Short fic: No Tomorrow, DWP, R
Title: No Tomorrow
Author: chilly_flame
Rating: R-ish for zombie killing action
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything related to the Devil or Prada. Alas.
Notes: Written for the Quick and Dirty Halloween fic-a-thon, this story is in honor of atrata, Queen of the original DWP Zombie fic. It was started and finished as quickly as possible tonight, so apologies if there are any glaring errors. If I had more time it would be longer, I wanted to get it in under the wire. Happy Halloween, all!
Andy tried to keep her eyes unfocused, letting her head loll on her stiff shoulders. Her neck was sore, but this was the final stretch, and she had to keep going. She’d used a trick she’d read in the Walking Dead graphic novels and covered herself in rotting meat she’d found in the empty bodega down the street, but she figured it would only work for a little while longer. She was sweating profusely and that would certainly attract attention, especially in this heat. But she had a tiny sliver of hope left, even after seeing so many of her friends fall prey to this psychotic, unbelievable crisis. Somehow, she still believed that of all the people in the entire city of New York that could survive a zombie apocalypse, it would be Miranda. And Andy wanted to survive too, so she assumed that if Miranda wanted company, she’d open the door. If not, Andy was screwed.
Assistants who’d thrown a phone in a fountain and abandoned a post could surely be forgiven in a situation such as this, right?
Andy shuffled among the undead up 73rd; there was a dead animal (or so she told herself) of some sort across the road that was drawing many of them away from her. She was so close to her goal, and she was relieved that this street was far less populated than Madison or Broadway. She’d never seen so many disgusting things as she had on this day of walking fifty blocks north, stinking and crying and trying not to puke. Now she only wanted to sit in Miranda’s cool townhouse (assuming she had a generator) and take a bath or a shower or even just sponge off on the sink. She hadn’t had a good meal in days, but she was well armed, if not well fed. Three Glocks were tucked into holsters under her meaty armor, and she had a huge cache of bullets in a travel pack around her waist. She could really use a drink, too. Of water. Or whiskey. Or wine. She’d take anything.
She moaned dramatically. It wasn’t very difficult. She felt like moaning all the time now. She did it again, and somehow it was a tiny comfort. Miranda’s door was only a few hundred feet away; she wanted to run to it so badly that moaning was the only thing that made the wait bearable.
She had no idea how she’d get into the townhouse without causing a ruckus. Even after walking for almost four hours, slow, slow, shuffle, shuffle, she hadn’t been able to come up with a potential solution. But now, here she was, and there were dead people roaming all over the street, and there was a 95% chance she was going to get eaten.
So she stayed careful, and slow, and prayed and prayed, and then she was there, just steps away from the door. It was closed, but it was in tact, as were the windows. By now it was late in the day, and there was no way to tell if anyone was inside, but she had to try. She stopped moving and swayed for a minute, moaning. She needed a distraction, something to draw the zombies away, but she had nothing with her at all. There were no living beings as far as the eye could see, so she had to take her chances as she had all day long, and all week before that. She’d gotten this far; she only had to go a little farther.
If she couldn’t get in, she would die, and that would be a reasonable end. She wouldn’t die and come back either; the Glock on her right hip had a bullet in the chamber, and the safety was off. This was it. Time to shit or get off the pot, as her brother used to say. Her brother, who was probably dead right now. She laughed as she moaned, and then turned her head toward the door in question.
Most of the zombies were roaming in circles, so Andy waited until the crowd seemed to thin (maybe) and then slowly, so slowly she shuffled up one step. Then another, then another, until she was right in front of the door. And as she stared at it, she saw the tiny orange light of the doorbell, which meant the house had power.
Miranda was alive.
Andy’s heart exploded in a thrill; if zombies could hear a fiercely beating heart, there would be trouble. Because now she had an idea, the one that had eluded her since yesterday, when she’d decided to make this impossible, ridiculous trek north.
Trying to be as subtle as possible, she leaned against the doorframe and pressed the bell. She pressed it quick three times, then a long three, then a quick three more. She glanced around as if confused; so far no one had noticed her actions. She took three deep breaths, trying not to scream. Three more short bells, three long, three short.
Please, god, please let Miranda know the fucking code for SOS.
