Abide with Me, 1/6
Title: Abide with Me
Author: stripedpetunia
Movie Prompt: 28 Days Later
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, and possibly Morgana/Gwen if your goggles are on
Rating: R for language, violence and gore
Word Count: ~28 000 *facepalm*
Spoilers: None for Merlin; plenty for 28 Days Later.
Warnings: This is a post-apocalyptic zombie horror. There is horrible language, violence, descriptions of gore and grossness, scenes of downright disturbing content, and finally, character death. There's kind of a happy ending though? :D?
Summary: An aggressive blood disease epidemic wipes out Britain. Twenty-eight days later, four of the last survivors in London must try to make it out alive.
Author's Notes: This completely blew up on me. It was supposed to be half this length. I have never written so much in a two-month period in my life. But I did it, so please enjoy while I go babble quietly to myself in a corner. Thanks to link_worshiper for a quick-and-dirty beta; any remaining mistakes are all my fault and I would appreciate it very much if you'd point them out to me for fixing. I didn't have an opportunity to Britpick this before posting, either, so it's all my poor Canadian self. Please bear with me and help me fix my errors! Sloppy kisses to whoever can pick out all the nerdy references to other things that worked their way in here, as well.
It was quiet. Quiet and sort of cold.
He opened his eyes.
Green walls and monitors and a bed with rails-he was in a hospital room. And nothing was working. Not the monitors, not the lights. Not the heat, apparently. He hauled himself upright and found that there were tubes in his arms; he ripped them out and watched blood well up and trickle across his skin to drip on the sheets. He felt a little bit winded just from sitting up, and took a moment to lick the blood from his wrist before swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and standing up. He was wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns and the cool air hit his bare ass like a slap. His knees shook a little but he hung onto the rail and made it to the end of the bed without incident. There was a chart and he grabbed at it, blinking grit from his eyes to read and look for answers.
His name. Admitted September 2008. Some medical gibberish. Attending physician, Dr. G. Baltar. A head wound? He reached up gingerly. The left side of his head was fine, if a bit shaggy and bed-mussed; the right felt fuzzy, like it had been shaved (and of course his hair hadn't looked silly enough before, had it). Finally his fingers found the scar. A bumpy ridge. Healed. Panic welled up in his chest and he clutched at his head; this was worse than waking up after a night out, with no idea where he was or how he'd got there or who he'd woken up next to. His memories ended on the day he'd been admitted, that morning, when he'd been running a package for one of his regular clients. There had been the car that had run the light and naturally it was the one time he hadn't taken a proper look round before going.... He dropped the chart, letting it hit the floor, and aimed himself toward the door.
He tried the knob and it didn't budge. Who locked a fucking door in a hospital? He wasn't a criminal... and there were the keys on the floor at his feet, lying as if they'd been kicked under the door. The absolute quiet crowded in on him again and he reached down for the keys, unlocking the door and peeking out into the hallway before stepping outside. Still no lights and no people; a cleaning cart sat at a crazy angle against the wall like it had been shoved there in haste. Did he wake up in the middle of a bomb scare, abandoned in the nurses' haste to get out? That would figure.
A few doors down the corridor to the right, he found a staff room. Couches, magazines, a fridge. A broken coffee cup on the floor, surrounded by a dried brown stain. Some of the ceramic had been ground to dust by a careless heel.
All of the magazines were dated September. A newspaper marked the end of that month. He eyed a comfortable-looking armchair for a moment but then caught sight of some lockers at the rear of the room and changed his priorities. After making it over there, slowly but stubbornly, he discovered one locker left open, as he'd hoped. Inside was a set of surgery scrubs, which he put on because at least they had pants, and some worn-out trainers at least a size too big, which he laced as tightly as he could manage.
On his way out of the room, he opened the fridge but it was shut off as well and everything inside had gone off and was covered in green and white mold. He found a sealed water bottle in the door and took that, ripping the cap off and draining it so greedily he spilled tepid water down his chin and then stood gasping for air, his stomach lurching a bit. He chucked the bottle in the bin on his way out the door.
The elevators stood silent and dark so he took the stairs, and the hospital entrance looked like the scene of a riot. He was glad of the trainers as he crunched over broken glass in front of the shop and stopped in front of the remains of a row of vending machines. One was tipped over on its front, a sticky puddle of Coke spreading over the floor. He found some full cans and stuffed them in the pockets of his scrubs before stepping into the ruined shop for a bag to fill.
The only thing left in the food vending machine was a row of Smarties tubes, but he took them, too, tossing the contents of one into his mouth and crunching the chocolates slowly as he left the hospital, mindful of how fast he'd drunk the water.
Once he set foot outside and saw and smelled the river, he realized he was at St. Thomas'. He walked half of the distance toward Westminster Bridge and looked round: more silence. No cars; no buses; no hordes of people, homeless and professional and tourists, as there always were around here. He stepped on something that clinked and rattled and looked down to see a pile of trinkets from some overturned souvenir cart. Paper and bags blew around him like tumbleweeds.
Where the fuck had London gone?
He walked.
Trafalgar fucking Square, empty. He passed noticeboards heavy with paper and stopped to read them, looking for clues. It was all people scared and panicking, looking for their families. Notices of evacuation schedules, which made his stomach turn to contemplate. Children's drawings of Mummy and Daddy. Bloody handprints smearing and ripping at the pages and pages of faces and names and mobile numbers. He felt sick and walked away.
He'd about decided he'd woken up in Hell when he saw the church, so he went inside. The first thing he saw inside the entry was graffiti: some joker had written in desperate-looking block letters, REPENT, and, THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH.
The inside door stuck as he opened it and he quickly saw why: the pews had once been pushed up against the doors as a barricade, which had fallen. The room was full of bodies. And the smell of them, in a closed room... he gagged and backed out of the door, going up the stairs in the entryway instead. At the end of the corridor, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement.
“Hello?” he tried. His voice croaked a bit. He cleared his throat and repeated himself.
The thing moved again in the shadows and suddenly revealed itself to be a person.
“Father?”
The person started moving toward him. He had a strange, hobbling gait. And he was moving very quickly. All of a sudden he moved into a beam of light and revealed himself to be the priest. At least, he wore priest's robes. His hair was wild, his eyes were red and spittle covered his front. He looked mad as a hatter.
They stared each other down for a moment, and then the priest... thing sniffed the air, made a choking sound, and lunged.
A reflexive swing of the bag of junk food brought the creature in priest's clothes down and then it seemed like a good time to run.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.”
He went careening down the stairs, putting distance between him and the thing as fast as he could manage. Already there was a stitch in his side. More horrible choking sounds came from behind as he burst out of the church onto the darkening street and soon he was tearing down the empty road, his bag abandoned somewhere, as six of the damn things ran after him, flailing and choking.
Ten blocks later, they were still there and the stitch was threatening to make his Smarties come up as he ran past a petrol station. A shout that sounded nothing like the noises those creatures were making nearly made him fall over with relief. He followed it toward the row of pumps.
“Over here! Run!”
