Birthday Fic: It's not an alternative universe - Thomas Riis/Rick Zabel
Title: It's not an alternate universe
Fandom: Cycling
Pairing: Thomas Nybo Riis/Rick Zabel
Disclaimer: This is not real, this never happened. I don't know them and this is all fiction. Made up stuff.
Warning: Zombies.
Notes: Happy Birthday, amato!
---
In an alternate universe, Thomas is racing in the Tour de France. In another, he's married with a couple of kids and they do family things. In yet another, he lives in a flat by himself, works in an office and has lots of friends. But in the universe Thomas inhabits now, the world is ending. There was a time, when he was a little younger, when he had a career as a professional cyclist. His team wasn't great, but it wasn't bad. He still had a family, parents, brothers. But they're all gone, or at least that's what he assumes.
He'd been away, at a race. Not even that far from home, but far enough that he couldn't get home. Not after all the roads were clogged with cars, people trying to escape but dying. Thomas stayed in his hotel, instead. Long after most of his teammates had fled. His phone still worked, the internet, too, but there was no one at home to answer. He didn't know why, he hoped they'd escaped, but he wasn't so sure.
The first wave had been a surprise. There was a virus, something unknown, sweeping across the world. People died and then they weren't dead and you had to shoot them in the head to get them to stay dead. Thomas had done this twice, to former teammates. He didn't like to remember it, but he couldn't get the image out of his head, either. He locked the door, wondering how he hadn't gotten sick.
He hadn't left the room since before people starting getting sick. He thought it was weird that he wasn't sick at all, his roommates and teammates had been in and out of the room, when they were sick and then coming back as, well, zombies. The news, before it went off air, had said nothing of the zombies, or at least they had but hadn't called them zombies, that was the term people on the internet and Thomas himself used.
They had said, and then he'd read later online, that everyone who hadn't died from the virus, which was a lot of people, but there were more zombies (walkers, undead, whatever) than regular people, was immune. Except, and some asshole had posted a YouTube video of it, when one was bitten. Which is why Thomas had killed his former teammates. They weren't even human anymore, not really.
But he couldn't stay in the hotel forever. Even though he had enough food, he was the only one in the hotel, he couldn't stay. He had to at least try to get home. He packed what little he had and carried his bike downstairs. He rigged up a strap for the shotgun he'd found at the front desk, filled a bag with the few bullets that remained and then stepped outside.
He'd left most everything in the hotel room, he wouldn't need it. He packed some clothing, food, water and the bullets. They were in the backpack on his back. He slowly pedaled through the city, a German town he couldn't remember the name of and didn't care to find out. He called up the GPS on his phone, figured out how long it would take to get home (a really very long time) and started to ride. He'd been on his bike for an hour when he realized he wasn't alone.
He turned and saw, in the distance, other people on bikes. He figured they weren't zombies, he'd seen a couple, aside from the teammates he'd killed. They didn't seem able to ride bikes. And so he waited. The group drew closer and Thomas realized they were mostly kids. He wondered what had happened to their parents. He felt like he was going to throw up when they got close enough for him to see that everyone was armed.
There was someone older, though, in what looked like a cycling jersey. Thomas looked down at his own shirt, slightly worse for wear, but still bearing the names of his team and sponsors. When he looked up again, he recognized the logo on the man's shirt. BMC. He squinted, but even with sunglasses, the sunlight was too bright for him to make up faces. So he waited until they were close enough to talk without shouting. He almost recognized the guy in the BMC shirt, but he wasn't sure.
"Thomas? Thomas Riis?" The guy said, sounding incredulous.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Thomas remembered racing against a German guy, the son of a famous cyclist. The name was right there, but he couldn't grasp it.
"Rick Zabel."
Thomas looked up. His mouth formed an 'o' of surprise. He remembered, now. They met, when they were little. Much littler. Their dads had known each other, of course. Thomas wondered how Rick recognized him, but he didn't care. Here was someone he knew.
"Where are you going?" Thomas asked.
