Fic: And The Dead Will Rise [ 1/10 ]
Title: And The Dead Will Rise
Author: xDawnie
Warnings: none in this chapter, I think. Minor gore?
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan, Left4Dead to Valve, Tokio Hotel and Glambert to themselves. Lyrics belong to Within Temptation. Only Isis belongs to me.
Dedication: chaoschild92
Beta: chaoschild92 thank you, Chaos, I love you so much xD
Summary: Three months into the zombie apocalypse, the most unlikely people are about to join forces and stand for the world as they once knew it.
A/N: Yay, finally something fic-y! Title and summary are subject to change. This is for Chaos, whose bunny this is. Yes, it is also a crossover between RPF, Inception and Left 4 Dead. Sue me.
In any case, I hope you enjoy this.
The nights are dark and lonely and the blackness oppressing. It’s almost as though the night is on the dark side, trying to force them all to give up their lives, give into the fate that may well play out soon.
New York City is silent at night now. No cars or passersby, no shouts of anger or screams of fear penetrating the walls of the penthouse. A few streetlamps flicker to life each night while the rest enhance the eerie quality of the new fear. It’s almost as though they are as dead to the world as those who populate it now.
Stumbling figures, like drunkards, wander about the unusually quiet streets, oblivious to everything. Occasionally one will fall over, to be ignored by the rest, oblivious in their lifelessness. Other shapes lounge against the walls and silent cars, holding the classic positions of drug addicts and the miserable homeless, staring blankly at things the night hides from view.
Tom turns his gaze from the darkened city of New York. He doesn’t really need to look to know what is going on outside - he’s been trapped in this hellish nightmare for so long he’s almost used to it. Almost.
It’s been five months and fourteen days since the government announced their latest project - a cure-all program that they’ve apparently been working on since the beginning of the previous year. Three months since the first testings. Since the drugs turned a cancer patient into a flesh-eating nutcase. Since the government promised a cure for this ‘affliction’.
Not that Tom believes that they are actually still working on a cure. No, it is far more likely that they have all been turned into zombies. That, or they’re in zombies.
“Hey, Tom, there are a couple of them getting too close for comfort.” He looks up at Georg standing in the doorway. The bassist looks just as drained as Tom feels. He’s carrying a baseball bat and a heavy metal pan is hooked behind his back. “Think we should beat them to the ground again?” he adds in German, a humourless smile playing on his lips.
Tom grimaces. All of them hate to kill - even if the ‘people’ are already dead. The feeling of bones giving way beneath their homemade weapons, the gore that splatters on their bodies… It is all horribly disgusting. But he stands anyway, and nods, because what can he do? If the zombies manage to take them by surprise, they’ll be dead men. Dead, half-eaten, barely alive men.
So they have to kill, or be killed.
He nods again (trying to reassure himself), and reaches for his weapons - a much-scarred fire extinguisher and a bloodied crowbar he can never bring himself to clean no matter how much it stinks. Just looking at it turns his stomach.
Georg smiles again and steps aside to let Tom past him into the dark hallway of the apartment. Not only is the electricity not working, but as an added defence, they’ve hammered planks over all windows. The door itself is heavily barred, but the barricades are be easily removed from the inside. Tom looks around at their defences warily, half-expecting dead hands to tear them off at any moment, as he heads towards the door.
“Where’s Gustav?” he asks.
“Here.” The shorter blond is standing near a window, peering out the slits left for that purpose. His axe is strapped to his back, and the shining kitchen knives dangle from his belt. Tom shudders slightly at the sight, and looks away. Gustav turns to the other two. “Ready for another round?” he asks almost cheerily - although Tom knows it’s just relief to not have to sit around and wait for death to come to them anymore.
Georg nods, flashing a quick humourless grin. Tom turns towards the door. “Let’s just go,” he says resignedly as he lifts his crowbar. “Get it over with.”
oOo
“Shut the door! Shut the God-damned door!” Cobb yells, dragging a bag of something, over the noise of dozens of undead screeching and rushing for them - for life. For their life.
