Secret Santa gift for serialbathera : Zombie!Fic, part 1 of 2
Merry Christmas, Amanda! This is the first part of your gift - the second and final part of the fic will be up later tonight after I've edited (translation: after my mom goes to sleep and the house finally settles down *G*).
Things to do in Atlanta when you’re undead
Author: Robin Nance
Characters: Frances Malone, Jack of all Trades
Story Type: A little drama, a little humor, and a whole lot of crack
Summary: A student and a serial killer walk into a Zombie Apocalypse. No, really.
Rating/Warnings: R-ish for language, violence and character (un)death
AN: Merry Christmas, Amanda! It’s not everyone who can inspire me to think deep thoughts like “hey, let’s mix Profiler with zombies!” So I hope you’re proud of yourself. ;) Enjoy!
By the time he’d blown the torso off the fifth malodorous, decomposing creature, Jack was ready to go the fuck back to Otis.
He was also pondering that Creature #4 bore a striking resemblance to the Atlanta computer geek that had been trying and failing to track his online activities, but stopping for a closer look at the now-severed head would seriously cut into his firing time. The 9mm Glock was heating up in his hands from repeated use, he was down to his last clip of ten bullets, and he hadn’t even made it out of the VCTF lobby.
Seriously, Bundy and Dahmer never had to put up with any of this shit.
He sidestepped the grasping hand of…something wearing a security guard’s uniform, unloading two head-shots when the creature tottered up on what was left of its knees to lurch after him. It disappeared in a blast of dust, shredded polyester, and something that smelled too horrible to even think about.
And now there were eight bullets between him and really, really screwed.
Alone for the moment, Jack shook his head, a failed attempt to clear the ringing in his ears from one too many close-range gunshots. He caught his reflection in the half-shattered brass VCTF logo at the front of the security desk and grimaced. Sorry, Sherriff Boast, looks like you’re going to be the next casualty here.
He dropped the Glock onto the desk, loosening his tie and pulling at the buttons of his Otis Sherriff’s Department standard-issue shirt until he was able to unsnap the hidden padding that made up Ed Boast’s fake paunch - no sense in over-accessorizing this afternoon, not when he needed to be as fit and flexible as possible to get the hell out of the lobby and up to Samantha.
Samantha. The horrifying thought hit him like a slap in the face. Shit, his Samantha could be somewhere upstairs with those things.
It was impossible to tell if the elevators were working, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk getting stuck. The stairwells were going to be dangerous - lots of nooks and crannies for the creatures to hide in - but still a better bet. They were alarmed and locked, but if memory served him the control panel at the front desk had an override function for all access doors in case of fires or other emergencies - and this was definitely one fucking “other” of an emergency. Now to hope he hadn’t blown the thing to smithereens in the firefight.
Head bent over the control panel, thoughts split between how to coax the computer into service and how to get to Samantha, Jack never heard a thing until he was airborne.
Apparently the fuckers were pretty strong when they were pissed off.
He bounced off the back wall and hit the floor with an audible thud, somehow maintaining the presence of mind to protect his head from cracking against the marble. He could hear the creature’s footsteps as it came toward him, a strange kind of shuffling as it slipped on the slick surface. He scrambled woozily to his knees, blinking hard to clear his vision.
Well, shit, so much for those eight bullets - the Glock still sat serenely on the edge of the security desk, and there was no way he’d get to it before the creature got to him. Cursing, Jack looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon. He’d landed beside the remains of the security guard, and he swallowed down his disgust long enough to grope through the torn clothing and shattered bones. Empty gun holster, nightstick broken in three places, canister of Mace clipped to the belt - bingo. He was able to palm the Mace before he was lifted up off the ground like a ragdoll.
The creature was tall, at least six feet, and the shoulders were broad and covered in what had probably been expensive fabric. It made a continuous, wet growling sound, pretty impressive for something lacking a tongue and most of its teeth. The flesh was mottled and patchy on the left side of its face, but the right side was still intact enough for Jack to recognize, right down to the blue eye and gelled hair. He almost dropped the Mace in shock.
