fic: The Risen (1/3)
Title The Risen
Author adellyna
Genre Horror
Pairings Jon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard, minor Tom/Butcher, various other bandomy folks
Summary AU. They all work on a cruise ship. Shit starts to get bloody after a shore excursion brings something unnatural on board.
Rating R for Violence, Adult Language, Adult Situations
Word Count 22,000
Disclaimer This is untrue and a vicious lie, every word of it. Boys, please never work on a cruise ship, ok? Also, please don’t sue.
WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH(S)
Author’s Note There’s violence and some gore and a spot or two of angst and people do die. It hurt me more than it’ll hurt you, I promise, but I had to stay true to the genre.
Overwhelming Gratitude To the usual people for their constant hand holding and encouragement. Mad thanks to maleyka, airgiodslv, foxxcub, likealocket and untappedbeauty for their fantastic and thorough beta services.
Monday
09:27am
"This is going to be an awesome voyage," Pete says when he slides behind the ship’s concierge desk, a mere twenty-seven minutes late. He smiles widely at Patrick- too widely, any time Patrick has to use his toes to count the number of teeth Pete's showing, things start spiking toward red-levels of sarcasm.
Maybe they can top out somewhere around yellow? Sarcastic, but not enough to make Patrick feel like he's going to get written up just for standing too close to Pete.
"It's good that you got here in time," he says, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It's code for "shut the fuck up," as Pete well knows. "Hate for you to miss the first one of those."
Pete laughs and then grins again. It's thinned out enough that there are fewer teeth, Pete's lips softer, not as tight. Patrick relaxes.
"Hey,” Pete says, "man, they tried to keep me away. Tipped a whole semi over on the freeway to keep me landlocked, but I said hell no, Pete Wentz does not let the Bird of the Sea get wet without him, so here I am." He spreads his palms wide and steps back a bit, letting Patrick get a good look at his semi-regulation uniform: khakis, a polo shirt, a sport coat, magenta sneakers.
"Impressive," Patrick says, but then one of the early-boarders comes up and starts asking him about the horseback riding tour tomorrow and how she has hemorrhoids and is it possible to use a donut seat on the saddle? Or is there some sort of specially smooth-gaited mount she can reserve?
Patrick pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiles at her, toothy.
9:50am
"I really think this is going to be our voyage, Spencer," Brendon says, leering.
Spencer glares up at him through the glass top of the display case; mostly he can see Brendon's elbows, his forearms, the lurid turquoise polyester of his steward’s uniform smashed up against the smooth surface.
"There's just something in the air," Brendon continues. "I feel like we're going to connect this week. Really get somewhere."
"You're in my light," Spencer says. "I'm trying to stock watches here."
"I could be in a lot more than your light."
"Yeah," Spencer snaps. He straightens and slides the door of the case shut, locking it with a firm twist and a vague scowl at Brendon. "You could be in a sexual harassment lawsuit. Don't you have passengers to suck up to or something? I'm kind of busy here."
The shop opens in ten minutes, Ryan is nowhere to be found, Spencer has a whole box of fine fragrances and tacky jewelry to put on shelves, and this? Kind of not helping.
Brendon smiles unrepentantly and wiggles back off the counter. His heels squeak against the linoleum floor and he opens his mouth again, probably to spew more unwanted innuendo, but then Ryan rushes in, wheezing, "I'm here, I'm here. Fucking Frank and Gerard broke up again, they had me cornered in the lounge demanding I pick a side."
"Did you get a t-shirt?" Brendon asks with interest.
"I'm going to fix the magazines," Spencer says. "Way, way on the other side of the shop. Do the fragrances and give me the details later."
He makes it to the hat display before he hears Brendon say, "I really think this is going to be our voyage, Ryan."
11:47am
Mikey is trying to fit a third platter of sliced meat on the buffet table when Andy sidles up with a fourth and a sheepish smile. "I've been recruited to Team Frank. Sorry." He edges the tray onto the table, keeping it in place with one cocked hip, and lifts the bottom of his polo shirt up. Sure enough, under it is a white t-shirt with big block letters proclaiming "Team Frank"
"You don't know the half of it," Mikey says. He finally wedges the ham in between a bowl of potato salad and a thee-tiered platter of cheese and reaches for the hem of his own shirt. "I made this this morning, I swear to God."
His undershirt is thin and off-white from repeated washings. It says, in Mikey's neatest scrawl, thick, carefully-Sharpied letters, "Team Mikey."
"Nice," Andy says, nodding solemnly. "I'm going to take this off. Make 'Team Leave Me The Fuck Out Of It' t-shirts and sell them. I'm going to make a fucking fortune."
8:12pm
The waves are rough that night; they slap angrily against the side of the ship and tilt the floor until everyone walks hunchbacked. The halls are all but deserted, only the really experienced cruise guests in any shape to be out and about. In the lounge, William makes his audience move to tables closer to the piano, dims the lights, pours smoke into his voice and purrs at the handfuls of guests about how it's "more intimate" this way.
Tom and the Butcher are there, their vows glinting on their left hands, candlelight caught in the metal. Jon slides into the booth next to them and grins, nods his head at William. "Vamping it up tonight, is he?"
This is a fair assessment, seeing as how William is actually on top of the piano, his long legs skewed invitingly. Someone in the audience catcalls. William grins and twirls his hair around his finger and Brendon - filling in on piano because William's usual guy is out sick - dances his fingers along the keys in an appreciative flourish.
They're having fun with it; it's night one in a quiet lounge and most of the audience seems to be off-duty staff. Conspicuously absent are Spencer and Ryan.
"Where is everyone?" Jon asks, tugging Tom's basket of fries across the table so he can steal one, two, three, half of the basket.
"I think," Tom says, smirking, "I think you mean where's Spencer. And the answer to that question, my friend, is puking his guts up in his room."
Luckily, Jon is terrific with sea-sickness. He worked child care before they made this ship adults only; now he kind of floats around in activities. The cruise line wanted to transfer him to a different ship, but he frantically insisted that he wanted to stay, wanted to cross-train, wanted to switch to regular activities anyway, and hey, did they know how good he was at shuffleboard? Because really, shuffleboard king over here. If he went to another ship, Jon knew, he'd never see fucking Spencer Smith again, and that just didn't work for him, not at all.
The older folks are nice, but Jon misses the kids and the way they'd make macaroni pictures of him, scribbling black lines over elbow pasta to make Jon's beard.
"Huh," he says.
The Butcher smirks.
"Well, I'd better go check on him," Jon says. "You know. Friendly concern. Care for my coworkers, that sort of thing."
Tom smirks.
"Shut up," Jon says. "Seriously. You two were such fucking freaks before you hooked up, I don't even want to hear about it."
"Hey," Butcher drawls. "I just really like cruises. It's totally normal to take a ten day cruise every month. My job didn't have a problem with it at all."
You can't flip off newlyweds, which is the only reason Jon keeps his finger to himself.
He stops at the front desk and picks up Dramamine and pressure-point motion sickness bracelets from Quinn, who is nice enough but not nearly as much fun to deal with as Patrick, and then he goes straight to Ryan and Spencer's room and knocks.
Ryan answers, looking nauseated. Very distinctly, Jon hears Spencer gagging in the background. "Oh god," Ryan says. "This is really not a good time, Jon."
Jon lifts his hands, offerings cupped in his palms, and says, "The kids got sick all the time."
Ryan waffles visibly.
"Let me take a shift," Jon says. "It won't bother me, hearing it. And Tom and the Butcher are out of their cabin for once, in the lounge. It may be the only time you get to say hi."
Spencer heaves loudly from somewhere off to the right.
"Ok, yeah," Ryan says, caving. "Ok, thanks." He turns like he's going to tell Spencer that he's going, but there's more loud heaving and then the wet splatter of Spencer throwing up. Beads of sweat break out on Ryan's temple and he bolts into the hallway, hand over his stomach.
Jon shuts himself into the cabin and does a little victory fist pump. Alone in Spencer's cabin? He'd thought they had another month or so to go before they got here. It's like he's suddenly on the fucking fast track, like things are finally getting sexy.
Spencer throws up again.
He groans a little when Jon nudges the bathroom door all the way open and grins down. "Ryan?" Spencer asks.
"Gone. Doubled over in the hallway," Jon says cheerfully. "You're going to have to settle for me."
Spencer's reply is lost in more dry heaving over the toilet. Jon bites his lip and tries frowning at himself in the mirror while he dampens a cloth. Smiling like an idiot isn't appropriate when someone's puking up their insides at your feet, it's just not. He fills a cup with water and sinks to the floor, offering it to Spencer. Spencer rinses and spits and lets his head flop against the edge of the counter. He's pale and damp, skin thin from dehydration; Jon can see the veins on Spencer's neck, his hands.
It smells really fucking bad in the cabin, the vinyl floor is cold under Jon's ass, and his knees are informing him that they're planning on protesting this angle in the very near future, but. But Spencer is here, his ankle pressed to Jon's, his eyes wide and glassy.
"I usually don't get sick," he says. "Like, I haven't since I was five. Sea-sick. I read in cars all the time."
"It's ok," Jon says, handing him the first of the pills and the glass of water again. "Tom throws up every other trip, the first night out. I just started drugging him before he even gets a chance to."
Spencer tosses the pills into his mouth, but he leans over the toilet and gags the second they hit his tongue. Jon rubs his hand in slow circles on Spencer's back and smiles at the top of his head, at the little bit of flushed ear that peeks out of his hair.
Tuesday
1pm
Patrick comes back from the shore excursion looking like they were one mount short and he had to play horsey for someone.
“Uh oh,” Pete says. “Someone looks like a very unhappy little hobbit. Did your tour get attacked by dementors?”
“That… is two different pop culture references, you douche.” Patrick has a smear of dirt on his cheek, various twigs and leaves in his hair, a petulant scowl, and skewed glasses. It’s a cute look, actually.
Pete grins harder. “Did you fall off your horse? I keep telling you to get a pony. Maybe a miniature. I’m going to make some calls, see what I can do.”
“No,” Patrick says. He doesn’t even crack a smile.
Pete is vaguely concerned. “Seriously,” he says, dropping his voice. “What happened?”
“Fucking-” Patrick flails. Pete tugs him behind the desk and starts picking shit out of his hair. He licks his thumb and cleans the dirt off of Patrick’s cheek, which earns him a slap to the back of his hand and another scowl. “Shit, dude,“ Patrick says. “That’s fucking gross. What are you, my mom?”
