SPN Fic: Apocalypse Z: Part One
Master Post
1.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.” - Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Jane Austen & Seth Grahame-Smith
Sam was shoulders-deep in the now-open grave, surrounded by the smell of fresh earth and dankness and his own sweat, intent on getting through the last half-foot of dirt to the grave of Arthur Oberlin, who had reacted to the renovation of his law office by driving letter openers and staplers into the soft flesh of its new tenants, when he heard a moan from topside.
“What?” he grunted at Dean, whose turn it was to hold the light, just as Dean said, “Did you hear something?”
Sam stopped digging and leaned on the shovel. He looked up and could see Dean at the edge of the grave, head tilted to listen. The night was quiet. Far away, a car engine droned.
“Huh,” Dean said, and shrugged. Sam wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and got back to digging.
Arthur was ablaze in his coffin when they heard it again.
“That was definitely a moan,” Sam said, swiveling around to survey the cemetery. Dean switched the flashlight back on to give them more illumination than just the grave fire and swung it in a slow arc until it picked up movement near a crypt.
“Hello?” Sam called, because the shape was human, and it was stumbling. “Are you all right?”
Another low moan floated over to them. Sam picked up the salt-loaded shotgun from the ground, and Dean pulled his handgun out from the back of his jeans. Dean holding the flashlight steady, they slowly approached.
The figure had stopped with its back to them, but now they could see that it was a woman. She was wearing tennis shoes and a plain blue dress, some kind of service worker uniform, with a dirty jeans jacket over it. Her brown hair was matted with dirt and leaves. She was round-shouldered, hunched over with her arms hanging limply at her sides.
“You okay, lady?” Dean asked. “You hurt?”
Slowly, the woman turned around. Her eyes were vacant, her face slack and unintelligent. A fine line of drool trailed from her open mouth.
Dean let out a huff of breath, not quite a laugh. “Man, she is hammered,” he said.
Sam grimaced at him, because it wasn’t really funny, wandering a graveyard too drunk to speak or keep a straight line.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Sam told her. “Let us walk you to the sidewalk, call you a cab.”
The woman took a few hesitant, shuffling steps toward them and said, “Nrghhhh.”
“Hey, I think she likes you, Sammy,” Dean said, and grinned at him.
“Shut up,” Sam said, because his brother was a horse’s ass. He handed Dean the shotgun and stepped toward the woman, holding out an arm.
“Here, careful, don’t fall,” he cautioned, reaching for her elbow. She gripped his arm hard and fell against him, and man, did she stink. She smelled like she’d been sleeping in a dumpster.
“Nrghhhhh,” the woman said again, more insistently, and brought her free hand up to Sam’s hair, yanking to bring his face down to hers.
“Whoa!” Sam yelled, just as Dean laughed and said, “Told ya!”
“Shut up!” Sam snapped to Dean, and then said to the woman (whose breath smelled like she had a strict dietary requirement of rotten meat), “Lady, let me go.”
Instead, she stood on her toes and pressed herself closer, trying to get her mouth to his. Sam pulled back, but she had him in a fierce hold and wasn’t giving him up. “Come on,” Sam said impatiently. “Let go,” and he gave her a little push.
She snarled at him, a phlegmy, guttural noise. “Hey,” he heard Dean bark behind him. “The good meat’s back here, lady. Give it a rest.”
Sam managed to get her hand off of his arm but she had a death-grip on his hair. He was so not taking this to mean that Dean was right about cutting his hair. He gave her another little push, but she dragged him back with her, and he stumbled forward in a sharp pitch.
There was a harsh snapping noise, and he jerked back abruptly, hard enough to get out of her grip, yelping as a chunk of his hair came out.
“Did you just try to bite me?” he said in disbelief in the woman, who stood there dumbly, Sam’s hair still clenched in her fingers.
“Gross,” Dean said. “Forget her. Let’s cover up Arthur and get out of here. She can find her own way home.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, rubbing at his stinging scalp.
Except she followed them, shuffling slowly after them to Arthur’s grave and drooling dumbstruck over the dwindling fire.
“People,” Sam heard Dean mutter as he climbed out of the grave from closing the coffin.
“Ignore her,” Sam told him. “She’s going to think this was some kind of acid-trip dream in the morning.”
“I doubt she’s got enough brain cells left to form that thought,” Dean said, and they started filling the grave. Across it, the woman was staring at them intently. They pitched dirt into the grave and stonily refused to look at her. Sam could still smell her rotten-meat breath on him.
“Ngawwwwwwww!” she yelled suddenly, and they both looked up in disbelief as she shuffled forward, right into the open grave, their yelled warning too late.
“What the fuck!” Dean shouted. “Seriously?”
Sam grabbed the flashlight from the ground and pointed it into the grave. “Hey, are you …” His voice trailed off. One of her legs was bent at an impossible angle underneath her and her neck was twisted so that her lifeless eyes stared right at them over her shoulder.
“Aw, crap,” Dean said, and Sam felt like echoing the sentiment, because what were they supposed to do with this? No, Officer, we didn’t do anything to her, she just fell into the grave we were filling back in. Oh, well, because we dug it up earlier and torched the corpse inside. You know, Thursday.
Dean sniffed. “We could -“
“We are not leaving her in there and just filling it in, Dean,” Sam sniped. “She could have a family, or a job, or - we’re just not.”
Dean sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I know. It’s just - she’s already in there. Doesn’t it count as one of those three Rs you’re always yelling about? Reuse, maybe?”
The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched against his will. “Reduce, maybe. Two for one.”
Dean laughed, and Sam shook his head ruefully. The woman said, “Annnnwwww!”
They did not scream, because the Winchesters are demon-hunters.
The woman pushed herself up on her arms and turned her head back. It lolled to one side, like her broken neck wouldn’t support it properly. She tried to get her legs back under her, but kept failing, so she started grabbing at the dirt walls of the grave, trying to pull herself up.
“Dude,” Dean said, “is that a zombie?”
“I think so,” Sam said. “Huh.”
