Writing on the Wall (1/2)
Title: Writing on the Wall
Summary: Written for the l4d_bigbang. SPN Crossover with Left 4 Dead. Season 2 AU. Caught in the wake of a nation-wide epidemic, Sam and Dean find themselves stranded in a small town, far away from any form of aid. Together with a couple of other survivors, they must run the gauntlet of a town full of the infected, taking refuge in safe houses where they can, in order to make it to the evac zone. Even then, they learn, nowhere is truly safe...
Art: By the incomparable glasslogic! Link here.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC, OMC, with quick guest appearance by Bobby
Rating: R
Wordcount: 14,991
Disclaimer: I own neither Sam nor Dean nor anything to do with the L4D video game franchise. That's probably a good thing, because otherwise there would be a lot more zombies in the SPN world, and the character survival rate would be a LOT lower...
Warnings: No spoilers for SPN past Season 2. Swearing. Violence and gore about on par with both the show and game.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: First off, I encourage you to RUN, not walk, to the gorgeous art by glasslogic, who is a complete rockstar!Not only is she running the show, she's also writing AND making art! She made a banner and a divider and a whackload of icons, which are fabulous. You will note how gorgeous the banner is: she has a real feel for composition, and combined the elements of the story together beautifully. You'll see when you read the story.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: My undying thanks go out to yasminke, who beta'd this in record time and as usual saved me from myself in a bunch of really embarrassing places. ;)
Neurotic Author's Note #3: So I finally, finally got to indulge my extreme love of zombies in an SPN fic. I have been waiting for an opportunity for a really long time. Unfortunately, the L4D zombies are not the ones I prefer, but still! I also didn't get to go into as much description as I would have liked, and I was forced to tread the line between fantasy and the suspension of disbelief a little more carefully. For instance, I didn't allow my characters unlimited ammunition, and they didn't find convenient piles of weapons and stuff lying around. Can't have everything, right?
Neurotic Author's Note #4: I must thank my RL-friend fearsclave for introducing me to L4D and for gleefully encouraging me to slaughter as many zombies as possible all the while laughing at me as I squeaked and swore at the computer screen. I may never forgive him, however, for telling me to shoot "that car with the blinking light." Bah.
Neurotic Author's Note #5: fearsclave also encouraged me to read the awesome and creative graffiti in the "safe houses" in the game, which is what prompted this story to begin with.
ICONS!
“Zombies,” Dean commented. “Gets funnier every time I hear it.”
“Isn't that what you said about the vampires? For a hunter, you sure seem amazed by the appearance of some of the things we run into.” Sam rolled his eyes as he carefully checked the remaining ammunition in his clip. “Well, I'm down to ten in this clip and one full one until we can get back to the car. And the shotgun, but that's not exactly our best bet.”
“I've still got two full clips, other than what I've got still loaded,” Dean said. He decided, magnanimously, to ignore the vampire comment. They had bigger fish to fry, after all. “We get out of this alive, we're working on your aim, Sammy.”
“It's Sam, and it's not my aim that's the problem, it's the fact that there was a goddamned zombie horde on the other side of that last door. Which, I maintain, would not have been a problem if someone hadn't pulled the fire alarm,” Sam pointed out, a little more bitchily than was strictly necessary, as far as Dean was concerned.
How was he supposed to know that zombies were attracted to loud noises, anyway? Dean made a derisive noise at the back of his throat. It's not like it was in any of the Romero flicks. Then again, in the Romero flicks, zombies didn't run at you in a mad, screaming horde and try to rip you to shreds. They just sort of stumbled and staggered around, and if you got taken down, well, it was because you were just unprepared. Unfortunately, 'unprepared' applied even to him and Sam these days, because, really, no one believed in the goddamn zombie apocalypse, not even them. Sure, there were zombies before, but they were psycho chicks who'd been raised by the dead by their creepy friend-slash-stalker with delusions of true love and far too much knowledge of ancient Greek rituals, and not at all mindless animated corpses that decayed as they walked. That was the whole fun of watching zombie movies, Dean thought bitterly: it was all fiction. No one expected the zombie apocalypse.
“It's like the Spanish Inquisition,” Sam said, getting to his feet, and for a moment Dean wondered if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.
“You start reading minds all of a sudden, psychic-boy?”
“Don't call me that, and no, I don't read minds. That's not how it works and you know it, jerk.”
“Just wondering. There was that whole furniture-moving incident, so you can't blame a guy for checking.”
“That was once, and it never happened again. It's just the visions, okay? God,” Sam huffed. Trust him to get his panties in a twist over that when there were zombies milling about outside trying to eat everyone in sight.
“Fat lot of help those were. You think you could have predicted this whole mess,” Dean rose from his crouch to peer through the window out at the darkening street below.
They'd been holed up on the second floor of an abandoned apartment building for the better part of the afternoon, after the aforementioned fire-alarm-gone-wrong incident, but there was very little sign of things getting any better. The Impala was way the hell on the other side of town, courtesy of some spectacularly bad planning on his part. Now they were trapped with very few potential escape routes, and even fewer bullets, and this day was really, but really starting to suck. He felt rather than saw Sam making a bitch face at him in the semi-darkness.
“Are you just trying to get a rise out of me, or are you being deliberately dense, or what?” Sam asked. “The visions only relate to the demon, in case you somehow managed to forget that. So I'm guessing that the zombie apocalypse, or whatever, doesn't have anything to do with it. Do you see anything?”
Dean risked leaning forward and ducking his head through the window. Apart from being a lot faster than he would have thought, and some of them having some freaky abilities, the zombies were pretty much acting according to stereotype: mindless flesh-eating machines. They didn't appear capable of reasoning, or at least not thinking much farther than a couple of feet in front of them, and the odds of one of them raising its head to look up ―which none of them had done so far that he'd been able to tell― seemed pretty slim.