“Son of a bitch - Grant, is that you?”
It - well, he - seemed to hesitate for a second at the name, and Jack took advantage of the opportunity to Mace him full in the face. Grant blinked, sneezed once, then threw Jack to the ground with an enraged roar.
OK, so apparently that had been one of his shittier ideas.
Jack grimaced as pain shot up his left temple and he felt something wet and warm start to collect at his hairline - if he hadn’t been planning on dying messily within the next few seconds he’d be anticipating one mother of a headache. Grant swiped at him again and he propelled himself backwards, scrambling until his back hit the wall.
He was out of weapons, out of escape routes, and officially shit out of luck.
At some point during their struggle Grant had managed to dislodge the remnants of the brass VCTF logo from the front desk. He raised the heavy structure haltingly over his head, and Jack watched the slow-motion pivot as Grant prepared to crush his skull.
So he really was going to be crushed by the long arm of the law. Because clearly, his life had lacked enough irony up to now. Jack’s final thought was a silent apology to Samantha that he’d failed her.
His not-so-final subsequent thoughts were several versions of “holy fucking shit” as a shotgun blast blew Grant clear across the room. The brass logo dropped to the ground with a clang, vibrating in place like an oversized penny before coming to a complete rest a few inches from Jack’s head.
Jack brushed blood and plaster out of his eyes in time to see a petite woman lean over Grant’s body and deliver a second shot that pulverized his head into dust. The long dark hair and oversized leather motorcycle jacket raised a vaguely familiar vibe, one that crystallized into recognition when she turned around.
“All moldy and he still had a nice ass. What a waste.” Frances Malone shook her head, kicking empty shell casings out of her way as she made her way across the room. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Try not to pass out or bleed on me till I get you away from the front door, OK?”
There were dozens of questions to be asked and explanations to be demanded, everything from what the hell had just happened here to how she knew who he was in the first place. Jack struggled against a wave of nausea as he tried to summon his most intimidating take-no-prisoners glare.
“Your aim has improved,” he managed, and then promptly violated her first request by passing out on the spot.
+
“I’m serious about not moving. I’m out of surgical suture and this is as good as it gets.”
Frances pressed the final butterfly bandage into place against the cut on Jack’s forehead and sat back, surveying her work critically. The wound looked ugly but was fairly superficial, and the bleeding had already stopped.
“Thanks.” As soon as the word left his mouth Jack grimaced, his head obviously registering its objections to having been batted around like a ping-pong ball.
“Don’t mention it.” Frances grinned to herself, thinking that in fact Jack of all Trades probably didn’t mention gratitude for anything very often. “You should take the morphine, you know. I saw how hard you hit the floor - that headache won’t be going away any time soon.”
Jack waved away the bottle of pills she’d pulled from her makeshift medical bag. “Can’t afford to get drowsy. I need to find someone.”
“Samantha Waters, I know.” Frances had turned away to pack up the medical supplies, but she could feel the surprise and suspicion in the glare he was aiming at her back. “Hate to tell you this, but I don’t think she’s here. I was already up in the command center and the offices.”
“I’ll check the rest of the building.”
“Honestly, I’ve checked everything but the morgue and there isn’t a sign of --”
“Then I’ll check the fucking morgue. I’ll check every inch of Atlanta if I have to.”
Jack hauled himself up to his feet and leaned hard against the sink, staring at his reflection in the dusty mirror. Frances had picked the lobby ladies’ room location partly because he was a little heavy to haul anywhere else in his half-awake state and partly because it was accessible only by a single door, which was now barricaded by a loveseat to discourage unwanted company. She watched his reflection flick several halting glances in her direction before she finally took pity on him - clearly he wasn’t going to be the one to initiate the conversation.
“You can ask the questions, you know. It took me awhile to process everything too.”