Eames lunges for the door, hitting it and slamming it shut at the last moment. The noise lessens slightly just before fingernails start to claw at the door. The sound, combined with their screams, makes Eames shudder.
Three months in this hellhole. Almost three months locked up in a barricaded cabin - going out only when they run out of supplies. Three months since they were separated from Ariadne, Saito and Yusuf; since Cobb lost Mal to the infection. He’s been searching for his children and parents-in-law up til about two and a half months ago, and now they’re grounded without a working vehicle. There seems to be no way out of this.
“My God, they’re really something, aren’t they?” he murmurs to himself as he slides all the bolts home. Cobb passes a hand over his eyes, making a low sound of agreement in the back of his throat. Eames eyes him with a little concern, relaxing when the man straightens. He turns to Arthur, who has taken the bag from Cobb to add to his own.
“Do you have the food, Arthur, or did we leave it for our dear guests?”
“I have the food,” is the short reply. Eames grins at the stuffier man as he drops the metal bar in place across the door. Arthur ignores him and starts organizing the day’s haul in the cupboards.
“How long do you think that’ll last us?” Cobb frowns at the stack.
“A couple of weeks, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“On how much Eames stuffs himself with every day.”
Eames’ eyes widen, and Arthur’s lips twitch slightly before his usual stoic look returns. “I don’t stuff myself," he says in an injured tone, "I just eat!”
“Precisely,” Arthur replies. Cobb grins as Eames stutters for a witty comeback and finds none. He settles for scowling, and turning away, crossing his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur place the last can on top of the others and shut the cupboard door. Eames restrains himself from asking if they can eat something, and telling the others that fighting the undead wais hungry business - just to prove that he wais not, as Arthur implied, a pig.
“Will they ever shut up?” he asks instead, frowning at the door. “Do we have any more of those pipe bombs? I’d like to toss one far away just to grab some sleep.”
The other two shrug simultaneously. Cobb stretches and sits down. “Speaking of which, do we have any more ammunition?”
“I took a couple of guns from the corpses in the road,” came Arthur’s muffled reply. Eames glances over to see the suited man with his head stuck in the cupboard, obviously trying to get something to work. Eames briefly wonders what, exactly, but then decides that he doesn’t want to know. Eventually he pulls back and looks around at their so-called leader. “We have some, but not a lot.”
“We’ll have to go and get more things tomorrow then.” Cobb sighs. “Get some rest, the two of you. Or at the very least, just shut up. I can’t sleep while you’re bickering.”
“We don’t bicker, we debate,” Eames corrects him. “There’s a difference.”
“Yes, but sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference,” the blond man returns. “If you’re feeling restless, make yourself useful and get rid of the crowd outside somehow. I’m going to take a nap.” He heads towards the bunk-beds at the end of the cabin and crawls into the bottom one. “Good night.”
For a long minute silence reigns the space between Arthur and Eames. Eames shifts awkwardly, and picks up a couple of things, going to sit to attempt to fashion a working bomb. From time to time, his gaze flickers over to Arthur, where the younger man is still trying to fix something.
“I do not eat like a pig,” he says eventually, putting down the failed attempt of a bomb (Eames makes the mental note to put something explosive in it, as well as some sharp bits, so when he lights it on fire it will explode) on the table. Arthur looks up at him.
“I never said you did.”
“But you secretly meant it, I know you did.”
“I did not. You’re imagining things, Eames.” He pauses as though a thought has just struck him. “Have you taken your pills today?”
Eames rolls his eyes and snaps, “Very mature, Artie. I would have expected something a little more sophisticated from you.” Arthur grits his teeth, but doesn’t reply; instead, he returns his attention to whatever it is he’s meant to be fixing.
Round five hundred and fifty-two to Eames. The older man grins, and stretches. He’s definitely winning this game. “Well I’m off to sleep, Artie. Good night.” Arthur emits a sound of acknowledgement and, still grinning, Eames climbs onto the top bunk and settles down to nap.
