Whenever You're Ready - Chapter Ten [nanofic]

[severina2001]

Title: Whenever You're Ready
Chapter: Ten
Timeframe: Post Season Five
Rating: PG to R throughout the series
Word Count: 10114


Whenever You’re Ready
By Severina

* * *

Chapter Ten

The apartment is -- aside from the muffled thumps from the zombie trapped in the closet --- blessedly silent.

Ted makes a quick circuit of the living room and kitchen. Whatever the former-man-now-decaying-corpse’s taste in clothing, he’d kept a meticulously clean living space. Ted approves. The Nicoletti loveseat in particular makes him want to sing operatic arias to the heavens.

“I could curl up on that sofa and sleep for a week,” Ted says longingly.

“No time,” Michael says. “We’ve got to find Ben and get to the ambulance bay.”

“Michael,” Ted says, “I don’t mean to harsh your buzz--”

“Harsh my buzz?” Michael repeats incredulously.

“The kids say it, okay?” Ted snaps. He takes a deep breath. “Look. I know we have to… to get out of here. But how exactly do you expect us to do that? There’s a dozen zombies in that corridor, which is, by the way, the width of a women’s triple E pump; we barely have room to swing at them with our weapons, and… oh wait, we have no weapons!”

“Then we find a weapon!” Michael says.

Ted looks around the spartan room and then back at Michael.

Michael gulps nervously. “I didn’t say it would be easy,” he says. “But we’ll find something!”

Michael looks so earnest and sincere that Ted almost wants to laugh. But he’s reminded that it is Michael, of all of them, that has always had the most faith. Brian calls it naivety, and looks down his nose at it. Ted calls it hopeful innocence, and sort of worships it. Besides, he can’t bear to see the look of optimism die from Michael’s eyes.

“You’re right, Michael. I’m sorry,” he says now. “I think it’s just my latent stenophobia rearing its ugly head.”

“You have a phobia over steno pads?”

Ted sighs. “It’s a fear of narrow… oh, never mind.” He cocks his head at another thump from the closet door. “Think zombie-san was a, excuse the pun, closet softball fanatic?”

Michael smiles. “Croquet might have been more his speed.”

Ted nods. “Okay, I’ll check the bedroom for stray mallets.”

“Good idea,” Michael cheers. “And I’ll see what’s down the hall. There’s gotta be something we can use!”

Ted smiles back, watches until Michael is halfway down the hall. Then he drops the confident grin and trudges to the bedroom.

His feet hurt. He never should have let Brian talk him into buying Testoni loafers -- fashionable, yes, and impressive to clients, for sure, but they are definitely not meant for extended periods of running from the undead. His abdomen hurts -- and when he lifts his shirt to check, he finds a wide red rug burn marring the pale flesh above his stomach. He vaguely remembers diving to the floor and sliding along the hallway carpet, and shudders. That zed had almost got him. And that is absolutely not the way he would prefer to get a rug burn.

The bedroom is pretty much the way Ted pictures it would be. The bed is unmade but the comforter looks high-end and soft. No doubt Brian would approve of the thread count on the burgundy damask sheets, if not the intricate pattern (and Ted must admit that he‘s become slightly addicted to high thread count as well, being partial to Egyptian cotton himself.) A couple of mugs of now tepid tea on the bedside table and a cigarette burned down the filter on the edge of the ashtray -- zombie-san is lucky he didn’t burn the whole place down, but then again that might have been a good thing. Ted imagines zombie crispy critters and smiles.

The closet door is a set of cheap particle board sliding panels. Ted presses an ear cautiously to the flimsy wood and listens. There is no sound from within.

But he still flings the door open quickly and prepares to dart away, screaming for his life and quite possibly soiling his silk boxers.

There is nothing -- no one, no thing -- in the closet.

Ted lets out a sigh of relief.

Then he sighs in a different fashion altogether when he sees the state of the bedroom closet. He remembers the chaos of the linen closet just before he pushed the zed inside -- just before Michael risked his life.

Zombie-san’s method of keeping his apartment clean and spotless was apparently to shove everything into the closets without rhyme or reason. He doesn’t know where to begin.

In the end he decides to just lift out the piles of junk, clothes, and assorted crap lying on the closet floor and pile them onto the bed in order to see what‘s behind them. If he doesn’t find the hoped-for croquet mallet stuffed in the back of the closet, he’ll begin sorting through the piles on the bed. He’s hopeful that somewhere amongst the detritus of zombie-san’s life there will be something -- anything! -- that they can use as a weapon, because there‘s no way he wants to go back out into that apartment corridor unarmed. And he knows he’ll have to. Michael will insist upon it. And they can’t stay hidden away forever, anyway, no matter how tempting it might be.

At this point Ted’s willing to do a dance of joy over a slingshot.

Ted lifts a mound of smelly clothes and slings them toward the bed, knocking over one of the tea cups. It clatters against the table, dribbling spoiled liquid onto the faded Oriental rug.

“No point crying over spilt tea,” he mutters as he turns back to the closet. He bends and lifts another pile of dirty laundry into his arms, trying to hold his breath against the stench of dried sweat. He doesn’t even want to imagine the bacteria that must be thriving on the clothes.

And he stops.

Two mugs of tea.

Two.

That means--

Ted lets the garments drop to a heap at his feet.

“Michael!” he screams, high pitched and frantic and never so scared in his life. Never, not even when the zombie had him jammed up against the transport truck and Em saved his life. Never, not even dancing amongst rotting corpses in a narrow hallway, trying desperately to breathe and keep moving and find his way through them and--

He dashes through the small hallway, through the living room, down the second hall where motherfucking zombie-san still thumps and bumps against the closed door, zombie-san who clearly had a fucking overnight guest. He darts into the small galley kitchen, takes in the open cabinet doors where Michael has evidently been searching.

“Michael!” he screams again.

And then he hears the muffled shout in response.

It’s coming from the room at the end of the hall.

Ted shoves aside a cheap imitation teak ornate chair, nearly sprains an ankle getting past the huge matching table shoved in to the tiny L-shaped dining room. He sprints the last remaining feet down the hall and thrusts open the bathroom door so violently that it ricochets off the wall and springs back. But not before he gets inside.

The zombie -- male, blond, and quite naked -- has Michael pinned against the glass shower stall. His teeth gnash at the air above Michael’s shoulder. He snarls and the sound reverberates in the confined space, making Ted want to cry out.