“Nothing. Well, that's not true. There's a bunch of zombies down there, kind of scattered around and not doing much. We might be able to make a break for it, but there's no way we're making it back to the Impala in one go.”
“Yeah,” Sam came to stand by him on the opposite side of the window, shielding himself out of habit rather than necessity ―let it not be said that John Winchester hadn't raised good little soldiers. “It's not that far, really. We can probably make it in a few hours, if we do it in stages. There might be some way stations still in operation. Head to those, stock up on whatever we can find, keep going until we get back to the car.”
“I swear, if those brain-eating ghouls have so much as scratched her paint job...”
“You'll what?” Sam challenged, and Dean just glared. It's not like there was much to threaten a zombie with, but it was a little rude to point it out and totally undermine the effect he'd been going for. Sam was already moving on, anyway, prowling along the wall and toward the front door of the empty apartment they'd holed up in, though it was obvious his bad leg was still giving him trouble.
“What is it?”
Sam made an equivocal motion with one hand, scrunching up his nose in that way he had when things weren't going to his liking. “Not sure. Probably nothing, since we did a sweep of the floor and those things can't climb stairs. I figure we should try for the roof first ―there's too many of them right outside the building, but maybe we can go roof to roof for a couple of buildings, climb down one of the fire escapes.”
Dean nodded. It wasn't a foolproof plan, but it was the best one they had to date. “You sure your knee can take it?”
Sam just shrugged. “It's either that or become zombie fodder. I've had worse, I'll make it work.”
“I suppose it would be too much to ask for one of these apartment-dwelling yuppies to be a gun collector?” Dean grumbled, joining him at the door.
“Probably, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to check. Carefully. The last thing we want is to set a whole new bunch of them loose on this floor ―we're running low on ammo as it is.”
“All right, then. A few hours, and we'll be home free. Then we get the hell out of Dodge, regroup, and figure out just what the hell we can do about all of this.”
There had been little or no warning when it had all first started. In fact, Dean was pretty sure that the whole "zombie apocalypse' started long before either he or Sam even noticed, cut off as they were most of the time from mainstream society. That was probably their saving grace, too. The fact that they drove around constantly, drifting from town to town like those bums in the thirties he read about who rode around on trains all day long. The first they heard of it was over the radio, one day when Sam declared himself sick and tired of listening to the same five cassette tapes over and over again ―"Cassette tapes, Dean!"― and had demanded they at least try listening to the radio for a while.
"It can't possibly be that bad, and I don't know about you, but I for one haven't seen a newspaper or a proper TV in days, and we have no idea what's going on in the real world!"
"Seems fair enough to me," Dean had pointed out. "I mean, the real world has no idea what's going on in our world either. Ignorance is bliss, Sammy."
"God, I can't believe you. And it's Sam."
So rather than have Sam sulk at him for the next hundred miles, Dean had relented ―even though he was the one driving and therefore totally had the choice of music in the car― and had let his little brother fiddle with the dials, looking for a radio station. It might also have had a little something to do with the fact that Sam had, once again, proven himself to be a magnet for supernatural fuglies on their last hunt, and had been so battered that for the first couple of days they'd holed up in a motel while Sam slept like the dead and Dean kept himself busy by cleaning every weapon they owned and cursing at the broken television set in the room. Even after that Sam had done little but doze fitfully in the car, shifting uncomfortably in his seat every few minutes to compensate for torn and strained muscles and a mild concussion. So Dean couldn't be blamed if it was nice to see him sit up and show enough of an interest in his surroundings to petulantly demand a news station. For a few minutes it had seemed like a lost cause: every frequency gave off nothing but fuzzy static and ear-splitting squeals, and Dean was about to bark at Sam to just put his music back on, already, when one station crackled into life, a bit garbled but still mostly audible.
"―urge everyone to remain indoors as much as they can possibly manage until the situation is contained," a voice said, in the earnest-yet-neutral tones of a news announcer, and Dean sat up straighter in his seat.
"Turn it up, Sam."
"We repeat: do not go outside unless you absolutely have to. The authorities are working around the clock to contain the spread of infection, but thus far their efforts have not been successful. If you encounter someone who may have been infected, do not approach them, and do not let them approach you. Do not, under any circumstances, allow them to enter your home. If they can still understand you, direct them to the nearest containment centre."
"What the hell?" Sam was staring at the radio as though it was somehow magically going to start answering his questions. "Is this a joke?"
Dean snorted. "Could be. Hey, maybe it's like that thing back in the thirties, what was it? That guy who put on a radio play and, like, panicked the entire eastern sea board because they thought earth was being attacked?"
"War of the Worlds," Sam agreed, but the set of his shoulders was tense, unhappy, and Dean couldn't help but agree. He had a bad feeling about this too. "I guess we'll find out in a minute if this is a radio play. I didn't think they even aired those anymore. They're kind of out of fashion."
"What with TV and all."
"―this recording will repeat in fifteen minutes. Now, for your news report," the voice stated flatly, and then was replaced by the same voice, but speaking live this time. Dean could tell by the slightly different quality of the sound when the man spoke, the slightly breathless quality to his words. "Welcome back, I'm Gerald Summers, with CKOD radio. As far as I know, we are the only station still able to broadcast in the TriState area, although I can't tell you how long we will be able to stay on the air, under the current circumstances. We may have to evacuate at any given time, although we will leave the recording you have heard, with relevant updates, to play for as long as the equipment will hold out."
"Sam, what the hell is going on?"
"Maybe if you shut up and listen to the guy on the radio, we can find out," Sam said testily, and for once Dean didn't even bother to flick his ear or punch his shoulder for being a pissy little bitch, just kept driving, both hands gripping the steering wheel.