Arthur is one extremely adorable man.
oOo
“Aw shit, it’s one of ‘em cryin’ bitches.”
Bill’s lips twitch slightly at his companion’s choice of words, but he doesn’t speak. The cries of what Ellis calls the Witch are eerie and disconcerting - heartbreaking, yet terrifying. It’s only through sheer force of will that he forces himself forwards, carrying him towards the sound.
Three months ago, Bill’s plane touched down in Arizona to refuel, only to find utter chaos. Mindless monsters roamed the streets and airports, and lunged for them the moment they stepped off the plane. It was a terrifying experience - Bill even witnessed one zombie take down a pregnant tourist on their run for what they hoped was safety. He hid himself behind a partially open door (thank God, they never spotted him), wondering if he should try to save her. But how? He wasn’t carrying anything useful, aside from his backpack of clothes. The woman’s piteous cries alerted the other zombies, who began to work on her as well.
When they finally wandered away, still moaning, Bill saw what was left of her.
Almost nothing.
He probably only survived thanks to Ellis, who somehow knew what the things were.
Ellis found Bill huddled behind the door, eyes wide like a tiny puppy. He grabbed the taller man and shoved him into the nearby security room to arm themselves with whatever they found in there. He next proposed a plan for them to escape the airport, which worked even though Bill, at the time, could barely understand the Southern man’s thick accent. The plan consisted of sneaking around, killing the lone zombies, but hiding when hordes threatened to overwhelm them. Ellis always seemed to know just when the hordes would come for them, and where to hide, and for how long. Bill simply followed his lead.
Now they are in California, heading for the city of Los Angeles. Bill told Ellis that he was searching for his twin brother, who’s in L.A., and was assured that Ellis was going to stick with him, much to his relief - he isn’t very sure just how he can cope by himself against all these nightmarish creatures.
And, though he’ll never tell Ellis this, he doesn’t know how he will handle it if he finds the others dead - or near dead. He’s glad for a friend.
Ellis signals for Bill to stop, and moves forward by himself, raising his shotgun. Bill tenses, ready to spring forward to help or run away should he need to. Just in case Ellis doesn’t make it as a human. Ellis’ own shoulders are tense as he creeps towards the sobbing zombie-woman.
A single shot rings out, and with it comes the screech of the angered Witch.
“Fuck!” Ellis yelps, firing again, rapidly backpedalling. Bill runs forwards, raising his own gun and taking aim. His first shot goes wide, but fortunately wide away from Ellis. “Shit!”
The Witch’s claws slash at the Southern man’s hands and face. Bill watches in horror as a single line of red appears on his friend’s arm. He tries to take aim again, but hesitates - the Witch is too close to Ellis. What if Bill hits Ellis…?
Ellis curses again, and fires one last time. With one final screech, the Witch crumples to the ground, well and truly dead. Bill lowers his gun and joins Ellis, nudging the no longer animated corpse with his toe. He takes Ellis’ hand and checks the cut. It’s not deep, but it needs to be cleaned.
“Shit,” Ellis says again, as Bill reaches into his backpack for one of the med-kits they kept on their person at all times. Bill glances at his friend curiously; the older man is generally more light-hearted, even after a shock like this one. Ellis shrugs. “The bitches’re getting’ stronger.”
“Maybe that one took an overdose,” Bill suggests with a slight grin even though there’s nothing remotely amusing about that scenario. Of course, it’s not definite that the Witch Ellis just killed became a Witch through the drug. He dips a wad of cotton into the disinfectant and runs it over Ellis’s cut, feeling the slightly older man shudder.
“Well I don’ wanna see a Tank overdosin’,” Ellis mutters with a sigh. “We better go, her screamin’ will’ve told ‘em others tha’ we’re ‘ere.” He looks around restlessly, and glances back at his arm, then up at Bill. “Don’ bother tapin’ it, I’ll fix it up later.” Bill nods, tossing aside the cotton wad and pulling his weapon out of his belt again.