Michael’s arms are outstretched, as far at they can go, but the zombie is taller than Michael, taller than Ted, and it’s stronger and Ted can see the muscles in Michael’s thin arms straining with the effort of holding the bigger creature away.

“What,” Michael grits out between gasping breaths, “took you so long?”

And Ted almost laughs as he spins in a circle, searching for a weapon. And he’s almost going to resort to launching himself at the creature’s back and hanging on for dear life when he spots it.

A weapon.

Ted hefts the thing in his hand. It feels good. It feels right.

“Michael,” he says, shocked at how calm his voice sounds. How rational. How completely sure that his plan is going to work. “When I say ‘Now’, I want you to duck your head. Okay?”

“Okay,” Michael wheezes out.

His elbows are starting to bend under the strain.

Ted eases around behind them and steps up onto the toilet seat. He takes a deep, cleansing breath and focuses on the positive, like he was taught in group.

He screams. “Now!”

Michael ducks his head, putting it within reach of the bigger zed.

And Ted leaps, toilet plunger held straight out in front of him.

The sticky plunger end of the implement impales the zombie on the face just as he opens his mouth to strike.

And Ted pushes, pushes, adrenaline firing up his muscles and giving him strength he never knew he possessed. The zombie’s grip on Michael’s arms lessens, then gives way entirely. And Ted continues to push, sending the zombie back-pedalling into the wall. He pushes down and it slumps there, hands coming up to grasp at the thing attached to its face.

And when Ted eases up and removes the plunger, half the zombie’s face comes with it.

He doesn’t have time to gag, doesn’t have time to even think. He just reverses the plunger and sends the wooden handle crashing down on the zed’s skull with a satisfying crack.

It won’t rise again.

He turns to Michael, his muscles thrumming with exertion from the kill, from the come down of adrenaline rush, from heart stopping fear.

“I found a weapon,” Ted says.

Michael collapses in his arms. And as they hold on to each other, Ted feels no shame for their tears.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Emmett yelps and struggles, wriggling in the tight grip, but to no avail. He tries to remember the quick lessons in self-defence that Justin had given them that morning in the Big Q, but all he can remember is how cute Justin looked in his tight little T-shirt, and how Brian‘s eyes had kept roaming over his body. And then how Brian had caught him looking, too, and given him a look that said both I understand and you ever go near him and I will rip your dick off with my teeth. Emmett had found it even harder to concentrate after that.

So a strong warm hand clamps over his mouth to block his squeals and he’s lifted bodily off his feet. He hears a door open and then he is flung inside a new room.

In the dark. With a stranger.

A tall, broad-shouldered, very strong stranger.

It’s sort of like a fantasy he had once.

“Okay,” Emmett says, trying to sound a lot more confident than he feels. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. But… but… I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Bullets?” a voice asks.

Emmett squints into the dark, trying to will his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. “Well…” he hedges.

“I thought so.”

A small desk lamp flicks on, illuminating the gloom and sending the shadows dancing back.

Emmett takes a step back. “Please don’t hurt--” he begins. And the tall dark stranger steps in to the beam of light, and Emmett smiles.

“Oh. Oh, I know you!” He claps his hands excitedly. “You’re the hunky nurse from the walk-in clinic who asked me out on a date but I had to say no because I had just made a pact with God!”

The man wrinkles his forehead in a way that Emmett finds adorable. “I prefer Steve, actually.”

“Steve! I never forget a face… or, um, other parts of the anatomy… but I’m horrible with names.”

“I’m not,” Steve grins. “You’re Emmett.”

Emmett ducks his head coquettishly, absurdly pleased. “You remember my name?”

“Hard to forget,” Steve says. “I regretted you turning me down for months. A… pact with God?”

Emmett waves a hand airily. “Long story. Suffice to say, I’m certain that God likes me much better just the way I am -- with my flame burning bright. I certainly like me much better this way.”

“Emmett,” Steve says softly, “you have to keep your voice down.”

“Zeds?” Emmett asks, immediately on the alert. His eyes dart around the small windowless room, taking in filing cabinets and medical supplies but nothing in the way of long wooden spears. “Do you have something to--”

“Zeds?” Steve asks.

“Oh. Ohhh. That’s what my friends and I call them. Zombies with a zee, see? Zeds. Though I guess that only works if you’re Canadian. But Zees just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“Right.”

Emmett looks around the room. “Are they--”

“This room is safe,” Steve tells him. “This is where I hole up.” He points to a cot in the corner, a small hot plate tucked into a niche on the wall and a battered pot and supply of canned goods in a spot that apparently used to hold blood and urine samples.

“But the rest of the area is dangerous. I go out and clean it up every once in a while -- that‘s how I managed to come across you. But the zombies -- your zeds -- still get through. There’s a door at the end of the hall that operates on a push button, for wheelchair access. Every once in a while one of them outside stumbles into it and the door opens, and they wander in.”

“How often?” Emmett asks.

“More than I want.”

“Then,” Emmett cocks his head, “why do you stay here?”

“I thought…”

“Yes?”

Steve shakes his head. “I thought help might come, and if it did they would head first to the hospitals, to the wounded. And then when I realized that help wasn’t coming, I thought maybe... I could help. Maybe there’d be people coming here… and they’d need me.”

“Steve--”

“And I was right,” Steve says briskly. “That’s a nasty gash on your arm.”

Emmett glances down. “Oh, that,” he says. “I don’t even know where I got it.”

“Well, I need to get it cleaned up. In these conditions, every open wound has a high risk of infection. Come on.”

Emmett lets his right arm be taken, lets himself be led gently to a small slightly battered desk. The name plate on the desk reads “Constantina Rodriguez.” Emmett wonders what happened to her. Wonders if she was the small dark-haired woman losing her glasses who nearly killed him. He perches on the edge of her desk and tries not to look at the framed family photos sitting next to the computer monitor.

“You’ll need to take off your shirt,” Steve says.

Emmett bats his eyelashes. “Are you trying to seduce me, doctor?”

“I’m a nurse,” Steve reminds him, but the corners of his lips upturn in a small smile, and some of the dark distant look leaves his eyes. “And you won’t be doing much flirting if you come down with gangrene.”

“Spoil sport,” Emmett pouts. He winces as he tugs his sunshine yellow knit top over his head. The fabric pulls away from where it has melded to the wound, sending up a fresh knot of pain as well as a fresh gout of blood.

But Steve’s touch is gentle. He inspects the wound, cleanses it with bottled water, and then inspects it again. And when he announces that it’s going to need stitches, Emmett doesn’t even flinch.