Something bright flew past his head and he heard a crunch and a whooshing noise as he ran. He risked a look and saw that one of the possessed people was on fire. Another Molotov cocktail flew by him and he ducked, running for the protection of the building. A person in black stood behind the pumps, still lobbing the firebombs. He sagged against the wall and tried not to throw up on his shoes, wanting to cry from the pain in his side. Finally he caught his breath and looked round the corner; his saviour was fiddling with tanks in the glowing light cast by four burning, choking, wailing things.
Barely ten seconds later, a black streak went past, grabbing his arm and hauling him along. He dared not look back again and concentrated on trying to keep up. Suddenly, he was blown to the ground by searing heat as the whole station went up in a fireball. The heat was still stinging his lungs as he was pulled upright again and dragged through the streets, his new companion whooping and hollering all the way. Finally they stumbled to a stop at a newsagent's, the security gate was rattled up, and he was shoved inside before he'd even caught his breath. He sagged to the floor and panted as the gate crashed back down.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing, running about in the dark by yourself?”
The other man was just barely illuminated by the moonlight coming through the spaces in the gate. He had light hair and a muscular build but otherwise looked barely old enough to get into a pub. A look of perpetual smugness flitted about his features. Trying to breathe normally seemed preferable to answering.
“Don't suppose I'm lucky enough that you're a doctor,” the man said eventually, looking pointedly at the scrubs.
“Nope. Patient.” Somehow he felt guilty, like he was letting down the side for not being a doctor while wearing scrubs.
“How the hell did you survive?”
“I don't know. I was on my bike, making a delivery, and a car cut across me, and then I woke up in hospital this afternoon.” He hesitated. “What month is it?”
“October. I think today is Halloween, in fact, so....” There was a pause and some crinkling, and then a packet of Maltesers was thrown at him. “Have some sweets. Eat up, it's all I've got. Actually, there might still be some jerky round here.”
“What's your name?”
“Arthur. You?”
“Merlin.” He tore open the packet, thinking as he looked inside that hopefully Arthur would find the jerky. Once you passed a certain age, the prospect of sugar at every meal seemed to lose its appeal.
Arthur surfaced from a pile of junk with a fistful of processed meat sticks and handed one to him, putting the rest aside.
“So, Merlin,” he said, dragging the name out, “it seems you've got some catching up to do.”
Merlin chewed a mouthful of jerky. “What in God's name were those things? They looked like people, but the sounds! And their eyes....”
“They're the Infected,” Arthur said flatly. He crossed his arms and looked down, seeming to retreat into himself a bit. “Nearly a month ago, it started. Rioting, mostly. But right from the beginning, it was obvious it wasn't just that. Because it was happening in small villages, market towns. And then it wasn't on the TV anymore. It was in the streets and then it was coming in through the windows.
“It was a virus. An infection. Something in the blood. One drop of infected blood was all it took, and it takes over the body in minutes. By the time they tried to evacuate the cities, it was already too late. Army blockades were overrun. And that's when the exodus started. Before the TV and radio stopped broadcasting, there were reports of infection in Paris and New York.”
Merlin was silent for a moment. Of course, it would have to be the fast-moving sort of zombies. Thinking better of sharing that thought, instead he said, “Are you by yourself, too, then?”
Arthur leaned his head back against a shelf. “There was a friend of mine. He... four days ago.”
“He died?”
“Infected.”
“Is he,” Merlin waved vaguely, “out there?”
“No.” Arthur's voice was flat. “Get some sleep,” he said suddenly. “You look like shit.”
A retort died on Merlin's tongue.
***
Dawn stabbed through his eyelids in patchy squares, outlined by the security gate, and brought with it one of the worst headaches Merlin had ever had. He couldn't stifle a moan as he sat up. The noise made Arthur stir a few feet away, and his hand twitched around the grip of a huge knife as he opened his eyes. Thankfully, when he focused on Merlin he released his grip.
“You still look like shit,” he said by way of greeting as he sat up and stretched, already looking far too chipper. “Breakfast?”
Merlin squinted in the sunlight. “Painkillers with a gunshot chaser, perhaps,” he managed.
Arthur chuckled as he got to his feet and moved toward the racks on the wall. “Headache? Well, at least that means you've still got your brains in there under that scar.”
Thinking half-formed and uncharitable thoughts, Merlin watched Arthur reach for a bottle of paracetamol on a shelf, revising his impressions in the daylight. Arthur was apparently one of those people who never looked like shit, even if perhaps they'd just fallen face-first in a great steaming pile of it. And the smugness was definitely coming out, now. He just barely caught the pill bottle before it hit him in the face. “Thanks.”
A Sprite quickly followed it, although that was aimed closer to his stomach. He nearly dropped it, catching it one-handed as he was. Arthur settled across from him with a drink of his own and half of a Terry's Chocolate Orange.
“It's nearly fruit,” he said, offering Merlin a segment. Merlin shook his head and washed down a pill with some warm Sprite.
“So what do you do with your days, besides blow up petrol stations?” he asked finally, breaking what might have passed for a companionable silence.
“I keep on breathing.”
“Do you go out and look for other survivors?”
Arthur shook his head slowly. “Not many left. A whole month, Merlin. They've all evacuated or died or been infected... or all of those. You were a bit of a strange occurrence, I'm afraid.”
Merlin almost asked why Arthur hadn't left, but instead, after chewing his lip a moment, he said, “My mum. She's in Deptford. It's not that far, I can walk from here.”
“She'll be dead, as well,” Arthur said.
“Fuck off.”
“Merlin.” His voice brooked no argument, and Merlin met his eyes, which were serious. “Listen to me. Your mother is dead. There is no way she is still there and still alive. And frankly, you should hope she went painlessly. Probably better than either of us can expect.”
Merlin shook his head, unable to speak.
“You're wrong,” he finally choked out, and scrambled to his feet. “You're fucking wrong and I'm going to go find her.” He rattled the gate at the doorway. “How do I get this thing open?”
Arthur heaved a sigh from the floor and then Merlin heard shuffling, although he kept his gaze locked on the quiet street beyond the newsagent's doorway. His mind was going in circles like a hamster on a wheel.
After a moment there was a touch on his shoulder and he whirled round. Arthur handed him something and turned away to start packing a bag. Merlin looked down dully at the heavy thing in his hands.
“A cricket bat?”
“Gives them a good bashing. Mind the bloodstains.”
He nearly dropped the bat when at last he saw the red patches on it, seeped into the wood. Arthur soon finished packing and slung the bag over his shoulder, shifting his machete into his right hand.
“Right. Off we go, then.” He reached down for the edge of the gate and they hoisted it up enough to duck under and into the overwhelmingly vacant street. “Sodding Deptford,” Arthur muttered, not quite quietly enough, as he set off. Merlin looked round nervously before hurrying to catch up.
Arthur was clearly glowering at the universe so Merlin felt it wise to stay silent for several minutes. Finally, he said, “Why are you coming along? I could have left on my own.”
Arthur stopped suddenly and whirled to face him, and he regretted opening his mouth.
“Are you mentally handicapped?” Arthur's voice dripped with disdain. “You don't go anywhere alone. Even in daylight. It's not safe. Besides,” he said, giving his knife a show-offy twirl with his wrist, “I haven't been to Deptford since this started and there might be things there worth checking out.”
“You want to loot Deptford?” Merlin nearly dropped his bat.