“Let’s go,” he says quietly, and together they move on, alert and ready for whatever the world has in mind next.
Or at least, they hope they’re ready.
oOo
It’s lonely in this place, even with the girl who’s become his friend and companion nearby. Outside the Earth has descended into utter chaos, and it’s as though the two are in their own world, living their own lives in their fantasy land.
Adam looks over at the young blonde girl who he managed to save on his way to what he hopes is safety in Los Angeles. Isis’ name is written on her nametag (he assumes she was a waitress of some sort before all this happened), and she speaks little. Understatement of the year - she doesn’t speak at all, Adam corrects himself as he surreptitiously checks her pulse. She’s all right - not dead or dying. Or undead…
When the first of the zombies started to attack everyone in sight, Adam ran with a larger group. But they eventually dwindled away to just a single person - one of his exes, who, about two and a half months ago, took the bullet (or is it the bite?) for him to get away.
Adam’s insides still ache from the loss.
He ran into Isis a little later, finding her shaking, hidden in a cupboard. She was extremely thin and didn’t stop shivering for two days. How she managed to survive was a mystery to him, until she told him, via a pen and paper, that there were water bottles where she was hiding, and that was all she needed to last that long.
After he got some food into her, she recovered just fine. She’s quite a handy partner to have around. In a way, she reminds him of his younger brother - except for her obvious femininity and total silence. He knows that she has family she’s hoping is still alive - when he first asked her what she’s going to do next, she showed him a picture of people who can only be related to her - her parents (of whom she takes after her mother), and a young boy of maybe ten to twelve.
His gaze passes over her again now.
A shadow passes by the window, and his grip tightens on his trusty metal pole. He tenses, but it’s only a stray zombie wandering past. It doesn’t see them, thankfully.
Isis stirs slightly, and opens her eyes. They meet his curiously; Adam shakes his head and smiles reassuringly. She nods and sits up, stretching before reaching for her machete. When she gestures for him to sleep, he shakes his head; she frowns.
“I can’t sleep,” Adam explains softly, knowing that she’ll understand. Or at least, he hopes she will. What he really means is that his dreams are haunted by the people he’s killed, and by his family. He doesn’t know how he’ll find them - undead? Alive? Dead? In hiding? Terrified? He wonders if they have found ways to keep the zombies out, if they’re even alive. And he also wonders if, in the scenario that they aren’t, he will have to shoot them himself. The thought makes him cringe.
Isis’ face clears, and she shakes her head slightly as if to tell him that it’s no excuse, making the motion that he should sleep - insistent.
Adam rolls his eyes.
Isis frowns.
“I’ll sleep later,” he whispers back. She sighs, and gets to her feet to check on the situation outside. “How many of them are there?”
She raises her hands - seven. Adam nods and sighs in relief. That’s one less than yesterday, and unless that one has gone into hiding somewhere, or is someplace Isis can’t see in the darkness, they’re finally beginning to move away.
“We should get out of here soon,” he says, getting to his feet. Isis frowns at him and stamps of the floor lightly as if to tell him to sit back down. Adam smiles at her. “I’m not going to drop dead just yet, Isis. I plan to live long enough to see you safely back into your family.” And to see my own… I wonder if they’re even alive. He blinks back to reality to see Isis staring at him doubtfully, nibbling her bottom lip. “They’ll be fine,” he tells himself as much as his companion. Their worries are so similar it’s almost as though they share one mind in this broken world. “I promise.”
His feet take him to the entrance of the safe house, and he peers outside. Just a couple they can easily take care of before the undead raise the alarm.
Adam turns back around to Isis, and smiles. “Ready to go?”
The girl hefts her machete and nods, her face a mask of determination. Adam grins slightly at her face, inwardly glad that she doesn’t give up easily too. Those undead bastards won’t get the two of them if they have anything to say about it.
And they do.