But when he brings out the needle, Emmett thinks he might just pass out.

“I don’t suppose you have any anaesthesia?” Emmett asks hopefully.

“I do,” Steve replies, “but I don’t think you’ll want to be walking around with a useless arm right about now.”

Emmett thinks about the shambling zeds surrounding them, and nods. “Good point.”

He grits his teeth when the needle breaks his skin. And he remembers that he’s a lean, mean, zombie killing machine. He saved Ted’s life. He fought off several dozen zeds with nothing more than a metal club. He made it this far and nothing -- not even a massive pointed needle that feels like it’s ripping apart his skin inch by precious inch -- is going to defeat him.

A few tears might squeeze their way from his clenched eyes despite his best resolve, but he doesn‘t cry.

When it’s over, Steve cleanses the wound again and then wraps it snugly in a white gauze bandage. Emmett’s arm feels like it’s on fire.

“All better,” Steve tells him. He pulls down a set of scrubs from the shelf above him, and hands Emmett the short sleeved V-neck top. “Allegheny General“ is emblazoned in dark green script above the single pocket.

Emmett looks askance at the drab piece of clothing. “Olive green is so not my colour,” he sniffs.

“You’ll make do,” Steve says lightly. He tucks a spare roll of gauze into Emmett’s hand once Emmett has slipped the shirt over his head, grimacing at the pull in his arm. “You’ll need this as well.”

“But… why don’t you keep it?”

“Me? Trust me, Emmett, I‘ve got plenty more for the next patient.”

“But,” Emmett says slowly, “Steve, there’s not going to be a next patient. You have to come with me, all right? My friends--”

“Where are your friends?”

“We got separated,” Emmett tells him. “And Teddy, that’s my best friend, maybe you remember him from the clinic? He had unprotected sex with this guy who drinks the same bottled water as him, so he had to get tested, and I went with him, and--- anyway. Teddy has our gym bag, which has the walkie talkie in it, so I can‘t get in touch with them. And he’s also got the bullets for the gun, because apparently we are all as brain dead as the zeds and didn’t think that we should carry extra bullets on us.” He makes a face at their stupidity.

“Michael and Ted ran in to that apartment building across the street, the one that looks like something out of The Amityville Horror? And Brian and Justin are here, somewhere, but they went down this long hallway and I couldn’t get past the zombies. I don’t know where Ben is, but Justin saw him just before we ran inside. That was right after our mail truck crashed into the traffic jam outside the hospital.”

“Emmett--”

“Meanwhile there’s zeds everywhere. We barely got through the lobby. And Michael was shouting something about getting to the ambulance bay, but I have no idea where that even is--”

“I can take you to the ambulance bay,” Steve says softly.

Emmett blinks. “You can?”

Steve smiles gently. “I can.”

“And then… you have to come with us,” Emmett says just as gently. “Because… Steve… help isn’t coming.”

Steve swipes a hand through his hair. “I know,” he says, after a long silence. “But it was a nice dream.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Brian flicks the shiny yellow curtain aside half an inch with his fingernail, and Justin tenses.

“Anything?” he asks.

Brian presses his body against the door and peers down the hallway as far as he can see. “Two,” he says shortly. “At the end of the hall. One of them’s wearing scrubs.” His lips quirk in a mirthless smile. “The other is our friend Psycho Homophobe Woman.”

“Fuck,” Justin sighs. He stalks to the other end of the tiny closet in which they are trapped, ignoring the shelves stacked neatly with hospital paraphernalia against both sides of the room, and slumps against the back wall.

He watches Brian let the curtain drop back into place.

“Do you think Ben’s okay?” Justin asks quietly.

Brian turns his back to the door and carefully draws the strap of the gym bag over his head. He lowers the bag to the floor and slips out of his jacket, then rotates his neck, reaching up with one hand to massage the place where the strap had been resting.

Somehow, strangely, Justin had forgotten that Brian had been carrying the bag. Lugging a fifty pound weight around his body in the midst of all the fighting.

“I don’t know,” Brian answers.

Justin picks at a thread hanging from his windbreaker.

He remembers choosing it from the rack at Old Navy and Brian, there under extreme protest, giving him a look of disgust. He remembers pointing out gleefully that at least it wasn’t a hoodie, of which Brian had often professed his loathing. He’s pretty sure that Brian paid for it.

Now one entire arm is ripped apart, hanging in shreds. The collar is frayed, and he doesn’t even remember being grabbed by the collar. Probably it was a very close call and his mind has blocked it out. His mind is very good at blocking things that it finds too painful to remember.

He slides the jacket from his body and lets it fall to the floor in a rustle of crinkly synthetic.

“You’re hurt,” Brian says softly.

He hadn’t even heard Brian approach.

Brian’s fingers skate gently over the scrape on his cheek, then skim across his chin to his neck where the bruise from his shoulder peeks out from beneath the collar of his T-shirt. Brian’s lips press lightly against the scrape on his cheek, warm, soothing. Against his neck, the barest brush of lips on his collarbone.

“Let me see,” Brian murmurs in his ear. And Brian’s fingers slide beneath his shirt, tug the material smoothly up his chest.

Brian’s knees bent, his dick pressing insistently against Justin’s thigh.

“Brian,” Justin warns.

Brian’s nimble fingers find the button of his jeans.

“I cannot believe,” Justin says, pushing him away, “that you want to fuck now!”

Brian arches a brow. “Really, Sunshine? This is a shock to you?”

“The world is ending, Brian!”

“Exactly. The world is ending. Civilization as we know it has ground to a stuttering, screaming halt -- not because of global warming, or because our ‘friends’ in the Middle East decided they’ve had enough and opted to blow us to bits. No, it’s come to an end because of a motherfucking zombie apocalypse!” Brian lets out a low, jagged laugh. “Infrastructure has collapsed. Technology is useless. Billions are dead. If the population manages to survive, and that’s a big if, it will be in the form of ragged feudal societies, its populace locked behind thick walls and in thrall to whoever has the most bullets and the biggest bat, and afraid of every bump outside the door. That is what we have to look forward to.” Brian takes an uneven breath. “Honestly, Sunshine, can you think of a better time to fuck?”

Justin hesitates… and then lunges forward to plunge his tongue into Brian’s mouth.

His shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore.

And when Brian turns him around to face the wall and slips his jeans to his hips and he hears the rip of the condom wrapper, Justin keens high and needy in this throat.