“Something like that, yeah.” Pete snatches Patrick’s glasses off and wipes them clean with the hem of his shirt. The frames are bent, like maybe Patrick hit the dirt face-first or something. Pete is somewhat more than vaguely concerned. “Out with it, Patrick. What the fuck happened?”
Patrick hesitates. He takes his glasses back and cleans them again, tries to bend them properly. His voice is wobbly when he finally has out with it. “It was really weird. We were just, you know, on the tour. Horses and the guides and everything, and it was a little creepy quiet. Like, no insects or birds or anything? Which is weird, usually they drone and give me a headache, but there was nothing. And then, like, this kid came out of the forest and went right up to one of the horses and bit this lady on the leg.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Patrick takes a deep breath and he makes these eyes at Pete, these wide, kind of confused eyes that always make Pete want to strap on a cape and some tights or something and go fix the fucking world so that Patrick Stump can live in it without ever having to think another sad thought in his life. Which is a little crazy, but only if you dwell on it.
“Like,” Pete says. “Just, like, bit her and then ran away? What?”
“No. He, um. He wouldn’t stop biting her. And she was, like, screaming? I guess he was really, really biting her. They had to beat him off with a stick, actually. And I tried to get them to stop and then, yeah, I fell off my horse, but it wasn’t because I was clumsy, it was because of the kid. But a couple of the guides dragged him off into the trees, and then the other guide said we had to go back early because of ‘political unrest’ which is, like, fucking bullshit because I always check before we go out because any time some of these people hear a foreign language they automatically think ‘civil uprising’ and so I always want to have an answer-” Patrick stops for a breath. He’s babbling so fast he’s barely sucking in air.
Pete is seriously really concerned.
“But you’re ok, right? Nobody bit you?”
“Nobody bit me, no.” Patrick smiles a little, just a faint quirk at the corners of his mouth, but it’s better than before. Pete seizes him into a tight hug, which is too sincere for his taste, so he also blows wet pig noises into Patrick’s neck and kind of humps his leg a little.
“Nobody bites you but me, baby,” Pete says, moaning theatrically into Patrick’s ear.
Patrick laughs for real, his actual laugh, and shoves weakly at Pete’s shoulders. “Fucking. Stop, dude.”
“Oooh, Patrick,” Pete moans, mouthing Patrick’s shoulder. “You so tasty. Must consume your flesh.”
4pm
Ryland makes really bitchin towel animals. Brendon's are a little more rudimentary, but at least he manages not to roll up washcloths and give all the towel-animals erections.
Ok, so really, at least he remembers to get rid of the towel erections before he leaves the cabin.
"I'll bet you can't make me a Liger," Brendon says from his position on the top bunk. He can see the top of Ryland's head, the sharp part of his hair.
"You know Ligers are real, right?" Ryland asks.
Oh. Right. "Ok, then I bet you can't make me a dragon."
"You are correct. Did you pay a thousand dollars to come stay in a nice suite and have a handsome dude like myself make you towel animals? No, no I don't think you did, so no dragon for you."
"I tongued your mom," Brendon offers, wiggling backward to avoid a retaliatory strike. "That oughta count for something?"
"Yeah, it counts for me drugging you and shaving your balls, is what it counts for."
Brendon laughs and throws his head back - it's actually not a very good idea. Even as short as he is, there's really not enough room to sit up right on the top bunk, and he ends up cracking his skull so hard against the ceiling his eyes water. "Ow," he moans. "Kinky, but fucking ow."
"Your mom's kinky," Ryland retorts. He spins the towel in his hands into a thick rope and grins evilly, weaving his shoulders back and forth like a boxer. A boxer who is about to fuck Brendon up locker-room style, if he's not mistaken. "She talks dirty to me on the phone," Ryland says, hopping sideways a few steps. "Oh, the things she says. I'll put her on speaker next time."
Ryland is the best roommate ever. Brendon makes a note to Photoshop himself in bed with Ryland's mom before the next voyage while he scrambles, twisting to keep his back away from the strike zone.
"This is really unprofessional behavior," he squeaks, folding himself back into the corner. He snatches the freshly plumped pillow off the bed and holds it between himself and Ryland, peeking out from behind it. His shoes scrape against the comforter, rucking it up, and they're totally going to have to redo this fucking cabin, whoops.
"Aw, shit," Ryland says. He drops his hands and grimaces at the mess Brendon's made of the bed. "Shit, we're going to have to remake that fucking bunk, Bren, and it's a top bunk, you douchenozzle."
It's the resigned irritation in his voice that convinces Brendon that it's safe to scramble down off the bunk. "Yeah, yeah," he says, stretching up on tip-toes to tug the covers back into place.
He really should know better by now. Ryland snaps the towel across his back; Brendon falls to the ground laughing. It hurts like a bitch, burns in a long line from shoulder-blade to side, but Ryland is making these grunting noises like he's a bad-ass, hopping from foot to foot and huffing out sharp, guttural exhales. He is the whitest. Dude. Ever. Ryland - who is still also the best roommate ever, just in case Brendon wasn’t clear - kicks him enthusiastically in the ribs, the white tips of his sneakers just ghosting across Brendon's jacket.
Eventually they finish the last five cabins on Ryland's list and duck back to their own to change. End of shift means regular clothes, it means putting on Team Frank t-shirts and sneaking Death By Chocolate Cheesecake from the kitchen, and most importantly, it means sliding into a booth in the Blue Lounge with Ray, frosty mugs in hand, and watching William drop to his knees and serenade somebody's mother, his hips undulating against the air.
"Ray," Ryland says, his tone very serious. "Where did you get a Team Beckett t-shirt?"
"Hmmm?" Ray looks down like he somehow forgot he’s wearing a tight lavender shirt with glittery puff-letters looping across it. "Oh. Travis has them." He frowns into his beer and falls silent. There are two things really weird about that: the first, that Ray is two empty mugs in at six in the evening; the second, that Ray is frowning.
Brendon and Ryland exchange Looks and jump into tag team mode. "So," Brendon says brightly, tugging the little bowl of peanuts toward him and popping a few in his mouth. "The fuck's up with you, Ray?"
"Anything good?" Ryland chimes in. "Brendon's mom finally stop calling you? I know how that can be, man."
"Yeah," Brendon says, nodding. "Ryland cried for a week when my mom dumped him. He still does, at night sometimes, only now he's, like, moaning your name. I really wish you'd just come stick it in his mouth or something so I could get a decent night's sleep."
Ryland grins. "Mostly I was just fucking her so she'd come around and do Brendon's laundry. You do not want to smell this dude after five or ten minutes of sweating, man, I am not joking."
"I'm surprised you can smell me at all over all the fucking cologne you wear, gaymo."
"Says the guy with the shrine to the hot gay shop boys. Ooooh, Ryan and Spencer, you're so preeeeetty, please to let me toooouch you."
Brendon's laughing too hard to respond, but he throws a handful of peanuts at Ryland and a good half of them go into Ryland's beer, so he considers it a victory.
"Guys," Ray says, laughing into his fist. "Guys. I'd threaten to call your mothers, but I'm getting the impression that's somewhat of a sore subject."
By the time William has sung and Brendon and Ryland have exchanged thirty-six references to copulating with various female relatives and house pets, they’ve achieved victory. Ray finally leans forward and says, "Katie's got this patient in the infirmary."
Ryland and Brendon both nod solemnly, like that means something other than the immediate - and very welcome - mental image of Katie Kay in a tiny nurse's outfit.
"She, like." Ray kind of hesitates. He spins his mug around on the table and leans forward a little more and says, "Keep it on the down-low, please, but this lady got bit by something on Patrick's tour and has, like, this really nasty infection. It keeps spreading, I guess. And the people who are with her got it too? So they think maybe it wasn't really a bite, because the other people have the same kind of lesion."
"Ew," Brendon says, really fucking heartfelt.
Ryland nods and they both lean forward when Ray does it again, bent so far over the table their foreheads are practically touching. "And then, I guess, we got out of the harbor back there like, an hour before they quarantined the area? Like, if we'd waited another thirty minutes or so, we would have run into the fucking Coast Guard or something and been stuck in fucking Panama for fuck only knows how long."
They sit on that for a minute and then Ryland leans back and lifts his beer. "That's fucked up. Here's to narrow escapes."
They toast, and then William comes over and sings Satisfaction, crawling up on the table and getting right into their faces with it, and Brendon doesn't give much more thought to what could have been.
9pm
Spencer slips into the room about two-thirds of the way through the last game of Bingo. He has something in his hands that Jon can't really see; there’s a glint like something shiny on top, but then Spencer settles into one of the chairs in the back and makes bored eyes down at his nails and all Jon can see is his shoulders, the graceful line of his neck, the perfect curve of his- ok, this is just embarrassing, seriously.
Jon looks at the next ball to pop up and fumbles, stuttering into the microphone. "O-69," he croaks.
Just like every other time he's called that number tonight, half of the room moans enthusiastically. Jon catches Spencer's eye and grins when Spencer's cheeks flame over; he moves on to the next, "B-7," his face aching from smiling so hard.
Three calls later, someone gets Bingo. Jon hands off the microphone to Siska to close and jogs to the back of the room. Jogging is about as contained as he can get; he'd rather be fucking sprinting, but you do what you can.
"Hey," he says. "You look better."
"I'm much better, thank you," Spencer says. He unfolds himself from the chair and cocks a hip out to the side, all attitude, no nausea in sight. "I brought you, um." He waves the Tupperware container at Jon and blushes again.
"You brought me…"
"Cookies," Spencer manages. He tucks his thumb into his pocket and stretches the container out, saying, "Well, cookie dough. I would have baked them, but it's like Gay Chef Death Match 2007 in the kitchen, and I'm grateful, but I’m not twenty-two minutes of Frank Iero Has A Legitimate Complaint Against Gerard Way level grateful, so I brought you, um, cookie dough."
Jon laughs.
"It was the best I could do!" Spencer protests, but his lips are turned upwards, sneaking into his usual beam.
"No, it's great. Nothing's worse than overcooking, you know?"
He lures Spencer up to the bow with him, and they sit, arms draped over the railing, feet dangling over the side, eating balls of cookie dough until Jon's fingers are sticky and he thinks he might actually throw up from laughing too hard on a stomach full of thick goo and chocolate chips.