They have a lot to say about it.
fin chapter one
Chapter Two
Author: xDawnie
Warnings: none in this chapter, I think. Minor gore?
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan, Left4Dead to Valve, Tokio Hotel and Glambert to themselves. Lyrics belong to Within Temptation. Only Isis belongs to me.
Dedication: chaoschild92
Beta: chaoschild92 thank you, Chaos, I love you so much xD
Summary: Three months into the zombie apocalypse, the most unlikely people are about to join forces and stand for the world as they once knew it.
A/N: Yay, finally something fic-y! Title and summary are subject to change. This is for Chaos, whose bunny this is. Yes, it is also a crossover between RPF, Inception and Left 4 Dead. Sue me.
In any case, I hope you enjoy this.
The nights are dark and lonely and the blackness oppressing. It’s almost as though the night is on the dark side, trying to force them all to give up their lives, give into the fate that may well play out soon.
New York City is silent at night now. No cars or passersby, no shouts of anger or screams of fear penetrating the walls of the penthouse. A few streetlamps flicker to life each night while the rest enhance the eerie quality of the new fear. It’s almost as though they are as dead to the world as those who populate it now.
Stumbling figures, like drunkards, wander about the unusually quiet streets, oblivious to everything. Occasionally one will fall over, to be ignored by the rest, oblivious in their lifelessness. Other shapes lounge against the walls and silent cars, holding the classic positions of drug addicts and the miserable homeless, staring blankly at things the night hides from view.
Tom turns his gaze from the darkened city of New York. He doesn’t really need to look to know what is going on outside - he’s been trapped in this hellish nightmare for so long he’s almost used to it. Almost.
It’s been five months and fourteen days since the government announced their latest project - a cure-all program that they’ve apparently been working on since the beginning of the previous year. Three months since the first testings. Since the drugs turned a cancer patient into a flesh-eating nutcase. Since the government promised a cure for this ‘affliction’.
Not that Tom believes that they are actually still working on a cure. No, it is far more likely that they have all been turned into zombies. That, or they’re in zombies.
“Hey, Tom, there are a couple of them getting too close for comfort.” He looks up at Georg standing in the doorway. The bassist looks just as drained as Tom feels. He’s carrying a baseball bat and a heavy metal pan is hooked behind his back. “Think we should beat them to the ground again?” he adds in German, a humourless smile playing on his lips.
Tom grimaces. All of them hate to kill - even if the ‘people’ are already dead. The feeling of bones giving way beneath their homemade weapons, the gore that splatters on their bodies… It is all horribly disgusting. But he stands anyway, and nods, because what can he do? If the zombies manage to take them by surprise, they’ll be dead men. Dead, half-eaten, barely alive men.
So they have to kill, or be killed.
He nods again (trying to reassure himself), and reaches for his weapons - a much-scarred fire extinguisher and a bloodied crowbar he can never bring himself to clean no matter how much it stinks. Just looking at it turns his stomach.
Georg smiles again and steps aside to let Tom past him into the dark hallway of the apartment. Not only is the electricity not working, but as an added defence, they’ve hammered planks over all windows. The door itself is heavily barred, but the barricades are be easily removed from the inside. Tom looks around at their defences warily, half-expecting dead hands to tear them off at any moment, as he heads towards the door.
“Where’s Gustav?” he asks.
“Here.” The shorter blond is standing near a window, peering out the slits left for that purpose. His axe is strapped to his back, and the shining kitchen knives dangle from his belt. Tom shudders slightly at the sight, and looks away. Gustav turns to the other two. “Ready for another round?” he asks almost cheerily - although Tom knows it’s just relief to not have to sit around and wait for death to come to them anymore.
Georg nods, flashing a quick humourless grin. Tom turns towards the door. “Let’s just go,” he says resignedly as he lifts his crowbar. “Get it over with.”
oOo
“Shut the door! Shut the God-damned door!” Cobb yells, dragging a bag of something, over the noise of dozens of undead screeching and rushing for them - for life. For their life.
