rolled in the back of her head as she blindly reached for him, gnashing her yellow teeth. She was still wearing a lacy pink nightgown, Gerard realized, transfixed with horror. He stood there for a moment until Frank, his head turned to escape the smell of her breath, screamed:
"It's okay, dude, I'm totally fine! Feel free to ignore the fucking zombie woman about to eat my face!"
The first thing that came to hand was the empty vodka bottle. He held it by the neck and smashed it over Aunt Beth's head. She turned and hissed, lunging for him, but he was too quick. Dodging and turning, he tired to think of some way to lure her out of the room. Maybe they could lock themselves in, escape...
Then he remembered Mikey, asleep on the couch downstairs, and squared his shoulders. He'd do it here and now.
She scrabbled at his face with knobbled veiny fingers and he suffered a momentary lapse in resolve.
"Frank!" he screamed. Frank had gotten to his feet and edged along the cabinets, towards the taps. "Could you help me out, please?" He took another swing at Aunt Beth and missed. He remembered the summer his dad had offered to send him to baseball camp and called himself all the Italian insults his grandmother never should have taught him for not taking him up on it.
Frank gesticulated wildly, calling, "Bring her closer to the sink!"
"What? Frank, she's dead already, it's not like we can drown her-"
"Just fucking do it, man! Now!"
Gerard almost felt like arguing some more just because Frank's tone was pissing him off, but Aunt Beth was so close that her spit was landing on his face. He took a deep breath and grabbed her by the shoulders, swinging her around to the kitchen sink. She struggled and snarled and took a chunk out of his arm with her broken fingernails.
"What now?" he demanded. Frank grimaced and shut his eyes, pushed the zombie's face into the sink, and flipped a switch on the wall. The garborator roared into life, churning more and more of Aunt Beth's face into so much meat the harder he pressed. For the long, terrible moment before the blade touched her brain she was still screaming; then, as it shredded her frontal lobe, she went limp. Finally Gerard let her go, half of her head crumbled away in the sink.
"I think I'm going to be sick," he whispered. Frank looked at him, then down at the blood on his hands. Gerard swallowed convulsively.
"So I had to do that," Frank said. His tone was flat. "That's how it goes, right? Your friends turn against you, and your family forgets who you are, and they don't even stop to tell you to wipe your feet, young man, I don't want you to track dirt all over my new rug"- he snickered at his own joke, an ugly sound, and continued-"before they're trying to rip open your skull and make you like. Make you like them. That's what happens, and you're supposed to just fucking deal with that?"
"I guess," Gerard replied eventually. He had never felt as inadequate as he did now, watching Frank stare at his hands. The garborator was still on, whirring happily to itself as bits of what used to be Frank's aunt fell down the pipes. "I mean, for now. Maybe once we have a plan we can think of something better, but for now we've just got to make sure we're still around to do it when we think of it. I mean, I can't think of anything else to do. But I don't want to die, and I don't want Mikey to die, and I don't want you to die. I don't even want Ray to die- I mean, he owes me ten bucks." He tried to smile.
"Well, I think that's bullshit," Frank said, and turned away. Gerard could hear him retreating down the hall, then heard the tap running in the bathroom. He sighed and leant against the counter to turn off the garborator, staring into the old woman's back yard. Typical old woman's garden, about the size of a postcard and filled with dead shrubs and cat shit and- and-
"Frank," he called over the sound of the water running. "Does your aunt usually have reanimated corpses in her backyard?"
The tap was shut off. Frank reappeared in the kitchen doorway, looking exhausted and more sober than he should have.
"How many?" he asked, still wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Lots. And I think they're breaking through the downstairs window. We need to get out of here, fast."
Part I
Title: Stupid Teenagers Must Die!, Part II
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero.
Rating: R for swearing, gruesome zombie death, and eventual boysex. Possibly.
Summary: After realizing Belleville is full of the walking dead, Gerard, Frank, Ray, and Mikey escape to the only sanctuary they can find- Aunt Beth's home-made bomb shelter.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: Bob's still chilling with the Used and thus will not be used as zombie cannon-fodder.
Beta: redheaded_itch
Aunt Beth's house was small and dark and unremarkable except for the overwhelming smell of cat. Frank let them in through the back door with the key left under the mat.
"She'll be upstairs," he told them, holding open the door. "She never really gets out of bed anymore- just to piss, feed the cat, and watch Days of our Lives." Gerard paused at the threshold, gestured for him to go in first, but Frank just laughed and pushed him gently through, shutting the door behind him.
He had a weird laugh, Gerard thought- high-pitched, but not girlish so much as ghoulish.