Brian’s hand comes up to this mouth, Brian’s lips a whisper of breath against his ear. “Quiet,” Brian says.

Justin bucks his hips back in response. “Inside me,” he demands huskily. “Now.”

Brian’s entry is hard and fast and rough and that’s just how Justin wants it.

He leans his forehead against the wall and pushes back against every thrust. Brian drapes his body across Justin’s back, buries his own forehead in the nape of Justin’s neck. Warm staccato breath between his shoulder blades. Brian’s fingers dig into the flesh of his hips hard enough, Justin knows, to leave bruises, after-marks smudged on to his skin.

He slips a hand between his body and the wall, and finds his own cock hard and leaking and ready. Knows it won’t be long.

And when the rhythm of Brian’s thrusts becomes uneven, when Brian switches to short, shallow thrusts that makes his eyes roll back in his head and his own breath come in ragged gasps, Justin matches the tempo of Brian’s strokes with his own hand. His come spatters the wall and when it does he twists his head around to take Brian’s lips, to suck on his tongue, to have Brian inside him everywhere when he comes, too.

He thinks it might be the best sex he’s ever had.

When Brian turns him around, leans against him, kisses him gently on the mouth… his hands are shaking.

“Jesus,” Justin whispers against his lips.

Brian slides Justin’s jeans up before bending to his own. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Justin runs a hand through his hair. He feels… calm, he realizes. And confident. And ready to be a feudal lord. If that’s the way it’s going to be.

He looks around the room for the first time, his eyes now accustomed to the lack of light. And his eyes go wide. “Hey,” he says quietly, “do you know what this is?”

“The backroom,” Brian answers.

Justin slaps lightly at his chest. “The medical supply cabinet! And do you know what that means?”

Brian’s eyes light up. “Amyl nitrate as far as the eye can see.”

“And penicillin! Morphine, prednisone. Codeine.”

“I thought you were allergic to codeine?”

“Other people aren’t.” Justin pokes Brian in the ribs. “We need this stuff. God, who knows when we’ll have access to antibiotics again? Dump the canned goods; we can find those anywhere.”

“Who put you in charge?” Brian asks jokingly.

Justin points. “In this game, I’m the feudal lord and you’re the cowering vassal. Now move.”

Brian smirks as he turns toward the abandoned bag… just as the walkie talkie inside lets out a screeching burst of static.

Justin and Brian both dive for the bag, but it’s Brian who comes up with the small black piece of equipment. He hurriedly shoves the volume control down before holding the item up to his mouth and depressing the switch.

“Who is this?” he asks.

No response.

“You have to release the button to hear them,” Justin points out.

“Fuck.”

“… one of the apartments!” the radio crackles to life when he does so. Michael’s voice. Brian closes his eyes with relief. Justin rests a hand briefly on his shoulder, squeezes gently. “… are you? What are you doing?”

Brian meets Justin’s eyes steadily before raising the walkie talkie back to his mouth. “Justin and I just finished fucking,” he says.

“Ha ha,” Michael’s voice responds. “Is Ben with you?”

Brian’s mouth opens. And closes.

Justin takes the two-way radio out of his hand. “He’s not with us, Michael,” he says. “But I saw him just before we ran inside the hospital. He was heading down one of the passageways toward the back.” He lets go of the switch. Wants to add a useless platitude, an ‘I’m sure he’s fine’ or a ‘He’ll be okay’, but he just can’t seem to do it.

Nothing is sure anymore.

There is only silence from the radio.

And silence.

“If it was you--” Brian starts.

“It’s not.”

And then the radio crackles in his hand. Michael’s voice is strong and clear. “Ted and I are leaving here in about ten minutes. We’re going to work our way around to the ambulance bay. You need to meet us there. Have you seen Emmett?”

Brian takes the radio back. “We’ll be there. And Emmett… Emmett can take care of himself,” Brian says. It’s not a lie. He tucks the walkie-talkie back into the gym bag, and stands. “Gather your supplies, Sunshine. We’re about to hit the road.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“All right,” Michael says for the third time, “are we ready?”

They’d closed the bathroom door (but not before dry swallowing a couple of ibuprofen each) and even dragged the heavy armoire from the living room to prop up against the hall closet door where zombie-san was trapped. Then they’d done an exhaustive search of the apartment. Aside from an extensive collection of Asian porn, they’d turned up only one item of interest -- the hockey stick formerly buried at the back of the bedroom closet, and now clutched in Michael’s hand.

Ted decided to stick with his trusty toilet plunger.

He adjusts the strap on the gym bag he’d chosen to wear in penance for ditching the other one earlier in the hall. “We’re ready,” he says.

“Okay,” Michael says. He takes a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

And he pulls open the door.

A zed is upon them almost immediately. Michael swings wildly with the hockey stick and the zombie goes down, but the stick starts to splinter.

“Shit,” Ted says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Michael shouts. “Go!”

There are more of them in the corridor than before. A woman in a washed out nightgown shuffles toward him. Ted takes her out with a quick plunger chop to the head. Beyond her, a man in overalls and mud-stained work boots. And beyond him, another. And another.

“We’re not going to make it,” Ted yells.

Michael’s hockey stick splinters more with each strike to undead flesh. The hallway is too narrow and confining to risk using the gun.

“There!” Michael suddenly shouts. “The garbage chute!”

Ted dodges the grip of a vacant eyed zed and stumbles down the hall. “What?”

“It’s industrial sized!” Michael yells. “We can make it!”

“Michael,” Ted screams, exasperated, “this is not a Star Wars movie!”

He pushes Michael back against a grimy wall moments before a zombie’s teeth are about to come down on his arm. Michael meets his eyes grimly. “Do you have a better idea?”

He lets his eyes drift from Michael‘s earnest expression to the never ending hit parade of shambling undead. “Shit,” Ted says glumly.

“Now!” Michael screams.

And they abandon all attempts at fighting, at killing, and simply push their way past the shambling zombies, dodging reaching arms and gnashing teeth. They hit the wall running and dive head first into the chute.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“There it is,” Steve says softly.

Emmett nods.

Their trip to the emergency room has been relatively zombie free, thanks to Steve’s knowledge of the hospital zones. They’d detoured around the paediatric ward (and Emmett had trustingly let Steve lead him, keeping his eyes closed the whole time, because child zombies were something he just didn’t think he’d survive seeing) and come out at the staff room on the far side of the ER. There, Emmett had returned the favour, taking out a stumbling zed who was just about to clamp his teeth down on Steve’s leg by breaking a coffee pot over it’s head.