Sam went back to the Impala and returned with a stake, an ax, and the Colt. “What do you think?” he asked Dean, who was still staring into the grave in disbelief. The woman had found a tree root to use as a handhold and was now upright, her vacant face turned up to them.
“This is no raise-you-from-your-grave zombie,” Dean speculated. “She’s not dressed for a funeral. I’m thinking stake her to her own grave is out.”
“Colt will work no matter what,” Sam said, but they hated to waste the bullets.
“Keep it in reserve,” Dean said, and hefted the ax. “Let’s do this Romero style.”
Sam peered doubtfully into the grave. “You gonna get down there with her? Tight quarters for fighting.”
“She moves slow,” Dean said, and dropped into the grave. The woman promptly let go of the tree root to reach for him and fell over on her face. “And she’s stupid,” Dean called up to Sam, then leaned over her, raised the ax, and took her head off in two quick, brutal blows.
Instead of spraying like Sam would have expected, her blood dripped slowly out of the wound in a thick, sticky river.
“Gross,” Dean said, and tossed up the ax before crawling out of the grave.
Sam was appraising the cemetery, but all was still and quiet. He looked at Dean and raised his eyebrows. Dean shrugged and held out his open palms.
“Huh,” Sam said, then grabbed the shovel. Reduce it was.
* * *
They stayed in town long enough to make sure Arthur was done assaulting people with office equipment (which was more dangerous than it sounded given that he had killed one guy via strangulation with a tie in the paper shredder and another with a water cooler to the head). Sam bought the local paper but could find no mention of the woman there or on the Internet.
“We’re just weird magnets now, Sam,” Dean said to him around a mouthful of sandwich as they sat outside Oberlin Rutherford & Drago. “If there’s something spooky going on anywhere in our vicinity, it comes right for us.”
Sam frowned. “It still doesn’t explain where she came from,” he said. “People don’t just spontaneously turn into zombies.”
Dean shrugged. “They’re all fine,” he said, and waved out the window.
Sam watched the flow of pedestrian traffic. No one was moaning or stumbling or rotting, which did indeed indicate that a zombie outbreak was not in the works. And the world was weird these days. It was End Days, and even if most people didn’t realize it yet, every supernatural thing on the planet sure the hell did, and they were all up and moving around, trying to get some last licks in before the big showdown.
Across the street, two young women in sundresses got off the city bus and stood at the corner, talking animatedly, broad smiles on their faces. Sam watched as they laughed and hugged goodbye before walking separate ways. One of them turned and shouted something to her friend, who laughed and flapped a hand behind her.
He’d like, Sam thought, to get in some last licks himself before the end.
* * *
“Make sure that you do not just go out and start decapitating zombies left and right.” - South Park, “Pink Eye”
There was a coven of witches just outside Athens, Georgia, who were covering people in boils and gardens in locusts, so despite the abnormally grueling heat baking the nation, they went down South. Dean, whose patience with witches wore thinner with each year, vigorously advocated for a permanent, bullet-shaped solution to the problem, but Sam, still smarting over raising the devil and going evil and all, talked him into destroying the Black Altar and providing a sternly worded lecture.
Sometime after 2 a.m., the loud, cranky air conditioner let out an enormous whoof! and died, taking the room from uncomfortably warm to unbearably smothering. They opened the windows and door (careful to replace the salt line) and lay on the sticky coverlets in their underwear. Sam finally turned CNN on mute and stared blankly at the screen. Dean squirmed and muttered in his bed, then got up, fished change out of his jeans on the floor, and stalked out of the room and onto the sidewalk in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.
The CNN reporter was standing in front of a raging city fire. The tagline said Yuba City, California, and Sam was trying to remember if he knew where that was. The reporter started interviewing a man wearing glasses and scrubs.
Dean stalked back in. “Dude,” he said, “there’s another fucking zombie by the soda machine.”
“Another zombie?” Sam asked. He was too hot to lift his head.
“Like the one in Iowa,” Dean insisted. He zipped open the weapons duffle and rooted around until he found the ax. “Remember? In the graveyard? Your special girlfriend?”
“I remember,” Sam said, but didn’t get up. “That was three weeks and many hundred miles ago.”
Dean huffed. “Well, now there’s another one,” he declared, and went back outside.
Sam sighed. He sat up and pulled on a t-shirt. He debated the jeans but decided his boxers would do. He snagged a shotgun and went outside.
In front of the brightly glowing machine that declared COLD COLA! in eye-scalding blue, Dean was swinging the ax into the side of the zombie’s head. The zombie, an older guy in khaki pants, a short-sleeved white button-down and a tie, fell to the ground, looking almost surprised. He let out a moan that was truncated by Dean’s ax coming down on his neck and severing his larynx from his head.
“See!” Dean groused at Sam with great umbrage. “Another fucking zombie!” Then he leaned over the headless corpse, plunked change into the machine, and retrieved his promised COLD COLA!
Sam just didn’t know how to express how bizarre his life was sometimes.
Instead of trying, he went back to the room and snagged one of the putrid yellow coverlets, which he and Dean then used to roll up the de-animated zombie and carry it to the dumpster.
“It’s going to stink something terrible in this heat,” Sam grunted as they hefted it up over the lip of the bin.
“Could burn it,” Dean replied, panting.
Given that everything about “Cozy Peaches Quarters,” from the now-defunct air conditioner to the sparks the peach on the sign periodically gave off screamed fire hazard, Sam thought that wasn’t prudent. And, as Dean so eloquently argued, they didn’t bring the zombie here, they just took care of the problem when it presented. Also, as Dean continued to eloquently argue, it was ball-sweatingly hot and did they really want to lug that thing around in the trunk looking for a likely spot to dig a hole and plant it?
No, Sam decided, he really didn’t want to do that. Especially not in their current attire, which, fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed. Of course, no one seemed to have noticed them decapitating a zombie and disposing of its remains either.
Instead, Sam took Dean up on his offer of a COLD COLA!, went back to the room, and flopped back down on his bed. CNN was still on, and now a different reporter was standing in front of a massive freeway pileup. The tagline read Lebanon, Vermont.
Despite the heat and the stink of zombie and Dean now eating pork rinds half-naked on the other bed, Sam fell asleep.