Jack hesitated another moment before turning back to face her. “Exactly what the fuck were those things in the lobby?”
“They were people, corpses of people anyway. John, George - it really was them. I didn’t recognize the others.”
“They were pretty damned animated for corpses.” Jack leaned against the sink with crossed arms.
“Yeah, I think that’s kind of the point of the whole zombie thing.”
“The zombie thing?”
“Um, zombies? You know, as in -”
“ - as in brain-eating pulp-fiction ‘Day of the Dead’ zombies?” Jack’s look was withering. “Sure I’ve heard of them. I’ve also heard of unicorns and the Easter Bunny. That still doesn’t explain what the hell’s going on here.”
“Look, I know how it sounds, but you have to - ”
“No, you have to cut the crap, kid, and start explaining. And I want real answers, not some bullshit comic-book fantasy!”
It occurred to her that at one time she would have been terrified to be in a locked room with someone on the FBI’s most-wanted list glaring daggers at her. Now she was just relieved to be facing someone who still had all his organs on the inside. Frances supposed the skepticism was warranted - this was some pretty fantastical shit, to be sure - but his attitude and the “kid” comment pissed her off.
“Sorry to wreck your nice healthy world-view, Jack, but welcome to our big fucking fantasy.” She stared him down across the room, mimicking his arms-crossed posture as she leaned against the sink on the opposite wall. “I know you’re a lot of things, and I’m not even going there, but I also know you’re not stupid - you know what you saw out there, logical or not. You can call them zombies, undead, or whatever the hell you want. Fact is they’re strong, they’re mobile, they’re surprisingly smart despite the whole rotting-brains thing, and they like to chew on the living. And there are more of them every damned day. I know it’s a lot to wrap your head around, OK? But you’d better get over it fast, because I’ve been here for three days and far as I can tell you and I are two of the only people left in Atlanta who still have a heartbeat. So lose the asshole part of your skill-set if you want to be helpful here, because our odds kind of suck right now.”
As she spoke Jack’s expression morphed slowly from doubtful to somber to just this side of panicky, and Frances was reminded of a day in New York City two months earlier when she’d had the same reaction.
As if on cue, her phone vibrated against her belt.
“Because I really need to be dealing with both of you right now,” she muttered in Jack’s general direction as she pressed the “answer” button. She was hit almost immediately by a loud torrent of conversation that she quickly interrupted. “Hey. I’m in Atlanta. Uh, pretty shitty, actually, we just got hit by about ten of them but things are OK now…yeah, ‘we,’ I ran into an old friend. Look, Philip, I’m in the middle of things, I’ll call you later.”
Jack stood in place, not moving, still clearly struggling with how to absorb and process everything. Frances sincerely hoped that his past “success” as a serial killer meant that he wasn’t the type to melt down in a crisis, but she was beginning to have her doubts.
“Jack. If you won’t take the morphine, how about a cigarette?”
That did the trick. Jack’s head popped up and he regarded her with an almost scarily thankful expression as he accepted the crumpled pack of Marlboros.
“God, yes, that I’ll take. I think I dropped mine in the security guard when Grant attacked me. As in literally dropped them into his ribcage. That’s a first, even for me.” He snorted briefly in amusement, then ran a hand through his hair, staring at the drying blood smeared on his fingers. “This is all a delusion, isn’t it? I’m going insane.”
Frances bit back the sarcastic comment regarding the length of his trip to crazytown, opting to slide slowly down the marble wall until she was seated on the floor. “The whole world is pretty fucking insane right now, so I’m probably not the one to ask,” she conceded as she lit her own cigarette. “All I can do is fill you in on what I’ve seen so far, then you be the judge.”
Jack sighed and inhaled deeply, stretching out on the floor beside her and closing his eyes.
“I’m going to finish this cigarette, and then I’m going to go find Samantha,” he stated, each word shrouded in fatigue and pale smoke. “And in the meantime you can tell me, Frannie Malone, how a nice girl like you ended up in a Zombie Apocalypse like this.”