"―as I'm sure most of you are aware by now, the area has been gripped by a virulent plague of some kind, one which turns its victims mindless and violent before killing them. At least, that's what the official reports would have us believe. Eyewitness testimony, however, indicates that the victims actually die quickly, sometimes in a matter of only hours, after being infected, and it's only after their death that the true horror begins."
"It's like we're stuck in this terrible movie," a female voice had said, quavering with fear. "Like one of those things you see on late-night TV or on the SciFi channel or something. They're like zombies!"
"There you have it. The word has been bandied about by more than one person over the last few days, and as surreal as it seems, it nonetheless remains that that is the most accurate description we have to date of this devastating illness that is spreading like wildfire through the large cities in this country. No one is certain where the infection originated, but what is certain is that it is transmitted through contact with bodily fluid, be it blood or saliva or anything else. If you or a loved one may have been infected ―through a bite or through other means, it is imperative that you seek medical attention immediately. A list of emergency centres that have been opened for the express purpose of treating victims will follow shortly. Please make a note of the one nearest you, and head there only if you need to. If you are not yourself infected, do not attempt to accompany your loved one, you will only be placing yourself at unnecessary risk. If you are indoors―"
Dean pulled the car to the side of the road, leaned forward, and switched off the radio.
"What the fuck?"
Sam was shaking his head, didn't even bother to bitch about the fact that he was still listening to the broadcast. "I have no idea."
"Seriously, zombies? Are they kidding?"
"Doesn't sound like it. After 'War of the Worlds,' or whatever, they started putting warnings before their radio plays. We should confirm it, though. We're not far from the next town..." Sam pulled out the map from the glove compartment, checked their route. "I'll give Bobby a call, too, see if he's heard anything. I figure he would have called if he heard about this, though. Or someone else, for that matter."
Dean shrugged. "Maybe he wouldn't have. I mean, Bobby's pretty isolated, out where he is. Not too bad for defending against zombies, I guess, if push comes to shove, but maybe he wouldn't have heard right away."
"Or maybe he couldn't call," Sam suggested grimly, and Dean shuddered.
"Maybe it's just around here, hasn't spread anywhere else. Call him."
There was a tense few minutes while Sam dialed Bobby's number, then his backup line, then started working his way through all of the phone numbers Bobby had given them if they ever needed a cover story: the FBI number, the CIA number, the Homeland Security number.
"Nothing. He's not picking up."
"The lines are working though, right?"
"Yeah."
"So maybe he's out on a hunt."
"Cell phone's off. Or out of the service area, anyway, and he doesn't have voicemail on his cell."
"Goddamn Bobby, still can't get in touch with the twenty-first century."
"Says the guy who still listens to cassette tapes in his tape deck."
"Hey, those are classics! And it's not like my life depends on my getting an MP3 player, you know?"
"Okay," Sam wrenched the conversation back on topic. "So we stop in the next town, find a TV, and hope one of the news stations is covering... whatever this is. Then we try Bobby again, and figure out where we go from there.”
Dean blew out a breath, rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sounds like the beginnings of a plan, anyway. Let's go.”
And with that, they hit the road.
In the apartment building, Dean took point as a matter of course, Sam falling in behind him without so much as a mutter of complaint, which was a nice change of pace. Apparently the zombie apocalypse ―and Dean was pretty sure he'd never get tired of saying those words― was a great way to make little brothers get their priorities straight. Or maybe Sam was just biding his time and would pitch the hissy fit to end all hissy fits at some later, yet-to-be-determined date when they weren't in immediate danger of having their flesh consumed by ambulatory corpses. Like he said: priorities.
The building was four stories tall, one story taller than the two to either side, which was an advantage in this situation: they would get a good vantage point to look at the street, and jumping to the roofs next door would be easier from a height. Not for the first time that day he wished they'd brought their flashlights with them, but they'd been out in broad daylight before. No reason to think they'd need the extra illumination then, but of course it was an entirely different kettle of fish now that they faced the prospect of an entire night spent roaming the streets of a decently large town filled to capacity with zombies.
He moved forward carefully, aware of Sam's presence a few paces behind him, though he couldn't hear him at all except for the occasional breath that seemed to echo harshly in the stillness. It was the silence that, for once, reassured him: zombies weren't discreet about their presence anywhere. They moaned or grunted, and in some really unsettling cases they hissed and snarled. Those were the ones to look out for, they'd quickly learned ―the ones that moved fast and retained some semblance of animal cunning, and either ambushed you from above or else snatched you with some sort of weird tongue or a tentacle or whatever the hell it was that Dean didn't particularly want to think about. Sam had gone on and on about how weird it was, because weren't all the creatures just humans infected with a virus? A mutation like that made no sense, etc., etc., until Dean had none-too-politely ordered him to shut his cake hole. That had earned him an entire afternoon's worth of sulking and blessed silence, even though by the end of it he was kind of beginning to miss Sam's endless jabbering.
Dean opted to bypass the third floor entirely. There was no sense in borrowing trouble when they could just go on by and get to the fourth floor without the risk of running into anyone who'd managed to make it home after getting infected. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell as they climbed, and he could hear his blood pounding in his ears from the exertion, but other than that, there was silence. He was reaching for the handle to the door that would lead them to the main hallway of the fourth floor when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Wait,” Sam said softly. “Listen. You hear that?”
He paused, holding his breath. Sam's hearing had always been the better than his. In fact, on a hunt, he pretty much relied on Sam to hear or spot stuff he'd missed. Dean had always been more proficient when it came to the down-and-dirty parts of hunting: he was a natural with most weapons, a crack shot, had lightning reflexes. Sure, he bragged about them and gave Sam a hard time, but even when he wasn't exaggerating for the benefit of a girl, or to make Sam roll his eyes, he knew he was damned good at what he did. But Sam was the one with the insight, the one who could be relied on to pay attention when it was necessary, and so when Sam told him to stop and listen, that's exactly what he did. A moment later, he heard it too: a low sob, too hurried and muffled to be the moaning of a zombie. A woman, by the sound of it.