She waited another few seconds, then saw something out of the corner of her eye. There was movement-someone was watching her with white, cloudy eyes. Someone was interested in what she was doing, and that someone was not alive.
“Oh fuck, please, Miranda, please open the door.” She tried again, short, long, short-now she probably had a minute at most, because when one zombie noticed her, others would follow. She rang again, and she heard a sound inside, or was it her heart thudding in her ears? Then she saw the zombie, missing half an arm, drooling blood, filthy and gray and horrible, moving toward her. The person, once a man, moaned, and held out his half-arm. Another saw the motion, and turned toward Andy too. Then there were three more shifting direction, and Andy knew the jig was up. She pulled her gun and pounded on the brass knocker, screaming at the top of her lungs, “MIRANDA! Let me in! It’s me, Andy. Please, let me in! Help!” She turned, and fired. The guy on the left lost his head, literally; Andy had become a hell of a shot in the last four days. She banged on the door again. Now a hoard of them was coming closer. If Miranda was inside, she might have screwed them both because a lot of zombies could do damage to even the toughest wood.
But it was too late now; Miranda’s the one who wouldn’t open the door. Andy fired again at the zombie on the right who was closest, and the lady’s head blew back in a splatter of gore that landed on the two bloody teenagers behind her. Andy had about thirty seconds now; she was going to empty her clip, reload, and then kill herself. She went to town on the ones moving fastest and knocked off about six more before the throng seemed too thick to fight. Just as she’d reloaded, leaning against the door, it fell open behind her and she landed ass first on the marble floor of Miranda’s entryway.
“Get the hell in here,” Miranda said, and as Andy gazed up in awe, Miranda Priestly aimed a fully-loaded Uzi and sprayed a hail of bullets into the thirty or so undead coming toward the door. Andy scrambled back and watched them all fall like a line of dominoes, one after another, until everything moving within a 100-yard radius was well and truly dead.
The door slammed, and Andy looked up into Miranda’s glowing, triumphant face.
“I knew you’d be here,” Andy breathed.
“Of course I’m here. I live here.” Within two seconds Miranda was heaving a huge, oversized bookshelf in front of the door, making very slow progress. Andy got up to help her, and even with the two of them shoving it, it took almost a full minute. “I heard you the first time, by the way. This bookshelf is goddamned heavy.”
Andy snorted, and once the huge piece of furniture was back in place, Andy laughed, and laughed again until she was crying and falling to the ground, and then she might have been screaming, but it didn’t matter anymore, because she was safe.
---
When Andy opened her eyes, she was in a bathtub full of water. Warm, clean water. A girl with red hair was staring at her; Andy gasped. It was a twin. And she was alive!
“Mom! She’s awake,” the twin yelled through an open door. The girl stood up with a book in her hands. “I was supposed to make sure you didn’t drown. I’m going to my room. Hi, anyway. Nice to see you’re alive.”
“Hi,” Andy said softly, wiping the damp hair out of her eyes. “You too,” she said as the girl slouched out of the room.
Moments later, Miranda entered the room. She was wearing dark green cargo pants and a tight, black, long-sleeved cotton shirt. And combat boots. Andy hadn’t noticed her ensemble earlier, probably because she was distracted by the submachine gun.
“Wow,” Andy said.
“One has to dress for the occasion, doesn’t one,” Miranda said, smoothing her shirt down. She looked impeccable, not a hair out of place. “It’s a good thing I was appropriately armed upon your arrival, otherwise we’d have been in a great deal of trouble considering how much attention you attracted.”
Andy sighed, and once again felt tears coming. Her eyes were raw, and her throat hurt a little.
“Oh, good lord, there’s no need to cry about it. It could have been worse, and of course I was appropriately armed, so everything’s fine.”
With a sniffle, Andy said, “Sorry. I mean, wow. Thanks. For saving my ass, I mean.”
“You’re welcome. I can tell it took work to get here. You smelled like a charnel house, and not just because of the meat. How long were you on the road?”
Andy shook her head, trying to remember. “Not so long, but I haven’t had a shower since Thursday, I think. Maybe it took four hours? You’re way uptown, and the subway’s always late these days so I figured I’d get some exercise.” Andy tried a half-hearted chuckle, but failed. “There’s no power downtown, and no running water, and all the shops in my area were looted so I was almost out of supplies.” She swallowed. “You were my last hope.”