He's probably going to get salmonella, but it'll be worth it.
"These were really amazing cookies," Jon says. "I should watch you throw up more often."
Spencer tips his head back and laughs.
So fucking worth it.
Wednesday
5:30pm
“Her name is Giselle,” Pete complains, sounding really pained. And righteous, but it’s Pete talking about a recent exwhorefriend, so of course he sounds righteous. “It’s not my fault that Gis sounds like jizz, it’s really not. And it’s not like I came on her face and said, like, ‘Jizz for Gis’ or anything. No matter how many times Gabe said it would be hilarious.”
“Mmmm,” Patrick murmurs, which is pretty much the only thing you can say when Pete is in the carpool lane of complaining: three legitimate grievances or more, otherwise you get ticketed. He leans his forehead against the curved glass of the elevator and watches the lobby slowly approach. He doesn’t take the elevators often, doesn’t like the things they do to his stomach, but mostly doesn’t like how watching the carpet go from a speckled, distant blue to the obnoxious riot of colored ribbons on navy makes his left eye twitch.
“And look. It’s not my fault that her sister thinks I’m hot. And it’s not like I called her, you know? Seriously, all thirteen of those calls were in my incoming call history, not my outgoing, and it’s not like I can fake that electronically. And even if I could, why wouldn’t I just delete them altogether?”
The main deck is really empty right now. There’s a few people clustered together around the bird fountain in the middle; they all seem to be hunched over looking at something, but other than that, empty. Well, empty except for a few more people who seem to be napping. Napping happens on the ship sometime, it’s not precisely unusual, but in the main area? And, like, on the floor? Or slumped against a potted plant? That’s kind of weird. Maybe they’re sick? There’s that thing going around, right?
“I’m never dating anyone on this ship again,” Pete continues. “It’s just too much fucking trouble, man, like you can’t fucking get away from them after they go insane psychobitch on your ass. There’s only so much square footage, and I’m certainly not going to hide in my cabin, it’s not like I did anything wrong. I even stopped making out with Bill when she said it bothered her. But then she kept saying that I had to stop making out with you, so I told her to go fuck herself.” Pete pauses and then says, with a note of consideration to his voice, “I bet that didn’t help.”
“We never made out, Pete,” Patrick says. It’s an automatic response; his mind is occupied with visualizing the schedule and trying to remember who should be on desk right now. Quinn? Yeah, Quinn. So why the shit isn’t Quinn assisting any of the obviously ill passengers?
Patrick’s eyes shift to the desk; it’s still blocked by the overhang above it, but one more deck and he should be able to see what Quinn’s doing. Probably reading a book or bitching about the passengers with Jeph or something. Probably anything other than, say, his job.
“I know-” Pete starts, and then he says something else, but Patrick’s eyes are drawn to the corner of the deck by movement and a familiar color. Teal, the hospitality blazer color, someone still too distant for Patrick to identify, steps into the lobby. They kind of weave a little, unsteady on their feet, and one of the passengers from the fountain darts over. Maybe dart isn’t the right word. Sprint? Whatever it is, it’s fast and purposeful. Patrick expects the passenger to tug the staff member toward one of the sick people spotted around the area, but instead he (she?) collides with whoever-in-the-teal-jacket and they stumble backward out of sight.
Which is weird.
Almost as weird as the fact that now, as the desk comes into view, what Patrick is seeing is not actually Quinn slacking off behind it, but someone in another teal blazer lying on top of it, face down, hand flopped over the edge. So. Um.
“Pete,” Patrick says urgently, his fingers finding Pete’s sleeve and tugging. “Pete, who’s on desk right now?”
“Quinn. Why?”
“I think he’s sick,” Patrick answers, but he’s lying. Patrick doesn’t think Quinn is sick at all. Patrick thinks Quinn is dead. And now that they’re drawing steadily closer, Patrick is also pretty sure that the group huddled by the fountain is crouched over another dead body. He hasn’t yet processed what it is that they keep reaching down for handfuls of; there’s a big mental block there. Every time his brain goes to say “food” his vision flashes white and red and he shifts his eyes somewhere else.
He sees Pete step into the corner of his vision, pressing his face against the glass. Pete’s head swivels quickly, a whole 180 degrees of Figuring Shit Out, and then he’s spinning and slamming his hand against the control panel.
The elevator jerks to an abrupt stop half a deck above the lobby, and Patrick doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until it leaks out - a full ten seconds after he’s sure none of the people below noticed them.
They’re close enough now, really close enough that when one of the huddled passengers looks up and hisses toward nothing in particular, Patrick can see how she’s muzzled in blood, black-red and soaked like a sweat stain down the front of her shirt.
Nothing about the body on the ground still looks human.
6:22pm
"Something is weird," Spencer says.
Something is definitely weird. The shop is empty, really empty, and while they can only see the occasional blurred shape through the frosted glass walls, those shapes seem to be moving really, really quickly.
"Yeah," Ryan says, drawing the word out. Something propels his feet toward the door, some instinct, like he's suddenly in a hurry. He doesn't even know what he's going to do, just that it involves getting to the door really fucking fast.
It opens before he can.
A passenger stumbles in, looking lost and pale, drenched in sweat. His shirt is dark and clinging to his skin, his feet shuffling him along the floor. He watches them like he's not even making them move.
"Oh my God," Spencer says, his voice hollow, and then he's suddenly there, between Ryan and the passenger. "That's blood. Sir, you're bleeding. Sir, what happened?"
The man doesn't answer, just moans thickly and reaches for Spencer. His eyes are wild, darting to and fro like he's trying to talk or do something, but the rest of him won't cooperate.
"I'm taking him to the infirmary," Spencer says. "Katie can. Shit, Ryan, I'll be right back."
"No," Ryan says. He's suddenly very sure, pulling Spencer back before he can touch the man, before the man can touch Spencer. He grabs an umbrella from a display nearby and pokes viciously at the passenger, shoving him back out the door, which he promptly locks. "Don't," he says, feeling his chest tighten up, "don't touch him. Don't touch anyone."
"But-" Spencer blinks. He's confused, Ryan can tell, even though it happens so rarely. Spencer's always in the know or, at the very least, in control.
Ryan opens his mouth to explain, or maybe just to tell Spencer to trust him, but he's cut off by the sound of something impacting the door. They both jump and look up, and there's the man they just kicked out, his back up against the glass, feet dangling a good two feet off the ground. He makes a sick gurgling noise that turns Ryan's stomach, his heels slam against the glass twice, and then he falls to the ground.
"Shit," Spencer says softly.
Ryan echoes the sentiment, but not the sound. He can't force words past his throat. Zack, Zack from security, Zack who gives Spencer piggy-back rides, is standing over the body, his mouth bloody, his eyes gleaming with something that looks like lust, but not quite. It makes Ryan want to vomit.
Spencer says, "Zack," and steps toward the door. He's struck dumb, Ryan recognizes that look, though he's pretty sure the last time he saw it was on the dodge ball court in junior high, whenever Spencer took one to the balls.
"No," Ryan says again. He grabs Spencer's sleeve and yanks him backward, glad for the door between them and Zack, but painfully aware of how thin the lock is, how fragile the glass. Zack beats his fists against the frame and leans forward. He licks the glass; it leaves a thick red smear in front of his face.
"Oh God," Spencer says. He grabs for Ryan, shoves him behind him, backs them both into the counter.
Zack beats on the glass again. Ryan really wishes the door were frosted like the rest of the fucking shop.
Another rattle, sickly metallic, Ryan is pretty sure he sees the whole wall bend toward them, but then Zack slumps against the door, his eyes rolling back in his head. He falls on top of the man he just… something’d, and when they went from a normal day to a pile of bodies in front of their shop, Ryan's not sure, but Jon Walker is standing where Zack used to be, panting, a bloody axe in his hand.
"Let me in," Jon says, knocking on the door blindly, his eyes trained behind him.
Spencer's at the door before Ryan can even advise caution, unlatching it. Jon presses in and locks it again, wraps his arm around Spencer's shoulders and squints his eyes shut, lets out a long breath into Spencer's hair and says, "I came to get you guys."
"What's?" Ryan starts. But he doesn't know where to go with that, really. He gestures toward the door, toward the heap of Zack and what was, apparently, Zack's dinner.
"It's all fucked," Jon says. "It's all. I don't know. Just. Fucked." It's not an answer. It's definitely not an answer; there‘s a desperate, wild avoidance in Jon‘s eyes, like if he doesn‘t say it out loud it will all just stop.
There‘s another whomp, something hitting the door. They look up again - it doesn't escape Ryan's notice that Jon pushes Spencer to the side and readies his axe - but this time it's Brendon, unarmed, pressed to the glass, his palm distorted by the bloody smear, looking back over his shoulder. "Let me in let me in let me in," he chants, tripping over the words, his voice squeaky with panic. "Please, please, they're right behind me, let me in."
"Do it," Jon says. "Quick."
Ryan bolts to the door and fumbles with the lock, yanks it open and hauls Brendon inside, then shoves it closed and just barely gets the lock in place again before he sees them: four of them, foaming blood and tripping over themselves as they come racing around the corner.
"What-" he says again, but this time he gets an answer.
"Zombies," Brendon says, draping himself across Ryan and squeezing. Ryan can feel Brendon's heart thudding against his ribs, can feel Brendon's knees shaking, vibrating against his own. "Fucking zombies. I came to get you guys."
They pull the security gate down behind the glass and lock it up tight. Ryan wants to push display cases in front of the door, but he knows it won't really help, so he huddles behind the counter with the others and tries to grow some x-ray vision so he can watch the door through the shiny fake-marble of the counter.
"We can't really stay here," Jon says eventually. He's released his hold on Spencer, but they're sitting close anyway, knees brushing.
"Well, we can't go out there," Ryan counters. "I can hear them moving."
"They move fast," Brendon offers. He's finally stopped shaking, but his eyes are even wider than normal. He's got his knees to his chest and there's blood spattered on the hems of his jeans, soaking through his left shoelace. Ryan notes a smear of something peeling away from his nose, like he was crying heavily, wiping away snot, doesn't realize it's still there.
Ryan can't begrudge him the weakness; he feels like crying too.
"We can't stay here," Jon repeats. "There's no bathroom. It's in the middle of the ship. If they breach the defenses somehow, they might, I don't know how strong they are-"
"Strong," Spencer says, calm and level. "Zack lifted that guy like a burger or something."