“Is it one of those crying ones?” Dean made a face. Some of the zombies they'd encountered huddled in corners and wailed like women in distress, but if you approached them or made too much noise or, hell, even shone a light at them, they went batshit insane and tried to rip you to shreds. It was the worst thing they'd encountered to date, and he was sort of hoping there wasn't anything worse out there that he just didn't know about it.
“Doesn't sound like it. It's just a whisper, no wailing or moaning.”
“So, civilians, you think?”
Sam nodded. “Probably.”
“Okay. Stick close, we don't want to spook 'em, especially if they have guns.”
He eased the door open, slid along the wall and stopped a few paces in, listening. Sam motioned with one hand, indicating a door across the hall, then called out. “Hello? Anyone there?”
Immediately Dean was on guard, listening for the tell-tale sound of a zombie shuffling toward them, or, worse, a horde whipped up into a frenzy by a sudden noise. There was a scuffling sound behind the door, and a thin whisper.
“Yes, yes! I'm here!”
Sam was across the hall in a single step, gun levelled. “Are you alone? Anyone with you?”
“I have the kids with me,” the voice grew louder ―a woman's voice, Dean decided after a moment, though it sounded hoarse, maybe from crying. “Oh, God...”
Kids. Jesus. Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, feeling a little queasy that the first thought to cross his mind was that kids would slow them down. It was so damned easy to fall into that particular trap. So much for saving people and hunting things.
“Okay, open the door, please,” Sam said, in his best witness-soothing voice. “We can help, but you can't stay in there.”
After a moment there was the scraping sound of a chain being removed and a deadbolt sliding out of its lock, and the door opened a crack, then wider, revealing a woman not much older than Dean, her black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her brown eyes swollen and rimmed with red. She was dressed in a ratty grey t-shirt and jeans, with high tops that might have been white at some point, and she stared at them blankly, as though they might have been nothing more than annoying door-to-door salesmen interrupting her afternoon soaps. Dean thought she might even be pretty, under different circumstances.
“What do you want?” The look she directed at them was at once hopeful and suspicious, not that Dean could blame her. These were uncertain times, and, zombies aside, well, people were animals. Who knew what else she'd had to deal with the last couple of weeks?
“We're heading toward the evac zone,” Sam said. It wasn't a lie. There were posters and graffiti all over the place, telling people where to go for evacuation, and the Impala was parked near one. Just because they weren't going to evacuate with the others didn't mean they weren't going that way. “You should come with us. It's not safe here for you.”
The woman shook her head. “I can't... my babies...” she glanced back into the apartment, her expression suddenly fearful. “Claude left without us,” she added.
“That your husband?”
She shrugged. “I can't leave them.”
“Where are they?” Sam leaned over, carefully put a comforting hand on her shoulder, kept his tone gentle. It was the same tone he used with frightened children, wounded animals, and the few completely insane people they'd had to deal with over the years. Dean felt something cold slither down his spine. Why wasn't Sam just telling her they'd take the kids with them? “What are their names? What's your name?”
“Sheila. Sheila Huggins.”
“And your kids?”
Sheila wrapped her arms around her stomach, shoulders hunched even as she leaned into Sam's touch. Dean still couldn't figure out how he did it. “R-Robin. Robin and Jessie. God, how can I leave them?” Her voice broke.
“It's okay, Sheila,” Sam's expression said that it was anything but okay, but she wasn't looking at him, too caught up in her own misery. “Where are they now?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Okay, Sheila. I'm going to go check on them. You stay here with my brother, all right?”
Sam carefully steered her to Dean, then motioned over her head to indicate that he'd be right back. Dean made a face to show exactly what he thought of that plan of action, but there wasn't much he could do about it now. Sam's expression was grim, and that never boded well. He was gone less than two minutes, and when he came back, the colour had leeched from his face. He looked at Dean, shook his head, and Dean had to swallow a mouthful of bile at the thought of what was locked in that bathroom.
“Sheila, you have to come with us,” Sam placed a hand on her elbow. “You can't stay here. I'm really sorry.”
She nodded, as though she'd just been waiting for someone to give her permission to leave. “Claude left...” she trailed off, then took a deep breath, and Dean saw the desolate look leave her eyes, if only for a fraction of a second. “He left me alone with our babies. What was I supposed to do?”
Sam put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a careful hug. “You did the right thing, Sheila. Come on with us, we'll get you to the evac zone, okay?”
“Sheila,” Dean broke in. “Do you have a gun? Anything you can use as a weapon?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Robinson down the hall is a hunter.”
Dean got her meaning right away. “Good. Show us where, and we'll get the hell out of here.”
Bobby had answered his phone after the fifth try that first day, and Dean let himself collapse bonelessly onto his motel bed, feeling the knot of anxiety in his chest dissolve. “You boys okay?”
Sam let out a sigh of relief that was half a sob. “Yeah, yeah we're fine Bobby. What about you? You scared the hell out of us! Why didn't you answer your phone?” He set the phone on his bed, hit the 'speaker' button so Dean could talk to him too.
“We're kind of busy here,” Bobby replied testily. “In case you hadn't noticed, the whole world is going to hell! I've been organizing things with the town, getting us set up so the infection won't spread too far.”
“How bad is it where you are?”
“Not too bad. We've got it contained. At least, I hope we do. You boys are right in the thick of it, though. It'll be a hell of a trick for you to get out of there in one piece.”
Dean flopped back onto the second bed in the motel room they'd found for the night. “Yeah, we kind of figured that when we drove through the first horde of zombies. Bobby, what the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know, kid. No one seems to know where this came from. We're just battening down the hatches. Most of the hunters I've talked to are holding their own, but I don't know how long we can last against all of these... things. I've had to put down a few of my neighbours, and let me tell you, it ain't exactly conducive to people listening to what I have to say. As far as most of them were concerned, I just sell scrap metal and used cars. As introductions to the supernatural go, this is one of the rougher ones.”