He still wishes they’d been able to find a nice sturdy pair of crutches.

Now, they crouch against the thigh-high red brick wall that partially encircles the hospital. There are no zombies in sight.

“This just seems… too easy,” Emmett whispers.

“Hey, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Steve replies.

Emmett scrunches his nose. “What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea.” Steve duck-walks along the perimeter of the wall before peeking his head around the corner. Emmett tenses, waiting for the bloodcurdling scream that never comes. Steve looks back and winks. “All clear. Let’s go.”

They scurry from their hiding place, feeling vulnerable and exposed in the open, and dive against the side of the ambulance carport.

There is nothing but silence.

“Which one do we take?” Emmett whispers.

“Doesn’t matter. Nobody‘s going to be needing them,” Steve answers. His voice still holds a taste of bitterness over the help that never came. Emmett squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.

Emmett takes a quick look around and points to the nearest vehicle, it’s rear door hanging open. “That one,” he says.

As one, they dart to the rear of the ambulance… and stop.

A male paramedic lies dead against one of the gurneys.

His brains have leaked all over the metal floor.

“Ugh,” Emmett shudders. “Not that one.”

Steve pulls on his hand and they run to the next one in line. The rear door is closed but unlocked. And there are no dead -- or undead -- bodies within.

Emmett gratefully climbs inside and watches Steve shut the door quietly behind them.

“Now what?” Steve asks.

Emmett shrugs. “Now we wait for the others.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“This,” Ted says, spitting a piece of rotten lettuce out of his mouth, “is so gross.”

Michael grins beside him. “We did it! Oh my god, that was so cool!”

“Cool, Michael? You think this is cool?”

Michael laughs. Ted thinks it sounds wonderful -- so wonderful, in fact, that he decides on the spot not to strangle Michael with his own shoe laces. “C’mon, Ted. At least we don’t have a Diagonah after us!”

“Dia-who-guh?”

“The little creature that grabbed Luke Skywalker and pulled him under the…” Michael stops, still grinning like a loon. “Oh, never mind. Let’s just get out of here and get around to the ambulance bay!”

Ted opens his mouth to reply, but is stopped short by a low moan from somewhere in the far recesses of the parking garage.

“Just once,” he grits out, “can’t we find just one place without those things?”

The solitary moan has wiped the smile from Michael’s face. “C’mon, Ted. Let’s move.”

It takes them three minutes to manage to climb atop the piles of garbage in the huge industrial sized bin and then make their way down the other side. Ted spends the entire time alternating between scanning the dimly lit garage for movement and gazing back up the chute, sure that at any moment a zombie is going to come crashing down on their heads. He only breathes easier -- but through his mouth, of course -- when they are both set down on the firm concrete.

He adjusts the strap on the gym bag and makes sure -- again -- that his gun is easily accessible in his suit jacket pocket. And he keeps a solid grip on his plunger.

“Now?” he prods.

“We open the garage door,” Michael whispers. “And remember, we just run like hell. Don’t engage any of them. Just dodge them when you can, push them over when you can’t get through. Don’t let them stop you. We can‘t get boxed in by too many of them. One on one, or two on one, we can handle them. They‘re slow and stupid.” He grips Ted’s arm firmly. “This is only going to work if we don’t stop running.”

“Have I mentioned lately that I pretty much stopped working out on the treadmill after I hurt my ankle last summer?”

“Ted, you’ll be fine,” Michael says with such sincerity that it almost makes Ted heart ache.

Another moan, from a different part of the parking garage. This time Ted thinks he can hear the shuffling footsteps.

“We run,” he repeats.

“Fucking run,” Michael says.

They run.

Through the dimly lit garage and toward the chink of light that seeps from under the closed garage door. They run, and now Ted can see the zeds, stumbling from all corners of the garage, their faces pale, their eyes vacant. They hit the automatic door opener at a dead run and don’t stop for the door to open all the way, they slide under the gap as soon as they can fit.

More zombies outside. Dozens. A hundred.

“Just run,” Ted repeats to himself.

And he throws himself into the run, not feeling the heavy gym bag slapping against his thighs, not hearing the smack of Michael’s shoes on the pavement. He puts his head down and barrels past the nearest reaching zeds, swings around a couple more and dodges past a fourth and then the worst of it is past. He runs down the sidewalk, he flies, and his breath is coming in huge gasping cries for air, and his feet are skidding over someone’s freshly mowed lawn, and beside him Michael is laughing.

They dive around the side of the building at a gallop and the hospital is in sight. The grey walled shed that houses the ambulances is less than two hundred feet away.

“We RUN!” Ted shouts.

“Fucking RUN!” Michael shouts back.

Inside Ambulance Number 645, Emmett cocks his head. “Did you hear something?”

Steve holds up a hand, and listens. “I think--”

“It’s Ted!” Emmett crows. And before Steve can stop him, before he can stop himself, he has flung open the rear door and is stepping out into the bright sunshine. Later, he will take the angry words and recriminations… that what he’d done could have gotten them all killed. Now, he just wants to see his friends.

And there are still no zombies near the ambulance bay.

He waves wildly, exuberantly, and only stops himself from crying out by Steve’s gentle pressure on his elbow.

Ted squints against the sun. “Is it…” he starts. “Do you see?” He raises a hand to shade his eyes, and then smiles. “It’s Em! Michael, it’s Em!”

And Michael pushes aside a zombie that has strayed into their path. And then they are breaking across the concrete parking lot, diving into the warm safe confines of the ambulance. And some man, some strange man that seems vaguely familiar in that ‘too hot to fuck me’ way that guys who’ve crossed his path sometimes have, is pulling the door closed with a soft clink.

Then he is enveloped in Emmett’s arms, and though his chest hurts so much he thinks he might have a heart attack right on the spot and he can barely breathe, he holds on tight. Emmett is crying, and Michael is talking a mile a minute, and the not-stranger who’s name seems to be Steve is urging them all to be quiet. But he holds on tight in Emmett’s embrace for just a minute longer, and struggles to control his breathing.

Then Emmett pushes him gently away.

“Ewwww!” Emmett waves a hand in front of his face, grimacing through his tears. “Where have you two been? You smell like rotten garbage!”

Ted sighs. “It’s a long story, Em.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Ready?” Brian asks.