"Away." Rick said. There was something about him that made Thomas want to hug him, he wasn't sure what it was. Maybe the way the kids were looking at him. But Thomas didn't have time to dwell on that because Rick was talking again. "We're leaving Germany."
"To?"
Rick shrugged. "We've heard that if you go North, there are more survivors."
North, Thomas thought. North was home. North was Denmark. North was … He stopped that train of thought and stared at Rick.
"Where're you going?"
"Home." Even though Thomas was fairly certain Rick already guessed that.
Rick just nodded, then gestured to small group of ten kids, about half were girls, Thomas realized. "Join us."
Thomas didn't reply, he just nodded. He got on his bike and started riding with them. They didn't talk much, except about where to camp. Some of the kids started trialing after Thomas, instead of Rick and it reminded Thomas of his little brothers. He missed them. He thought they were dead.
At night, when the kids thought he was asleep, some of them would curl up with him. It was summer, but the nights were chilly and they slept outside when they couldn't find a safe house. Sometimes they did, though. The kids would fight over the beds, leaving Thomas and Rick the floor. Rick didn’t complain so Thomas didn't, either. And he didn't mind. The kids were far more important.
They rode for a month and Thomas learned all about the kids, how they came to be in Rick's company. He told them about his time at the hotel. In private, when it was only the two of them, Thomas told Rick about killing his teammates. Rick told Thomas about killing his parents.
Rick fell asleep once, slumping over against Thomas. Thomas slid his arm around Rick and took both watches, holding Rick close. He missed what it felt like to touch someone. To be close to someone. The children were good, but they were kids. The youngest was 6, the oldest 10. Rick woke up, a few hours later and said nothing to Thomas, but when Thomas fell asleep after Rick took over, he woke up with Rick's fingers in his hair, carding through it. He kept his eyes closed, even though he was sure Rick knew he was awake, enjoying the feel of Rick's fingers in his hair.
They spent more time together than apart. Not that they were ever apart, but after four months of scavenging through towns, traveling only when the sun was out, they'd grown closer. They would've shared a bed, Thomas thought, if they'd found a third person to take watch. Instead, they just slept near each other, close enough to touch, always touching, really. One slept, the other kept watch and then they'd switch.
They reached Thomas' home after five months. His house was exactly as he remembered it, only it was empty. Mostly empty. He found his brothers, dead. But they hadn't turned. It was, Rick said after examining the bodies so that Thomas didn't have to, because someone shot them in the head first.
It was one of the kids who found Thomas' mum and step mum. They were in the backyard, also dead. He didn't know what became of his dad. Clearly his mum had come to be with his step mum and they'd taken matters into their own hands. Rick found the letter, with Thomas' name on it. Thomas read it out loud, to Rick and to the kids, who'd gathered around them in Thomas' now empty kitchen.
His mum hoped he was alive and that he wasn't sick. Their whole family was infected. His mum and step mum had decided to do what was necessary, before his younger brothers got too sick. They knew what happened, because they'd had to, and here the page was covered in smeared ink which Thomas guessed were where his mum was crying while she was writing, kill his older brothers. His father, Thomas also learned, had been out of the country and was dead as well. Thomas was alone. Truly alone.
He turned away, from Rick and from the children, trying not to cry. He felt Rick's arms around his shoulders, remembered Rick telling him about having to kill his parents. He turned around again, face pressed against Rick's shoulder. He felt one of the kids, a girl named Sophia, slide her hand into one of his. He didn't stop the tears this time.
They took everything they needed from his house and then they left. Thomas didn't know where they were going and he didn't care, not anymore. His family was dead, but as he helped one of the boys, named Stefan, with his helmet, he knew he had a new family.
Rick told them they were going to try to get to Finland, and from there, maybe somewhere safe. He'd been monitoring some radio stations that promised that there were parts of the world that were free from zombies. And while they hadn't seen as many as Thomas had expected on their journey through Germany and into Denmark, their luck was unlikely to last much longer.
Thomas wasn't sure they were going to make it, but he had to try. To fulfill his mum's last wish for him to survive. For the sake of the children he'd come to care about in the six months they were together. And for Rick, too. They needed each other, Thomas knew that now and he was grateful. And so, with supplies and guns strapped to their backs, they set off.