“God. Okay, we need to figure out how to get out of here. Can you put us up for a while, if we make it out there?”
“Of course,” Bobby sounded insulted. “We could use all hands on deck. You idjits try not to get yourselves killed on your way here, you hear me?”
“We'll try, Bobby,” Sam ducked his head with a small grin. “You got any advice to keep us alive?”
“Aim for the head.”
“Nice,” Dean groaned. “Take care, Bobby.”
The few television stations available at the motel were only showing snow at this point, though a few of the pay-per-view channels were still up and running. “Figures that porn would be the last thing to go,” Dean commented.
“It's like the cockroach of the entertainment industry,” Sam agreed while he hacked a neighbouring WiFi signal, fussing with the controls on the laptop in search of some arcane alignment of the stars, or whatever it was he did whenever he wanted to get free Internet in their motel rooms. “Which means you ought to be kept happy long after the rest of the world is turned into a shuffling, brainless mass.”
Dean flicked through channel after staticky channel, until he eventually alighted upon one that still appeared to be up and running news reels, though the time stamps indicated they were already over a day old. He toed off his boots, stripped off his jeans, socks and t-shirt and lay back in his boxers and undershirt, flexing his toes and enjoying the feeling of no longer being in the same clothes he'd been in for the past sixteen hours.
“How did we even miss this for so long? It's been, like, a whole week.”
“Well, where were we for the past week?” Sam pointed out reasonably, not bothering to look up from where he was tapping quietly away at the laptop keyboard.
“Yeah, all right, we were driving through the middle of nowhere,” he conceded. 'And you were unconscious,' he wanted to add, but held his tongue.
“And you had your tapes playing the whole time, so there wasn't any chance we'd hear the news. The infection rate is a lot higher in cities and towns, so probably it hasn't spread to where we were yet. Or it might have by now, who knows?” Sam shifted his weight in his chair, trying to ease the stiffness in his muscles.
“You feeling okay?”
His brother huffed impatiently. “I'm fine. Just stiff from sitting in the car all day.”
“Yeah?” Dean laced his fingers behind his head, ignoring a sudden scene of carnage on the television. Easier to pretend it was just a movie for now. “How's your leg?”
“It's fine.”
He sighed. There was no reasoning with Sam when he got like this. He could be crawling on two broken legs and still insist he was fine. “All right. Well, I vote we book it for Bobby's as fast as we can. First thing tomorrow we hit the blacktop and don't look back.”
Sam shook his head. “There's a flaw in your plan, there, Fearless Leader. We were supposed to go on a supply run today. We're almost out of gas, we used up the last of our food hunting that last Black Dog, and we need to re-stock the first aid kit. The only thing we've got is ammo, and given what I'm seeing,” he motioned at the television screen, which was showing dozens of silhouettes shuffling along a street in a nearby town, “we might not even have enough of that to see us through.”
“So we resupply. Hit the nearest town, find an outlying mall, get as much there as we can and book it. Once we're out of the hot zone we can worry about anything we missed.”
Sam closed the laptop with a huff, but held his tongue, as though it wasn't even worth bothering pointing out everything that was wrong with what Dean had just said. Not that he didn't have a point, but what choice did they have? It wasn't like they could make it far on less than a quarter of a tank of gas, and if things were as bad as the news made them out to be, they'd need to stock up on food they could take with them.
“Are you going to try to get some rest, at least?” Dean stared at him pointedly. “Take a shower, or something. It'll help with your leg, and God knows when we'll officially run out of hot water. If there's one thing that watching every single movie Romero ever made taught me, it's that when the zombies come, everyday commodities become rare as hen's teeth. I'll even let you get the first shower, so long as you promise not to use up all the hot water.”
Sam snorted. “Subtle, Dean.” But he did get up stiffly from his chair in order to limp into the bathroom, and a moment later Dean heard the shower running, the tell-tale sound of Sam shedding his clothes and stepping under the spray.
“Attaboy, Sammy,” he remarked to no one in particular, then let his eyes close, and sank into the last peaceful sleep he would know for a very long time.
That had been a little over two days ago, and it felt like far longer. Now, Dean thought ruefully, all they had to do was pick up where they left off: get to the car, get to Bobby's, and try not to let anyone else get killed on the way.
They ended up picking up another survivor almost as soon as they were clear of the apartment building. They had been able to break into the neighbouring apartment, and while there were few weapons left ―a couple of rifles that had reluctantly been left behind and two handguns― there was plenty of ammunition left over. Everything that Mr. Robertson hadn't been able to carry with him, which turned out to be quite a lot. After a quick crash course in turning off the safety on her gun, and the basics of how to point and shoot a semi-automatic, Sheila was about as ready as she was going to get if she was to have any chance at all of surviving this mess. Supposing she even wanted to survive, considering, but Dean was determined not to think about that. The first rule of hunting was to keep things as simple as possible, and trying to get into the head of traumatized civilians is a surefire recipe to complicate things.
The challenge wasn't in getting up and out of the building, it was the jump to the next roof. On a good day, Dean knew he and Sam could manage it, but Sheila was a question mark, and Sam's left knee was still giving him trouble after their run in with that black dog a few counties over. The short jump could prove disastrous, especially so early in the game. Sam found a solution to their problem in the form of a ladder left on the roof. Stretched out, it was just long enough to reach the next roof. He put a foot on it, tested his weight, and it rattled and wobbled, but ultimately held. He looked at Sheila.
“Dean's going to go first, then we'll hold the ladder while you go, okay? We won't let you fall.”