Eames lunges for the door, hitting it and slamming it shut at the last moment. The noise lessens slightly just before fingernails start to claw at the door. The sound, combined with their screams, makes Eames shudder.
Three months in this hellhole. Almost three months locked up in a barricaded cabin - going out only when they run out of supplies. Three months since they were separated from Ariadne, Saito and Yusuf; since Cobb lost Mal to the infection. He’s been searching for his children and parents-in-law up til about two and a half months ago, and now they’re grounded without a working vehicle. There seems to be no way out of this.
“My God, they’re really something, aren’t they?” he murmurs to himself as he slides all the bolts home. Cobb passes a hand over his eyes, making a low sound of agreement in the back of his throat. Eames eyes him with a little concern, relaxing when the man straightens. He turns to Arthur, who has taken the bag from Cobb to add to his own.
“Do you have the food, Arthur, or did we leave it for our dear guests?”
“I have the food,” is the short reply. Eames grins at the stuffier man as he drops the metal bar in place across the door. Arthur ignores him and starts organizing the day’s haul in the cupboards.
“How long do you think that’ll last us?” Cobb frowns at the stack.
“A couple of weeks, depending.”
“Depending on what?”
“On how much Eames stuffs himself with every day.”
Eames’ eyes widen, and Arthur’s lips twitch slightly before his usual stoic look returns. “I don’t stuff myself," he says in an injured tone, "I just eat!”
“Precisely,” Arthur replies. Cobb grins as Eames stutters for a witty comeback and finds none. He settles for scowling, and turning away, crossing his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur place the last can on top of the others and shut the cupboard door. Eames restrains himself from asking if they can eat something, and telling the others that fighting the undead wais hungry business - just to prove that he wais not, as Arthur implied, a pig.
“Will they ever shut up?” he asks instead, frowning at the door. “Do we have any more of those pipe bombs? I’d like to toss one far away just to grab some sleep.”
The other two shrug simultaneously. Cobb stretches and sits down. “Speaking of which, do we have any more ammunition?”
“I took a couple of guns from the corpses in the road,” came Arthur’s muffled reply. Eames glances over to see the suited man with his head stuck in the cupboard, obviously trying to get something to work. Eames briefly wonders what, exactly, but then decides that he doesn’t want to know. Eventually he pulls back and looks around at their so-called leader. “We have some, but not a lot.”
“We’ll have to go and get more things tomorrow then.” Cobb sighs. “Get some rest, the two of you. Or at the very least, just shut up. I can’t sleep while you’re bickering.”
“We don’t bicker, we debate,” Eames corrects him. “There’s a difference.”
“Yes, but sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference,” the blond man returns. “If you’re feeling restless, make yourself useful and get rid of the crowd outside somehow. I’m going to take a nap.” He heads towards the bunk-beds at the end of the cabin and crawls into the bottom one. “Good night.”
For a long minute silence reigns the space between Arthur and Eames. Eames shifts awkwardly, and picks up a couple of things, going to sit to attempt to fashion a working bomb. From time to time, his gaze flickers over to Arthur, where the younger man is still trying to fix something.
“I do not eat like a pig,” he says eventually, putting down the failed attempt of a bomb (Eames makes the mental note to put something explosive in it, as well as some sharp bits, so when he lights it on fire it will explode) on the table. Arthur looks up at him.
“I never said you did.”
“But you secretly meant it, I know you did.”
“I did not. You’re imagining things, Eames.” He pauses as though a thought has just struck him. “Have you taken your pills today?”
Eames rolls his eyes and snaps, “Very mature, Artie. I would have expected something a little more sophisticated from you.” Arthur grits his teeth, but doesn’t reply; instead, he returns his attention to whatever it is he’s meant to be fixing.
Round five hundred and fifty-two to Eames. The older man grins, and stretches. He’s definitely winning this game. “Well I’m off to sleep, Artie. Good night.” Arthur emits a sound of acknowledgement and, still grinning, Eames climbs onto the top bunk and settles down to nap.