* * *
CNN was still on in the morning, though Dean was now snoring gently, the bag of pork rinds on his chest rising and falling with each breath. The heat of the day was already coming through the still-open door. Sam checked the salt line, then went to take a shower. Not even the water was cool; he had to settle for lukewarm.
When he came out of the room, feeling more human in clean clothing, CNN was showing footage of a wild-eyed woman with blood on her shirt clutching her children to her ample bosom and sobbing. The screen cut to one of the children, a boy of about 10, being interviewed. Sam turned the volume up a few notches and heard the boy say, “It was almost like Grandpa wanted to eat us up, the way he was drooling and chomping his teeth.” The screen cut back to a reporter, who said, “There you have it, Howard, a bizarre family tragedy in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.”
Sam was hoping for more, but instead they switched to a story about regulation of credit card interest rates. He found his shoes, socks and wallet, then snagged Dean’s keys, the laptop and his phone. He shut the door on Dean and his pork rinds when he left.
Even hick towns had a Starbucks with wifi these days, and it was gloriously air conditioned. Sam got a skinny soy latte with an extra shot and some kind of fruit and yogurt mix, then grabbed a tiny table by the window and flipped on the laptop.
CNN.com said the bizarre family tragedy in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, began when the family’s grandfather fell ill with flu-like symptoms a few days before. The mother and children had come home from the store to find him unconscious and barely breathing, and had called 9-1-1 for an ambulance. When the mother was on the phone with the dispatcher, one of the children ran in crying to say that Grandpa was dead.
The ambulance call was de-prioritized, and the family was still waiting some 40 minutes later when Grandpa staggered into the kitchen, grabbed one of the children and tried to bite him. The mother, screaming, grabbed a broom and beat her father-in-law off. He had turned on her, knocked her down and climbed on top of her, which is when the father came home, grabbed the shotgun and blew Grandpa’s head off.
The county ME said the family had most likely been mistaken about the old man being dead, and then he had attacked in the throes of feverish delirium. Which sounded plausible, except that Sam had come across two zombies in the past three weeks.
He could find no other news accounts that specifically said zombie, and while there was more than the usual share of bad news nation and worldwide, that had been true ever since the last seal was broken.
Sam drummed his fingers on the table and finished his skinny soy latte with an extra shot and picked up his phone.
“Yes,” the angel said. He sounded annoyed. He always sounded annoyed. Sam would take that personally (given, once again, the whole raising the devil and turning evil thing), except that the angel also always sounded annoyed at Dean, despite the fact that he couldn’t take his doe-eyed stare off of Dean whenever they were in a room together.
“Hi, Cas,” Sam said politely, trying to teach through example. “I was wondering if you’d come across any zombies lately.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. “I cannot tell when you are … kidding,” Castiel finally said, stiffly.
“I’m not,” Sam reassured him. “We were doing a routine salt-and-burn a few weeks ago and out of nowhere, this zombie wandered into the graveyard. Then last night Dean killed one by the soda machine. And today I found some weird news reports, could be zombies, could just be weird. So I was wondering if you’d heard anything, if we should be looking for a pattern.”
“I have not come across any zombies,” Castiel answered. “However, I will be alert to any possible zombie activity and report it to you. Please keep me advised.”
“Sure thing,” Sam said, and started to add, “Thanks, Cas,” but the angel had hung up.
Sam sighed. He ate his yogurt.
* * *
Dean wanted to check out a possible werewolf pack in Arkansas, and Sam wanted to hit one of their favorite highly illegal arms dealers in Mississippi, so they headed west, the Impala’s windows rolled down to at least move the air around a little. They had passed into Alabama when Dean decided it was time for gas and slushees and got off the highway to hit a gas station.
Sam bought them both large shushes (cherry for Dean, grape for Sam), beef jerky and Snickers, dumped everything in the front seat while Dean groused at him to be careful, and then went around the side of the building to the restroom. The door was jammed and wouldn’t budge even after Sam put his shoulder into it.
Something inside thumped against the door and let out an earnest moan.
Sam pulled back and stood staring at the door. A trickle of sweat rolled out of his hair and down into his ear, and he shook his head impatiently.
Whatever was in the restroom thumped against the door and moaned again.
Sam turned on his heel and went back to the Impala. He popped the trunk and began rifling through the weapons locker.
“Whaddya doing?” Dean asked, squinting at him over the gas handle.
Sam pulled the ax out and stalked back around to the side of the building. He could feel Dean staring after him and the clerk peering out the window.
He used the dull edge of the ax to whack the handle off, then slammed the door open. It crashed into the shape behind it, knocking it over.
It looked kind of like Bobby, Sam thought - checked shirt, trucker hat, beard. He brought the ax down with brutal efficiency before the zombie could get back on its feet.
“Dude,” Dean said over his shoulder, and then, “Dude!” from the clerk, behind Dean.
Sam stalked past both of them. He used a towel in the trunk to clean off the ax and put it back in its spot, then got back in the passenger seat. Dean went into the store with the clerk, came out alone and got in the driver’s seat.
“You still gotta pee?” Dean asked.
“I’m good,” Sam said, and Dean started the engine.
* * *
At the arms dealer, they decided, with unspoken agreement, to stock up on shotguns, rounds, and sharp instruments. Elgin didn’t take credit, so they emptied out their wallets and kept adding to their shopping list until Elgin said they were out of funds.
“You boys know somethin’ I don’t?” Elgin asked as he helped them load the Impala.
Sam and Dean glanced at each other. “It’s a dangerous world,” Sam finally said, and Dean nodded in agreement.
Back in the car, Dean pulled out his phone. Sam shot him a querying look as he dialed.
“Thought of something,” Dean said. “Somebody who might know something we don’t.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and Sam could faintly hear someone’s voicemail picking up.
“Hey, Chuck, it’s Dean,” Dean said. “We’ve been running into some strange stuff lately, some, uh, zombie-like stuff, and just wondered if there was anything we should know about. You know, visions of planetary destruction and brain harvesting. Stuff like that. Let us know.” He hung up.
“Cas didn’t know anything,” Sam supplied, and Dean shot him a startled look.