As imagery goes, it's the type Ryan would like to avoid.
Jon nods, "If they're strong enough and if there's enough of them, they can probably take down that gate. We need to get moving before they get to everyone. We need to get somewhere where there's a way out."
They grab backpacks off the shelves, stuff them with every package of food they have in the shop, every package in the stockroom. Ryan doesn't see a point. He's pretty sure he's never going to eat again. The thought that the next thing he eats might be Spencer - driven by bloodlust until he's tearing at Spencer's flesh - hits him so strong he has to lean against the wall and gasp for air.
"Hey," Spencer says. He presses a wide, familiar hand to Ryan's back and props his chin on Ryan's shoulder. He doesn't ask if Ryan's ok, and Ryan doesn't say he's not, but it's all there in the way he slumps back and they lean together, breath shallow and synchronized.
"I'm lucky," Ryan says a few minutes later. "That you're so much thicker than I am. I can swim to land in the time it takes them to make a meal of your ass."
Spencer punches him in the arm and laughs, and it's almost. Ryan can almost pretend that they're not snapping wooden rulers in half, picking the ones with the sharpest points to use as makeshift weapons.
Jon insists on being the first one out the door. It's not like they can really argue; Brendon's too small - he weighs maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet - Ryan lacks any sort of reasonable hand-eye coordination, and the look in Jon's eye when Spencer goes to open his mouth and volunteer shuts them all up really fucking fast.
"Besides," he says, hand on the knob and grinning back over his shoulder at them. "I like my axe. I named her Mona."
Spencer smiles stupidly at Jon like they're maybe going to go frolic in a field with some puppies instead of fight their way through corridors filled with reanimated corpses. Love is so fucking stupid.
"Ok," Jon says. He takes a deep breath and pushes down on the handle, eases the door open slowly, sticks his head out and… sighs audibly. "It's clear."
Brendon’s hand is tangled in the back of Jon’s shirt, like he could physically drag him out of harm’s way or something, if it came to it. “Wait,” he says suddenly, his voice thin with panic. “Wait. Where are we going?”
7pm
Eloy - who is possibly Frank’s least favorite busboy, but who is not usually in the habit of tearing out anyone’s jugular - tears out someone’s jugular. With his teeth.
“That’s odd,” Gerard says. He’s still working the knife in his hand, chopping up slabs of ribs, but his head is tilted toward where Eloy is scraping the skin off of his victim’s chin. The blood from the neck wound is still spurting out, covering Eloy’s fingers and splattering in vivid crimson against the crisp white of his uniform.
Frank drops the entire pan of custard onto the floor and slips in it, falling down hard on his ass. He feels the impact all the way through his spine, snapping his jaw shut and forcing the air out of his lungs. “Shit,” he croaks. “Holy shit.”
It’s probably the clatter that attracts Eloy’s attention, but what really gets Frank is how fucking fast he moves, scrambling over a worktable and lurching toward Frank, hands outstretched.
Frank stares - Eloy is a lazy prick, but he’s never actually snarled at Frank before.
Snarled. Snarling. Holy shit, snarling. It suddenly hits Frank that fuck, fucking fuck, Eloy just killed Priscilla, bit the life right out of her, and now he’s coming after Frank and his hands are fucking covered in blood and they’re going to be on him in, like, seven seconds, if that long and move, move, MOVE.
Frank eeks out a panicked whimper, trying to scramble backward on the slippery floor, not fast enough, not fucking fast enough, but suddenly Gerard is there, swinging his meat cleaver. It neatly severs Eloy’s hand from his wrist; the hand flops into Frank’s lap, twitching, and Frank screams like a girl. He crab-walks backward, kicking the hand away, and just barely looks up in time to see Gerard swing the cleaver again. It’s a high arc, like serving a volleyball, full extension, gathering momentum on the way down, and this time it sinks to the hilt right between Eloy’s eyes, splitting his skull down the middle.
What. The. Fuck. Frank mouths the words up at Gerard, jaw working uselessly.
“That,” Gerard says calmly, bending to yank his cleaver out of Eloy‘s head, “Was a zombie.”
“Ok,” Frank says. He nods, blinks, nods again. He is still on the floor. The custard is soaking through his pants, and his palms are smeared with cream and blood.
Frank would kind of like a shower. “I’d kind of like to shower,” he says.
“No time,” Gerard says briskly. He holds his hand out to Frank and claps his fingertips to his palm a few times, impatient. “We have to go. Right now.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find Mikey.”
8:30pm
Pete is pretty sure that Gerard Way wants to save some lives. That's terrific for Gerard Way, and Pete's not really opposed to life-saving in general, but in this instance, he's just not interested in the plural. There is exactly one life he's concerned with, and that is Patrick's. Pete has fucked up a lot of shit in his life - he has a series of blogs featuring white text on a black background to prove it - but he's damn well going to get this one simple fucking thing right.
So he'd been relieved when Bob had come along and helped them pry apart the elevator doors. Quietly, so fucking quietly, hushed grunts and strained wheezing and trying not to attract the wrong sort of attention. Which is any sort of attention at this point.
Bob had also been super fucking helpful when it came to hauling Pete and Patrick up through the three-foot gap between the deck floor and the top of the elevator. Patrick isn't exactly heavy, but Pete isn't exactly strong. Not like Bob. Bob is strong. And there's a lot of meat on him. Pete never really appreciated it before, but if it comes time to throw someone between Patrick and something's drooling mouth, he's pretty sure that Bob will be an appetizing alternative.
Not that he wants Bob to die but, you know. Patrick.
When they first meet up with Frank and Gerard and Mikey - clutching their makeshift weapons (Gerard with his cleaver, Frank with a length of metal pipe, and Mikey with fucking nun chucks of all things) - Pete is even more relieved. More bodies mean more of a buffer between Patrick and the fucked up flesh-eating things.
He has to revise this position pretty quickly.
"We can organize a search party," Gerard says.
"Um," Pete says. "To search for what?"
"Survivors."
That is a really bad idea. Pete actually can’t think of a worse idea, apart from continuing to stand here in a relatively blind corridor, with only two exit possibilities in sight. “That’s a really bad idea,” he says. He wills his voice to stay level, but he can hear it twisting up in panic.
“Pete,” Patrick says, like he’s going to agree with Gerard or something, and that’s just. No. Pete will kill Gerard himself if he has to, but he’s not going to let Patrick go off on a suicide mission like this.
He shakes his head and tries to figure out some way to tell Gerard to go get fucked without pissing everyone off, because he’s pretty sure you don’t want a lot of interpersonal conflict during a zombie infestation.
“We have to do what we can,” Gerard says.
Frank nods. He’s obviously been drinking the Koolaid. “We’re all human,” Frank says. “We need to help.”
“We need supplies,” Pete counters. “And somewhere we can be safe while we come up with a plan to get off this fucking ship alive. If we go looking for people, the only thing we’re going to find is trouble.”
“He has a point,” Mikey says. Gerard’s head whips around and they exchange a speaking glance. Sibling communication; Pete recognizes it, but how they have a silent vocabulary to handle this kind of situation, he’s not sure. Not that it's particularly surprising, since the family Way is fucking weird, but still.
“We can search for food and supplies,” Pete says quickly. There’s blood in the water here, metaphorically anyway, and he’s damn well going to take advantage of it. “If people find us, we’ll take them along.”
Mikey scuffs his foot along the floor a little and Gerard caves. Pete can practically hear it when Gerard’s savior complex crumbles under the weight of the keeping-baby-brother-safe complex.
Pete seriously might kiss Mikey Way, even if it does mean finding a stepladder.
He resists the urge (if only because he doesn’t actually have a stepladder), and they come to the labored conclusion that they should head back toward the kitchen. Not for fresh food, fuck no, but there are snacks and non-perishables they can load their pockets with.
“You don’t want to head up to the store,” Bob says, his face set in grim lines. “I was up there earlier. There’s a lot of bodies.”
Nobody asks if Spencer and Ryan were among them. Probably nobody really wants to know; it’s nicer to pretend all their friends were air-lifted out just before the world got fucked.
They have to go down a lot of stairs to get to the kitchen. The only good thing about this is that Frank and Gerard just came up all those steps, so they’ve got some idea of where not to go. Like the Blue Lounge, where Patrick stops and has one hand flat on the door before Gerard freezes and hisses, “No. Fuck no. Step away, Patrick.”
After that, Pete makes sure Patrick is walking in the middle of the hallway. Just in case.
Eighty feet from the kitchen, Pete is very nearly decapitated by Jon Walker.
Patrick snatches him back just in time, and Jon pulls his axe from the splintery wall with a sheepish grin and a, “Hey. Sorry, Pete.”
“Yeah,” Pete says, even though he can still hear the whoosh of the axe barely missing his ear like it’s on repeat, playing over and over in his head. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. “S’cool.”
Whoosh.
“You should watch where you’re going,” Ryan says. Without, say, blinking. Or inflecting. Or in any way indicating humanity. Pete half wonders if he got bitten and, for not the first time ever, wants to ask him to strip.
For possibly the first time ever, Ryan has a really sharp implement in hand with which to reply to such a request.
“Is he bit?” Pete asks, jabbing his thumb accusingly at Ryan, cutting his eyes to Jon. Always ask the man with the axe, that’s Pete’s policy. “Show us your tits, Ross. Got to make sure you’re not one of them.”
This time, the whoosh heralding Pete’s imminent demise is Ryan’s sharply indrawn breath. Probably it drowns out the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound of Ryan’s eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits, but before he can say anything, Spencer sidles out from behind Jon with his arms crossed and a tone cold enough that Pete wants to exhale hard, just to see if his breath is visible. “Is he?” Spencer bites back, jerking his chin toward Mikey. “Or are we all just going to strip so Pete can bust a nut one last time before we die?”
“Nobody’s going to die,” Jon says, cutting in smoothly. He even steps between Spencer (Spencer and Ryan) and Pete (just Pete) and wraps the non-deadly hand around the back of Spencer’s neck. From somewhere down the corridor, dismayingly close to the kitchen, there’s the squeak of the door and an increasingly familiar wet, guttural moan. “Unless,” Jon says, “we stay here. C’mon.” He’s already moving, pulling Spencer along with him, axe at the ready.
Pete spares one last longing look at the kitchen and turns on his heel, reaching for Patrick.