Justin minutely adjusts the last set of bottles in the gym bag before zipping it closed. The discarded canned goods lay toppled in a heap at his feet. He gives the bag a test swing, and the bottles don’t rattle. He smiles at his handiwork as Brian reaches down and hefts the bag over his head. He tries, but Brian can’t disguise the grimace quickly enough.

“You’re sure it’s not too heavy?” Justin asks worriedly. He‘s loaded the thing with half the contents of the supply closet, or at least it seems like it. “I can take it.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “I’ve been carting around canned peas and squash for the last three hours. Antibiotics are a walk in the park. Now,” he repeats firmly, “are you ready?”

“Whenever you are,” Justin says. “Any zeds?”

Brian tenses, then carefully flicks the curtain open an inch. He peers down the hall. “Just our friend Psycho Homophobe.”

“Good,” Justin says. “Then let’s--”

“One thing,” Brian interrupts.

Justin crosses his arms at his chest.

“When we were running down the hall earlier and you were screaming like a girl--”

“WhatEVER.”

“-- I was checking out the layout. This corridor dead ends.”

“Shit.”

“There was an exit door beside the nurses station. By the day room. By the--” Brian breaks off, unable to keep up the façade of nonchalance any longer. The horror is just too great.

“By the slaughterhouse,” Justin fills in slowly.

Brian scrubs a hand across his mouth. “Yeah.”

Justin takes a deep breath. Then another. “Okay.”

“I figure,” Brian says, “we move in fast. Don’t give them any time to react. We just power through.”

“Okay.”

“If we have to take them out, fine, we can do that. But we’re better off to just knock them over.” He smiles joylessly. “It’s zombie bowling, and the zeds are the fucking pins.”

“Okay.”

Brian rests a hand on Justin’s forearm, squeezes. Searches his eyes. “We can do this,” Brian says softly.

Justin blinks. And readjusts his grip on his bat. “Yeah,” he breathes. “We can.”

Brian squeezes his arm gently once more. Then he pulls away to flick the lock and push the door slowly open. He eases quietly outside the room before gesturing for Justin to follow.

The zombie is twenty feet down the corridor and facing away from them, her head cocked to one side. From this distance, Justin thinks she almost still looks human. Her hair is still grey and corkscrewed in a thousand different directions. The hospital gown still hangs loosely on her emaciated frame. She’s lost the matching slippers.

They put their backs to the wall and are almost past her before she notices them. She snarls and stumbles in their direction, but she is far too slow. They are beyond her range without incident, before she can take a second shambling step. And Brian clearly puts her immediately out of his mind; he hugs the wall at the turn and peers quickly around the bend in the hallway. He holds up his fingers to Justin. Five. And then five again.

Ten zeds in the next section of hallway.

Just bowl them over, Justin thinks. They’re slow. Slow and dead.

And the woman -- Psycho Homophobe, as Brian likes to call her -- still shuffles unerringly toward them.

Brian waves him ahead.

And Justin stops. Turns. And takes three steps back, swings before he has time to think about. Swings high and fast and smooth.

“Justin!” he hears Brian hiss.

But he’s in the zone.

The baseball bat smacks the woman directly in the forehead, exactly where he was aiming. The impact knocks her off her feet. She’s dead -- again -- before she hits the tile.

Justin rejoins an incredulous Brian at the bend of the corridor. “Mercy killing,” he says evenly.

Brian wisely says nothing at all.

And then they run. They take the corridor in wide loping strides that eat up the ground beneath their feet. It is wild and ungainly, the exact opposite of the grace they both usually exhibit, and Justin thinks they sound like a herd of wild animals, like a stampede. The zombies look up as soon as they take their first pounding steps, start moving in concert to cut them off, to grab at their limbs, to haul them down. And he pushes outward with both hands, his fingers sliding in the fresh blood that now mars the serviceable end of the bat, using it like a baton to push against the zeds chests, to send them tumbling to the floor.

One of them gets a tangled hold in the right sleeve of Brian’s leather jacket and Justin skids on the tile, Justin’s arms pinwheel. He can’t get there fast enough. He can’t…

But then the gun is in Brian’s hand, and a small round hole appears in the zombie’s forehead. The report comes after, loud and ominous. And the death grip relaxes as the thing -- a small Hispanic man in life -- dies at Brian’s feet.

They slide around the second corner and then… there… the slaughterhouse.

Don’t think, Justin tells himself. Just move. Just run.

He remembers eating his lunch at St. James and watching the football team practice on the field, back before Brian (and occasionally after), before sex, before equipment room hand jobs, before he even gave a second thought about his prom. He remembers the fluidity of motion amongst the violence.

And he emulates it now, ducking his head, squaring his shoulders, barrelling his way past a dozen zombies and thanking Christ they don’t have to go through the actual room. The nurses station is at its head and they only need to pass a dozen, maybe a few more, and they are through.

They are through!

Justin slams into the exit door at a dead run.

And bounces back, nearly crashing to his ass.

At his side, Brian slams his back against the wall. Breathless. Gasping for air. He points when he cannot talk.

There is a keypad attached to the wall beside the door.

“Locked ward,” Brian wheezes out.

“Are you fucking shitting me?”

Brian points again, this time at the small, neatly lettered sign above the nurses station. “Ward 2B,” it reads. “Psychiatric Assessment.”

Justin turns in a circle. The zeds they’ve powered past, as Brian so aptly put it, are shambling in their direction. Slow and steady. A dozen. Maybe more. And dozens more rising behind them.

“We should have realized,” Brian is saying, and Justin spins in place, trying to think.

“Okay,” he says loudly. “Where would they keep the code? Brian, think!”

“Sunshine,” Brian says, pushing himself away from the wall and holding up the gun, “I have the code.”

The blast rips apart the keypad and sends a siren screaming through the ward. And for a moment, Justin is afraid to try the door, because if Brian is wrong… if all he did is destroy the pad itself… then they will be trapped here. The zombies are massing at their backs, their low moans sending a shiver up his spine. There are so many of them.

He gives a tentative push.

And the door pops open.

They bound down the stairs two at a time and emerge into a long, narrow, and currently zombie-free hallway. Justin spots the sign first, a directional marker indicating the way to Obstetrics, Oncology, the Main Lobby… and Emergency. He slaps at Brian’s arm and points the way.

He doesn’t think he can run anymore.

And then he sees the small glass door just before the corridor branches to the ER. And he wants to see the sunlight.

He put in an extra effort and runs, several paces ahead of Brian, a stitch in his side, his lungs gasping for air.