“Oh, be sensible. No one there will be needing anything they've left behind. Just think of it as shopping without money, if you like.” Arthur started up a brisk pace, calling over his shoulder, “Hurry up, Merlin, we need to be back before dark.”
***
They took two rest breaks on the way there and Merlin was still overwhelmingly glad to collapse on the front stairs of his house. Arthur hauled him back to his feet on the way by, peering in the windows before trying the door. It was locked and Merlin automatically reached for the key he no longer carried just as his companion kicked the door in with an enormous combat boot. He swallowed a protest, seeing already that it would fall on uncaring ears.
Everything looked the same, except for a layer of dust. And there was a smell. It faintly tickled his nose as he went for the stairs but grew stronger by the landing. Arthur hung back behind him but he kept stubbornly climbing, finding himself following the stench against his will and better judgement. When it grew strongest around his mum's bedroom door, he had to talk himself into turning the knob.
She was on the bed, with the sheets pulled up. An empty wine bottle and a handful of sleeping pills sat on the nightstand. He covered his nose with his shirt collar as he reached forward to grab a piece of paper from her grey hand. It was an old photo of the two of them, from a summer at his aunt's in the country. There was a crease in it across her eyes and the back said,
Merlin,
With endless love I left you sleeping. Now I've gone to join you. Don't wake up.
xx Mum
A sob ripped out of his throat before he knew it. The photo crumpled in his fist as Arthur appeared next to him, drawing him into a rough hug. “Let it out; just let it out,” he murmured, and for a moment, Merlin allowed himself to do it. Then with one last hiccup he broke free and made for the door. Arthur followed, shutting it carefully behind him.
“Have you got clothes here?” he asked, still quiet.
Merlin nodded and went into his bedroom across the hallway. He changed quickly and stuffed a pair of jeans and a coat into an old messenger bag, stopping to stare at his pale face, lopsided hair and patchy beard in the mirror for a moment before rushing back into the hall, where Arthur was waiting. “Let's get the fuck out of here, please,” he said, his voice scratchy. Arthur looked at him for a moment and then nodded, leading the way back down the staircase. When they emerged into fresh air again, both taking great heaving gasps to clear the smell from their noses, Merlin stopped in the road to stare up at his house-his mum's house-one more time. His cricket bat hung loosely in his fingers.
“She went peacefully,” Arthur said.
Something in Merlin broke, possibly for a final time. He whirled on the other man. “What the fuck do you know about it?” he yelled. “My mum, my only family,” he snarled, gesturing wildly at the dead house, “is dead! I am alone in this world!” For a wild second he wanted to take a swing at Arthur with the bat and add fresh bloodstains to it.
“Join the club,” Arthur said shortly, walking briskly down the road. He seemed to have forgotten his plans to pillage the neighbourhood. Merlin stared after him a moment and then started jogging to catch up again. He'd known this idiot less than a day and already he seemed to spend all his time running after him.
***
They were making their way through The Borough and hadn't yet said another word to each other when Merlin thought he saw something blinking on the edge of his sight. He slowed and turned toward the source and yes, there it was: colourful, blinking lights on a tower block in the near distance. He reached out to grab Arthur's sleeve.
“Look.”
They both stood and stared at the lights, neither moving nor speaking. The blinking pattern seemed odd to Merlin-perhaps it was Morse code for something?
“We should go see what that's about,” he said, still transfixed.
“You're insane. It might be a trap.”
“A trap?” He turned to Arthur at last, floored. “A trap. Because those bloody choking B-movie nightmares clearly show the intelligence required to lure people into traps to eat them!”
Arthur's look was cool. “I think it wouldn't require much thinking to fool certain people.”
“Shut up. Let's go.” Merlin was determined not to be the one doing the chasing-after this time. Alas, Arthur kept up with him easily, twirling his machete in a manner that looked much easier than Merlin suspected it was. He would probably lose fingers trying those moves. He kept on stolidly marching toward the lights.
From a block away the lights could be seen to be strung up on the balcony of a flat about ten stories up, and white sheets saying, 'HELP' in large, black letters had been tied to the railings of the flats on either side. Captain Prat frowned up at them and predictably said, “I still don't like this.”
“Stay here, then,” Merlin said over his shoulder as he made for the car park, which was closest. Inside it was dark and nearly empty of cars; the entrance to the lift and stairs was barricaded by a truly staggering number of shopping trolleys. Arthur appeared at his shoulder and stepped forward to tug at the closest baskets, evidently trying to make some fall on his stupid head. Merlin shook his head.
“What is it with tower blocks and shopping trolleys?” he said, grinning at his own joke.
Arthur ignored him and started climbing the stack of wheels and wires as if it were a perfectly sane thing to do. He looked back at Merlin from the top of the mountain.
“Are you coming or not?” he snapped, as if it had been his idea to come in here all along. Merlin muttered horrible things to himself as he started looking for a foothold on the bottom layer of trolleys.
He would have been hard-pressed to suggest a way they could have made more noise climbing over the obstacle, but shortly they were on the stairs and still in one piece.
“Ten stories up,” Arthur said from in front of him, not bothering to look round at him to speak. Now Merlin couldn't count, either. He bit his lip to keep the retorts down until they died away and followed doggedly.
He only made it five flights before his body decided to remind him of how he'd just woken up in hospital a day before and had been getting far too much exercise since then. When he collapsed loudly on the fifth floor landing, Arthur finally turned around and jogged down several steps to join him.
“What's wrong?” he asked, peering into Merlin's face in a disconcerting manner. “Tired?”
“Headache,” Merlin bit out, nodding a little.
He got a disgusted noise in reply. “Why didn't you say anything, you idiot?” Arthur sat down on a stair and began rummaging through his bag.
Merlin sighed. “I assumed you didn't give a shit.” He blinked as a bottle of painkillers was shoved into his hand.
“My God, you're thick. You were in a bloody coma for over a month! You've got no fat on you at all and you've had nothing except sugar; you're crashing. So what you need is some pills and more sugar. Pepsi or Tango?”
Merlin opened his mouth but found himself shushed before he got a sound out.
“Did you hear that?”
He raised an eyebrow and listened.
Crashing noises. The shopping trolleys.
Merlin didn't know where he found the energy but he was on his feet in an instant and charging up the stairs after Arthur. He nearly dropped the cricket bat in his haste to move but his head still pounded till he thought his eyes would pop out and he found himself lagging far too soon. Arthur was half a flight of stairs ahead and the gap between them increased as he watched. The Infected were on the stairs now; he could hear their demonic screeching and the pounding of their feet as they gained on him.
“Arthur!” he yelled, wheezing. “Arthur, for fuck's sake, wait!” He tripped on a stair and nearly hit his face on the railing. He clung to it with his free hand, dragging himself up but it wasn't nearly quick enough and the Infected behind him were getting louder and closer.
“Arthur!” he tried one last time, and the blessed, fantastic man ran to him and hauled his arm over a shoulder, half-dragging him toward safety.
Merlin heard another voice between the gasps of his own lungs. It sounded like a woman. He looked up.
“Come on! Hurry, they're almost here!” she called, waving at them. She was holding open a fire door and had some kind of weapon in her other hand.