Miranda looked touched. Then she frowned. “Why me?”
Andy just smiled. It had been a long three years since she’d seen Miranda’s beautiful face. “Why not you?”
Miranda nodded, and they stared at each other, the moment heavy with something unspoken. “You came to the right place. Right now we’ve got enough food to last about eight months without rationing. If we wait long enough the zombies will run out of fresh brains and they’ll start dropping like flies. We just need to be patient.”
Andy gaped at her. “Do you really think that will happen?”
Miranda scoffed. “Of course. They’re not supernatural. It’s got to be a virus of some kind, and once it runs its course, we’ll start over. The ones who make it, that is. And I plan on making it. Now that you’re here, you will too. I don’t mind sharing, and god knows the girls could use someone new to talk to. Nigel’s already lost his charm. Besides, he’s somehow developed claustrophobia over the last ten days and spends most of his time on the roof.”
“Nigel’s here?” Andy couldn’t believe it.
“Of course. Much of the Runway staff came here when it happened, and they’re living in the adjacent townhomes since most of the residents, uh, passed away. Etcetera. We’re using the attached roofs to move back and forth.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. There are about thirty of us, I believe. They’ve gone out and gathered supplies all week long; guns, generators, weapons, water. I believe the threat of death has made the staff of Runway quite self-sustaining, not to mention brave, intelligent, and resourceful. I knew they were talented, but I admit I underestimated most of them. Emily in particular. She’s become quite the sniper. You’re lucky she didn’t take you out, but she was… indisposed, apparently.” Miranda glanced away. “And since we’re in the middle of the apocalypse, I’ll say that I’m glad of it. Glad you’re here, rather. You’re very welcome to stay.”
Andy covered her mouth with one hand, and couldn’t help it; she sobbed once, and again. The sense of relief was so enormous it overwhelmed her. She didn’t care that she was naked, didn’t care that the door was open-she got up out of the tub and practically fell into Miranda’s arms. Miranda held her in return, too, letting Andy practically climb her like a tree. Miranda was surprisingly strong, and she let Andy cry on her shoulder like there was no tomorrow.
Author: chilly_flame
Rating: R-ish for zombie killing action
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything related to the Devil or Prada. Alas.
Notes: Written for the Quick and Dirty Halloween fic-a-thon, this story is in honor of atrata, Queen of the original DWP Zombie fic. It was started and finished as quickly as possible tonight, so apologies if there are any glaring errors. If I had more time it would be longer, I wanted to get it in under the wire. Happy Halloween, all!
Andy tried to keep her eyes unfocused, letting her head loll on her stiff shoulders. Her neck was sore, but this was the final stretch, and she had to keep going. She’d used a trick she’d read in the Walking Dead graphic novels and covered herself in rotting meat she’d found in the empty bodega down the street, but she figured it would only work for a little while longer. She was sweating profusely and that would certainly attract attention, especially in this heat. But she had a tiny sliver of hope left, even after seeing so many of her friends fall prey to this psychotic, unbelievable crisis. Somehow, she still believed that of all the people in the entire city of New York that could survive a zombie apocalypse, it would be Miranda. And Andy wanted to survive too, so she assumed that if Miranda wanted company, she’d open the door. If not, Andy was screwed.
Assistants who’d thrown a phone in a fountain and abandoned a post could surely be forgiven in a situation such as this, right?
Andy shuffled among the undead up 73rd; there was a dead animal (or so she told herself) of some sort across the road that was drawing many of them away from her. She was so close to her goal, and she was relieved that this street was far less populated than Madison or Broadway. She’d never seen so many disgusting things as she had on this day of walking fifty blocks north, stinking and crying and trying not to puke. Now she only wanted to sit in Miranda’s cool townhouse (assuming she had a generator) and take a bath or a shower or even just sponge off on the sink. She hadn’t had a good meal in days, but she was well armed, if not well fed. Three Glocks were tucked into holsters under her meaty armor, and she had a huge cache of bullets in a travel pack around her waist. She could really use a drink, too. Of water. Or whiskey. Or wine. She’d take anything.