"She's got a bomb shelter in her basement, but she leaves the key under the mat?" Ray asked incredulously.
Frankie shrugged and shoved it in his pocket. "Hey," he replied, "if the Japanese eventually decide to get revenge they ain't gonna come through the back door."
He had a point, of course.
"Aunt Beth?" he called as they made their way up the stairs. The walls going up were covered in framed photographs of the whole Iero clan, stiffly posed in the finest Wal-Mart tradition. Gerard could only identify one of Frankie; he was three years old, well-groomed, and clearly unhappy about it. "Hello? It's Frank- Frankie- the ne'er-do-well? Hey, come on, it's your disappointing grand-nephew! Beth?"
The single bedroom upstairs was empty, the bed neatly made. There was no sign of how long the old woman had been gone or why she had disappeared. Frank looked suddenly cheerier.
"Well, at least now we won't have to tell her why we're crashing in her basement," he said, bounding back down the stairs. Ray looked after him with a puzzled frown.
"Hey, wait. Aren't you worried?" he asked. Frank crash-landed on the landing and turned to look at him.
"Of course not. If she had enough time to make her bed with hospital corners she's probably fine. Are you coming into the basement? There's cable."
*
Cable turned out to be unsurprisingly useless. Like the radio, all the channels were white noise except for the BBC.
"You'd think that what with the impending doom and all, they'd show something other than Are You Being Served?," Ray muttered.
The basement was shabby and comfortable-looking, more like a D&D haven than a last resort against the inevitable triumph of the shogunate. There was a fridge stocked with bottle water and a cupboard filled with canned food. There was a low bookshelf full of books apparently deemed inappropriate for its doily-encrusted doppelganger in the living room upstairs. (Gerard had looked through the books- they mostly seemed to revolve around breathless, impetuous Highland maidens and their dangerous-yet-vulnerable kilt-wearing suitors.) There were overstuffed couches, suspiciously stained on the cushions. Mikey was curled up on one now, more asleep than awake, his glasses askew over one ear. He had watched British sitcoms for the past few hours without saying a word. Every now and again he looked at Gerard in a searching sort of way, out of the corner of his eye.
When he was a little kid and Mikey was even littler, they used to go to a playground a few blocks away from their house. A kid who hung out there by himself- older, dumber, meaner- decided that Mikey wasn't allowed to play there anymore, and when their mother wasn't watching or had turned her attention on Gerard he used to hold Mikey down and make him eat sand. Gerard remembered the day he'd discovered that, this enormous asshole sitting on his baby brother's face and daring him to do something about it. He remembered Mikey's nose running, his chest hitching with angry, painful sobs, his skinny arms flailing. But what he remembered most of all was the sinking feeling as he realized that he was failing as a brother, because he couldn't protect him. Not from the important things.
He was starting to get that feeling again.
On the couch next to him, Frank yawned and stretched expansively. "I'm thirsty."
"Check the fridge," Ray muttered, eyes locked on the screen.
"That's all mineral water and shit. I want something real. I'm gonna go check the fridge upstairs." He nudged Gerard with his foot. "Want to come?"
Gerard glanced at Mikey, whose mouth had fallen open. Any minute now he'd begin to snore.
"Go on," Ray said, sparing him a glance. "I won't let the zombies eat him, I promise."
In his sleep Mikey frowned and mumbled, as though the word had punched through into his dreams. Gerard hesitated another second, but Frank had already started up the stairs.
And, well, he was thirsty.
By the time he got to the kitchen Frank had already pulled out most of the fridge's contents.
"The shit she kept in this fridge," he marveled, tossing things over his shoulder. "Prune juice, old lettuce, pickled beets, really old cheese- aha." He pulled out a tall glass bottle with a flourish. "Vodka."
"Your great-aunt keeps vodka in her fridge? Isn't she, like, ninety?"
"All the more reason. No kids, no responsibilities- just sit down to The Price is Right and do a shot every time Bob Barker shares the shit out of you. Trust me, dude, old age is prime time for alcoholism." He plonked the bottle down on the counter and reached up to the top cupboard, straining on his tiptoes. His T-shirt rode up, and Gerard could see a pale strip of his back between the hem and his thick black belt. He looked away, blinking. "Got 'em!" Frank seized two shot glasses triumphantly and set them down next to the bottle.
"You know," Gerard said thoughtfully, staring at the bottle, "when you said you wanted a drink I thought you meant some apple juice or something."
Frank snorted and poured them both shots. "Pussy. Here." He tossed his back with the studied ease of someone who'd been drinking alone in front of a mirror.