CONTINUED HERE
Author adellyna
Genre Horror
Pairings Jon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard, minor Tom/Butcher, various other bandomy folks
Summary AU. They all work on a cruise ship. Shit starts to get bloody after a shore excursion brings something unnatural on board.
Rating R for Violence, Adult Language, Adult Situations
Word Count 22,000
Disclaimer This is untrue and a vicious lie, every word of it. Boys, please never work on a cruise ship, ok? Also, please don’t sue.
WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH(S)
Author’s Note There’s violence and some gore and a spot or two of angst and people do die. It hurt me more than it’ll hurt you, I promise, but I had to stay true to the genre.
Overwhelming Gratitude To the usual people for their constant hand holding and encouragement. Mad thanks to maleyka, airgiodslv, foxxcub, likealocket and untappedbeauty for their fantastic and thorough beta services.
Monday
09:27am
"This is going to be an awesome voyage," Pete says when he slides behind the ship’s concierge desk, a mere twenty-seven minutes late. He smiles widely at Patrick- too widely, any time Patrick has to use his toes to count the number of teeth Pete's showing, things start spiking toward red-levels of sarcasm.
Maybe they can top out somewhere around yellow? Sarcastic, but not enough to make Patrick feel like he's going to get written up just for standing too close to Pete.
"It's good that you got here in time," he says, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It's code for "shut the fuck up," as Pete well knows. "Hate for you to miss the first one of those."
Pete laughs and then grins again. It's thinned out enough that there are fewer teeth, Pete's lips softer, not as tight. Patrick relaxes.
"Hey,” Pete says, "man, they tried to keep me away. Tipped a whole semi over on the freeway to keep me landlocked, but I said hell no, Pete Wentz does not let the Bird of the Sea get wet without him, so here I am." He spreads his palms wide and steps back a bit, letting Patrick get a good look at his semi-regulation uniform: khakis, a polo shirt, a sport coat, magenta sneakers.
"Impressive," Patrick says, but then one of the early-boarders comes up and starts asking him about the horseback riding tour tomorrow and how she has hemorrhoids and is it possible to use a donut seat on the saddle? Or is there some sort of specially smooth-gaited mount she can reserve?
Patrick pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiles at her, toothy.
9:50am
"I really think this is going to be our voyage, Spencer," Brendon says, leering.
Spencer glares up at him through the glass top of the display case; mostly he can see Brendon's elbows, his forearms, the lurid turquoise polyester of his steward’s uniform smashed up against the smooth surface.
"There's just something in the air," Brendon continues. "I feel like we're going to connect this week. Really get somewhere."
"You're in my light," Spencer says. "I'm trying to stock watches here."
"I could be in a lot more than your light."
"Yeah," Spencer snaps. He straightens and slides the door of the case shut, locking it with a firm twist and a vague scowl at Brendon. "You could be in a sexual harassment lawsuit. Don't you have passengers to suck up to or something? I'm kind of busy here."
The shop opens in ten minutes, Ryan is nowhere to be found, Spencer has a whole box of fine fragrances and tacky jewelry to put on shelves, and this? Kind of not helping.
Brendon smiles unrepentantly and wiggles back off the counter. His heels squeak against the linoleum floor and he opens his mouth again, probably to spew more unwanted innuendo, but then Ryan rushes in, wheezing, "I'm here, I'm here. Fucking Frank and Gerard broke up again, they had me cornered in the lounge demanding I pick a side."
"Did you get a t-shirt?" Brendon asks with interest.
"I'm going to fix the magazines," Spencer says. "Way, way on the other side of the shop. Do the fragrances and give me the details later."
He makes it to the hat display before he hears Brendon say, "I really think this is going to be our voyage, Ryan."
11:47am
Mikey is trying to fit a third platter of sliced meat on the buffet table when Andy sidles up with a fourth and a sheepish smile. "I've been recruited to Team Frank. Sorry." He edges the tray onto the table, keeping it in place with one cocked hip, and lifts the bottom of his polo shirt up. Sure enough, under it is a white t-shirt with big block letters proclaiming "Team Frank"
"You don't know the half of it," Mikey says. He finally wedges the ham in between a bowl of potato salad and a thee-tiered platter of cheese and reaches for the hem of his own shirt. "I made this this morning, I swear to God."
His undershirt is thin and off-white from repeated washings. It says, in Mikey's neatest scrawl, thick, carefully-Sharpied letters, "Team Mikey."
"Nice," Andy says, nodding solemnly. "I'm going to take this off. Make 'Team Leave Me The Fuck Out Of It' t-shirts and sell them. I'm going to make a fucking fortune."
8:12pm
The waves are rough that night; they slap angrily against the side of the ship and tilt the floor until everyone walks hunchbacked. The halls are all but deserted, only the really experienced cruise guests in any shape to be out and about. In the lounge, William makes his audience move to tables closer to the piano, dims the lights, pours smoke into his voice and purrs at the handfuls of guests about how it's "more intimate" this way.
Tom and the Butcher are there, their vows glinting on their left hands, candlelight caught in the metal. Jon slides into the booth next to them and grins, nods his head at William. "Vamping it up tonight, is he?"
This is a fair assessment, seeing as how William is actually on top of the piano, his long legs skewed invitingly. Someone in the audience catcalls. William grins and twirls his hair around his finger and Brendon - filling in on piano because William's usual guy is out sick - dances his fingers along the keys in an appreciative flourish.
They're having fun with it; it's night one in a quiet lounge and most of the audience seems to be off-duty staff. Conspicuously absent are Spencer and Ryan.
"Where is everyone?" Jon asks, tugging Tom's basket of fries across the table so he can steal one, two, three, half of the basket.
"I think," Tom says, smirking, "I think you mean where's Spencer. And the answer to that question, my friend, is puking his guts up in his room."
Luckily, Jon is terrific with sea-sickness. He worked child care before they made this ship adults only; now he kind of floats around in activities. The cruise line wanted to transfer him to a different ship, but he frantically insisted that he wanted to stay, wanted to cross-train, wanted to switch to regular activities anyway, and hey, did they know how good he was at shuffleboard? Because really, shuffleboard king over here. If he went to another ship, Jon knew, he'd never see fucking Spencer Smith again, and that just didn't work for him, not at all.
The older folks are nice, but Jon misses the kids and the way they'd make macaroni pictures of him, scribbling black lines over elbow pasta to make Jon's beard.
"Huh," he says.
The Butcher smirks.
"Well, I'd better go check on him," Jon says. "You know. Friendly concern. Care for my coworkers, that sort of thing."
Tom smirks.
"Shut up," Jon says. "Seriously. You two were such fucking freaks before you hooked up, I don't even want to hear about it."
"Hey," Butcher drawls. "I just really like cruises. It's totally normal to take a ten day cruise every month. My job didn't have a problem with it at all."
You can't flip off newlyweds, which is the only reason Jon keeps his finger to himself.
He stops at the front desk and picks up Dramamine and pressure-point motion sickness bracelets from Quinn, who is nice enough but not nearly as much fun to deal with as Patrick, and then he goes straight to Ryan and Spencer's room and knocks.
Ryan answers, looking nauseated. Very distinctly, Jon hears Spencer gagging in the background. "Oh god," Ryan says. "This is really not a good time, Jon."
Jon lifts his hands, offerings cupped in his palms, and says, "The kids got sick all the time."
Ryan waffles visibly.
"Let me take a shift," Jon says. "It won't bother me, hearing it. And Tom and the Butcher are out of their cabin for once, in the lounge. It may be the only time you get to say hi."
Spencer heaves loudly from somewhere off to the right.
"Ok, yeah," Ryan says, caving. "Ok, thanks." He turns like he's going to tell Spencer that he's going, but there's more loud heaving and then the wet splatter of Spencer throwing up. Beads of sweat break out on Ryan's temple and he bolts into the hallway, hand over his stomach.
Jon shuts himself into the cabin and does a little victory fist pump. Alone in Spencer's cabin? He'd thought they had another month or so to go before they got here. It's like he's suddenly on the fucking fast track, like things are finally getting sexy.
Spencer throws up again.
He groans a little when Jon nudges the bathroom door all the way open and grins down. "Ryan?" Spencer asks.
"Gone. Doubled over in the hallway," Jon says cheerfully. "You're going to have to settle for me."
Spencer's reply is lost in more dry heaving over the toilet. Jon bites his lip and tries frowning at himself in the mirror while he dampens a cloth. Smiling like an idiot isn't appropriate when someone's puking up their insides at your feet, it's just not. He fills a cup with water and sinks to the floor, offering it to Spencer. Spencer rinses and spits and lets his head flop against the edge of the counter. He's pale and damp, skin thin from dehydration; Jon can see the veins on Spencer's neck, his hands.
It smells really fucking bad in the cabin, the vinyl floor is cold under Jon's ass, and his knees are informing him that they're planning on protesting this angle in the very near future, but. But Spencer is here, his ankle pressed to Jon's, his eyes wide and glassy.
"I usually don't get sick," he says. "Like, I haven't since I was five. Sea-sick. I read in cars all the time."
"It's ok," Jon says, handing him the first of the pills and the glass of water again. "Tom throws up every other trip, the first night out. I just started drugging him before he even gets a chance to."
Spencer tosses the pills into his mouth, but he leans over the toilet and gags the second they hit his tongue. Jon rubs his hand in slow circles on Spencer's back and smiles at the top of his head, at the little bit of flushed ear that peeks out of his hair.
Tuesday
1pm
Patrick comes back from the shore excursion looking like they were one mount short and he had to play horsey for someone.
“Uh oh,” Pete says. “Someone looks like a very unhappy little hobbit. Did your tour get attacked by dementors?”
“That… is two different pop culture references, you douche.” Patrick has a smear of dirt on his cheek, various twigs and leaves in his hair, a petulant scowl, and skewed glasses. It’s a cute look, actually.
Pete grins harder. “Did you fall off your horse? I keep telling you to get a pony. Maybe a miniature. I’m going to make some calls, see what I can do.”
“No,” Patrick says. He doesn’t even crack a smile.
Pete is vaguely concerned. “Seriously,” he says, dropping his voice. “What happened?”
“Fucking-” Patrick flails. Pete tugs him behind the desk and starts picking shit out of his hair. He licks his thumb and cleans the dirt off of Patrick’s cheek, which earns him a slap to the back of his hand and another scowl. “Shit, dude,“ Patrick says. “That’s fucking gross. What are you, my mom?”