She moaned dramatically. It wasn’t very difficult. She felt like moaning all the time now. She did it again, and somehow it was a tiny comfort. Miranda’s door was only a few hundred feet away; she wanted to run to it so badly that moaning was the only thing that made the wait bearable.
She had no idea how she’d get into the townhouse without causing a ruckus. Even after walking for almost four hours, slow, slow, shuffle, shuffle, she hadn’t been able to come up with a potential solution. But now, here she was, and there were dead people roaming all over the street, and there was a 95% chance she was going to get eaten.
So she stayed careful, and slow, and prayed and prayed, and then she was there, just steps away from the door. It was closed, but it was in tact, as were the windows. By now it was late in the day, and there was no way to tell if anyone was inside, but she had to try. She stopped moving and swayed for a minute, moaning. She needed a distraction, something to draw the zombies away, but she had nothing with her at all. There were no living beings as far as the eye could see, so she had to take her chances as she had all day long, and all week before that. She’d gotten this far; she only had to go a little farther.
If she couldn’t get in, she would die, and that would be a reasonable end. She wouldn’t die and come back either; the Glock on her right hip had a bullet in the chamber, and the safety was off. This was it. Time to shit or get off the pot, as her brother used to say. Her brother, who was probably dead right now. She laughed as she moaned, and then turned her head toward the door in question.
Most of the zombies were roaming in circles, so Andy waited until the crowd seemed to thin (maybe) and then slowly, so slowly she shuffled up one step. Then another, then another, until she was right in front of the door. And as she stared at it, she saw the tiny orange light of the doorbell, which meant the house had power.
Miranda was alive.
Andy’s heart exploded in a thrill; if zombies could hear a fiercely beating heart, there would be trouble. Because now she had an idea, the one that had eluded her since yesterday, when she’d decided to make this impossible, ridiculous trek north.
Trying to be as subtle as possible, she leaned against the doorframe and pressed the bell. She pressed it quick three times, then a long three, then a quick three more. She glanced around as if confused; so far no one had noticed her actions. She took three deep breaths, trying not to scream. Three more short bells, three long, three short.
Please, god, please let Miranda know the fucking code for SOS.
She waited another few seconds, then saw something out of the corner of her eye. There was movement-someone was watching her with white, cloudy eyes. Someone was interested in what she was doing, and that someone was not alive.
“Oh fuck, please, Miranda, please open the door.” She tried again, short, long, short-now she probably had a minute at most, because when one zombie noticed her, others would follow. She rang again, and she heard a sound inside, or was it her heart thudding in her ears? Then she saw the zombie, missing half an arm, drooling blood, filthy and gray and horrible, moving toward her. The person, once a man, moaned, and held out his half-arm. Another saw the motion, and turned toward Andy too. Then there were three more shifting direction, and Andy knew the jig was up. She pulled her gun and pounded on the brass knocker, screaming at the top of her lungs, “MIRANDA! Let me in! It’s me, Andy. Please, let me in! Help!” She turned, and fired. The guy on the left lost his head, literally; Andy had become a hell of a shot in the last four days. She banged on the door again. Now a hoard of them was coming closer. If Miranda was inside, she might have screwed them both because a lot of zombies could do damage to even the toughest wood.
But it was too late now; Miranda’s the one who wouldn’t open the door. Andy fired again at the zombie on the right who was closest, and the lady’s head blew back in a splatter of gore that landed on the two bloody teenagers behind her. Andy had about thirty seconds now; she was going to empty her clip, reload, and then kill herself. She went to town on the ones moving fastest and knocked off about six more before the throng seemed too thick to fight. Just as she’d reloaded, leaning against the door, it fell open behind her and she landed ass first on the marble floor of Miranda’s entryway.
“Get the hell in here,” Miranda said, and as Andy gazed up in awe, Miranda Priestly aimed a fully-loaded Uzi and sprayed a hail of bullets into the thirty or so undead coming toward the door. Andy scrambled back and watched them all fall like a line of dominoes, one after another, until everything moving within a 100-yard radius was well and truly dead.
The door slammed, and Andy looked up into Miranda’s glowing, triumphant face.
“I knew you’d be here,” Andy breathed.
“Of course I’m here. I live here.” Within two seconds Miranda was heaving a huge, oversized bookshelf in front of the door, making very slow progress. Andy got up to help her, and even with the two of them shoving it, it took almost a full minute. “I heard you the first time, by the way. This bookshelf is goddamned heavy.”