Fandom: Cycling
Pairing: Thomas Nybo Riis/Rick Zabel
Disclaimer: This is not real, this never happened. I don't know them and this is all fiction. Made up stuff.
Warning: Zombies.
Notes: Happy Birthday, amato!
---
In an alternate universe, Thomas is racing in the Tour de France. In another, he's married with a couple of kids and they do family things. In yet another, he lives in a flat by himself, works in an office and has lots of friends. But in the universe Thomas inhabits now, the world is ending. There was a time, when he was a little younger, when he had a career as a professional cyclist. His team wasn't great, but it wasn't bad. He still had a family, parents, brothers. But they're all gone, or at least that's what he assumes.
He'd been away, at a race. Not even that far from home, but far enough that he couldn't get home. Not after all the roads were clogged with cars, people trying to escape but dying. Thomas stayed in his hotel, instead. Long after most of his teammates had fled. His phone still worked, the internet, too, but there was no one at home to answer. He didn't know why, he hoped they'd escaped, but he wasn't so sure.
The first wave had been a surprise. There was a virus, something unknown, sweeping across the world. People died and then they weren't dead and you had to shoot them in the head to get them to stay dead. Thomas had done this twice, to former teammates. He didn't like to remember it, but he couldn't get the image out of his head, either. He locked the door, wondering how he hadn't gotten sick.
He hadn't left the room since before people starting getting sick. He thought it was weird that he wasn't sick at all, his roommates and teammates had been in and out of the room, when they were sick and then coming back as, well, zombies. The news, before it went off air, had said nothing of the zombies, or at least they had but hadn't called them zombies, that was the term people on the internet and Thomas himself used.
They had said, and then he'd read later online, that everyone who hadn't died from the virus, which was a lot of people, but there were more zombies (walkers, undead, whatever) than regular people, was immune. Except, and some asshole had posted a YouTube video of it, when one was bitten. Which is why Thomas had killed his former teammates. They weren't even human anymore, not really.
But he couldn't stay in the hotel forever. Even though he had enough food, he was the only one in the hotel, he couldn't stay. He had to at least try to get home. He packed what little he had and carried his bike downstairs. He rigged up a strap for the shotgun he'd found at the front desk, filled a bag with the few bullets that remained and then stepped outside.
He'd left most everything in the hotel room, he wouldn't need it. He packed some clothing, food, water and the bullets. They were in the backpack on his back. He slowly pedaled through the city, a German town he couldn't remember the name of and didn't care to find out. He called up the GPS on his phone, figured out how long it would take to get home (a really very long time) and started to ride. He'd been on his bike for an hour when he realized he wasn't alone.
He turned and saw, in the distance, other people on bikes. He figured they weren't zombies, he'd seen a couple, aside from the teammates he'd killed. They didn't seem able to ride bikes. And so he waited. The group drew closer and Thomas realized they were mostly kids. He wondered what had happened to their parents. He felt like he was going to throw up when they got close enough for him to see that everyone was armed.
There was someone older, though, in what looked like a cycling jersey. Thomas looked down at his own shirt, slightly worse for wear, but still bearing the names of his team and sponsors. When he looked up again, he recognized the logo on the man's shirt. BMC. He squinted, but even with sunglasses, the sunlight was too bright for him to make up faces. So he waited until they were close enough to talk without shouting. He almost recognized the guy in the BMC shirt, but he wasn't sure.
"Thomas? Thomas Riis?" The guy said, sounding incredulous.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Thomas remembered racing against a German guy, the son of a famous cyclist. The name was right there, but he couldn't grasp it.
"Rick Zabel."
Thomas looked up. His mouth formed an 'o' of surprise. He remembered, now. They met, when they were little. Much littler. Their dads had known each other, of course. Thomas wondered how Rick recognized him, but he didn't care. Here was someone he knew.
"Where are you going?" Thomas asked.
"Away." Rick said. There was something about him that made Thomas want to hug him, he wasn't sure what it was. Maybe the way the kids were looking at him. But Thomas didn't have time to dwell on that because Rick was talking again. "We're leaving Germany."