“Something like that, yeah.” Pete snatches Patrick’s glasses off and wipes them clean with the hem of his shirt. The frames are bent, like maybe Patrick hit the dirt face-first or something. Pete is somewhat more than vaguely concerned. “Out with it, Patrick. What the fuck happened?”
Patrick hesitates. He takes his glasses back and cleans them again, tries to bend them properly. His voice is wobbly when he finally has out with it. “It was really weird. We were just, you know, on the tour. Horses and the guides and everything, and it was a little creepy quiet. Like, no insects or birds or anything? Which is weird, usually they drone and give me a headache, but there was nothing. And then, like, this kid came out of the forest and went right up to one of the horses and bit this lady on the leg.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Patrick takes a deep breath and he makes these eyes at Pete, these wide, kind of confused eyes that always make Pete want to strap on a cape and some tights or something and go fix the fucking world so that Patrick Stump can live in it without ever having to think another sad thought in his life. Which is a little crazy, but only if you dwell on it.
“Like,” Pete says. “Just, like, bit her and then ran away? What?”
“No. He, um. He wouldn’t stop biting her. And she was, like, screaming? I guess he was really, really biting her. They had to beat him off with a stick, actually. And I tried to get them to stop and then, yeah, I fell off my horse, but it wasn’t because I was clumsy, it was because of the kid. But a couple of the guides dragged him off into the trees, and then the other guide said we had to go back early because of ‘political unrest’ which is, like, fucking bullshit because I always check before we go out because any time some of these people hear a foreign language they automatically think ‘civil uprising’ and so I always want to have an answer-” Patrick stops for a breath. He’s babbling so fast he’s barely sucking in air.
Pete is seriously really concerned.
“But you’re ok, right? Nobody bit you?”
“Nobody bit me, no.” Patrick smiles a little, just a faint quirk at the corners of his mouth, but it’s better than before. Pete seizes him into a tight hug, which is too sincere for his taste, so he also blows wet pig noises into Patrick’s neck and kind of humps his leg a little.
“Nobody bites you but me, baby,” Pete says, moaning theatrically into Patrick’s ear.
Patrick laughs for real, his actual laugh, and shoves weakly at Pete’s shoulders. “Fucking. Stop, dude.”
“Oooh, Patrick,” Pete moans, mouthing Patrick’s shoulder. “You so tasty. Must consume your flesh.”
4pm
Ryland makes really bitchin towel animals. Brendon's are a little more rudimentary, but at least he manages not to roll up washcloths and give all the towel-animals erections.
Ok, so really, at least he remembers to get rid of the towel erections before he leaves the cabin.
"I'll bet you can't make me a Liger," Brendon says from his position on the top bunk. He can see the top of Ryland's head, the sharp part of his hair.
"You know Ligers are real, right?" Ryland asks.
Oh. Right. "Ok, then I bet you can't make me a dragon."
"You are correct. Did you pay a thousand dollars to come stay in a nice suite and have a handsome dude like myself make you towel animals? No, no I don't think you did, so no dragon for you."
"I tongued your mom," Brendon offers, wiggling backward to avoid a retaliatory strike. "That oughta count for something?"
"Yeah, it counts for me drugging you and shaving your balls, is what it counts for."
Brendon laughs and throws his head back - it's actually not a very good idea. Even as short as he is, there's really not enough room to sit up right on the top bunk, and he ends up cracking his skull so hard against the ceiling his eyes water. "Ow," he moans. "Kinky, but fucking ow."
"Your mom's kinky," Ryland retorts. He spins the towel in his hands into a thick rope and grins evilly, weaving his shoulders back and forth like a boxer. A boxer who is about to fuck Brendon up locker-room style, if he's not mistaken. "She talks dirty to me on the phone," Ryland says, hopping sideways a few steps. "Oh, the things she says. I'll put her on speaker next time."
Ryland is the best roommate ever. Brendon makes a note to Photoshop himself in bed with Ryland's mom before the next voyage while he scrambles, twisting to keep his back away from the strike zone.
"This is really unprofessional behavior," he squeaks, folding himself back into the corner. He snatches the freshly plumped pillow off the bed and holds it between himself and Ryland, peeking out from behind it. His shoes scrape against the comforter, rucking it up, and they're totally going to have to redo this fucking cabin, whoops.
"Aw, shit," Ryland says. He drops his hands and grimaces at the mess Brendon's made of the bed. "Shit, we're going to have to remake that fucking bunk, Bren, and it's a top bunk, you douchenozzle."
It's the resigned irritation in his voice that convinces Brendon that it's safe to scramble down off the bunk. "Yeah, yeah," he says, stretching up on tip-toes to tug the covers back into place.
He really should know better by now. Ryland snaps the towel across his back; Brendon falls to the ground laughing. It hurts like a bitch, burns in a long line from shoulder-blade to side, but Ryland is making these grunting noises like he's a bad-ass, hopping from foot to foot and huffing out sharp, guttural exhales. He is the whitest. Dude. Ever. Ryland - who is still also the best roommate ever, just in case Brendon wasn’t clear - kicks him enthusiastically in the ribs, the white tips of his sneakers just ghosting across Brendon's jacket.
Eventually they finish the last five cabins on Ryland's list and duck back to their own to change. End of shift means regular clothes, it means putting on Team Frank t-shirts and sneaking Death By Chocolate Cheesecake from the kitchen, and most importantly, it means sliding into a booth in the Blue Lounge with Ray, frosty mugs in hand, and watching William drop to his knees and serenade somebody's mother, his hips undulating against the air.
"Ray," Ryland says, his tone very serious. "Where did you get a Team Beckett t-shirt?"
"Hmmm?" Ray looks down like he somehow forgot he’s wearing a tight lavender shirt with glittery puff-letters looping across it. "Oh. Travis has them." He frowns into his beer and falls silent. There are two things really weird about that: the first, that Ray is two empty mugs in at six in the evening; the second, that Ray is frowning.
Brendon and Ryland exchange Looks and jump into tag team mode. "So," Brendon says brightly, tugging the little bowl of peanuts toward him and popping a few in his mouth. "The fuck's up with you, Ray?"
"Anything good?" Ryland chimes in. "Brendon's mom finally stop calling you? I know how that can be, man."
"Yeah," Brendon says, nodding. "Ryland cried for a week when my mom dumped him. He still does, at night sometimes, only now he's, like, moaning your name. I really wish you'd just come stick it in his mouth or something so I could get a decent night's sleep."
Ryland grins. "Mostly I was just fucking her so she'd come around and do Brendon's laundry. You do not want to smell this dude after five or ten minutes of sweating, man, I am not joking."
"I'm surprised you can smell me at all over all the fucking cologne you wear, gaymo."
"Says the guy with the shrine to the hot gay shop boys. Ooooh, Ryan and Spencer, you're so preeeeetty, please to let me toooouch you."
Brendon's laughing too hard to respond, but he throws a handful of peanuts at Ryland and a good half of them go into Ryland's beer, so he considers it a victory.
"Guys," Ray says, laughing into his fist. "Guys. I'd threaten to call your mothers, but I'm getting the impression that's somewhat of a sore subject."
By the time William has sung and Brendon and Ryland have exchanged thirty-six references to copulating with various female relatives and house pets, they’ve achieved victory. Ray finally leans forward and says, "Katie's got this patient in the infirmary."
Ryland and Brendon both nod solemnly, like that means something other than the immediate - and very welcome - mental image of Katie Kay in a tiny nurse's outfit.
"She, like." Ray kind of hesitates. He spins his mug around on the table and leans forward a little more and says, "Keep it on the down-low, please, but this lady got bit by something on Patrick's tour and has, like, this really nasty infection. It keeps spreading, I guess. And the people who are with her got it too? So they think maybe it wasn't really a bite, because the other people have the same kind of lesion."
"Ew," Brendon says, really fucking heartfelt.
Ryland nods and they both lean forward when Ray does it again, bent so far over the table their foreheads are practically touching. "And then, I guess, we got out of the harbor back there like, an hour before they quarantined the area? Like, if we'd waited another thirty minutes or so, we would have run into the fucking Coast Guard or something and been stuck in fucking Panama for fuck only knows how long."
They sit on that for a minute and then Ryland leans back and lifts his beer. "That's fucked up. Here's to narrow escapes."
They toast, and then William comes over and sings Satisfaction, crawling up on the table and getting right into their faces with it, and Brendon doesn't give much more thought to what could have been.
9pm
Spencer slips into the room about two-thirds of the way through the last game of Bingo. He has something in his hands that Jon can't really see; there’s a glint like something shiny on top, but then Spencer settles into one of the chairs in the back and makes bored eyes down at his nails and all Jon can see is his shoulders, the graceful line of his neck, the perfect curve of his- ok, this is just embarrassing, seriously.
Jon looks at the next ball to pop up and fumbles, stuttering into the microphone. "O-69," he croaks.
Just like every other time he's called that number tonight, half of the room moans enthusiastically. Jon catches Spencer's eye and grins when Spencer's cheeks flame over; he moves on to the next, "B-7," his face aching from smiling so hard.
Three calls later, someone gets Bingo. Jon hands off the microphone to Siska to close and jogs to the back of the room. Jogging is about as contained as he can get; he'd rather be fucking sprinting, but you do what you can.
"Hey," he says. "You look better."
"I'm much better, thank you," Spencer says. He unfolds himself from the chair and cocks a hip out to the side, all attitude, no nausea in sight. "I brought you, um." He waves the Tupperware container at Jon and blushes again.
"You brought me…"
"Cookies," Spencer manages. He tucks his thumb into his pocket and stretches the container out, saying, "Well, cookie dough. I would have baked them, but it's like Gay Chef Death Match 2007 in the kitchen, and I'm grateful, but I’m not twenty-two minutes of Frank Iero Has A Legitimate Complaint Against Gerard Way level grateful, so I brought you, um, cookie dough."
Jon laughs.
"It was the best I could do!" Spencer protests, but his lips are turned upwards, sneaking into his usual beam.
"No, it's great. Nothing's worse than overcooking, you know?"
He lures Spencer up to the bow with him, and they sit, arms draped over the railing, feet dangling over the side, eating balls of cookie dough until Jon's fingers are sticky and he thinks he might actually throw up from laughing too hard on a stomach full of thick goo and chocolate chips.