Arthur's grunt reverberated though Merlin's ribs where they were pressed together as they made a Herculean effort up the last ten steps. Merlin felt a strong push on his back and nearly fell through the doorway, overcome with relief even through he knew the danger wasn't quite past yet. Arthur set him down semi-gently and went back to the woman; there was a crackling sound and he smelled burnt flesh before the door slammed shut on the Infected. He looked up as they finished dragging an enormous bookshelf or something in front of the door. Infected thudded uselessly against the other side, still screaming ceaselessly.
“Up we get,” the woman said, grabbing one of Merlin's arms as Arthur picked up the other, and Merlin was frog-marched down the corridor and into one of the flats. He leaned against a handy wall and blinked until his vision cleared and his heart didn't feel like it would burst from his ribs anytime soon, and then the woman was standing in front of him with a thoughtful look on her face. She was ridiculously attractive and he was suddenly intensely aware of his skinny frame, his lopsided surgery haircut, his patchy, month-old beard, and that he generally looked like something near death. She was tapping something against her palm and he realized suddenly that it was a taser. The crackling sound and burnt smell made sense, now. He coughed into his fist a little and drew a deep, ragged breath.
“Hullo.”
She smiled. “You look a bit done-in.”
Arthur materialized from some room down the hall. “He was in hospital till yesterday.”
The woman quirked a perfect eyebrow. “I don't think you were ready to be released yet.” Her tone sounded frank but her eyes twinkled. “Come have a seat, before you fall over,” she said, seizing his arm and tugging him into the living room. He made a beeline for the sofa and couldn't stifle a groan as he sat down.
When he found the presence of mind to open his eyes again, he was faced with three identical smirks-he'd walked right past another woman sitting in the armchair. She introduced herself as Gwen, and while she wasn't the same calibre of knockout as her friend-Morgana-she was still quite pretty and had a sweet look about her where Morgana exuded feistiness. Most interestingly, though, Gwen's right arm was in a cast that went over her elbow. He looked at it and she must have seen the question on his face, because she waved her arm a little in her sling and said, “Car accident. In September.”
Merlin thought. “That should be nearly ready to come off, then, shouldn't it?”
“Yes... but my arm isn't exactly top-notch yet. I haven't got a brace or anything for it and I don't want to break it again. And, you know, no doctor to go to.” She looked vaguely embarrassed for her predicament. He was trying to come up with a reassuring reply but Morgana beat him to it.
“Oh, Gwen, will you stop! It's not your fault, is it. We'll get that cast off you and you'll be fine, I promise.”
Gwen looked cheered up a bit and Arthur seemed to take that as an opportunity to redirect the conversation.
“What are you two doing barricaded up here, anyway?” he asked, leaning forward over his knees a bit as he spoke. “I suppose it's somewhat defensible as positions go, but you're practically stranded in this flat.”
Morgana rubbed at her eyes. “We've done alright, though,” she said. “Of course, we went through quite a few of the empty flats and took what we could use, and with only two of us we can survive quite some time on the food we've got. But....”
Merlin looked up at her. “But?”
She twisted a lock of her hair between her fingers and didn't answer for a moment; apparently it was her turn to be embarrassed.
“We're nearly out of water. We had some of those large cooler jugs that were left, and the water still worked for several days after the outbreak, so we made sure to fill containers, just in case. But we need water for so many things. Even conserving it, a whole month has dried up our reserves.” A lock of hair slipped in front of her eyes; she tucked it back behind her ears and went back to staring at her hands in her lap. “We even tried collecting rainwater in buckets and pots on the roof, but it hasn't rained in nearly a week, now.” Morgana finally met Arthur's eyes and hers shone a little with wetness. “With Gwen's arm... we didn't know what to do. We're so glad you came.”
Arthur, for some reason, looked at Merlin. It made him unaccountably nervous.
“I don't suppose you have any liquor,” Arthur said finally, still looking at Merlin.
***
Night had well and truly fallen, and after Morgana had cut Merlin's hair to a uniform length in the blinking glow of their generator-run fairy lights, Merlin found himself in the tiny bathroom, attempting to shave off his patchy coma-beard by candlelight with a dry razor.
“Fuck!” he hissed at another sting on his cheek. Blood welled up and he dabbed at the cut with a rag that was beginning to look rather more reddish than it had when he'd started this futile exercise.
“Going to die of blood loss before the zombies get me,” he muttered, taking another careful pass at the longish stubble on his jawline.
Arthur opened the door suddenly and it was all Merlin could do not to cut his own throat in his surprise.
“How's that going?” Arthur smiled as Merlin inspected for cuts and then started to shave again. He looked far too amused.
“I think using tweezers might have ended up being the less painful option,” he retorted.
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, watching the nightmare in progress like there was nothing else he'd rather be doing. “You can have the spare bed,” he said quietly. “I'll take the living room.”
Merlin shot him a look and he shrugged. “I don't need you dying on me, do I?” Arthur said, far too casually. “You look like you need a good night's sleep or twelve, Coma Boy. I'll just be sure to wake you every hour.”
“I haven't got a concussion! Anymore,” Merlin amended. He held the candle up high enough to see his face more clearly and decided to give up on shaving, having finally managed to remove nearly as much hair as he had blood from his jaw. He left the bathroom with the candle, chivvying Arthur out before him. “Thanks,” he added belatedly. Arthur nodded and by unspoken agreement they walked into the living room, which was now lit by so many candles it brought to mind a church altar.
Merlin set his candle down on the table and leaned back into the sofa cushions. “What do you make of them, then?” he said.
Arthur stuffed a pillow behind his head and settled into the other corner of the sofa. “They need us,” he said. “More than we need them.”
Merlin thought of Morgana and her taser and felt inclined to disagree. But then.... “Gwen's arm is a concern, certainly,” he said, staring at the flickering light patterns on the ceiling. “I can see why they wouldn't have risked an escape on their own. Especially if they don't know where to go.” He shifted to look at Arthur. “But then what are we expected to do for them? Find them more water? Break them out, take them to the newsagent's or one of your other likely numerous hiding spots, try to get the cast off and then just carry on? Stay here?”
They were all shit ideas. By Arthur's silence, he agreed and couldn't come up with anything better.
There was safety in numbers, Merlin thought, but when did the numbers get too large to be safe? Still, in his mind, four people had a much better collective chance at it than two. If it was even worth the effort to try.
“Arthur.”
“Mm.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Why do I do what, Merlin?”
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely and then realizing he needed to do better than that. “Surviving. Carrying on. Do you think there's an end to this, a victory for humanity in the offering? If we can't leave England, if this is happening all over the planet... what comes after survival?”
“Nothing ever comes after survival, Merlin. That's all we're doing, any of us. Infected or no Infected.”
“So you have no plans for the future besides philosophizing, then.”
“Like what? Finding a cure? Meeting a nice girl, so we can fall in love and repopulate the planet? Is that your five-year plan, Merlin?” Arthur paused and took a deep breath, apparently trying to calm himself down. He rearranged his pillow. “Just focus on the moments as they come. You'll drive yourself mad thinking about what comes after.” He sighed. “Get some sleep; you look like hell.”
Merlin took his candle and made for the spare room without another word. His sleep was mercifully dreamless.
