kate's birthday 1: the day after tomorrow (popslash/DotD, 1/1)
Britney Spears in Dawn of the Dead. Now with 100% less mall!
the day after tomorrow
By Gale
SUMMARY: Britney Spears in Dawn of the Dead. Now with 100% less mall! For katemonkey’s birthday.
Britney makes it to December, though she's not sure how.
That's not entirely true. She knows how she made it this far: by holing up in her penthouse apartment and disabling the elevators, blocking the stairs with crap to make them harder to get through. She hasn't been below the thirtieth floor since the middle of October.
She tries not to panic when she hears noises in the stairwell, but she makes sure her gun is loaded anyway. And the safety is off.
She has plenty of food; that's not going to be a problem for months yet. She doesn't have much of an appetite these days. One can of Spaghetti-Os (Kevin's, he loved the damn things, and don't you dare cry over him, not now) can last her two or three days, if she doesn't think about it.
She can't be sure, but she thinks there might still be some people alive around the thirty-fifth floor. She hears rustling, sometimes, and noises that might be words. It's not zombies, they're not loud enough, and no one's tried to attack her. Still, she's not going over and making friends. She'd seen Mad Max and The Road Warrior enough times to know that apocalypse + pretty woman = never a good thing.
The electricity is still on, though Britney’s pretty sure that’s just a fluke. Through some miracle, the rampaging zombie hordes didn’t manage to knock over any power lines to her building. It’s a tiny miracle, maybe, but she’ll take it. She’s not in much of a position to argue, these days.
She has food, and running water, and power for the heat. She tries not to make too much noise - they’re not inside yet, but it’s still not a good idea to tease them - and doesn’t sleep in rooms with windows. She hasn’t had her gun more than two feet away from herself in longer than she can remember. If she tries, she can remember bringing it on stage with her at Madison Square Garden, though she knows that’s a lie. The mind does funny things sometimes.
She still has electricity, but the TV stations went out a while ago, and there’s only so many times you can watch DVDs before you have the dialogue memorized. One of the people on thirty-two had been a book nerd, so she’s been reading a lot. Boring beach stuff, like Jackie Collins and John Grisham, but interesting things too - Michael Chabon, Margaret Atwood, Paul Monette. She’s sort of sad she can’t order anything from Amazon anymore.
She hasn't been dreaming a hell of a lot lately; or if she has, she doesn't remember them. That's probably for the best. It’s easier to tell herself lies that way.
(The world was never yours. You were never married, never famous, never loved. It’s always been like this, and it’s never going to be any way else.)
She drinks, most mornings, but stops by noon. She likes to have her wits about her by nightfall, and it’s taking her longer and longer to get over her hangover. She can’t party like she used to, and it’s not like she can borrow any coke from Kevin to get her over it. She just drinks a lot of water and does sit-ups, jogs up and down the hall until she sweats it out of her system.
Britney misses people more than she’ll ever admit, and not just for the sex. She misses *talking* to someone, hearing someone else’s voice, having conversations and opinions she can express. Though, you know, she wouldn’t turn down a couple of orgasms, either.
In the back of her head - the part of herself she doesn’t admit to in interviews; the part that told her to marry Kevin, do the video in the schoolgirl outfit, make the crappy movie - Britney knows it’s only a matter of time. Eventually the food will run out, or the power will go, or the several million walking dead lining the streets of New York City will break through the makeshift barricades she’s set up and tear through the building, listening and smelling for her. They’ll find her, because that’s the way these things always work. They’ll find her and tear her to pieces, and she’ll just get up a couple minutes later, animated meat.
Like Kevin had been. And Fe. And Justin, probably, somewhere, though she can’t say she knows for certain.
It’s the middle of winter; if the power were to go out now, she wouldn’t last that long. If she doesn’t run out of food ‘til summer; if she went down to 35 and tried to make friends; if this was all just a bad dream-
If, if, if. It’s a stupid word; worse, it’s a pointless one, because so what? Possibility was great and all, but Britney’s out of those. She’s been out of those for a long time, if she was being honest with herself.
The easiest thing, she knows, would be to fling open a bedroom window and begin firing into the crowds, taking as many of the goddamned things with her as she could. She’d save the last bullet for herself and put the gun in her mouth, because you’re more likely to survive a shot to the temple. Too easy to ricochet. In the mouth, you’re almost guaranteed to hit brain.
She doesn’t know if she’ll do that, though. It’s the easiest thing, sure, but Britney’s never been a fan of the easy way out. Besides, the way her last couple of years have been going, she’d kill herself and the world would be back to normal tomorrow, piles of corpses lining the streets while pale bands of survivors crawl out of homes and hospitals and the wreckage.
No fucking thank you. She’d like to be there when that happens, thanks.
So Britney gets up every morning, and drinks ‘til noon. Then she exercises and drinks a lot of water, sweating it out of her system. She does calisthenics to keep her muscles sharp, and reads, and eats sparingly when she remembers to eat at all. She sleeps poorly, and when she manages to sleep, she doesn’t dream that often.
Maybe, she thinks, this is all a horrible dream. Some B-movie somewhere, some trashy novel you buy at the airport. She doesn’t think so, though. She wouldn’t be in either of those things, and she sure as fuck wouldn’t have a gun.