He's probably going to get salmonella, but it'll be worth it.
"These were really amazing cookies," Jon says. "I should watch you throw up more often."
Spencer tips his head back and laughs.
So fucking worth it.
Wednesday
5:30pm
“Her name is Giselle,” Pete complains, sounding really pained. And righteous, but it’s Pete talking about a recent exwhorefriend, so of course he sounds righteous. “It’s not my fault that Gis sounds like jizz, it’s really not. And it’s not like I came on her face and said, like, ‘Jizz for Gis’ or anything. No matter how many times Gabe said it would be hilarious.”
“Mmmm,” Patrick murmurs, which is pretty much the only thing you can say when Pete is in the carpool lane of complaining: three legitimate grievances or more, otherwise you get ticketed. He leans his forehead against the curved glass of the elevator and watches the lobby slowly approach. He doesn’t take the elevators often, doesn’t like the things they do to his stomach, but mostly doesn’t like how watching the carpet go from a speckled, distant blue to the obnoxious riot of colored ribbons on navy makes his left eye twitch.
“And look. It’s not my fault that her sister thinks I’m hot. And it’s not like I called her, you know? Seriously, all thirteen of those calls were in my incoming call history, not my outgoing, and it’s not like I can fake that electronically. And even if I could, why wouldn’t I just delete them altogether?”
The main deck is really empty right now. There’s a few people clustered together around the bird fountain in the middle; they all seem to be hunched over looking at something, but other than that, empty. Well, empty except for a few more people who seem to be napping. Napping happens on the ship sometime, it’s not precisely unusual, but in the main area? And, like, on the floor? Or slumped against a potted plant? That’s kind of weird. Maybe they’re sick? There’s that thing going around, right?
“I’m never dating anyone on this ship again,” Pete continues. “It’s just too much fucking trouble, man, like you can’t fucking get away from them after they go insane psychobitch on your ass. There’s only so much square footage, and I’m certainly not going to hide in my cabin, it’s not like I did anything wrong. I even stopped making out with Bill when she said it bothered her. But then she kept saying that I had to stop making out with you, so I told her to go fuck herself.” Pete pauses and then says, with a note of consideration to his voice, “I bet that didn’t help.”
“We never made out, Pete,” Patrick says. It’s an automatic response; his mind is occupied with visualizing the schedule and trying to remember who should be on desk right now. Quinn? Yeah, Quinn. So why the shit isn’t Quinn assisting any of the obviously ill passengers?
Patrick’s eyes shift to the desk; it’s still blocked by the overhang above it, but one more deck and he should be able to see what Quinn’s doing. Probably reading a book or bitching about the passengers with Jeph or something. Probably anything other than, say, his job.
“I know-” Pete starts, and then he says something else, but Patrick’s eyes are drawn to the corner of the deck by movement and a familiar color. Teal, the hospitality blazer color, someone still too distant for Patrick to identify, steps into the lobby. They kind of weave a little, unsteady on their feet, and one of the passengers from the fountain darts over. Maybe dart isn’t the right word. Sprint? Whatever it is, it’s fast and purposeful. Patrick expects the passenger to tug the staff member toward one of the sick people spotted around the area, but instead he (she?) collides with whoever-in-the-teal-jacket and they stumble backward out of sight.
Which is weird.
Almost as weird as the fact that now, as the desk comes into view, what Patrick is seeing is not actually Quinn slacking off behind it, but someone in another teal blazer lying on top of it, face down, hand flopped over the edge. So. Um.
“Pete,” Patrick says urgently, his fingers finding Pete’s sleeve and tugging. “Pete, who’s on desk right now?”
“Quinn. Why?”
“I think he’s sick,” Patrick answers, but he’s lying. Patrick doesn’t think Quinn is sick at all. Patrick thinks Quinn is dead. And now that they’re drawing steadily closer, Patrick is also pretty sure that the group huddled by the fountain is crouched over another dead body. He hasn’t yet processed what it is that they keep reaching down for handfuls of; there’s a big mental block there. Every time his brain goes to say “food” his vision flashes white and red and he shifts his eyes somewhere else.
He sees Pete step into the corner of his vision, pressing his face against the glass. Pete’s head swivels quickly, a whole 180 degrees of Figuring Shit Out, and then he’s spinning and slamming his hand against the control panel.
The elevator jerks to an abrupt stop half a deck above the lobby, and Patrick doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until it leaks out - a full ten seconds after he’s sure none of the people below noticed them.
They’re close enough now, really close enough that when one of the huddled passengers looks up and hisses toward nothing in particular, Patrick can see how she’s muzzled in blood, black-red and soaked like a sweat stain down the front of her shirt.
Nothing about the body on the ground still looks human.
6:22pm
"Something is weird," Spencer says.
Something is definitely weird. The shop is empty, really empty, and while they can only see the occasional blurred shape through the frosted glass walls, those shapes seem to be moving really, really quickly.
"Yeah," Ryan says, drawing the word out. Something propels his feet toward the door, some instinct, like he's suddenly in a hurry. He doesn't even know what he's going to do, just that it involves getting to the door really fucking fast.
It opens before he can.
A passenger stumbles in, looking lost and pale, drenched in sweat. His shirt is dark and clinging to his skin, his feet shuffling him along the floor. He watches them like he's not even making them move.
"Oh my God," Spencer says, his voice hollow, and then he's suddenly there, between Ryan and the passenger. "That's blood. Sir, you're bleeding. Sir, what happened?"
The man doesn't answer, just moans thickly and reaches for Spencer. His eyes are wild, darting to and fro like he's trying to talk or do something, but the rest of him won't cooperate.
"I'm taking him to the infirmary," Spencer says. "Katie can. Shit, Ryan, I'll be right back."
"No," Ryan says. He's suddenly very sure, pulling Spencer back before he can touch the man, before the man can touch Spencer. He grabs an umbrella from a display nearby and pokes viciously at the passenger, shoving him back out the door, which he promptly locks. "Don't," he says, feeling his chest tighten up, "don't touch him. Don't touch anyone."
"But-" Spencer blinks. He's confused, Ryan can tell, even though it happens so rarely. Spencer's always in the know or, at the very least, in control.
Ryan opens his mouth to explain, or maybe just to tell Spencer to trust him, but he's cut off by the sound of something impacting the door. They both jump and look up, and there's the man they just kicked out, his back up against the glass, feet dangling a good two feet off the ground. He makes a sick gurgling noise that turns Ryan's stomach, his heels slam against the glass twice, and then he falls to the ground.
"Shit," Spencer says softly.
Ryan echoes the sentiment, but not the sound. He can't force words past his throat. Zack, Zack from security, Zack who gives Spencer piggy-back rides, is standing over the body, his mouth bloody, his eyes gleaming with something that looks like lust, but not quite. It makes Ryan want to vomit.
Spencer says, "Zack," and steps toward the door. He's struck dumb, Ryan recognizes that look, though he's pretty sure the last time he saw it was on the dodge ball court in junior high, whenever Spencer took one to the balls.
"No," Ryan says again. He grabs Spencer's sleeve and yanks him backward, glad for the door between them and Zack, but painfully aware of how thin the lock is, how fragile the glass. Zack beats his fists against the frame and leans forward. He licks the glass; it leaves a thick red smear in front of his face.
"Oh God," Spencer says. He grabs for Ryan, shoves him behind him, backs them both into the counter.
Zack beats on the glass again. Ryan really wishes the door were frosted like the rest of the fucking shop.
Another rattle, sickly metallic, Ryan is pretty sure he sees the whole wall bend toward them, but then Zack slumps against the door, his eyes rolling back in his head. He falls on top of the man he just… something’d, and when they went from a normal day to a pile of bodies in front of their shop, Ryan's not sure, but Jon Walker is standing where Zack used to be, panting, a bloody axe in his hand.
"Let me in," Jon says, knocking on the door blindly, his eyes trained behind him.
Spencer's at the door before Ryan can even advise caution, unlatching it. Jon presses in and locks it again, wraps his arm around Spencer's shoulders and squints his eyes shut, lets out a long breath into Spencer's hair and says, "I came to get you guys."
"What's?" Ryan starts. But he doesn't know where to go with that, really. He gestures toward the door, toward the heap of Zack and what was, apparently, Zack's dinner.
"It's all fucked," Jon says. "It's all. I don't know. Just. Fucked." It's not an answer. It's definitely not an answer; there‘s a desperate, wild avoidance in Jon‘s eyes, like if he doesn‘t say it out loud it will all just stop.
There‘s another whomp, something hitting the door. They look up again - it doesn't escape Ryan's notice that Jon pushes Spencer to the side and readies his axe - but this time it's Brendon, unarmed, pressed to the glass, his palm distorted by the bloody smear, looking back over his shoulder. "Let me in let me in let me in," he chants, tripping over the words, his voice squeaky with panic. "Please, please, they're right behind me, let me in."
"Do it," Jon says. "Quick."
Ryan bolts to the door and fumbles with the lock, yanks it open and hauls Brendon inside, then shoves it closed and just barely gets the lock in place again before he sees them: four of them, foaming blood and tripping over themselves as they come racing around the corner.
"What-" he says again, but this time he gets an answer.
"Zombies," Brendon says, draping himself across Ryan and squeezing. Ryan can feel Brendon's heart thudding against his ribs, can feel Brendon's knees shaking, vibrating against his own. "Fucking zombies. I came to get you guys."
They pull the security gate down behind the glass and lock it up tight. Ryan wants to push display cases in front of the door, but he knows it won't really help, so he huddles behind the counter with the others and tries to grow some x-ray vision so he can watch the door through the shiny fake-marble of the counter.
"We can't really stay here," Jon says eventually. He's released his hold on Spencer, but they're sitting close anyway, knees brushing.
"Well, we can't go out there," Ryan counters. "I can hear them moving."
"They move fast," Brendon offers. He's finally stopped shaking, but his eyes are even wider than normal. He's got his knees to his chest and there's blood spattered on the hems of his jeans, soaking through his left shoelace. Ryan notes a smear of something peeling away from his nose, like he was crying heavily, wiping away snot, doesn't realize it's still there.
Ryan can't begrudge him the weakness; he feels like crying too.
"We can't stay here," Jon repeats. "There's no bathroom. It's in the middle of the ship. If they breach the defenses somehow, they might, I don't know how strong they are-"
"Strong," Spencer says, calm and level. "Zack lifted that guy like a burger or something."