(to be continued & completed in part two)
Things to do in Atlanta when you’re undead
Author: Robin Nance
Characters: Frances Malone, Jack of all Trades
Story Type: A little drama, a little humor, and a whole lot of crack
Summary: A student and a serial killer walk into a Zombie Apocalypse. No, really.
Rating/Warnings: R-ish for language, violence and character (un)death
AN: Merry Christmas, Amanda! It’s not everyone who can inspire me to think deep thoughts like “hey, let’s mix Profiler with zombies!” So I hope you’re proud of yourself. ;) Enjoy!
By the time he’d blown the torso off the fifth malodorous, decomposing creature, Jack was ready to go the fuck back to Otis.
He was also pondering that Creature #4 bore a striking resemblance to the Atlanta computer geek that had been trying and failing to track his online activities, but stopping for a closer look at the now-severed head would seriously cut into his firing time. The 9mm Glock was heating up in his hands from repeated use, he was down to his last clip of ten bullets, and he hadn’t even made it out of the VCTF lobby.
Seriously, Bundy and Dahmer never had to put up with any of this shit.
He sidestepped the grasping hand of…something wearing a security guard’s uniform, unloading two head-shots when the creature tottered up on what was left of its knees to lurch after him. It disappeared in a blast of dust, shredded polyester, and something that smelled too horrible to even think about.
And now there were eight bullets between him and really, really screwed.
Alone for the moment, Jack shook his head, a failed attempt to clear the ringing in his ears from one too many close-range gunshots. He caught his reflection in the half-shattered brass VCTF logo at the front of the security desk and grimaced. Sorry, Sherriff Boast, looks like you’re going to be the next casualty here.
He dropped the Glock onto the desk, loosening his tie and pulling at the buttons of his Otis Sherriff’s Department standard-issue shirt until he was able to unsnap the hidden padding that made up Ed Boast’s fake paunch - no sense in over-accessorizing this afternoon, not when he needed to be as fit and flexible as possible to get the hell out of the lobby and up to Samantha.
Samantha. The horrifying thought hit him like a slap in the face. Shit, his Samantha could be somewhere upstairs with those things.
It was impossible to tell if the elevators were working, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk getting stuck. The stairwells were going to be dangerous - lots of nooks and crannies for the creatures to hide in - but still a better bet. They were alarmed and locked, but if memory served him the control panel at the front desk had an override function for all access doors in case of fires or other emergencies - and this was definitely one fucking “other” of an emergency. Now to hope he hadn’t blown the thing to smithereens in the firefight.
Head bent over the control panel, thoughts split between how to coax the computer into service and how to get to Samantha, Jack never heard a thing until he was airborne.
Apparently the fuckers were pretty strong when they were pissed off.
He bounced off the back wall and hit the floor with an audible thud, somehow maintaining the presence of mind to protect his head from cracking against the marble. He could hear the creature’s footsteps as it came toward him, a strange kind of shuffling as it slipped on the slick surface. He scrambled woozily to his knees, blinking hard to clear his vision.
Well, shit, so much for those eight bullets - the Glock still sat serenely on the edge of the security desk, and there was no way he’d get to it before the creature got to him. Cursing, Jack looked around for something, anything he could use as a weapon. He’d landed beside the remains of the security guard, and he swallowed down his disgust long enough to grope through the torn clothing and shattered bones. Empty gun holster, nightstick broken in three places, canister of Mace clipped to the belt - bingo. He was able to palm the Mace before he was lifted up off the ground like a ragdoll.
The creature was tall, at least six feet, and the shoulders were broad and covered in what had probably been expensive fabric. It made a continuous, wet growling sound, pretty impressive for something lacking a tongue and most of its teeth. The flesh was mottled and patchy on the left side of its face, but the right side was still intact enough for Jack to recognize, right down to the blue eye and gelled hair. He almost dropped the Mace in shock.