"To?"
Rick shrugged. "We've heard that if you go North, there are more survivors."
North, Thomas thought. North was home. North was Denmark. North was … He stopped that train of thought and stared at Rick.
"Where're you going?"
"Home." Even though Thomas was fairly certain Rick already guessed that.
Rick just nodded, then gestured to small group of ten kids, about half were girls, Thomas realized. "Join us."
Thomas didn't reply, he just nodded. He got on his bike and started riding with them. They didn't talk much, except about where to camp. Some of the kids started trialing after Thomas, instead of Rick and it reminded Thomas of his little brothers. He missed them. He thought they were dead.
At night, when the kids thought he was asleep, some of them would curl up with him. It was summer, but the nights were chilly and they slept outside when they couldn't find a safe house. Sometimes they did, though. The kids would fight over the beds, leaving Thomas and Rick the floor. Rick didn’t complain so Thomas didn't, either. And he didn't mind. The kids were far more important.
They rode for a month and Thomas learned all about the kids, how they came to be in Rick's company. He told them about his time at the hotel. In private, when it was only the two of them, Thomas told Rick about killing his teammates. Rick told Thomas about killing his parents.
Rick fell asleep once, slumping over against Thomas. Thomas slid his arm around Rick and took both watches, holding Rick close. He missed what it felt like to touch someone. To be close to someone. The children were good, but they were kids. The youngest was 6, the oldest 10. Rick woke up, a few hours later and said nothing to Thomas, but when Thomas fell asleep after Rick took over, he woke up with Rick's fingers in his hair, carding through it. He kept his eyes closed, even though he was sure Rick knew he was awake, enjoying the feel of Rick's fingers in his hair.
They spent more time together than apart. Not that they were ever apart, but after four months of scavenging through towns, traveling only when the sun was out, they'd grown closer. They would've shared a bed, Thomas thought, if they'd found a third person to take watch. Instead, they just slept near each other, close enough to touch, always touching, really. One slept, the other kept watch and then they'd switch.
They reached Thomas' home after five months. His house was exactly as he remembered it, only it was empty. Mostly empty. He found his brothers, dead. But they hadn't turned. It was, Rick said after examining the bodies so that Thomas didn't have to, because someone shot them in the head first.
It was one of the kids who found Thomas' mum and step mum. They were in the backyard, also dead. He didn't know what became of his dad. Clearly his mum had come to be with his step mum and they'd taken matters into their own hands. Rick found the letter, with Thomas' name on it. Thomas read it out loud, to Rick and to the kids, who'd gathered around them in Thomas' now empty kitchen.
His mum hoped he was alive and that he wasn't sick. Their whole family was infected. His mum and step mum had decided to do what was necessary, before his younger brothers got too sick. They knew what happened, because they'd had to, and here the page was covered in smeared ink which Thomas guessed were where his mum was crying while she was writing, kill his older brothers. His father, Thomas also learned, had been out of the country and was dead as well. Thomas was alone. Truly alone.
He turned away, from Rick and from the children, trying not to cry. He felt Rick's arms around his shoulders, remembered Rick telling him about having to kill his parents. He turned around again, face pressed against Rick's shoulder. He felt one of the kids, a girl named Sophia, slide her hand into one of his. He didn't stop the tears this time.
They took everything they needed from his house and then they left. Thomas didn't know where they were going and he didn't care, not anymore. His family was dead, but as he helped one of the boys, named Stefan, with his helmet, he knew he had a new family.
Rick told them they were going to try to get to Finland, and from there, maybe somewhere safe. He'd been monitoring some radio stations that promised that there were parts of the world that were free from zombies. And while they hadn't seen as many as Thomas had expected on their journey through Germany and into Denmark, their luck was unlikely to last much longer.
Thomas wasn't sure they were going to make it, but he had to try. To fulfill his mum's last wish for him to survive. For the sake of the children he'd come to care about in the six months they were together. And for Rick, too. They needed each other, Thomas knew that now and he was grateful. And so, with supplies and guns strapped to their backs, they set off.