“You called Cas?” he demanded. “When? About what?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “This morning, before you were up. Just wondered if he’d seen any zombie activity. He said no, that he’d keep an eye out.”
“You called the angel to ask him about zombies?” Dean asked, pissy. “And you didn’t think to check with me first?”
Sam leaned his head against the seat. “Team Free Will, remember? I’m allowed to talk to your special angel friend, Dean.”
Dean sputtered, completely without his words in his indignation. “He’s not … special,” he finally said, scowling, and slammed the Impala into gear before peeling away.
* * *
They were almost to Arkansas when Sam refused to listen to Poison’s Greatest Hits one more time and turned on the radio to a report of a new strain of rabies affecting humans in Florida. People were being asked to avoid anyone acting erratically and notify the authorities.
Dean pulled the Impala into a highway turnaround and headed toward Maryland.
* * *
Somewhere in Virginia the next day, Castiel appeared in the back seat and Dean nearly ran them off the road. He righted the wheel and then cursed for a solid three minutes.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said when Dean paused. “Hello, Sam.”
“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, and twisted in his seat. “We had another zombie yesterday, and now a news report about people being infected with rabies.”
Castiel nodded gravely. It made Sam even hotter to see him there in the suit and trenchcoat with the heat coming off the leather seats, but Castiel looked, as always, perfectly comfortable.
“I have found similar reports of possible zombie activity across the globe since we spoke,” he said. “I have been unable to track its source. Perhaps Lucifer has unleashed Pestilence and this is the form he is taking.”
“Zombies?” Dean said. “Revelation was talking about zombies?”
“It would be a plague of great terror and destructiveness across the lands,” Castiel said with assurance. “From my understanding of zombies.”
Dean gave him a narrow-eyed look in the rearview mirror. “How did you find us?” he grumbled.
“Sam responded to my text message,” Castiel said, and looked out the window. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, so now you guys are text messaging?” Dean said, looking at Sam menacingly. Sam managed not to smile.
“We’re going to see Chuck,” Sam answered. “Thought he might have had some visions about what’s going on.”
“The prophet,” Castiel rumbled deeply. “A wise course of action. I will meet you there.” And he was gone.
They tore down the highway in silence. Eventually, Dean muttered sullenly, “Texting,” and then subsided.
Sam turned his head so Dean couldn’t see his smile.
* * *
It was dusk when they arrived. Becky’s apartment was in one of those complexes where everything looked the same, and Dean drove them around for 15 minutes before he found the right building.
A large pickup with a covered bed was in front, its door down. They paused and looked inside. It was nearly full of … Ensure. And toilet paper. And canned goods.
“Huh,” Dean said.
“It appears Chuck and Becky are fortifying for upcoming trials,” Castiel said, directly behind them, and the brothers jumped.
“Yeah,” Dean said, catching his breath. “And that they are getting the hell out of Dodge.”
Castiel frowned. “This is not a positive portent.”
“Ya think?” Dean asked.
“I do,” Castiel confirmed, staring solemnly into Dean’s eyes. Dean returned the look. Sam shifted awkwardly. He guessed they were making up over the text-message thing.
Someone coughed. “Hi, guys.”
Chuck was standing on the sidewalk, a box of evaporated milk in his arms. “Can I just …” He moved clumsily around them and put the box in the back of the truck.
“Hey, Chuck,” Dean said. “Anything you feel like sharing?”
Chuck looked around nervously. “The thing is, Becky says -“
“Oh. My. God!” Becky said, appearing out of the building and throwing her arms around Sam. “Oh, it is so good to see you. You look so … fit.” She slid her hands down to Sam’s arms and squeezed.
“Hi, Becky,” Sam said stiffly. She pulled her hands away and stepped back.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was just so surprised to see you.” She glanced at Dean and Castiel. “All of you, of course, welcome!”
“So, um, care to fill us in?” Sam said, and gestured to the truck.
Chuck looked miserably at Becky, who smiled brightly at them and said, “No. Absolutely not.”
“Pardon?” Dean asked.
Becky shook her head emphatically. “It is too dangerous for Chuck to share his prophetic visions with you,” she said. “I mean, look what happened after I told you about the Colt. Poor Ellen and Jo! But they were so brave!” She teared up and sniffled, then reached out to give Sam’s hand a squeeze. “And then it didn’t even work. I never should have told you, and I am so, so sorry, and it will never happen again. Right, Chuck?”
Chuck gave them a shamed look. “Right, sweetie,” he said, then added, “She was really upset.”
“We were really upset, Chuck,” Becky snapped, then abruptly smiled sweetly again. “But listen, everything is going to work out. Trust us. And I’m so glad we got the chance to say goodbye.” She gave Sam another hug, this one slightly damp, then went over to the passenger door. She paused to give them all one last, lingering, worshipful look before climbing inside.
Chuck jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.
“Seriously?” Dean asked in disbelief.
“She was really upset,” Chuck said emphatically. “But, listen, guys, it might be rough for a while, but it’s all going to work out. And, Cas?”
“Yes,” the angel said intently.
“Hang in there, buddy. You’ll get used to it,” Chuck said. “Good luck, guys.” He reached into the truck bed, pulled out a pack of toilet paper and handed it to Sam. “From me. I want you to have it. May the Force be with you.”
“Travel safe, Chuck,” Castiel replied. Chuck nodded, shut the truck bed, and got into the driver’s side. The truck pulled away.
Sam and Dean stared after it in disbelief. Finally, Dean sputtered, “Cas!”
“Yes, Dean,” Castiel answered serenely.
Dean flapped a hand at the truck dwindling into the twilight. “Do something!”
“As zombies must be destroyed by removing the head or destroying the brain, I advise that you lay down stores of sharp-edged blades, guns and ammunition,” Castiel recommended. “I will continue to look for God.”
Dean threw his hands in the air and stormed around in a circle. “Thanks, Cas,” Sam said, still holding the pack of toilet paper.
“You are welcome, Sam,” Castiel answered.
“All right!” Dean yelled, coming to a stop. “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition then! It’s the zombie apocalypse!”