***
Part 2
Author: stripedpetunia
Movie Prompt: 28 Days Later
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, and possibly Morgana/Gwen if your goggles are on
Rating: R for language, violence and gore
Word Count: ~28 000 *facepalm*
Spoilers: None for Merlin; plenty for 28 Days Later.
Warnings: This is a post-apocalyptic zombie horror. There is horrible language, violence, descriptions of gore and grossness, scenes of downright disturbing content, and finally, character death. There's kind of a happy ending though? :D?
Summary: An aggressive blood disease epidemic wipes out Britain. Twenty-eight days later, four of the last survivors in London must try to make it out alive.
Author's Notes: This completely blew up on me. It was supposed to be half this length. I have never written so much in a two-month period in my life. But I did it, so please enjoy while I go babble quietly to myself in a corner. Thanks to link_worshiper for a quick-and-dirty beta; any remaining mistakes are all my fault and I would appreciate it very much if you'd point them out to me for fixing. I didn't have an opportunity to Britpick this before posting, either, so it's all my poor Canadian self. Please bear with me and help me fix my errors! Sloppy kisses to whoever can pick out all the nerdy references to other things that worked their way in here, as well.
It was quiet. Quiet and sort of cold.
He opened his eyes.
Green walls and monitors and a bed with rails-he was in a hospital room. And nothing was working. Not the monitors, not the lights. Not the heat, apparently. He hauled himself upright and found that there were tubes in his arms; he ripped them out and watched blood well up and trickle across his skin to drip on the sheets. He felt a little bit winded just from sitting up, and took a moment to lick the blood from his wrist before swinging his feet over the edge of the bed and standing up. He was wearing one of those horrible hospital gowns and the cool air hit his bare ass like a slap. His knees shook a little but he hung onto the rail and made it to the end of the bed without incident. There was a chart and he grabbed at it, blinking grit from his eyes to read and look for answers.
His name. Admitted September 2008. Some medical gibberish. Attending physician, Dr. G. Baltar. A head wound? He reached up gingerly. The left side of his head was fine, if a bit shaggy and bed-mussed; the right felt fuzzy, like it had been shaved (and of course his hair hadn't looked silly enough before, had it). Finally his fingers found the scar. A bumpy ridge. Healed. Panic welled up in his chest and he clutched at his head; this was worse than waking up after a night out, with no idea where he was or how he'd got there or who he'd woken up next to. His memories ended on the day he'd been admitted, that morning, when he'd been running a package for one of his regular clients. There had been the car that had run the light and naturally it was the one time he hadn't taken a proper look round before going.... He dropped the chart, letting it hit the floor, and aimed himself toward the door.
He tried the knob and it didn't budge. Who locked a fucking door in a hospital? He wasn't a criminal... and there were the keys on the floor at his feet, lying as if they'd been kicked under the door. The absolute quiet crowded in on him again and he reached down for the keys, unlocking the door and peeking out into the hallway before stepping outside. Still no lights and no people; a cleaning cart sat at a crazy angle against the wall like it had been shoved there in haste. Did he wake up in the middle of a bomb scare, abandoned in the nurses' haste to get out? That would figure.
A few doors down the corridor to the right, he found a staff room. Couches, magazines, a fridge. A broken coffee cup on the floor, surrounded by a dried brown stain. Some of the ceramic had been ground to dust by a careless heel.
All of the magazines were dated September. A newspaper marked the end of that month. He eyed a comfortable-looking armchair for a moment but then caught sight of some lockers at the rear of the room and changed his priorities. After making it over there, slowly but stubbornly, he discovered one locker left open, as he'd hoped. Inside was a set of surgery scrubs, which he put on because at least they had pants, and some worn-out trainers at least a size too big, which he laced as tightly as he could manage.
On his way out of the room, he opened the fridge but it was shut off as well and everything inside had gone off and was covered in green and white mold. He found a sealed water bottle in the door and took that, ripping the cap off and draining it so greedily he spilled tepid water down his chin and then stood gasping for air, his stomach lurching a bit. He chucked the bottle in the bin on his way out the door.
The elevators stood silent and dark so he took the stairs, and the hospital entrance looked like the scene of a riot. He was glad of the trainers as he crunched over broken glass in front of the shop and stopped in front of the remains of a row of vending machines. One was tipped over on its front, a sticky puddle of Coke spreading over the floor. He found some full cans and stuffed them in the pockets of his scrubs before stepping into the ruined shop for a bag to fill.
The only thing left in the food vending machine was a row of Smarties tubes, but he took them, too, tossing the contents of one into his mouth and crunching the chocolates slowly as he left the hospital, mindful of how fast he'd drunk the water.
Once he set foot outside and saw and smelled the river, he realized he was at St. Thomas'. He walked half of the distance toward Westminster Bridge and looked round: more silence. No cars; no buses; no hordes of people, homeless and professional and tourists, as there always were around here. He stepped on something that clinked and rattled and looked down to see a pile of trinkets from some overturned souvenir cart. Paper and bags blew around him like tumbleweeds.
Where the fuck had London gone?
He walked.
Trafalgar fucking Square, empty. He passed noticeboards heavy with paper and stopped to read them, looking for clues. It was all people scared and panicking, looking for their families. Notices of evacuation schedules, which made his stomach turn to contemplate. Children's drawings of Mummy and Daddy. Bloody handprints smearing and ripping at the pages and pages of faces and names and mobile numbers. He felt sick and walked away.
He'd about decided he'd woken up in Hell when he saw the church, so he went inside. The first thing he saw inside the entry was graffiti: some joker had written in desperate-looking block letters, REPENT, and, THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH.
The inside door stuck as he opened it and he quickly saw why: the pews had once been pushed up against the doors as a barricade, which had fallen. The room was full of bodies. And the smell of them, in a closed room... he gagged and backed out of the door, going up the stairs in the entryway instead. At the end of the corridor, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement.
“Hello?” he tried. His voice croaked a bit. He cleared his throat and repeated himself.
The thing moved again in the shadows and suddenly revealed itself to be a person.
“Father?”
The person started moving toward him. He had a strange, hobbling gait. And he was moving very quickly. All of a sudden he moved into a beam of light and revealed himself to be the priest. At least, he wore priest's robes. His hair was wild, his eyes were red and spittle covered his front. He looked mad as a hatter.
They stared each other down for a moment, and then the priest... thing sniffed the air, made a choking sound, and lunged.
A reflexive swing of the bag of junk food brought the creature in priest's clothes down and then it seemed like a good time to run.
“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.”
He went careening down the stairs, putting distance between him and the thing as fast as he could manage. Already there was a stitch in his side. More horrible choking sounds came from behind as he burst out of the church onto the darkening street and soon he was tearing down the empty road, his bag abandoned somewhere, as six of the damn things ran after him, flailing and choking.
Ten blocks later, they were still there and the stitch was threatening to make his Smarties come up as he ran past a petrol station. A shout that sounded nothing like the noises those creatures were making nearly made him fall over with relief. He followed it toward the row of pumps.
“Over here! Run!”