As imagery goes, it's the type Ryan would like to avoid.
Jon nods, "If they're strong enough and if there's enough of them, they can probably take down that gate. We need to get moving before they get to everyone. We need to get somewhere where there's a way out."
They grab backpacks off the shelves, stuff them with every package of food they have in the shop, every package in the stockroom. Ryan doesn't see a point. He's pretty sure he's never going to eat again. The thought that the next thing he eats might be Spencer - driven by bloodlust until he's tearing at Spencer's flesh - hits him so strong he has to lean against the wall and gasp for air.
"Hey," Spencer says. He presses a wide, familiar hand to Ryan's back and props his chin on Ryan's shoulder. He doesn't ask if Ryan's ok, and Ryan doesn't say he's not, but it's all there in the way he slumps back and they lean together, breath shallow and synchronized.
"I'm lucky," Ryan says a few minutes later. "That you're so much thicker than I am. I can swim to land in the time it takes them to make a meal of your ass."
Spencer punches him in the arm and laughs, and it's almost. Ryan can almost pretend that they're not snapping wooden rulers in half, picking the ones with the sharpest points to use as makeshift weapons.
Jon insists on being the first one out the door. It's not like they can really argue; Brendon's too small - he weighs maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet - Ryan lacks any sort of reasonable hand-eye coordination, and the look in Jon's eye when Spencer goes to open his mouth and volunteer shuts them all up really fucking fast.
"Besides," he says, hand on the knob and grinning back over his shoulder at them. "I like my axe. I named her Mona."
Spencer smiles stupidly at Jon like they're maybe going to go frolic in a field with some puppies instead of fight their way through corridors filled with reanimated corpses. Love is so fucking stupid.
"Ok," Jon says. He takes a deep breath and pushes down on the handle, eases the door open slowly, sticks his head out and… sighs audibly. "It's clear."
Brendon’s hand is tangled in the back of Jon’s shirt, like he could physically drag him out of harm’s way or something, if it came to it. “Wait,” he says suddenly, his voice thin with panic. “Wait. Where are we going?”
7pm
Eloy - who is possibly Frank’s least favorite busboy, but who is not usually in the habit of tearing out anyone’s jugular - tears out someone’s jugular. With his teeth.
“That’s odd,” Gerard says. He’s still working the knife in his hand, chopping up slabs of ribs, but his head is tilted toward where Eloy is scraping the skin off of his victim’s chin. The blood from the neck wound is still spurting out, covering Eloy’s fingers and splattering in vivid crimson against the crisp white of his uniform.
Frank drops the entire pan of custard onto the floor and slips in it, falling down hard on his ass. He feels the impact all the way through his spine, snapping his jaw shut and forcing the air out of his lungs. “Shit,” he croaks. “Holy shit.”
It’s probably the clatter that attracts Eloy’s attention, but what really gets Frank is how fucking fast he moves, scrambling over a worktable and lurching toward Frank, hands outstretched.
Frank stares - Eloy is a lazy prick, but he’s never actually snarled at Frank before.
Snarled. Snarling. Holy shit, snarling. It suddenly hits Frank that fuck, fucking fuck, Eloy just killed Priscilla, bit the life right out of her, and now he’s coming after Frank and his hands are fucking covered in blood and they’re going to be on him in, like, seven seconds, if that long and move, move, MOVE.
Frank eeks out a panicked whimper, trying to scramble backward on the slippery floor, not fast enough, not fucking fast enough, but suddenly Gerard is there, swinging his meat cleaver. It neatly severs Eloy’s hand from his wrist; the hand flops into Frank’s lap, twitching, and Frank screams like a girl. He crab-walks backward, kicking the hand away, and just barely looks up in time to see Gerard swing the cleaver again. It’s a high arc, like serving a volleyball, full extension, gathering momentum on the way down, and this time it sinks to the hilt right between Eloy’s eyes, splitting his skull down the middle.
What. The. Fuck. Frank mouths the words up at Gerard, jaw working uselessly.
“That,” Gerard says calmly, bending to yank his cleaver out of Eloy‘s head, “Was a zombie.”
“Ok,” Frank says. He nods, blinks, nods again. He is still on the floor. The custard is soaking through his pants, and his palms are smeared with cream and blood.
Frank would kind of like a shower. “I’d kind of like to shower,” he says.
“No time,” Gerard says briskly. He holds his hand out to Frank and claps his fingertips to his palm a few times, impatient. “We have to go. Right now.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find Mikey.”
8:30pm
Pete is pretty sure that Gerard Way wants to save some lives. That's terrific for Gerard Way, and Pete's not really opposed to life-saving in general, but in this instance, he's just not interested in the plural. There is exactly one life he's concerned with, and that is Patrick's. Pete has fucked up a lot of shit in his life - he has a series of blogs featuring white text on a black background to prove it - but he's damn well going to get this one simple fucking thing right.
So he'd been relieved when Bob had come along and helped them pry apart the elevator doors. Quietly, so fucking quietly, hushed grunts and strained wheezing and trying not to attract the wrong sort of attention. Which is any sort of attention at this point.
Bob had also been super fucking helpful when it came to hauling Pete and Patrick up through the three-foot gap between the deck floor and the top of the elevator. Patrick isn't exactly heavy, but Pete isn't exactly strong. Not like Bob. Bob is strong. And there's a lot of meat on him. Pete never really appreciated it before, but if it comes time to throw someone between Patrick and something's drooling mouth, he's pretty sure that Bob will be an appetizing alternative.
Not that he wants Bob to die but, you know. Patrick.
When they first meet up with Frank and Gerard and Mikey - clutching their makeshift weapons (Gerard with his cleaver, Frank with a length of metal pipe, and Mikey with fucking nun chucks of all things) - Pete is even more relieved. More bodies mean more of a buffer between Patrick and the fucked up flesh-eating things.
He has to revise this position pretty quickly.
"We can organize a search party," Gerard says.
"Um," Pete says. "To search for what?"
"Survivors."
That is a really bad idea. Pete actually can’t think of a worse idea, apart from continuing to stand here in a relatively blind corridor, with only two exit possibilities in sight. “That’s a really bad idea,” he says. He wills his voice to stay level, but he can hear it twisting up in panic.
“Pete,” Patrick says, like he’s going to agree with Gerard or something, and that’s just. No. Pete will kill Gerard himself if he has to, but he’s not going to let Patrick go off on a suicide mission like this.
He shakes his head and tries to figure out some way to tell Gerard to go get fucked without pissing everyone off, because he’s pretty sure you don’t want a lot of interpersonal conflict during a zombie infestation.
“We have to do what we can,” Gerard says.
Frank nods. He’s obviously been drinking the Koolaid. “We’re all human,” Frank says. “We need to help.”
“We need supplies,” Pete counters. “And somewhere we can be safe while we come up with a plan to get off this fucking ship alive. If we go looking for people, the only thing we’re going to find is trouble.”
“He has a point,” Mikey says. Gerard’s head whips around and they exchange a speaking glance. Sibling communication; Pete recognizes it, but how they have a silent vocabulary to handle this kind of situation, he’s not sure. Not that it's particularly surprising, since the family Way is fucking weird, but still.
“We can search for food and supplies,” Pete says quickly. There’s blood in the water here, metaphorically anyway, and he’s damn well going to take advantage of it. “If people find us, we’ll take them along.”
Mikey scuffs his foot along the floor a little and Gerard caves. Pete can practically hear it when Gerard’s savior complex crumbles under the weight of the keeping-baby-brother-safe complex.
Pete seriously might kiss Mikey Way, even if it does mean finding a stepladder.
He resists the urge (if only because he doesn’t actually have a stepladder), and they come to the labored conclusion that they should head back toward the kitchen. Not for fresh food, fuck no, but there are snacks and non-perishables they can load their pockets with.
“You don’t want to head up to the store,” Bob says, his face set in grim lines. “I was up there earlier. There’s a lot of bodies.”
Nobody asks if Spencer and Ryan were among them. Probably nobody really wants to know; it’s nicer to pretend all their friends were air-lifted out just before the world got fucked.
They have to go down a lot of stairs to get to the kitchen. The only good thing about this is that Frank and Gerard just came up all those steps, so they’ve got some idea of where not to go. Like the Blue Lounge, where Patrick stops and has one hand flat on the door before Gerard freezes and hisses, “No. Fuck no. Step away, Patrick.”
After that, Pete makes sure Patrick is walking in the middle of the hallway. Just in case.
Eighty feet from the kitchen, Pete is very nearly decapitated by Jon Walker.
Patrick snatches him back just in time, and Jon pulls his axe from the splintery wall with a sheepish grin and a, “Hey. Sorry, Pete.”
“Yeah,” Pete says, even though he can still hear the whoosh of the axe barely missing his ear like it’s on repeat, playing over and over in his head. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. “S’cool.”
Whoosh.
“You should watch where you’re going,” Ryan says. Without, say, blinking. Or inflecting. Or in any way indicating humanity. Pete half wonders if he got bitten and, for not the first time ever, wants to ask him to strip.
For possibly the first time ever, Ryan has a really sharp implement in hand with which to reply to such a request.
“Is he bit?” Pete asks, jabbing his thumb accusingly at Ryan, cutting his eyes to Jon. Always ask the man with the axe, that’s Pete’s policy. “Show us your tits, Ross. Got to make sure you’re not one of them.”
This time, the whoosh heralding Pete’s imminent demise is Ryan’s sharply indrawn breath. Probably it drowns out the nails-on-a-chalkboard sound of Ryan’s eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits, but before he can say anything, Spencer sidles out from behind Jon with his arms crossed and a tone cold enough that Pete wants to exhale hard, just to see if his breath is visible. “Is he?” Spencer bites back, jerking his chin toward Mikey. “Or are we all just going to strip so Pete can bust a nut one last time before we die?”
“Nobody’s going to die,” Jon says, cutting in smoothly. He even steps between Spencer (Spencer and Ryan) and Pete (just Pete) and wraps the non-deadly hand around the back of Spencer’s neck. From somewhere down the corridor, dismayingly close to the kitchen, there’s the squeak of the door and an increasingly familiar wet, guttural moan. “Unless,” Jon says, “we stay here. C’mon.” He’s already moving, pulling Spencer along with him, axe at the ready.
Pete spares one last longing look at the kitchen and turns on his heel, reaching for Patrick.
CONTINUED HERE