Part Two
1.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.” - Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Jane Austen & Seth Grahame-Smith
Sam was shoulders-deep in the now-open grave, surrounded by the smell of fresh earth and dankness and his own sweat, intent on getting through the last half-foot of dirt to the grave of Arthur Oberlin, who had reacted to the renovation of his law office by driving letter openers and staplers into the soft flesh of its new tenants, when he heard a moan from topside.
“What?” he grunted at Dean, whose turn it was to hold the light, just as Dean said, “Did you hear something?”
Sam stopped digging and leaned on the shovel. He looked up and could see Dean at the edge of the grave, head tilted to listen. The night was quiet. Far away, a car engine droned.
“Huh,” Dean said, and shrugged. Sam wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and got back to digging.
Arthur was ablaze in his coffin when they heard it again.
“That was definitely a moan,” Sam said, swiveling around to survey the cemetery. Dean switched the flashlight back on to give them more illumination than just the grave fire and swung it in a slow arc until it picked up movement near a crypt.
“Hello?” Sam called, because the shape was human, and it was stumbling. “Are you all right?”
Another low moan floated over to them. Sam picked up the salt-loaded shotgun from the ground, and Dean pulled his handgun out from the back of his jeans. Dean holding the flashlight steady, they slowly approached.
The figure had stopped with its back to them, but now they could see that it was a woman. She was wearing tennis shoes and a plain blue dress, some kind of service worker uniform, with a dirty jeans jacket over it. Her brown hair was matted with dirt and leaves. She was round-shouldered, hunched over with her arms hanging limply at her sides.
“You okay, lady?” Dean asked. “You hurt?”
Slowly, the woman turned around. Her eyes were vacant, her face slack and unintelligent. A fine line of drool trailed from her open mouth.
Dean let out a huff of breath, not quite a laugh. “Man, she is hammered,” he said.
Sam grimaced at him, because it wasn’t really funny, wandering a graveyard too drunk to speak or keep a straight line.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Sam told her. “Let us walk you to the sidewalk, call you a cab.”
The woman took a few hesitant, shuffling steps toward them and said, “Nrghhhh.”
“Hey, I think she likes you, Sammy,” Dean said, and grinned at him.
“Shut up,” Sam said, because his brother was a horse’s ass. He handed Dean the shotgun and stepped toward the woman, holding out an arm.
“Here, careful, don’t fall,” he cautioned, reaching for her elbow. She gripped his arm hard and fell against him, and man, did she stink. She smelled like she’d been sleeping in a dumpster.
“Nrghhhhh,” the woman said again, more insistently, and brought her free hand up to Sam’s hair, yanking to bring his face down to hers.
“Whoa!” Sam yelled, just as Dean laughed and said, “Told ya!”
“Shut up!” Sam snapped to Dean, and then said to the woman (whose breath smelled like she had a strict dietary requirement of rotten meat), “Lady, let me go.”
Instead, she stood on her toes and pressed herself closer, trying to get her mouth to his. Sam pulled back, but she had him in a fierce hold and wasn’t giving him up. “Come on,” Sam said impatiently. “Let go,” and he gave her a little push.
She snarled at him, a phlegmy, guttural noise. “Hey,” he heard Dean bark behind him. “The good meat’s back here, lady. Give it a rest.”
Sam managed to get her hand off of his arm but she had a death-grip on his hair. He was so not taking this to mean that Dean was right about cutting his hair. He gave her another little push, but she dragged him back with her, and he stumbled forward in a sharp pitch.
There was a harsh snapping noise, and he jerked back abruptly, hard enough to get out of her grip, yelping as a chunk of his hair came out.
“Did you just try to bite me?” he said in disbelief in the woman, who stood there dumbly, Sam’s hair still clenched in her fingers.
“Gross,” Dean said. “Forget her. Let’s cover up Arthur and get out of here. She can find her own way home.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, rubbing at his stinging scalp.
Except she followed them, shuffling slowly after them to Arthur’s grave and drooling dumbstruck over the dwindling fire.
“People,” Sam heard Dean mutter as he climbed out of the grave from closing the coffin.
“Ignore her,” Sam told him. “She’s going to think this was some kind of acid-trip dream in the morning.”
“I doubt she’s got enough brain cells left to form that thought,” Dean said, and they started filling the grave. Across it, the woman was staring at them intently. They pitched dirt into the grave and stonily refused to look at her. Sam could still smell her rotten-meat breath on him.
“Ngawwwwwwww!” she yelled suddenly, and they both looked up in disbelief as she shuffled forward, right into the open grave, their yelled warning too late.
“What the fuck!” Dean shouted. “Seriously?”
Sam grabbed the flashlight from the ground and pointed it into the grave. “Hey, are you …” His voice trailed off. One of her legs was bent at an impossible angle underneath her and her neck was twisted so that her lifeless eyes stared right at them over her shoulder.
“Aw, crap,” Dean said, and Sam felt like echoing the sentiment, because what were they supposed to do with this? No, Officer, we didn’t do anything to her, she just fell into the grave we were filling back in. Oh, well, because we dug it up earlier and torched the corpse inside. You know, Thursday.
Dean sniffed. “We could -“
“We are not leaving her in there and just filling it in, Dean,” Sam sniped. “She could have a family, or a job, or - we’re just not.”
Dean sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I know. It’s just - she’s already in there. Doesn’t it count as one of those three Rs you’re always yelling about? Reuse, maybe?”
The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched against his will. “Reduce, maybe. Two for one.”
Dean laughed, and Sam shook his head ruefully. The woman said, “Annnnwwww!”
They did not scream, because the Winchesters are demon-hunters.
The woman pushed herself up on her arms and turned her head back. It lolled to one side, like her broken neck wouldn’t support it properly. She tried to get her legs back under her, but kept failing, so she started grabbing at the dirt walls of the grave, trying to pull herself up.
“Dude,” Dean said, “is that a zombie?”
“I think so,” Sam said. “Huh.”
Sam went back to the Impala and returned with a stake, an ax, and the Colt. “What do you think?” he asked Dean, who was still staring into the grave in disbelief. The woman had found a tree root to use as a handhold and was now upright, her vacant face turned up to them.