Arthur is one extremely adorable man.
oOo
“Aw shit, it’s one of ‘em cryin’ bitches.”
Bill’s lips twitch slightly at his companion’s choice of words, but he doesn’t speak. The cries of what Ellis calls the Witch are eerie and disconcerting - heartbreaking, yet terrifying. It’s only through sheer force of will that he forces himself forwards, carrying him towards the sound.
Three months ago, Bill’s plane touched down in Arizona to refuel, only to find utter chaos. Mindless monsters roamed the streets and airports, and lunged for them the moment they stepped off the plane. It was a terrifying experience - Bill even witnessed one zombie take down a pregnant tourist on their run for what they hoped was safety. He hid himself behind a partially open door (thank God, they never spotted him), wondering if he should try to save her. But how? He wasn’t carrying anything useful, aside from his backpack of clothes. The woman’s piteous cries alerted the other zombies, who began to work on her as well.
When they finally wandered away, still moaning, Bill saw what was left of her.
Almost nothing.
He probably only survived thanks to Ellis, who somehow knew what the things were.
Ellis found Bill huddled behind the door, eyes wide like a tiny puppy. He grabbed the taller man and shoved him into the nearby security room to arm themselves with whatever they found in there. He next proposed a plan for them to escape the airport, which worked even though Bill, at the time, could barely understand the Southern man’s thick accent. The plan consisted of sneaking around, killing the lone zombies, but hiding when hordes threatened to overwhelm them. Ellis always seemed to know just when the hordes would come for them, and where to hide, and for how long. Bill simply followed his lead.
Now they are in California, heading for the city of Los Angeles. Bill told Ellis that he was searching for his twin brother, who’s in L.A., and was assured that Ellis was going to stick with him, much to his relief - he isn’t very sure just how he can cope by himself against all these nightmarish creatures.
And, though he’ll never tell Ellis this, he doesn’t know how he will handle it if he finds the others dead - or near dead. He’s glad for a friend.
Ellis signals for Bill to stop, and moves forward by himself, raising his shotgun. Bill tenses, ready to spring forward to help or run away should he need to. Just in case Ellis doesn’t make it as a human. Ellis’ own shoulders are tense as he creeps towards the sobbing zombie-woman.
A single shot rings out, and with it comes the screech of the angered Witch.
“Fuck!” Ellis yelps, firing again, rapidly backpedalling. Bill runs forwards, raising his own gun and taking aim. His first shot goes wide, but fortunately wide away from Ellis. “Shit!”
The Witch’s claws slash at the Southern man’s hands and face. Bill watches in horror as a single line of red appears on his friend’s arm. He tries to take aim again, but hesitates - the Witch is too close to Ellis. What if Bill hits Ellis…?
Ellis curses again, and fires one last time. With one final screech, the Witch crumples to the ground, well and truly dead. Bill lowers his gun and joins Ellis, nudging the no longer animated corpse with his toe. He takes Ellis’ hand and checks the cut. It’s not deep, but it needs to be cleaned.
“Shit,” Ellis says again, as Bill reaches into his backpack for one of the med-kits they kept on their person at all times. Bill glances at his friend curiously; the older man is generally more light-hearted, even after a shock like this one. Ellis shrugs. “The bitches’re getting’ stronger.”
“Maybe that one took an overdose,” Bill suggests with a slight grin even though there’s nothing remotely amusing about that scenario. Of course, it’s not definite that the Witch Ellis just killed became a Witch through the drug. He dips a wad of cotton into the disinfectant and runs it over Ellis’s cut, feeling the slightly older man shudder.
“Well I don’ wanna see a Tank overdosin’,” Ellis mutters with a sigh. “We better go, her screamin’ will’ve told ‘em others tha’ we’re ‘ere.” He looks around restlessly, and glances back at his arm, then up at Bill. “Don’ bother tapin’ it, I’ll fix it up later.” Bill nods, tossing aside the cotton wad and pulling his weapon out of his belt again.