“Son of a bitch - Grant, is that you?”
It - well, he - seemed to hesitate for a second at the name, and Jack took advantage of the opportunity to Mace him full in the face. Grant blinked, sneezed once, then threw Jack to the ground with an enraged roar.
OK, so apparently that had been one of his shittier ideas.
Jack grimaced as pain shot up his left temple and he felt something wet and warm start to collect at his hairline - if he hadn’t been planning on dying messily within the next few seconds he’d be anticipating one mother of a headache. Grant swiped at him again and he propelled himself backwards, scrambling until his back hit the wall.
He was out of weapons, out of escape routes, and officially shit out of luck.
At some point during their struggle Grant had managed to dislodge the remnants of the brass VCTF logo from the front desk. He raised the heavy structure haltingly over his head, and Jack watched the slow-motion pivot as Grant prepared to crush his skull.
So he really was going to be crushed by the long arm of the law. Because clearly, his life had lacked enough irony up to now. Jack’s final thought was a silent apology to Samantha that he’d failed her.
His not-so-final subsequent thoughts were several versions of “holy fucking shit” as a shotgun blast blew Grant clear across the room. The brass logo dropped to the ground with a clang, vibrating in place like an oversized penny before coming to a complete rest a few inches from Jack’s head.
Jack brushed blood and plaster out of his eyes in time to see a petite woman lean over Grant’s body and deliver a second shot that pulverized his head into dust. The long dark hair and oversized leather motorcycle jacket raised a vaguely familiar vibe, one that crystallized into recognition when she turned around.
“All moldy and he still had a nice ass. What a waste.” Frances Malone shook her head, kicking empty shell casings out of her way as she made her way across the room. “Nice to meet you, Jack. Try not to pass out or bleed on me till I get you away from the front door, OK?”
There were dozens of questions to be asked and explanations to be demanded, everything from what the hell had just happened here to how she knew who he was in the first place. Jack struggled against a wave of nausea as he tried to summon his most intimidating take-no-prisoners glare.
“Your aim has improved,” he managed, and then promptly violated her first request by passing out on the spot.
+
“I’m serious about not moving. I’m out of surgical suture and this is as good as it gets.”
Frances pressed the final butterfly bandage into place against the cut on Jack’s forehead and sat back, surveying her work critically. The wound looked ugly but was fairly superficial, and the bleeding had already stopped.
“Thanks.” As soon as the word left his mouth Jack grimaced, his head obviously registering its objections to having been batted around like a ping-pong ball.
“Don’t mention it.” Frances grinned to herself, thinking that in fact Jack of all Trades probably didn’t mention gratitude for anything very often. “You should take the morphine, you know. I saw how hard you hit the floor - that headache won’t be going away any time soon.”
Jack waved away the bottle of pills she’d pulled from her makeshift medical bag. “Can’t afford to get drowsy. I need to find someone.”
“Samantha Waters, I know.” Frances had turned away to pack up the medical supplies, but she could feel the surprise and suspicion in the glare he was aiming at her back. “Hate to tell you this, but I don’t think she’s here. I was already up in the command center and the offices.”
“I’ll check the rest of the building.”
“Honestly, I’ve checked everything but the morgue and there isn’t a sign of --”
“Then I’ll check the fucking morgue. I’ll check every inch of Atlanta if I have to.”
Jack hauled himself up to his feet and leaned hard against the sink, staring at his reflection in the dusty mirror. Frances had picked the lobby ladies’ room location partly because he was a little heavy to haul anywhere else in his half-awake state and partly because it was accessible only by a single door, which was now barricaded by a loveseat to discourage unwanted company. She watched his reflection flick several halting glances in her direction before she finally took pity on him - clearly he wasn’t going to be the one to initiate the conversation.
“You can ask the questions, you know. It took me awhile to process everything too.”
Jack hesitated another moment before turning back to face her. “Exactly what the fuck were those things in the lobby?”