“This is no raise-you-from-your-grave zombie,” Dean speculated. “She’s not dressed for a funeral. I’m thinking stake her to her own grave is out.”
“Colt will work no matter what,” Sam said, but they hated to waste the bullets.
“Keep it in reserve,” Dean said, and hefted the ax. “Let’s do this Romero style.”
Sam peered doubtfully into the grave. “You gonna get down there with her? Tight quarters for fighting.”
“She moves slow,” Dean said, and dropped into the grave. The woman promptly let go of the tree root to reach for him and fell over on her face. “And she’s stupid,” Dean called up to Sam, then leaned over her, raised the ax, and took her head off in two quick, brutal blows.
Instead of spraying like Sam would have expected, her blood dripped slowly out of the wound in a thick, sticky river.
“Gross,” Dean said, and tossed up the ax before crawling out of the grave.
Sam was appraising the cemetery, but all was still and quiet. He looked at Dean and raised his eyebrows. Dean shrugged and held out his open palms.
“Huh,” Sam said, then grabbed the shovel. Reduce it was.
* * *
They stayed in town long enough to make sure Arthur was done assaulting people with office equipment (which was more dangerous than it sounded given that he had killed one guy via strangulation with a tie in the paper shredder and another with a water cooler to the head). Sam bought the local paper but could find no mention of the woman there or on the Internet.
“We’re just weird magnets now, Sam,” Dean said to him around a mouthful of sandwich as they sat outside Oberlin Rutherford & Drago. “If there’s something spooky going on anywhere in our vicinity, it comes right for us.”
Sam frowned. “It still doesn’t explain where she came from,” he said. “People don’t just spontaneously turn into zombies.”
Dean shrugged. “They’re all fine,” he said, and waved out the window.
Sam watched the flow of pedestrian traffic. No one was moaning or stumbling or rotting, which did indeed indicate that a zombie outbreak was not in the works. And the world was weird these days. It was End Days, and even if most people didn’t realize it yet, every supernatural thing on the planet sure the hell did, and they were all up and moving around, trying to get some last licks in before the big showdown.
Across the street, two young women in sundresses got off the city bus and stood at the corner, talking animatedly, broad smiles on their faces. Sam watched as they laughed and hugged goodbye before walking separate ways. One of them turned and shouted something to her friend, who laughed and flapped a hand behind her.
He’d like, Sam thought, to get in some last licks himself before the end.
* * *
“Make sure that you do not just go out and start decapitating zombies left and right.” - South Park, “Pink Eye”
There was a coven of witches just outside Athens, Georgia, who were covering people in boils and gardens in locusts, so despite the abnormally grueling heat baking the nation, they went down South. Dean, whose patience with witches wore thinner with each year, vigorously advocated for a permanent, bullet-shaped solution to the problem, but Sam, still smarting over raising the devil and going evil and all, talked him into destroying the Black Altar and providing a sternly worded lecture.
Sometime after 2 a.m., the loud, cranky air conditioner let out an enormous whoof! and died, taking the room from uncomfortably warm to unbearably smothering. They opened the windows and door (careful to replace the salt line) and lay on the sticky coverlets in their underwear. Sam finally turned CNN on mute and stared blankly at the screen. Dean squirmed and muttered in his bed, then got up, fished change out of his jeans on the floor, and stalked out of the room and onto the sidewalk in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.
The CNN reporter was standing in front of a raging city fire. The tagline said Yuba City, California, and Sam was trying to remember if he knew where that was. The reporter started interviewing a man wearing glasses and scrubs.
Dean stalked back in. “Dude,” he said, “there’s another fucking zombie by the soda machine.”
“Another zombie?” Sam asked. He was too hot to lift his head.
“Like the one in Iowa,” Dean insisted. He zipped open the weapons duffle and rooted around until he found the ax. “Remember? In the graveyard? Your special girlfriend?”
“I remember,” Sam said, but didn’t get up. “That was three weeks and many hundred miles ago.”
Dean huffed. “Well, now there’s another one,” he declared, and went back outside.
Sam sighed. He sat up and pulled on a t-shirt. He debated the jeans but decided his boxers would do. He snagged a shotgun and went outside.
In front of the brightly glowing machine that declared COLD COLA! in eye-scalding blue, Dean was swinging the ax into the side of the zombie’s head. The zombie, an older guy in khaki pants, a short-sleeved white button-down and a tie, fell to the ground, looking almost surprised. He let out a moan that was truncated by Dean’s ax coming down on his neck and severing his larynx from his head.
“See!” Dean groused at Sam with great umbrage. “Another fucking zombie!” Then he leaned over the headless corpse, plunked change into the machine, and retrieved his promised COLD COLA!
Sam just didn’t know how to express how bizarre his life was sometimes.
Instead of trying, he went back to the room and snagged one of the putrid yellow coverlets, which he and Dean then used to roll up the de-animated zombie and carry it to the dumpster.
“It’s going to stink something terrible in this heat,” Sam grunted as they hefted it up over the lip of the bin.
“Could burn it,” Dean replied, panting.
Given that everything about “Cozy Peaches Quarters,” from the now-defunct air conditioner to the sparks the peach on the sign periodically gave off screamed fire hazard, Sam thought that wasn’t prudent. And, as Dean so eloquently argued, they didn’t bring the zombie here, they just took care of the problem when it presented. Also, as Dean continued to eloquently argue, it was ball-sweatingly hot and did they really want to lug that thing around in the trunk looking for a likely spot to dig a hole and plant it?
No, Sam decided, he really didn’t want to do that. Especially not in their current attire, which, fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed. Of course, no one seemed to have noticed them decapitating a zombie and disposing of its remains either.
Instead, Sam took Dean up on his offer of a COLD COLA!, went back to the room, and flopped back down on his bed. CNN was still on, and now a different reporter was standing in front of a massive freeway pileup. The tagline read Lebanon, Vermont.
Despite the heat and the stink of zombie and Dean now eating pork rinds half-naked on the other bed, Sam fell asleep.