The zombie steps into his path almost before he can stop himself.

Justin staggers backward to avoid the outstretched arms, the gaping jaw. He can feel the thing’s breath on his cheek as he pitches himself back, his own arms flailing. The baseball bat slams in to the edge of the wall and is wrenched from his grip, the force of the impact sending shooting sparks of pain up his arm.

Brian catches him before he falls, grabbing on to his arm and hauling him upward, sending more pain racketing across his shoulder.

And the zombie advances.

It was a male in life. And it is larger than sin. It’s reach exceeds his. It’s reach exceeds Brian’s. Even with the baseball bat, he couldn’t have hit it in the head.

He can’t see how they’ll push past it.

And behind them, now, coming from the hallway that led to the Main lobby… the sound of more dragging feet.

Justin doesn’t want to look, but he’s always been one to know the odds are. Looking, and watching, and listening, and playing the odds right -- that’s what won him Brian Kinney.

He looks. There are six zeds cutting off their retreat.

They back up, each shuffling step matching that of the large zombie.

“Well,” Justin says, shooting Brian a side-glance. “Shoot it!”

“Out of bullets,” Brian says. He too checks the progress of the newcomers, and his mouth sets in a grim line. “No time to reload.”

“You still have one left in the gun,” Justin insists.

“No,” Brian says, “I don’t.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

Another shuffling step back.

“Fuck, Brian. You shot one out front that was trying to eat me, one at the lock, and once at the zombie that lunged at you when you were helping Ben. Once just now. And then one more at that red-haired zed just before we got through the automatic doors. That’s five.”

“It was twice at the redhead.”

Another shuffling step back. The monster zombie snaps its teeth together eagerly. It drools, long wet lines of reddish spittle.

“It was one,” Justin says.

He sneaks a look over his shoulder. The other zeds are less than twenty feet away. They can push past them… none of them look particularly fearsome… but he doesn’t like their chances in the lobby. No, Justin thinks they definitely want to go out that forward door. Into the sunlight.

“I’m telling you,” Brian grits out, “it was two.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Justin spins and grabs the revolver out of the waistband of Brian’s jeans. It feels warm in his grasp, the grip smooth and slick. He remembers this feeling. He remembers getting hard from this.

It makes him feel sick.

He shakes his head, widens his stance and tries to remember everything he learned at the shooting gallery. Balance the gun on his left hand. Sight a little below where you want to hit. And squeeze the trigger gently.

At this range, he tells himself, he can’t miss.

He breathes out… and shoots.

The bullet pierces the skull cleanly. Justin swears he sees bits of bone shatter at the point of impact.

The big zombie goes down.

The zeds at their back are only ten feet away.

Justin hands the gun back to Brian, grateful that his hand isn’t shaking. He feels like he left something behind with the bullet, the shadowy ghosts of Cody Bell and Chris Hobbs and that whole scene evaporating into the ether.

“Told you it was one,” he says smugly.

“Huh,” Brian says.

Justin scoops up his lost bat just before they dive through the door, and he feels the sunlight on his face. He smiles.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What was that?” Ted asks.

The others are on alert as well. The sound was muffled but…

“Gunfire?” Emmett suggests.

“It’s Ben!”

“It’s someone,” Ted tells Michael. “Someone alive.” He moves cautiously to the rear door of the ambulance, tensing before he pushes it open. He peeks out, feeling awfully like a turtle coming out of its shell.

Two figures, scrambling and sliding down the hilly grass verge on the opposite side of the ambulance bay. At least a dozen zeds in shuffling pursuit.

“It’s Brian and Justin!” he tells the others excitedly. Then he waves, and Emmett is poking his head around his ribs and waving too, and Michael is pushing behind him, trying to get through. He sees Justin say something to Brian, and Brian reply, and then finally, finally they look up and notice them.

He sees them re-double their efforts. And he quickly crawls back inside the ambulance to avoid being bowled over.

Brian slams the door and collapses in a heap. There are hugs and tears. There are too many voice talking at once.

“Brian,” Justin finally makes his voice heard, still gasping a little for breath, “did they see where we went?”

“What?”

Justin squeezes Brian‘s arm, looks into his eyes. “Did they see that we went inside an ambulance?”

“What?” Brian shakes his head. He looks exhausted. Ted is reminded of the cancer, vicious thing. Brian looked like this, then.

Brian breaks free of Justin’s grip, the intensity of those blue eyes. “Yes!” he says. “What the fuck--”

“Then we have to get out of here,” Justin says grimly. “Now.”

“But we can’t!” Michael protests. “We have to wait for Ben!”

“They know we’re inside,“ Justin answers. “They’ll surround the ambulance. We won’t be able to get out.”

“More Movie Zombie 101?” Ted asks.

Justin only looks at Michael.

And Michael finally, reluctantly, nods in agreement.

“Shit!” Brian barks out. He runs a hand through his hair. “All right. We’ll make a circuit of the hospital. We’ll--”

“Stick to the area around the emergency room,” Ted adds.

“We can run the siren!” Emmett suggests eagerly.

“The siren will summon every zombie for a six block radius,” Justin says worriedly.

“We don’t have a choice!” Michael cries.

Justin blinks. “Right.”

“He’ll hear it,” Michael insists. “He’ll hear it and he’ll come running.”

Ted wishes he felt as confident.

Brian shifts toward the back of the vehicle. “I’ll drive,” he says.

“I’m sitting shotgun,” Michael puts in.

“No,” Brian says shortly, “you’re not.”

“I need to watch for Ben!”

“Which means you’ll be no good to me,” Brian says. He slings an arm around Michael’s shoulder to take away the sting. “Justin will watch for Ben and keep an eye out for zeds. And more traffic jams, and abandoned vehicles, and--”

“I get it,” Michael says softly.

Brian squeezes his shoulder gently before letting go. Then his eyes go wide. “Keys. FUCK!”

“Oh my god not again,” Justin moans.

Emmett holds up a closed fist before opening it to let the keys dangle from his fingers. “They’re kept in the gloved compartment,” he says proudly. “Steve knew.”

Brian snatches them from his hand. And then Ted can see that he puts all of them out of his mind. Concentrates on the task at hand. And he meets Justin’s eyes. “Ready?”

Justin’s hand tightens on his bat. Ted can tell it’s seen a lot of wear. “Ready,” Justin replies.

They fling the door open and jump outside, slamming it shut before Ted gets more than a glimpse of the parking lot. But it is long enough to see that Justin is right. The first wave of zeds is already staggering across the grass toward the ambulance bay. He shudders and leans back against the cool interior wall. And prepares to hang on for the ride of his life.