She nodded, hand straying to the unfamiliar weapons attached to her hips. She hadn't said much beyond what was strictly necessary since they'd left her home behind forever, but she didn't appear in any danger of going catatonic on them or anything like that, so it couldn't be too bad. At least, that's what Dean was choosing to believe. Sam held the ladder as he climbed down, trying not to look down at the street four stories below, the silhouettes of the zombies already beginning to fade in the twilight. They were moving much too slowly for his liking, but there wasn't much he could do about that now. Sheila moved quickly down the ladder, followed more slowly by Sam, hindered by his bad leg and the fact that there was no one to hold the top of the ladder steady as he climbed. It rattled and shook, and Dean's heart lodged itself in his throat as he saw the ladder begin to shift ever so slightly, scraping against the brick.
“Sam, get a move on!”
“I'm going as fast as I can!” Sam snapped, looking up anxiously at the ladder. Dean heard him mutter “Fuck” under his breath, and if Sheila hadn't been right next to him he would have echoed the sentiment wholeheartedly. The moment Sam was within reach Dean grabbed him by the belt and hauled him unceremoniously into his arms, just as the ladder finally came loose from its moorings and fell, landing in a broken heap three stories down. For a second they stood, unmoving, and Dean felt his brother shudder in his arms.
“This way,” Dean pointed to the door that lead to the building's main stairwell, yanking on Sam's arm in an attempt to keep them both from thinking about what had very nearly transpired. “We have to keep moving. Keep a sharp eye out, okay? You never know where those things could be hiding. Remember,” he added, mostly for Sheila's benefit, “they're slow until they spot you, so make your shots count, don't attract attention. You don't get extra points for wasting bullets on zombies that are a hundred yards away. This isn't a video game.”
Sam snorted. “Thank you, Dean.”
“Shut up,” Dean grinned. “Anyway, I figure we head directly for the safe house, or as directly as we can manage. No detours, cut through buildings if we can, just try to get there as the crow flies, you know? The only detour we get is to avoid hordes, or those nasty fuckers with the sticky tongues.”
“Smokers.”
“What? What the hell kind of a name is that? That's lame, Sam.”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. You ever hear them breathe? That's the sound of three packs a day, if you ask me.”
“Fine,” Dean rolled his eyes, led the way down the stairs. “Then I vote we call the fat ones 'boomers' because they explode. You got to name one, so I get to name one. It's only fair.”
“Imaginative.” Sam levelled his pistol as the made their way carefully through the top floor of the building. “Stairs to the bottom?” he suggested.
“Hell yes. I hate elevators. Besides, it's only three floors.”
Sam nodded, though Dean could tell he wasn't looking forward to it ―it was going to wreak hell with his knee. Still, there was nothing to be done, and Sam had gone on harder hunts with worse injuries, so they forged ahead. It was when they reached the first floor that Sam lunged forward, slamming Dean into the wall before he could reach for the door that led to the building's lobby. Sheila stifled a shriek, and Dean barely had time to register that anything was happening before Sam was letting go of him, spinning on the spot and yelling at some as-yet-unseen attacker to back the hell off.
“Whoa, whoa!” Dean peeled himself off the wall, turning in time to see his brother forcing a young black guy in a suit against the opposite wall, cheek squashed up against the plaster, kicking his legs apart. “Easy, Sammy! If he's not a zombie, then he's an ally. Dude, you okay?”
“No thanks to this chucklehead!” came the annoyed reply, a little muffled because his face was still mashed into the wall. The man's legs were spread, hands to either side of his head and up against the wall, one still holding a pistol, though his finger was outside the trigger guard, Dean was pleased to note. If nothing else, the guy knew how to handle a handgun. “What the hell, man?” he sputtered as Sam released him with a muttered ―and mostly insincere― apology.
“Didn't want you shooting first and asking questions later,” Sam shrugged. “You clean?”
“Fine. Yes, I'm clean, no bites, nothing. Can I ask questions now? Who the hell are you?”
“Priorities,” Dean interjected, already checking the door for stray zombies. “We're heading to the evac zone. You alone? You want to come with? We can use the extra pair of hands, if you know how to use that thing. Hell, even if you don't.”
“I know how to use it. Name's Danny, I'm alone, and yes, I want in. Beats trying to fend off all them things by myself.” The guy grinned, revealing a row of very white teeth. “Now it means all I have to do is run faster than one of your cracker asses.”
Dean blinked, then laughed. “Fair enough, but we're pretty speedy. I'm Dean, that's my brother Sam, and this is Sheila. Let's go, talk as you walk ―but quietly! Nice suit, by the way,” he smirked. “Dig the red tie. Very 'Shawn of the Dead'.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Only under very specific circumstances.”
Part II
Summary: Written for the l4d_bigbang. SPN Crossover with Left 4 Dead. Season 2 AU. Caught in the wake of a nation-wide epidemic, Sam and Dean find themselves stranded in a small town, far away from any form of aid. Together with a couple of other survivors, they must run the gauntlet of a town full of the infected, taking refuge in safe houses where they can, in order to make it to the evac zone. Even then, they learn, nowhere is truly safe...
Art: By the incomparable glasslogic! Link here.
Characters: Sam, Dean, OFC, OMC, with quick guest appearance by Bobby
Rating: R
Wordcount: 14,991
Disclaimer: I own neither Sam nor Dean nor anything to do with the L4D video game franchise. That's probably a good thing, because otherwise there would be a lot more zombies in the SPN world, and the character survival rate would be a LOT lower...