* * *
CNN was still on in the morning, though Dean was now snoring gently, the bag of pork rinds on his chest rising and falling with each breath. The heat of the day was already coming through the still-open door. Sam checked the salt line, then went to take a shower. Not even the water was cool; he had to settle for lukewarm.
When he came out of the room, feeling more human in clean clothing, CNN was showing footage of a wild-eyed woman with blood on her shirt clutching her children to her ample bosom and sobbing. The screen cut to one of the children, a boy of about 10, being interviewed. Sam turned the volume up a few notches and heard the boy say, “It was almost like Grandpa wanted to eat us up, the way he was drooling and chomping his teeth.” The screen cut back to a reporter, who said, “There you have it, Howard, a bizarre family tragedy in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.”
Sam was hoping for more, but instead they switched to a story about regulation of credit card interest rates. He found his shoes, socks and wallet, then snagged Dean’s keys, the laptop and his phone. He shut the door on Dean and his pork rinds when he left.
Even hick towns had a Starbucks with wifi these days, and it was gloriously air conditioned. Sam got a skinny soy latte with an extra shot and some kind of fruit and yogurt mix, then grabbed a tiny table by the window and flipped on the laptop.
CNN.com said the bizarre family tragedy in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, began when the family’s grandfather fell ill with flu-like symptoms a few days before. The mother and children had come home from the store to find him unconscious and barely breathing, and had called 9-1-1 for an ambulance. When the mother was on the phone with the dispatcher, one of the children ran in crying to say that Grandpa was dead.
The ambulance call was de-prioritized, and the family was still waiting some 40 minutes later when Grandpa staggered into the kitchen, grabbed one of the children and tried to bite him. The mother, screaming, grabbed a broom and beat her father-in-law off. He had turned on her, knocked her down and climbed on top of her, which is when the father came home, grabbed the shotgun and blew Grandpa’s head off.
The county ME said the family had most likely been mistaken about the old man being dead, and then he had attacked in the throes of feverish delirium. Which sounded plausible, except that Sam had come across two zombies in the past three weeks.
He could find no other news accounts that specifically said zombie, and while there was more than the usual share of bad news nation and worldwide, that had been true ever since the last seal was broken.
Sam drummed his fingers on the table and finished his skinny soy latte with an extra shot and picked up his phone.
“Yes,” the angel said. He sounded annoyed. He always sounded annoyed. Sam would take that personally (given, once again, the whole raising the devil and turning evil thing), except that the angel also always sounded annoyed at Dean, despite the fact that he couldn’t take his doe-eyed stare off of Dean whenever they were in a room together.
“Hi, Cas,” Sam said politely, trying to teach through example. “I was wondering if you’d come across any zombies lately.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. “I cannot tell when you are … kidding,” Castiel finally said, stiffly.
“I’m not,” Sam reassured him. “We were doing a routine salt-and-burn a few weeks ago and out of nowhere, this zombie wandered into the graveyard. Then last night Dean killed one by the soda machine. And today I found some weird news reports, could be zombies, could just be weird. So I was wondering if you’d heard anything, if we should be looking for a pattern.”
“I have not come across any zombies,” Castiel answered. “However, I will be alert to any possible zombie activity and report it to you. Please keep me advised.”
“Sure thing,” Sam said, and started to add, “Thanks, Cas,” but the angel had hung up.
Sam sighed. He ate his yogurt.
* * *
Dean wanted to check out a possible werewolf pack in Arkansas, and Sam wanted to hit one of their favorite highly illegal arms dealers in Mississippi, so they headed west, the Impala’s windows rolled down to at least move the air around a little. They had passed into Alabama when Dean decided it was time for gas and slushees and got off the highway to hit a gas station.
Sam bought them both large shushes (cherry for Dean, grape for Sam), beef jerky and Snickers, dumped everything in the front seat while Dean groused at him to be careful, and then went around the side of the building to the restroom. The door was jammed and wouldn’t budge even after Sam put his shoulder into it.
Something inside thumped against the door and let out an earnest moan.
Sam pulled back and stood staring at the door. A trickle of sweat rolled out of his hair and down into his ear, and he shook his head impatiently.
Whatever was in the restroom thumped against the door and moaned again.
Sam turned on his heel and went back to the Impala. He popped the trunk and began rifling through the weapons locker.
“Whaddya doing?” Dean asked, squinting at him over the gas handle.
Sam pulled the ax out and stalked back around to the side of the building. He could feel Dean staring after him and the clerk peering out the window.
He used the dull edge of the ax to whack the handle off, then slammed the door open. It crashed into the shape behind it, knocking it over.
It looked kind of like Bobby, Sam thought - checked shirt, trucker hat, beard. He brought the ax down with brutal efficiency before the zombie could get back on its feet.
“Dude,” Dean said over his shoulder, and then, “Dude!” from the clerk, behind Dean.
Sam stalked past both of them. He used a towel in the trunk to clean off the ax and put it back in its spot, then got back in the passenger seat. Dean went into the store with the clerk, came out alone and got in the driver’s seat.
“You still gotta pee?” Dean asked.
“I’m good,” Sam said, and Dean started the engine.
* * *
At the arms dealer, they decided, with unspoken agreement, to stock up on shotguns, rounds, and sharp instruments. Elgin didn’t take credit, so they emptied out their wallets and kept adding to their shopping list until Elgin said they were out of funds.
“You boys know somethin’ I don’t?” Elgin asked as he helped them load the Impala.
Sam and Dean glanced at each other. “It’s a dangerous world,” Sam finally said, and Dean nodded in agreement.
Back in the car, Dean pulled out his phone. Sam shot him a querying look as he dialed.
“Thought of something,” Dean said. “Somebody who might know something we don’t.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and Sam could faintly hear someone’s voicemail picking up.
“Hey, Chuck, it’s Dean,” Dean said. “We’ve been running into some strange stuff lately, some, uh, zombie-like stuff, and just wondered if there was anything we should know about. You know, visions of planetary destruction and brain harvesting. Stuff like that. Let us know.” He hung up.
“Cas didn’t know anything,” Sam supplied, and Dean shot him a startled look.