Something bright flew past his head and he heard a crunch and a whooshing noise as he ran. He risked a look and saw that one of the possessed people was on fire. Another Molotov cocktail flew by him and he ducked, running for the protection of the building. A person in black stood behind the pumps, still lobbing the firebombs. He sagged against the wall and tried not to throw up on his shoes, wanting to cry from the pain in his side. Finally he caught his breath and looked round the corner; his saviour was fiddling with tanks in the glowing light cast by four burning, choking, wailing things.
Barely ten seconds later, a black streak went past, grabbing his arm and hauling him along. He dared not look back again and concentrated on trying to keep up. Suddenly, he was blown to the ground by searing heat as the whole station went up in a fireball. The heat was still stinging his lungs as he was pulled upright again and dragged through the streets, his new companion whooping and hollering all the way. Finally they stumbled to a stop at a newsagent's, the security gate was rattled up, and he was shoved inside before he'd even caught his breath. He sagged to the floor and panted as the gate crashed back down.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing, running about in the dark by yourself?”
The other man was just barely illuminated by the moonlight coming through the spaces in the gate. He had light hair and a muscular build but otherwise looked barely old enough to get into a pub. A look of perpetual smugness flitted about his features. Trying to breathe normally seemed preferable to answering.
“Don't suppose I'm lucky enough that you're a doctor,” the man said eventually, looking pointedly at the scrubs.
“Nope. Patient.” Somehow he felt guilty, like he was letting down the side for not being a doctor while wearing scrubs.
“How the hell did you survive?”
“I don't know. I was on my bike, making a delivery, and a car cut across me, and then I woke up in hospital this afternoon.” He hesitated. “What month is it?”
“October. I think today is Halloween, in fact, so....” There was a pause and some crinkling, and then a packet of Maltesers was thrown at him. “Have some sweets. Eat up, it's all I've got. Actually, there might still be some jerky round here.”
“What's your name?”
“Arthur. You?”
“Merlin.” He tore open the packet, thinking as he looked inside that hopefully Arthur would find the jerky. Once you passed a certain age, the prospect of sugar at every meal seemed to lose its appeal.
Arthur surfaced from a pile of junk with a fistful of processed meat sticks and handed one to him, putting the rest aside.
“So, Merlin,” he said, dragging the name out, “it seems you've got some catching up to do.”
Merlin chewed a mouthful of jerky. “What in God's name were those things? They looked like people, but the sounds! And their eyes....”
“They're the Infected,” Arthur said flatly. He crossed his arms and looked down, seeming to retreat into himself a bit. “Nearly a month ago, it started. Rioting, mostly. But right from the beginning, it was obvious it wasn't just that. Because it was happening in small villages, market towns. And then it wasn't on the TV anymore. It was in the streets and then it was coming in through the windows.
“It was a virus. An infection. Something in the blood. One drop of infected blood was all it took, and it takes over the body in minutes. By the time they tried to evacuate the cities, it was already too late. Army blockades were overrun. And that's when the exodus started. Before the TV and radio stopped broadcasting, there were reports of infection in Paris and New York.”
Merlin was silent for a moment. Of course, it would have to be the fast-moving sort of zombies. Thinking better of sharing that thought, instead he said, “Are you by yourself, too, then?”
Arthur leaned his head back against a shelf. “There was a friend of mine. He... four days ago.”
“He died?”
“Infected.”
“Is he,” Merlin waved vaguely, “out there?”
“No.” Arthur's voice was flat. “Get some sleep,” he said suddenly. “You look like shit.”
A retort died on Merlin's tongue.
***
Dawn stabbed through his eyelids in patchy squares, outlined by the security gate, and brought with it one of the worst headaches Merlin had ever had. He couldn't stifle a moan as he sat up. The noise made Arthur stir a few feet away, and his hand twitched around the grip of a huge knife as he opened his eyes. Thankfully, when he focused on Merlin he released his grip.
“You still look like shit,” he said by way of greeting as he sat up and stretched, already looking far too chipper. “Breakfast?”
Merlin squinted in the sunlight. “Painkillers with a gunshot chaser, perhaps,” he managed.
Arthur chuckled as he got to his feet and moved toward the racks on the wall. “Headache? Well, at least that means you've still got your brains in there under that scar.”
Thinking half-formed and uncharitable thoughts, Merlin watched Arthur reach for a bottle of paracetamol on a shelf, revising his impressions in the daylight. Arthur was apparently one of those people who never looked like shit, even if perhaps they'd just fallen face-first in a great steaming pile of it. And the smugness was definitely coming out, now. He just barely caught the pill bottle before it hit him in the face. “Thanks.”
A Sprite quickly followed it, although that was aimed closer to his stomach. He nearly dropped it, catching it one-handed as he was. Arthur settled across from him with a drink of his own and half of a Terry's Chocolate Orange.
“It's nearly fruit,” he said, offering Merlin a segment. Merlin shook his head and washed down a pill with some warm Sprite.
“So what do you do with your days, besides blow up petrol stations?” he asked finally, breaking what might have passed for a companionable silence.
“I keep on breathing.”
“Do you go out and look for other survivors?”
Arthur shook his head slowly. “Not many left. A whole month, Merlin. They've all evacuated or died or been infected... or all of those. You were a bit of a strange occurrence, I'm afraid.”
Merlin almost asked why Arthur hadn't left, but instead, after chewing his lip a moment, he said, “My mum. She's in Deptford. It's not that far, I can walk from here.”
“She'll be dead, as well,” Arthur said.
“Fuck off.”
“Merlin.” His voice brooked no argument, and Merlin met his eyes, which were serious. “Listen to me. Your mother is dead. There is no way she is still there and still alive. And frankly, you should hope she went painlessly. Probably better than either of us can expect.”
Merlin shook his head, unable to speak.
“You're wrong,” he finally choked out, and scrambled to his feet. “You're fucking wrong and I'm going to go find her.” He rattled the gate at the doorway. “How do I get this thing open?”
Arthur heaved a sigh from the floor and then Merlin heard shuffling, although he kept his gaze locked on the quiet street beyond the newsagent's doorway. His mind was going in circles like a hamster on a wheel.
After a moment there was a touch on his shoulder and he whirled round. Arthur handed him something and turned away to start packing a bag. Merlin looked down dully at the heavy thing in his hands.
“A cricket bat?”
“Gives them a good bashing. Mind the bloodstains.”
He nearly dropped the bat when at last he saw the red patches on it, seeped into the wood. Arthur soon finished packing and slung the bag over his shoulder, shifting his machete into his right hand.
“Right. Off we go, then.” He reached down for the edge of the gate and they hoisted it up enough to duck under and into the overwhelmingly vacant street. “Sodding Deptford,” Arthur muttered, not quite quietly enough, as he set off. Merlin looked round nervously before hurrying to catch up.
Arthur was clearly glowering at the universe so Merlin felt it wise to stay silent for several minutes. Finally, he said, “Why are you coming along? I could have left on my own.”
Arthur stopped suddenly and whirled to face him, and he regretted opening his mouth.
“Are you mentally handicapped?” Arthur's voice dripped with disdain. “You don't go anywhere alone. Even in daylight. It's not safe. Besides,” he said, giving his knife a show-offy twirl with his wrist, “I haven't been to Deptford since this started and there might be things there worth checking out.”
“You want to loot Deptford?” Merlin nearly dropped his bat.