Gerard was a drinker, but he hadn't taken vodka straight in a long time. It burned his throat, making him cough and sputter. Frank grinned at him and gave him another.
"I hope you're not as much of a lightweight as your brother," he said. "He drinks a beer and a half and he's done for the night."
The second one slid down a little easier. Gerard felt his face begin to flush and tingle the way it always did when he drank and held out his glass for a refill. "Do you think we should go back down?" he asked.
"Naw, not if Mikey's asleep and Ray's topping off his supply of Briticisms. They'll be fine."
Frank downed another shot. There was a grace to the way he did it- his movements seemed wild at first, until you realized that really he was restraining himself in some way. He acted through some strange confinement, and Gerard thought about that for a minute, and then Frank turned away to get something from the cupboard and exposed the line of his jaw and neck and Gerard did another shot to keep from looking at it.
Neither of them were lightweights, but after the day they'd had it didn't take long for their tongues to loll a little, or for their minds to blur a bit at the edges. Before he knew what was happening Gerard found himself listening to a story about Mikey's first time getting drunk, and ignoring his dormant protective big brother feelings enough to laugh along.
"And then-" Frank stopped, nearly choking on his own laughter. "And then Alicia stumbles out of the bathroom, right, pissed as hell and covered in his puke, and everyone stares at her, and then out comes Mikey, pants around his fuckin' ankles, drunk out of his mind, and he says, he says, 'I promise it's usually bigger than that!'"
That was funny, Gerard decided after a minute, even though it was his brother, and so he decided to laugh, but then when he started to laugh he forgot why in the middle of it and had to think about it all over again, and that triggered a fresh burst of laughter, and by that time Frank had moved on.
"There was this other party," he started, "right after freshman year, in this kid Tobey's basement- did you hear about that? No? Fuckin' legendary, I'm telling you. I was in the bedroom with Tobey's friend Anthony, and he-"
"In the bedroom?" Gerard interrupted, wondering if he was too drunk to understand. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. "What- were you watching the coats or something?"
Frank stared at him for a minute, his eyes level and steady. "Close," he said, his mouth twitching a little. "I was blowing him."
Gerard waited for the punchline. There didn't seem to be one, and Frank's amused expression solidified after a few seconds into something else. Hostility, maybe, or the expectation of it.
"Oh," he managed, fumbling for another shot. "So you're- oh. That's cool, and all. Uh." He raised his glass, and a thought occurred to him. "You and Mikey- you're not-"
Frank let out one of those strange, explosive little laughs and shook his head. "Jesus, no. You think I want him to puke all over me too?" And Gerard smiled at that, because imagining Frank with his awkward, gawky little brother is just about ten different kinds of ridiculous.
Or maybe, he thought, watching Frank toss back the last shot, noticing the way his fingers wobble slightly, he was just relieved. Although he wasn't sure on whose behalf.
"So, ah," he said, as casually as he could. "You're gay, right?"
Frank glanced at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Me? Nah. I've had girlfriends and stuff, I just like guys sometimes. I mean, I figured out a long time ago that no matter what I did some asshole would call me a fag, so why not do the crime if you've already done the crime?" He grinned teasingly, sprawling back on his elbows. "I don't see what's so gay about blowjobs, anyway."
Gerard was suddenly faced with a pressing need to go to the bathroom.
"I'll be right back," he muttered, and lurched down the hallway to Aunt Beth's tiny, fussily decorated bathroom.
There were, he decided, some places where doilies should not be placed. Toilets were one of them.
He leaned over the sink, turning the cold tap until the water made his fingers numb. He splashed it over his hot face, sputtering as he accidentally inhaled. Stupid. He was a really stupid drunk, and he'd known it ever since his first drunken adventure at age thirteen. The details were a little hazy, but he remembered losing his pants at some point. A very public point. Couldn't remember if it was voluntary or not. He snickered to himself, leaning back against the wall. The light bulb overhead was dimming. He watched it flicker, his eyes half-closed, thinking.
So Frank liked guys, or whatever. No big deal. It wasn't as though Gerard hadn't been to art school, for fuck's sake. He remembered the day he'd gone to school as a chick, just on a whim, not for a dare or as a laugh or anything macho like that, just because- well, he'd been curious. He'd just started to grow out his hair and had had makeup left over from when he and his girlfriend of three whole weeks had gone to Rocky Horror together, and she'd forgotten one of her long skirts in his room when she'd broken up with him for her Physics tutor with the overbite, and it all just came together one morning. No one knew him very well, so it had been easy for him to lose himself in being addressed as "miss," in having doors opened for him, in people treating him more gently and generously. He'd even liked it. And when he'd looked up in his art history class and seen this French exchange student, a guy he'd seen around and even been introduced to once, giving him a subtle once-over, he'd smiled to himself and caught his eye, and the guy had smiled back and blushed, and fuck, he'd enjoyed it. He had.