“It’s not fair,” Michael says softly, sadly, beside him.

“I know, baby,” Emmett soothes. “I know.”

* * *

The hospital is surrounded by the undead.

The number of zeds has at least doubled since they ran inside the building. And more are coming, drawn to the bleating wail of the siren.

Brian races through the lot. He clips a zombie with his front left bumper and it goes down. The ambulance rolls unmercifully over it.

Justin’s eyes flit back and forth between the front windshield and the side mirror, scanning the hospital grounds, the dark recesses by the doors, even the windows, as they speed past. For any sign of Ben. Any sign at all.

And there is nothing.

Brian is hunched over the wheel, unable to do any searching of his own. His full concentration is taken up with avoiding the crashed and burning cars, the hordes of zombies that surround them.

He makes another circuit. Slams on the brakes when he rounds a corner on a new accident -- one that wasn’t there just minutes before. The zeds are already climbing over the small blue vehicle, scratching at the broken glass. Justin can hear someone screaming.

A zombie thumps against Justin’s window, and he jerks and cringes away. Can’t stop himself.

Another three on Brian’s side.

“There!” Justin points to the opening and Brian takes it, mowing down another zed, swerving erratically to avoid a large mob of them.

Brian reverses to avoid another pileup past the large fountain in the rear courtyard, tires squealing.

And someone is perched atop the fountain’s wide flat spout, one arm dangling limply over its edge. The body is unmoving, dead. And still zombies shuffle through the water, reaching up for that lifeless limb.

Justin squints against the sunlight and holds his breath.

It’s not Ben.

He jolts in his seat when Brian bumps over the curb and onto the wide expanse of lawn. Zeds reach for the ambulance as it speeds past them. Cavernous mouths open in grey mottled faces.

A third circuit.

The tires spin in the grass, and for a long horrible moment Justin thinks they’re going to get stuck. And the zombies are immediately upon them, thudding against the glass.

Brian slams his palm against the wheel and curses and the vehicle lurches forward. He zips back down toward the shed, where the zeds are fewest. Comes to a stop and meets Justin’s eyes. He scrubs a hand, again, over his mouth.

“I’ll go,” Brian says.

“No!” Justin counters instantly. “You stay behind the wheel. We might need to take off.”

Brian closes his eyes, and nods. “Just roll down your window.”

“Cover me,” Justin says. And Brian clenches his jaw and holds up the re-loaded gun.

Then Brian pounds on the wall that separates the cab from the rear of the ambulance. Justin rolls down his window and carefully slides his upper body out of the space. He hangs on for dear life. The nearest zombies are fifty feet away.

After what seems like an eternity, the rear door opens. Ted’s head pops out over the roof. Justin imagines his feet perched carefully on the rear bumper, his friends holding onto his legs so he won’t fall. Ted looks hopeful. Too hopeful.

And Justin can’t talk. He just can’t say it. So he shakes his head. And watches Ted’s face fall.

He disappears from view.

The nearest zombies on his side have shuffled closer. Thirty feet away.

Ted’s head pops back into view. “Can we go around one more time?” he shouts. He looks like he’s going to cry. And Justin can only imagine how bad it is in the back of the ambulance. How he would rage if it were Brian.

“Whenever we stop, they’re all over us--” he starts. Stops. And really sees the desperation in Ted‘s eyes. “Once more,” he agrees.

“Justin,” Brian grits out.

The vehicle lurches as a zed crashes into Brian’s side of the ambulance.

“Once more,” he repeats firmly. He waits for Ted’s answering nod before snaking his body back into the vehicle and rolling up his window. Ted doesn’t shut the rear door, a fact which Justin notices but wisely doesn’t mention.

“Justin,” Brian says again.

A second zombie joins the one at Brian’s window, a female whose long blonde hair is matted with blood. A third tries to climb onto the hood. Their ever-present moans are muffled, for which Justin is grateful.

“Once more,” Justin says softly. Knows that if it were Brian, once more would not be enough. Knows that he’d leave the vehicle, leave his friends, search on foot if he had to.

And Brian nods once, slowly.

He peels away. A zombie crunches under their wheels.

He spins out of the rear lot, swerving at the last minute to barely avoid colliding with a knot of zombies at least thirty strong. Justin spots an opening between the horde of zeds and a parked car, and Brian wheels through the space with hardly any room to spare. The open rear door bounces shut, then swings back open.

And someone starts pounding on the partition that separates the cab from the rear. Pounding frenziedly.

“What?” Brian looks away from the windshield briefly to glance in the rearview. “What are they--?”

“I don’t--- I can’t see anything!” Justin says frantically, his own eyes glued to the side mirror.

The pounding continues.

And then--

“Oh shit,” Justin breathes. “Oh shit! Back up! Brian, back up!”

Brian slams on the brakes, sending Justin lurching forward against his seatbelt. He doesn’t even feel his shoulder protest, doesn’t take his eyes away from the side mirror. And then Brian is reversing, careening wildly back the way they came. He slams into the front bumper of an SUV and the ambulance lurches to the side. Brian fights the wheel and keeps them upright.

“What is it?” Brian is yelling. “What--?”

Justin thinks he can hear screaming from the rear.

But he can’t take his eyes off the side mirror.

He can’t look away from the image of Ben, limping from a dark passageway at the side of the hospital. Lurching, his body bent at the waist. Blood streaming down the front of his jeans, soaking them black.

At the zombies that surround him.

That pull him down.

Brian slows and Justin watches Michael jump from the back of the ambulance. Sees Ted leap after him, jump him, hold him down. Sees Michael screaming. Sees the wild swing that Michael lands on Ted’s jaw, sees Emmett and Steve join the fray, sees the zombies that veer in their direction.

And Ben. On his knees. The zombies clutch at him with their skeletal hands, worry his skin with their yellowed teeth.

Ben struggles to get free of the horde, and manages to raise a hand weakly. Blood streams now from a bite in his shoulder, in his bicep. And he shouts something.

Justin thinks he says “Go.”

“Jesus,” Brian breathes.

Justin closes his eyes.

And when he opens them, seconds later, Ted and Emmett have manhandled Michael into the back of the ambulance. The door shuts. And Brian speeds away just before the first of the zombie mob reaches the vehicle.

Justin imagines he can hear Michael’s sobs.



40057 / 50000 words. 80% done!
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