“They were people, corpses of people anyway. John, George - it really was them. I didn’t recognize the others.”
“They were pretty damned animated for corpses.” Jack leaned against the sink with crossed arms.
“Yeah, I think that’s kind of the point of the whole zombie thing.”
“The zombie thing?”
“Um, zombies? You know, as in -”
“ - as in brain-eating pulp-fiction ‘Day of the Dead’ zombies?” Jack’s look was withering. “Sure I’ve heard of them. I’ve also heard of unicorns and the Easter Bunny. That still doesn’t explain what the hell’s going on here.”
“Look, I know how it sounds, but you have to - ”
“No, you have to cut the crap, kid, and start explaining. And I want real answers, not some bullshit comic-book fantasy!”
It occurred to her that at one time she would have been terrified to be in a locked room with someone on the FBI’s most-wanted list glaring daggers at her. Now she was just relieved to be facing someone who still had all his organs on the inside. Frances supposed the skepticism was warranted - this was some pretty fantastical shit, to be sure - but his attitude and the “kid” comment pissed her off.
“Sorry to wreck your nice healthy world-view, Jack, but welcome to our big fucking fantasy.” She stared him down across the room, mimicking his arms-crossed posture as she leaned against the sink on the opposite wall. “I know you’re a lot of things, and I’m not even going there, but I also know you’re not stupid - you know what you saw out there, logical or not. You can call them zombies, undead, or whatever the hell you want. Fact is they’re strong, they’re mobile, they’re surprisingly smart despite the whole rotting-brains thing, and they like to chew on the living. And there are more of them every damned day. I know it’s a lot to wrap your head around, OK? But you’d better get over it fast, because I’ve been here for three days and far as I can tell you and I are two of the only people left in Atlanta who still have a heartbeat. So lose the asshole part of your skill-set if you want to be helpful here, because our odds kind of suck right now.”
As she spoke Jack’s expression morphed slowly from doubtful to somber to just this side of panicky, and Frances was reminded of a day in New York City two months earlier when she’d had the same reaction.
As if on cue, her phone vibrated against her belt.
“Because I really need to be dealing with both of you right now,” she muttered in Jack’s general direction as she pressed the “answer” button. She was hit almost immediately by a loud torrent of conversation that she quickly interrupted. “Hey. I’m in Atlanta. Uh, pretty shitty, actually, we just got hit by about ten of them but things are OK now…yeah, ‘we,’ I ran into an old friend. Look, Philip, I’m in the middle of things, I’ll call you later.”
Jack stood in place, not moving, still clearly struggling with how to absorb and process everything. Frances sincerely hoped that his past “success” as a serial killer meant that he wasn’t the type to melt down in a crisis, but she was beginning to have her doubts.
“Jack. If you won’t take the morphine, how about a cigarette?”
That did the trick. Jack’s head popped up and he regarded her with an almost scarily thankful expression as he accepted the crumpled pack of Marlboros.
“God, yes, that I’ll take. I think I dropped mine in the security guard when Grant attacked me. As in literally dropped them into his ribcage. That’s a first, even for me.” He snorted briefly in amusement, then ran a hand through his hair, staring at the drying blood smeared on his fingers. “This is all a delusion, isn’t it? I’m going insane.”
Frances bit back the sarcastic comment regarding the length of his trip to crazytown, opting to slide slowly down the marble wall until she was seated on the floor. “The whole world is pretty fucking insane right now, so I’m probably not the one to ask,” she conceded as she lit her own cigarette. “All I can do is fill you in on what I’ve seen so far, then you be the judge.”
Jack sighed and inhaled deeply, stretching out on the floor beside her and closing his eyes.
“I’m going to finish this cigarette, and then I’m going to go find Samantha,” he stated, each word shrouded in fatigue and pale smoke. “And in the meantime you can tell me, Frannie Malone, how a nice girl like you ended up in a Zombie Apocalypse like this.”
(to be continued & completed in part two)