Warnings: No spoilers for SPN past Season 2. Swearing. Violence and gore about on par with both the show and game.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: First off, I encourage you to RUN, not walk, to the gorgeous art by glasslogic, who is a complete rockstar!Not only is she running the show, she's also writing AND making art! She made a banner and a divider and a whackload of icons, which are fabulous. You will note how gorgeous the banner is: she has a real feel for composition, and combined the elements of the story together beautifully. You'll see when you read the story.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: My undying thanks go out to yasminke, who beta'd this in record time and as usual saved me from myself in a bunch of really embarrassing places. ;)
Neurotic Author's Note #3: So I finally, finally got to indulge my extreme love of zombies in an SPN fic. I have been waiting for an opportunity for a really long time. Unfortunately, the L4D zombies are not the ones I prefer, but still! I also didn't get to go into as much description as I would have liked, and I was forced to tread the line between fantasy and the suspension of disbelief a little more carefully. For instance, I didn't allow my characters unlimited ammunition, and they didn't find convenient piles of weapons and stuff lying around. Can't have everything, right?
Neurotic Author's Note #4: I must thank my RL-friend fearsclave for introducing me to L4D and for gleefully encouraging me to slaughter as many zombies as possible all the while laughing at me as I squeaked and swore at the computer screen. I may never forgive him, however, for telling me to shoot "that car with the blinking light." Bah.
Neurotic Author's Note #5: fearsclave also encouraged me to read the awesome and creative graffiti in the "safe houses" in the game, which is what prompted this story to begin with.
ICONS!
“Zombies,” Dean commented. “Gets funnier every time I hear it.”
“Isn't that what you said about the vampires? For a hunter, you sure seem amazed by the appearance of some of the things we run into.” Sam rolled his eyes as he carefully checked the remaining ammunition in his clip. “Well, I'm down to ten in this clip and one full one until we can get back to the car. And the shotgun, but that's not exactly our best bet.”
“I've still got two full clips, other than what I've got still loaded,” Dean said. He decided, magnanimously, to ignore the vampire comment. They had bigger fish to fry, after all. “We get out of this alive, we're working on your aim, Sammy.”
“It's Sam, and it's not my aim that's the problem, it's the fact that there was a goddamned zombie horde on the other side of that last door. Which, I maintain, would not have been a problem if someone hadn't pulled the fire alarm,” Sam pointed out, a little more bitchily than was strictly necessary, as far as Dean was concerned.
How was he supposed to know that zombies were attracted to loud noises, anyway? Dean made a derisive noise at the back of his throat. It's not like it was in any of the Romero flicks. Then again, in the Romero flicks, zombies didn't run at you in a mad, screaming horde and try to rip you to shreds. They just sort of stumbled and staggered around, and if you got taken down, well, it was because you were just unprepared. Unfortunately, 'unprepared' applied even to him and Sam these days, because, really, no one believed in the goddamn zombie apocalypse, not even them. Sure, there were zombies before, but they were psycho chicks who'd been raised by the dead by their creepy friend-slash-stalker with delusions of true love and far too much knowledge of ancient Greek rituals, and not at all mindless animated corpses that decayed as they walked. That was the whole fun of watching zombie movies, Dean thought bitterly: it was all fiction. No one expected the zombie apocalypse.
“It's like the Spanish Inquisition,” Sam said, getting to his feet, and for a moment Dean wondered if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.
“You start reading minds all of a sudden, psychic-boy?”
“Don't call me that, and no, I don't read minds. That's not how it works and you know it, jerk.”
“Just wondering. There was that whole furniture-moving incident, so you can't blame a guy for checking.”
“That was once, and it never happened again. It's just the visions, okay? God,” Sam huffed. Trust him to get his panties in a twist over that when there were zombies milling about outside trying to eat everyone in sight.
“Fat lot of help those were. You think you could have predicted this whole mess,” Dean rose from his crouch to peer through the window out at the darkening street below.
They'd been holed up on the second floor of an abandoned apartment building for the better part of the afternoon, after the aforementioned fire-alarm-gone-wrong incident, but there was very little sign of things getting any better. The Impala was way the hell on the other side of town, courtesy of some spectacularly bad planning on his part. Now they were trapped with very few potential escape routes, and even fewer bullets, and this day was really, but really starting to suck. He felt rather than saw Sam making a bitch face at him in the semi-darkness.
“Are you just trying to get a rise out of me, or are you being deliberately dense, or what?” Sam asked. “The visions only relate to the demon, in case you somehow managed to forget that. So I'm guessing that the zombie apocalypse, or whatever, doesn't have anything to do with it. Do you see anything?”
Dean risked leaning forward and ducking his head through the window. Apart from being a lot faster than he would have thought, and some of them having some freaky abilities, the zombies were pretty much acting according to stereotype: mindless flesh-eating machines. They didn't appear capable of reasoning, or at least not thinking much farther than a couple of feet in front of them, and the odds of one of them raising its head to look up ―which none of them had done so far that he'd been able to tell― seemed pretty slim.
“Nothing. Well, that's not true. There's a bunch of zombies down there, kind of scattered around and not doing much. We might be able to make a break for it, but there's no way we're making it back to the Impala in one go.”
“Yeah,” Sam came to stand by him on the opposite side of the window, shielding himself out of habit rather than necessity ―let it not be said that John Winchester hadn't raised good little soldiers. “It's not that far, really. We can probably make it in a few hours, if we do it in stages. There might be some way stations still in operation. Head to those, stock up on whatever we can find, keep going until we get back to the car.”
“I swear, if those brain-eating ghouls have so much as scratched her paint job...”
“You'll what?” Sam challenged, and Dean just glared. It's not like there was much to threaten a zombie with, but it was a little rude to point it out and totally undermine the effect he'd been going for. Sam was already moving on, anyway, prowling along the wall and toward the front door of the empty apartment they'd holed up in, though it was obvious his bad leg was still giving him trouble.
“What is it?”
Sam made an equivocal motion with one hand, scrunching up his nose in that way he had when things weren't going to his liking. “Not sure. Probably nothing, since we did a sweep of the floor and those things can't climb stairs. I figure we should try for the roof first ―there's too many of them right outside the building, but maybe we can go roof to roof for a couple of buildings, climb down one of the fire escapes.”