“You called Cas?” he demanded. “When? About what?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “This morning, before you were up. Just wondered if he’d seen any zombie activity. He said no, that he’d keep an eye out.”
“You called the angel to ask him about zombies?” Dean asked, pissy. “And you didn’t think to check with me first?”
Sam leaned his head against the seat. “Team Free Will, remember? I’m allowed to talk to your special angel friend, Dean.”
Dean sputtered, completely without his words in his indignation. “He’s not … special,” he finally said, scowling, and slammed the Impala into gear before peeling away.
* * *
They were almost to Arkansas when Sam refused to listen to Poison’s Greatest Hits one more time and turned on the radio to a report of a new strain of rabies affecting humans in Florida. People were being asked to avoid anyone acting erratically and notify the authorities.
Dean pulled the Impala into a highway turnaround and headed toward Maryland.
* * *
Somewhere in Virginia the next day, Castiel appeared in the back seat and Dean nearly ran them off the road. He righted the wheel and then cursed for a solid three minutes.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said when Dean paused. “Hello, Sam.”
“Hey, Cas,” Sam said, and twisted in his seat. “We had another zombie yesterday, and now a news report about people being infected with rabies.”
Castiel nodded gravely. It made Sam even hotter to see him there in the suit and trenchcoat with the heat coming off the leather seats, but Castiel looked, as always, perfectly comfortable.
“I have found similar reports of possible zombie activity across the globe since we spoke,” he said. “I have been unable to track its source. Perhaps Lucifer has unleashed Pestilence and this is the form he is taking.”
“Zombies?” Dean said. “Revelation was talking about zombies?”
“It would be a plague of great terror and destructiveness across the lands,” Castiel said with assurance. “From my understanding of zombies.”
Dean gave him a narrow-eyed look in the rearview mirror. “How did you find us?” he grumbled.
“Sam responded to my text message,” Castiel said, and looked out the window. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, so now you guys are text messaging?” Dean said, looking at Sam menacingly. Sam managed not to smile.
“We’re going to see Chuck,” Sam answered. “Thought he might have had some visions about what’s going on.”
“The prophet,” Castiel rumbled deeply. “A wise course of action. I will meet you there.” And he was gone.
They tore down the highway in silence. Eventually, Dean muttered sullenly, “Texting,” and then subsided.
Sam turned his head so Dean couldn’t see his smile.
* * *
It was dusk when they arrived. Becky’s apartment was in one of those complexes where everything looked the same, and Dean drove them around for 15 minutes before he found the right building.
A large pickup with a covered bed was in front, its door down. They paused and looked inside. It was nearly full of … Ensure. And toilet paper. And canned goods.
“Huh,” Dean said.
“It appears Chuck and Becky are fortifying for upcoming trials,” Castiel said, directly behind them, and the brothers jumped.
“Yeah,” Dean said, catching his breath. “And that they are getting the hell out of Dodge.”
Castiel frowned. “This is not a positive portent.”
“Ya think?” Dean asked.
“I do,” Castiel confirmed, staring solemnly into Dean’s eyes. Dean returned the look. Sam shifted awkwardly. He guessed they were making up over the text-message thing.
Someone coughed. “Hi, guys.”
Chuck was standing on the sidewalk, a box of evaporated milk in his arms. “Can I just …” He moved clumsily around them and put the box in the back of the truck.
“Hey, Chuck,” Dean said. “Anything you feel like sharing?”
Chuck looked around nervously. “The thing is, Becky says -“
“Oh. My. God!” Becky said, appearing out of the building and throwing her arms around Sam. “Oh, it is so good to see you. You look so … fit.” She slid her hands down to Sam’s arms and squeezed.
“Hi, Becky,” Sam said stiffly. She pulled her hands away and stepped back.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was just so surprised to see you.” She glanced at Dean and Castiel. “All of you, of course, welcome!”
“So, um, care to fill us in?” Sam said, and gestured to the truck.
Chuck looked miserably at Becky, who smiled brightly at them and said, “No. Absolutely not.”
“Pardon?” Dean asked.
Becky shook her head emphatically. “It is too dangerous for Chuck to share his prophetic visions with you,” she said. “I mean, look what happened after I told you about the Colt. Poor Ellen and Jo! But they were so brave!” She teared up and sniffled, then reached out to give Sam’s hand a squeeze. “And then it didn’t even work. I never should have told you, and I am so, so sorry, and it will never happen again. Right, Chuck?”
Chuck gave them a shamed look. “Right, sweetie,” he said, then added, “She was really upset.”
“We were really upset, Chuck,” Becky snapped, then abruptly smiled sweetly again. “But listen, everything is going to work out. Trust us. And I’m so glad we got the chance to say goodbye.” She gave Sam another hug, this one slightly damp, then went over to the passenger door. She paused to give them all one last, lingering, worshipful look before climbing inside.
Chuck jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.
“Seriously?” Dean asked in disbelief.
“She was really upset,” Chuck said emphatically. “But, listen, guys, it might be rough for a while, but it’s all going to work out. And, Cas?”
“Yes,” the angel said intently.
“Hang in there, buddy. You’ll get used to it,” Chuck said. “Good luck, guys.” He reached into the truck bed, pulled out a pack of toilet paper and handed it to Sam. “From me. I want you to have it. May the Force be with you.”
“Travel safe, Chuck,” Castiel replied. Chuck nodded, shut the truck bed, and got into the driver’s side. The truck pulled away.
Sam and Dean stared after it in disbelief. Finally, Dean sputtered, “Cas!”
“Yes, Dean,” Castiel answered serenely.
Dean flapped a hand at the truck dwindling into the twilight. “Do something!”
“As zombies must be destroyed by removing the head or destroying the brain, I advise that you lay down stores of sharp-edged blades, guns and ammunition,” Castiel recommended. “I will continue to look for God.”
Dean threw his hands in the air and stormed around in a circle. “Thanks, Cas,” Sam said, still holding the pack of toilet paper.
“You are welcome, Sam,” Castiel answered.
“All right!” Dean yelled, coming to a stop. “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition then! It’s the zombie apocalypse!”
Part Two