“Oh, be sensible. No one there will be needing anything they've left behind. Just think of it as shopping without money, if you like.” Arthur started up a brisk pace, calling over his shoulder, “Hurry up, Merlin, we need to be back before dark.”
***
They took two rest breaks on the way there and Merlin was still overwhelmingly glad to collapse on the front stairs of his house. Arthur hauled him back to his feet on the way by, peering in the windows before trying the door. It was locked and Merlin automatically reached for the key he no longer carried just as his companion kicked the door in with an enormous combat boot. He swallowed a protest, seeing already that it would fall on uncaring ears.
Everything looked the same, except for a layer of dust. And there was a smell. It faintly tickled his nose as he went for the stairs but grew stronger by the landing. Arthur hung back behind him but he kept stubbornly climbing, finding himself following the stench against his will and better judgement. When it grew strongest around his mum's bedroom door, he had to talk himself into turning the knob.
She was on the bed, with the sheets pulled up. An empty wine bottle and a handful of sleeping pills sat on the nightstand. He covered his nose with his shirt collar as he reached forward to grab a piece of paper from her grey hand. It was an old photo of the two of them, from a summer at his aunt's in the country. There was a crease in it across her eyes and the back said,
Merlin,
With endless love I left you sleeping. Now I've gone to join you. Don't wake up.
xx Mum
A sob ripped out of his throat before he knew it. The photo crumpled in his fist as Arthur appeared next to him, drawing him into a rough hug. “Let it out; just let it out,” he murmured, and for a moment, Merlin allowed himself to do it. Then with one last hiccup he broke free and made for the door. Arthur followed, shutting it carefully behind him.
“Have you got clothes here?” he asked, still quiet.
Merlin nodded and went into his bedroom across the hallway. He changed quickly and stuffed a pair of jeans and a coat into an old messenger bag, stopping to stare at his pale face, lopsided hair and patchy beard in the mirror for a moment before rushing back into the hall, where Arthur was waiting. “Let's get the fuck out of here, please,” he said, his voice scratchy. Arthur looked at him for a moment and then nodded, leading the way back down the staircase. When they emerged into fresh air again, both taking great heaving gasps to clear the smell from their noses, Merlin stopped in the road to stare up at his house-his mum's house-one more time. His cricket bat hung loosely in his fingers.
“She went peacefully,” Arthur said.
Something in Merlin broke, possibly for a final time. He whirled on the other man. “What the fuck do you know about it?” he yelled. “My mum, my only family,” he snarled, gesturing wildly at the dead house, “is dead! I am alone in this world!” For a wild second he wanted to take a swing at Arthur with the bat and add fresh bloodstains to it.
“Join the club,” Arthur said shortly, walking briskly down the road. He seemed to have forgotten his plans to pillage the neighbourhood. Merlin stared after him a moment and then started jogging to catch up again. He'd known this idiot less than a day and already he seemed to spend all his time running after him.
***
They were making their way through The Borough and hadn't yet said another word to each other when Merlin thought he saw something blinking on the edge of his sight. He slowed and turned toward the source and yes, there it was: colourful, blinking lights on a tower block in the near distance. He reached out to grab Arthur's sleeve.
“Look.”
They both stood and stared at the lights, neither moving nor speaking. The blinking pattern seemed odd to Merlin-perhaps it was Morse code for something?
“We should go see what that's about,” he said, still transfixed.
“You're insane. It might be a trap.”
“A trap?” He turned to Arthur at last, floored. “A trap. Because those bloody choking B-movie nightmares clearly show the intelligence required to lure people into traps to eat them!”
Arthur's look was cool. “I think it wouldn't require much thinking to fool certain people.”
“Shut up. Let's go.” Merlin was determined not to be the one doing the chasing-after this time. Alas, Arthur kept up with him easily, twirling his machete in a manner that looked much easier than Merlin suspected it was. He would probably lose fingers trying those moves. He kept on stolidly marching toward the lights.
From a block away the lights could be seen to be strung up on the balcony of a flat about ten stories up, and white sheets saying, 'HELP' in large, black letters had been tied to the railings of the flats on either side. Captain Prat frowned up at them and predictably said, “I still don't like this.”
“Stay here, then,” Merlin said over his shoulder as he made for the car park, which was closest. Inside it was dark and nearly empty of cars; the entrance to the lift and stairs was barricaded by a truly staggering number of shopping trolleys. Arthur appeared at his shoulder and stepped forward to tug at the closest baskets, evidently trying to make some fall on his stupid head. Merlin shook his head.
“What is it with tower blocks and shopping trolleys?” he said, grinning at his own joke.
Arthur ignored him and started climbing the stack of wheels and wires as if it were a perfectly sane thing to do. He looked back at Merlin from the top of the mountain.
“Are you coming or not?” he snapped, as if it had been his idea to come in here all along. Merlin muttered horrible things to himself as he started looking for a foothold on the bottom layer of trolleys.
He would have been hard-pressed to suggest a way they could have made more noise climbing over the obstacle, but shortly they were on the stairs and still in one piece.
“Ten stories up,” Arthur said from in front of him, not bothering to look round at him to speak. Now Merlin couldn't count, either. He bit his lip to keep the retorts down until they died away and followed doggedly.
He only made it five flights before his body decided to remind him of how he'd just woken up in hospital a day before and had been getting far too much exercise since then. When he collapsed loudly on the fifth floor landing, Arthur finally turned around and jogged down several steps to join him.
“What's wrong?” he asked, peering into Merlin's face in a disconcerting manner. “Tired?”
“Headache,” Merlin bit out, nodding a little.
He got a disgusted noise in reply. “Why didn't you say anything, you idiot?” Arthur sat down on a stair and began rummaging through his bag.
Merlin sighed. “I assumed you didn't give a shit.” He blinked as a bottle of painkillers was shoved into his hand.
“My God, you're thick. You were in a bloody coma for over a month! You've got no fat on you at all and you've had nothing except sugar; you're crashing. So what you need is some pills and more sugar. Pepsi or Tango?”
Merlin opened his mouth but found himself shushed before he got a sound out.
“Did you hear that?”
He raised an eyebrow and listened.
Crashing noises. The shopping trolleys.
Merlin didn't know where he found the energy but he was on his feet in an instant and charging up the stairs after Arthur. He nearly dropped the cricket bat in his haste to move but his head still pounded till he thought his eyes would pop out and he found himself lagging far too soon. Arthur was half a flight of stairs ahead and the gap between them increased as he watched. The Infected were on the stairs now; he could hear their demonic screeching and the pounding of their feet as they gained on him.
“Arthur!” he yelled, wheezing. “Arthur, for fuck's sake, wait!” He tripped on a stair and nearly hit his face on the railing. He clung to it with his free hand, dragging himself up but it wasn't nearly quick enough and the Infected behind him were getting louder and closer.
“Arthur!” he tried one last time, and the blessed, fantastic man ran to him and hauled his arm over a shoulder, half-dragging him toward safety.
Merlin heard another voice between the gasps of his own lungs. It sounded like a woman. He looked up.
“Come on! Hurry, they're almost here!” she called, waving at them. She was holding open a fire door and had some kind of weapon in her other hand.