So she keeps reading.
Outside, the snow falls.
the day after tomorrow
By Gale
SUMMARY: Britney Spears in Dawn of the Dead. Now with 100% less mall! For katemonkey’s birthday.
Britney makes it to December, though she's not sure how.
That's not entirely true. She knows how she made it this far: by holing up in her penthouse apartment and disabling the elevators, blocking the stairs with crap to make them harder to get through. She hasn't been below the thirtieth floor since the middle of October.
She tries not to panic when she hears noises in the stairwell, but she makes sure her gun is loaded anyway. And the safety is off.
She has plenty of food; that's not going to be a problem for months yet. She doesn't have much of an appetite these days. One can of Spaghetti-Os (Kevin's, he loved the damn things, and don't you dare cry over him, not now) can last her two or three days, if she doesn't think about it.
She can't be sure, but she thinks there might still be some people alive around the thirty-fifth floor. She hears rustling, sometimes, and noises that might be words. It's not zombies, they're not loud enough, and no one's tried to attack her. Still, she's not going over and making friends. She'd seen Mad Max and The Road Warrior enough times to know that apocalypse + pretty woman = never a good thing.
The electricity is still on, though Britney’s pretty sure that’s just a fluke. Through some miracle, the rampaging zombie hordes didn’t manage to knock over any power lines to her building. It’s a tiny miracle, maybe, but she’ll take it. She’s not in much of a position to argue, these days.
She has food, and running water, and power for the heat. She tries not to make too much noise - they’re not inside yet, but it’s still not a good idea to tease them - and doesn’t sleep in rooms with windows. She hasn’t had her gun more than two feet away from herself in longer than she can remember. If she tries, she can remember bringing it on stage with her at Madison Square Garden, though she knows that’s a lie. The mind does funny things sometimes.
She still has electricity, but the TV stations went out a while ago, and there’s only so many times you can watch DVDs before you have the dialogue memorized. One of the people on thirty-two had been a book nerd, so she’s been reading a lot. Boring beach stuff, like Jackie Collins and John Grisham, but interesting things too - Michael Chabon, Margaret Atwood, Paul Monette. She’s sort of sad she can’t order anything from Amazon anymore.
She hasn't been dreaming a hell of a lot lately; or if she has, she doesn't remember them. That's probably for the best. It’s easier to tell herself lies that way.
(The world was never yours. You were never married, never famous, never loved. It’s always been like this, and it’s never going to be any way else.)
She drinks, most mornings, but stops by noon. She likes to have her wits about her by nightfall, and it’s taking her longer and longer to get over her hangover. She can’t party like she used to, and it’s not like she can borrow any coke from Kevin to get her over it. She just drinks a lot of water and does sit-ups, jogs up and down the hall until she sweats it out of her system.
Britney misses people more than she’ll ever admit, and not just for the sex. She misses *talking* to someone, hearing someone else’s voice, having conversations and opinions she can express. Though, you know, she wouldn’t turn down a couple of orgasms, either.
In the back of her head - the part of herself she doesn’t admit to in interviews; the part that told her to marry Kevin, do the video in the schoolgirl outfit, make the crappy movie - Britney knows it’s only a matter of time. Eventually the food will run out, or the power will go, or the several million walking dead lining the streets of New York City will break through the makeshift barricades she’s set up and tear through the building, listening and smelling for her. They’ll find her, because that’s the way these things always work. They’ll find her and tear her to pieces, and she’ll just get up a couple minutes later, animated meat.
Like Kevin had been. And Fe. And Justin, probably, somewhere, though she can’t say she knows for certain.
It’s the middle of winter; if the power were to go out now, she wouldn’t last that long. If she doesn’t run out of food ‘til summer; if she went down to 35 and tried to make friends; if this was all just a bad dream-
If, if, if. It’s a stupid word; worse, it’s a pointless one, because so what? Possibility was great and all, but Britney’s out of those. She’s been out of those for a long time, if she was being honest with herself.
The easiest thing, she knows, would be to fling open a bedroom window and begin firing into the crowds, taking as many of the goddamned things with her as she could. She’d save the last bullet for herself and put the gun in her mouth, because you’re more likely to survive a shot to the temple. Too easy to ricochet. In the mouth, you’re almost guaranteed to hit brain.
She doesn’t know if she’ll do that, though. It’s the easiest thing, sure, but Britney’s never been a fan of the easy way out. Besides, the way her last couple of years have been going, she’d kill herself and the world would be back to normal tomorrow, piles of corpses lining the streets while pale bands of survivors crawl out of homes and hospitals and the wreckage.
No fucking thank you. She’d like to be there when that happens, thanks.
So Britney gets up every morning, and drinks ‘til noon. Then she exercises and drinks a lot of water, sweating it out of her system. She does calisthenics to keep her muscles sharp, and reads, and eats sparingly when she remembers to eat at all. She sleeps poorly, and when she manages to sleep, she doesn’t dream that often.
Maybe, she thinks, this is all a horrible dream. Some B-movie somewhere, some trashy novel you buy at the airport. She doesn’t think so, though. She wouldn’t be in either of those things, and she sure as fuck wouldn’t have a gun.
So she keeps reading.
Outside, the snow falls.