“Let’s go,” he says quietly, and together they move on, alert and ready for whatever the world has in mind next.
Or at least, they hope they’re ready.
oOo
It’s lonely in this place, even with the girl who’s become his friend and companion nearby. Outside the Earth has descended into utter chaos, and it’s as though the two are in their own world, living their own lives in their fantasy land.
Adam looks over at the young blonde girl who he managed to save on his way to what he hopes is safety in Los Angeles. Isis’ name is written on her nametag (he assumes she was a waitress of some sort before all this happened), and she speaks little. Understatement of the year - she doesn’t speak at all, Adam corrects himself as he surreptitiously checks her pulse. She’s all right - not dead or dying. Or undead…
When the first of the zombies started to attack everyone in sight, Adam ran with a larger group. But they eventually dwindled away to just a single person - one of his exes, who, about two and a half months ago, took the bullet (or is it the bite?) for him to get away.
Adam’s insides still ache from the loss.
He ran into Isis a little later, finding her shaking, hidden in a cupboard. She was extremely thin and didn’t stop shivering for two days. How she managed to survive was a mystery to him, until she told him, via a pen and paper, that there were water bottles where she was hiding, and that was all she needed to last that long.
After he got some food into her, she recovered just fine. She’s quite a handy partner to have around. In a way, she reminds him of his younger brother - except for her obvious femininity and total silence. He knows that she has family she’s hoping is still alive - when he first asked her what she’s going to do next, she showed him a picture of people who can only be related to her - her parents (of whom she takes after her mother), and a young boy of maybe ten to twelve.
His gaze passes over her again now.
A shadow passes by the window, and his grip tightens on his trusty metal pole. He tenses, but it’s only a stray zombie wandering past. It doesn’t see them, thankfully.
Isis stirs slightly, and opens her eyes. They meet his curiously; Adam shakes his head and smiles reassuringly. She nods and sits up, stretching before reaching for her machete. When she gestures for him to sleep, he shakes his head; she frowns.
“I can’t sleep,” Adam explains softly, knowing that she’ll understand. Or at least, he hopes she will. What he really means is that his dreams are haunted by the people he’s killed, and by his family. He doesn’t know how he’ll find them - undead? Alive? Dead? In hiding? Terrified? He wonders if they have found ways to keep the zombies out, if they’re even alive. And he also wonders if, in the scenario that they aren’t, he will have to shoot them himself. The thought makes him cringe.
Isis’ face clears, and she shakes her head slightly as if to tell him that it’s no excuse, making the motion that he should sleep - insistent.
Adam rolls his eyes.
Isis frowns.
“I’ll sleep later,” he whispers back. She sighs, and gets to her feet to check on the situation outside. “How many of them are there?”
She raises her hands - seven. Adam nods and sighs in relief. That’s one less than yesterday, and unless that one has gone into hiding somewhere, or is someplace Isis can’t see in the darkness, they’re finally beginning to move away.
“We should get out of here soon,” he says, getting to his feet. Isis frowns at him and stamps of the floor lightly as if to tell him to sit back down. Adam smiles at her. “I’m not going to drop dead just yet, Isis. I plan to live long enough to see you safely back into your family.” And to see my own… I wonder if they’re even alive. He blinks back to reality to see Isis staring at him doubtfully, nibbling her bottom lip. “They’ll be fine,” he tells himself as much as his companion. Their worries are so similar it’s almost as though they share one mind in this broken world. “I promise.”
His feet take him to the entrance of the safe house, and he peers outside. Just a couple they can easily take care of before the undead raise the alarm.
Adam turns back around to Isis, and smiles. “Ready to go?”
The girl hefts her machete and nods, her face a mask of determination. Adam grins slightly at her face, inwardly glad that she doesn’t give up easily too. Those undead bastards won’t get the two of them if they have anything to say about it.
And they do.
They have a lot to say about it.
fin chapter one
Chapter Two