Arthur's grunt reverberated though Merlin's ribs where they were pressed together as they made a Herculean effort up the last ten steps. Merlin felt a strong push on his back and nearly fell through the doorway, overcome with relief even through he knew the danger wasn't quite past yet. Arthur set him down semi-gently and went back to the woman; there was a crackling sound and he smelled burnt flesh before the door slammed shut on the Infected. He looked up as they finished dragging an enormous bookshelf or something in front of the door. Infected thudded uselessly against the other side, still screaming ceaselessly.
“Up we get,” the woman said, grabbing one of Merlin's arms as Arthur picked up the other, and Merlin was frog-marched down the corridor and into one of the flats. He leaned against a handy wall and blinked until his vision cleared and his heart didn't feel like it would burst from his ribs anytime soon, and then the woman was standing in front of him with a thoughtful look on her face. She was ridiculously attractive and he was suddenly intensely aware of his skinny frame, his lopsided surgery haircut, his patchy, month-old beard, and that he generally looked like something near death. She was tapping something against her palm and he realized suddenly that it was a taser. The crackling sound and burnt smell made sense, now. He coughed into his fist a little and drew a deep, ragged breath.
“Hullo.”
She smiled. “You look a bit done-in.”
Arthur materialized from some room down the hall. “He was in hospital till yesterday.”
The woman quirked a perfect eyebrow. “I don't think you were ready to be released yet.” Her tone sounded frank but her eyes twinkled. “Come have a seat, before you fall over,” she said, seizing his arm and tugging him into the living room. He made a beeline for the sofa and couldn't stifle a groan as he sat down.
When he found the presence of mind to open his eyes again, he was faced with three identical smirks-he'd walked right past another woman sitting in the armchair. She introduced herself as Gwen, and while she wasn't the same calibre of knockout as her friend-Morgana-she was still quite pretty and had a sweet look about her where Morgana exuded feistiness. Most interestingly, though, Gwen's right arm was in a cast that went over her elbow. He looked at it and she must have seen the question on his face, because she waved her arm a little in her sling and said, “Car accident. In September.”
Merlin thought. “That should be nearly ready to come off, then, shouldn't it?”
“Yes... but my arm isn't exactly top-notch yet. I haven't got a brace or anything for it and I don't want to break it again. And, you know, no doctor to go to.” She looked vaguely embarrassed for her predicament. He was trying to come up with a reassuring reply but Morgana beat him to it.
“Oh, Gwen, will you stop! It's not your fault, is it. We'll get that cast off you and you'll be fine, I promise.”
Gwen looked cheered up a bit and Arthur seemed to take that as an opportunity to redirect the conversation.
“What are you two doing barricaded up here, anyway?” he asked, leaning forward over his knees a bit as he spoke. “I suppose it's somewhat defensible as positions go, but you're practically stranded in this flat.”
Morgana rubbed at her eyes. “We've done alright, though,” she said. “Of course, we went through quite a few of the empty flats and took what we could use, and with only two of us we can survive quite some time on the food we've got. But....”
Merlin looked up at her. “But?”
She twisted a lock of her hair between her fingers and didn't answer for a moment; apparently it was her turn to be embarrassed.
“We're nearly out of water. We had some of those large cooler jugs that were left, and the water still worked for several days after the outbreak, so we made sure to fill containers, just in case. But we need water for so many things. Even conserving it, a whole month has dried up our reserves.” A lock of hair slipped in front of her eyes; she tucked it back behind her ears and went back to staring at her hands in her lap. “We even tried collecting rainwater in buckets and pots on the roof, but it hasn't rained in nearly a week, now.” Morgana finally met Arthur's eyes and hers shone a little with wetness. “With Gwen's arm... we didn't know what to do. We're so glad you came.”
Arthur, for some reason, looked at Merlin. It made him unaccountably nervous.
“I don't suppose you have any liquor,” Arthur said finally, still looking at Merlin.
***
Night had well and truly fallen, and after Morgana had cut Merlin's hair to a uniform length in the blinking glow of their generator-run fairy lights, Merlin found himself in the tiny bathroom, attempting to shave off his patchy coma-beard by candlelight with a dry razor.
“Fuck!” he hissed at another sting on his cheek. Blood welled up and he dabbed at the cut with a rag that was beginning to look rather more reddish than it had when he'd started this futile exercise.
“Going to die of blood loss before the zombies get me,” he muttered, taking another careful pass at the longish stubble on his jawline.
Arthur opened the door suddenly and it was all Merlin could do not to cut his own throat in his surprise.
“How's that going?” Arthur smiled as Merlin inspected for cuts and then started to shave again. He looked far too amused.
“I think using tweezers might have ended up being the less painful option,” he retorted.
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, watching the nightmare in progress like there was nothing else he'd rather be doing. “You can have the spare bed,” he said quietly. “I'll take the living room.”
Merlin shot him a look and he shrugged. “I don't need you dying on me, do I?” Arthur said, far too casually. “You look like you need a good night's sleep or twelve, Coma Boy. I'll just be sure to wake you every hour.”
“I haven't got a concussion! Anymore,” Merlin amended. He held the candle up high enough to see his face more clearly and decided to give up on shaving, having finally managed to remove nearly as much hair as he had blood from his jaw. He left the bathroom with the candle, chivvying Arthur out before him. “Thanks,” he added belatedly. Arthur nodded and by unspoken agreement they walked into the living room, which was now lit by so many candles it brought to mind a church altar.
Merlin set his candle down on the table and leaned back into the sofa cushions. “What do you make of them, then?” he said.
Arthur stuffed a pillow behind his head and settled into the other corner of the sofa. “They need us,” he said. “More than we need them.”
Merlin thought of Morgana and her taser and felt inclined to disagree. But then.... “Gwen's arm is a concern, certainly,” he said, staring at the flickering light patterns on the ceiling. “I can see why they wouldn't have risked an escape on their own. Especially if they don't know where to go.” He shifted to look at Arthur. “But then what are we expected to do for them? Find them more water? Break them out, take them to the newsagent's or one of your other likely numerous hiding spots, try to get the cast off and then just carry on? Stay here?”
They were all shit ideas. By Arthur's silence, he agreed and couldn't come up with anything better.
There was safety in numbers, Merlin thought, but when did the numbers get too large to be safe? Still, in his mind, four people had a much better collective chance at it than two. If it was even worth the effort to try.
“Arthur.”
“Mm.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Why do I do what, Merlin?”
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely and then realizing he needed to do better than that. “Surviving. Carrying on. Do you think there's an end to this, a victory for humanity in the offering? If we can't leave England, if this is happening all over the planet... what comes after survival?”
“Nothing ever comes after survival, Merlin. That's all we're doing, any of us. Infected or no Infected.”
“So you have no plans for the future besides philosophizing, then.”
“Like what? Finding a cure? Meeting a nice girl, so we can fall in love and repopulate the planet? Is that your five-year plan, Merlin?” Arthur paused and took a deep breath, apparently trying to calm himself down. He rearranged his pillow. “Just focus on the moments as they come. You'll drive yourself mad thinking about what comes after.” He sighed. “Get some sleep; you look like hell.”
Merlin took his candle and made for the spare room without another word. His sleep was mercifully dreamless.
***
Part 2