Andy snorted, and once the huge piece of furniture was back in place, Andy laughed, and laughed again until she was crying and falling to the ground, and then she might have been screaming, but it didn’t matter anymore, because she was safe.
---
When Andy opened her eyes, she was in a bathtub full of water. Warm, clean water. A girl with red hair was staring at her; Andy gasped. It was a twin. And she was alive!
“Mom! She’s awake,” the twin yelled through an open door. The girl stood up with a book in her hands. “I was supposed to make sure you didn’t drown. I’m going to my room. Hi, anyway. Nice to see you’re alive.”
“Hi,” Andy said softly, wiping the damp hair out of her eyes. “You too,” she said as the girl slouched out of the room.
Moments later, Miranda entered the room. She was wearing dark green cargo pants and a tight, black, long-sleeved cotton shirt. And combat boots. Andy hadn’t noticed her ensemble earlier, probably because she was distracted by the submachine gun.
“Wow,” Andy said.
“One has to dress for the occasion, doesn’t one,” Miranda said, smoothing her shirt down. She looked impeccable, not a hair out of place. “It’s a good thing I was appropriately armed upon your arrival, otherwise we’d have been in a great deal of trouble considering how much attention you attracted.”
Andy sighed, and once again felt tears coming. Her eyes were raw, and her throat hurt a little.
“Oh, good lord, there’s no need to cry about it. It could have been worse, and of course I was appropriately armed, so everything’s fine.”
With a sniffle, Andy said, “Sorry. I mean, wow. Thanks. For saving my ass, I mean.”
“You’re welcome. I can tell it took work to get here. You smelled like a charnel house, and not just because of the meat. How long were you on the road?”
Andy shook her head, trying to remember. “Not so long, but I haven’t had a shower since Thursday, I think. Maybe it took four hours? You’re way uptown, and the subway’s always late these days so I figured I’d get some exercise.” Andy tried a half-hearted chuckle, but failed. “There’s no power downtown, and no running water, and all the shops in my area were looted so I was almost out of supplies.” She swallowed. “You were my last hope.”
Miranda looked touched. Then she frowned. “Why me?”
Andy just smiled. It had been a long three years since she’d seen Miranda’s beautiful face. “Why not you?”
Miranda nodded, and they stared at each other, the moment heavy with something unspoken. “You came to the right place. Right now we’ve got enough food to last about eight months without rationing. If we wait long enough the zombies will run out of fresh brains and they’ll start dropping like flies. We just need to be patient.”
Andy gaped at her. “Do you really think that will happen?”
Miranda scoffed. “Of course. They’re not supernatural. It’s got to be a virus of some kind, and once it runs its course, we’ll start over. The ones who make it, that is. And I plan on making it. Now that you’re here, you will too. I don’t mind sharing, and god knows the girls could use someone new to talk to. Nigel’s already lost his charm. Besides, he’s somehow developed claustrophobia over the last ten days and spends most of his time on the roof.”
“Nigel’s here?” Andy couldn’t believe it.
“Of course. Much of the Runway staff came here when it happened, and they’re living in the adjacent townhomes since most of the residents, uh, passed away. Etcetera. We’re using the attached roofs to move back and forth.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. There are about thirty of us, I believe. They’ve gone out and gathered supplies all week long; guns, generators, weapons, water. I believe the threat of death has made the staff of Runway quite self-sustaining, not to mention brave, intelligent, and resourceful. I knew they were talented, but I admit I underestimated most of them. Emily in particular. She’s become quite the sniper. You’re lucky she didn’t take you out, but she was… indisposed, apparently.” Miranda glanced away. “And since we’re in the middle of the apocalypse, I’ll say that I’m glad of it. Glad you’re here, rather. You’re very welcome to stay.”
Andy covered her mouth with one hand, and couldn’t help it; she sobbed once, and again. The sense of relief was so enormous it overwhelmed her. She didn’t care that she was naked, didn’t care that the door was open-she got up out of the tub and practically fell into Miranda’s arms. Miranda held her in return, too, letting Andy practically climb her like a tree. Miranda was surprisingly strong, and she let Andy cry on her shoulder like there was no tomorrow.