It was a performance at the time. Sort of.
And maybe he was an asshole for comparing the two things, his day as a girl and Frank's... whatever. But he thought about Frank's aesthetic- the nail polish, the eyeliner- and decided that maybe he'd understand.
Or maybe he'd just had too much to drink and was now thinking too much about... about things.
"Oh, fu-"
There was a crash, then a sound like a sack full of meat hitting the floor. It took a minute for Gerard to realize what was happening, but when he stumbled back into the kitchen he was hit by the smell of rot.
Frank was on the floor, his legs flailing, struggling to keep Aunt Beth at bay with his hands. Her eyes, cast with that same milky film as Gerard's father, rolled in the back of her head as she blindly reached for him, gnashing her yellow teeth. She was still wearing a lacy pink nightgown, Gerard realized, transfixed with horror. He stood there for a moment until Frank, his head turned to escape the smell of her breath, screamed:
"It's okay, dude, I'm totally fine! Feel free to ignore the fucking zombie woman about to eat my face!"
The first thing that came to hand was the empty vodka bottle. He held it by the neck and smashed it over Aunt Beth's head. She turned and hissed, lunging for him, but he was too quick. Dodging and turning, he tired to think of some way to lure her out of the room. Maybe they could lock themselves in, escape...
Then he remembered Mikey, asleep on the couch downstairs, and squared his shoulders. He'd do it here and now.
She scrabbled at his face with knobbled veiny fingers and he suffered a momentary lapse in resolve.
"Frank!" he screamed. Frank had gotten to his feet and edged along the cabinets, towards the taps. "Could you help me out, please?" He took another swing at Aunt Beth and missed. He remembered the summer his dad had offered to send him to baseball camp and called himself all the Italian insults his grandmother never should have taught him for not taking him up on it.
Frank gesticulated wildly, calling, "Bring her closer to the sink!"
"What? Frank, she's dead already, it's not like we can drown her-"
"Just fucking do it, man! Now!"
Gerard almost felt like arguing some more just because Frank's tone was pissing him off, but Aunt Beth was so close that her spit was landing on his face. He took a deep breath and grabbed her by the shoulders, swinging her around to the kitchen sink. She struggled and snarled and took a chunk out of his arm with her broken fingernails.
"What now?" he demanded. Frank grimaced and shut his eyes, pushed the zombie's face into the sink, and flipped a switch on the wall. The garborator roared into life, churning more and more of Aunt Beth's face into so much meat the harder he pressed. For the long, terrible moment before the blade touched her brain she was still screaming; then, as it shredded her frontal lobe, she went limp. Finally Gerard let her go, half of her head crumbled away in the sink.
"I think I'm going to be sick," he whispered. Frank looked at him, then down at the blood on his hands. Gerard swallowed convulsively.
"So I had to do that," Frank said. His tone was flat. "That's how it goes, right? Your friends turn against you, and your family forgets who you are, and they don't even stop to tell you to wipe your feet, young man, I don't want you to track dirt all over my new rug"- he snickered at his own joke, an ugly sound, and continued-"before they're trying to rip open your skull and make you like. Make you like them. That's what happens, and you're supposed to just fucking deal with that?"
"I guess," Gerard replied eventually. He had never felt as inadequate as he did now, watching Frank stare at his hands. The garborator was still on, whirring happily to itself as bits of what used to be Frank's aunt fell down the pipes. "I mean, for now. Maybe once we have a plan we can think of something better, but for now we've just got to make sure we're still around to do it when we think of it. I mean, I can't think of anything else to do. But I don't want to die, and I don't want Mikey to die, and I don't want you to die. I don't even want Ray to die- I mean, he owes me ten bucks." He tried to smile.
"Well, I think that's bullshit," Frank said, and turned away. Gerard could hear him retreating down the hall, then heard the tap running in the bathroom. He sighed and leant against the counter to turn off the garborator, staring into the old woman's back yard. Typical old woman's garden, about the size of a postcard and filled with dead shrubs and cat shit and- and-
"Frank," he called over the sound of the water running. "Does your aunt usually have reanimated corpses in her backyard?"
The tap was shut off. Frank reappeared in the kitchen doorway, looking exhausted and more sober than he should have.
"How many?" he asked, still wiping his hands on his jeans.
"Lots. And I think they're breaking through the downstairs window. We need to get out of here, fast."
Part I