Dean nodded. It wasn't a foolproof plan, but it was the best one they had to date. “You sure your knee can take it?”
Sam just shrugged. “It's either that or become zombie fodder. I've had worse, I'll make it work.”
“I suppose it would be too much to ask for one of these apartment-dwelling yuppies to be a gun collector?” Dean grumbled, joining him at the door.
“Probably, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to check. Carefully. The last thing we want is to set a whole new bunch of them loose on this floor ―we're running low on ammo as it is.”
“All right, then. A few hours, and we'll be home free. Then we get the hell out of Dodge, regroup, and figure out just what the hell we can do about all of this.”
There had been little or no warning when it had all first started. In fact, Dean was pretty sure that the whole "zombie apocalypse' started long before either he or Sam even noticed, cut off as they were most of the time from mainstream society. That was probably their saving grace, too. The fact that they drove around constantly, drifting from town to town like those bums in the thirties he read about who rode around on trains all day long. The first they heard of it was over the radio, one day when Sam declared himself sick and tired of listening to the same five cassette tapes over and over again ―"Cassette tapes, Dean!"― and had demanded they at least try listening to the radio for a while.
"It can't possibly be that bad, and I don't know about you, but I for one haven't seen a newspaper or a proper TV in days, and we have no idea what's going on in the real world!"
"Seems fair enough to me," Dean had pointed out. "I mean, the real world has no idea what's going on in our world either. Ignorance is bliss, Sammy."
"God, I can't believe you. And it's Sam."
So rather than have Sam sulk at him for the next hundred miles, Dean had relented ―even though he was the one driving and therefore totally had the choice of music in the car― and had let his little brother fiddle with the dials, looking for a radio station. It might also have had a little something to do with the fact that Sam had, once again, proven himself to be a magnet for supernatural fuglies on their last hunt, and had been so battered that for the first couple of days they'd holed up in a motel while Sam slept like the dead and Dean kept himself busy by cleaning every weapon they owned and cursing at the broken television set in the room. Even after that Sam had done little but doze fitfully in the car, shifting uncomfortably in his seat every few minutes to compensate for torn and strained muscles and a mild concussion. So Dean couldn't be blamed if it was nice to see him sit up and show enough of an interest in his surroundings to petulantly demand a news station. For a few minutes it had seemed like a lost cause: every frequency gave off nothing but fuzzy static and ear-splitting squeals, and Dean was about to bark at Sam to just put his music back on, already, when one station crackled into life, a bit garbled but still mostly audible.
"―urge everyone to remain indoors as much as they can possibly manage until the situation is contained," a voice said, in the earnest-yet-neutral tones of a news announcer, and Dean sat up straighter in his seat.
"Turn it up, Sam."
"We repeat: do not go outside unless you absolutely have to. The authorities are working around the clock to contain the spread of infection, but thus far their efforts have not been successful. If you encounter someone who may have been infected, do not approach them, and do not let them approach you. Do not, under any circumstances, allow them to enter your home. If they can still understand you, direct them to the nearest containment centre."
"What the hell?" Sam was staring at the radio as though it was somehow magically going to start answering his questions. "Is this a joke?"
Dean snorted. "Could be. Hey, maybe it's like that thing back in the thirties, what was it? That guy who put on a radio play and, like, panicked the entire eastern sea board because they thought earth was being attacked?"
"War of the Worlds," Sam agreed, but the set of his shoulders was tense, unhappy, and Dean couldn't help but agree. He had a bad feeling about this too. "I guess we'll find out in a minute if this is a radio play. I didn't think they even aired those anymore. They're kind of out of fashion."
"What with TV and all."
"―this recording will repeat in fifteen minutes. Now, for your news report," the voice stated flatly, and then was replaced by the same voice, but speaking live this time. Dean could tell by the slightly different quality of the sound when the man spoke, the slightly breathless quality to his words. "Welcome back, I'm Gerald Summers, with CKOD radio. As far as I know, we are the only station still able to broadcast in the TriState area, although I can't tell you how long we will be able to stay on the air, under the current circumstances. We may have to evacuate at any given time, although we will leave the recording you have heard, with relevant updates, to play for as long as the equipment will hold out."
"Sam, what the hell is going on?"
"Maybe if you shut up and listen to the guy on the radio, we can find out," Sam said testily, and for once Dean didn't even bother to flick his ear or punch his shoulder for being a pissy little bitch, just kept driving, both hands gripping the steering wheel.
"―as I'm sure most of you are aware by now, the area has been gripped by a virulent plague of some kind, one which turns its victims mindless and violent before killing them. At least, that's what the official reports would have us believe. Eyewitness testimony, however, indicates that the victims actually die quickly, sometimes in a matter of only hours, after being infected, and it's only after their death that the true horror begins."
"It's like we're stuck in this terrible movie," a female voice had said, quavering with fear. "Like one of those things you see on late-night TV or on the SciFi channel or something. They're like zombies!"
"There you have it. The word has been bandied about by more than one person over the last few days, and as surreal as it seems, it nonetheless remains that that is the most accurate description we have to date of this devastating illness that is spreading like wildfire through the large cities in this country. No one is certain where the infection originated, but what is certain is that it is transmitted through contact with bodily fluid, be it blood or saliva or anything else. If you or a loved one may have been infected ―through a bite or through other means, it is imperative that you seek medical attention immediately. A list of emergency centres that have been opened for the express purpose of treating victims will follow shortly. Please make a note of the one nearest you, and head there only if you need to. If you are not yourself infected, do not attempt to accompany your loved one, you will only be placing yourself at unnecessary risk. If you are indoors―"
Dean pulled the car to the side of the road, leaned forward, and switched off the radio.
"What the fuck?"
Sam was shaking his head, didn't even bother to bitch about the fact that he was still listening to the broadcast. "I have no idea."
"Seriously, zombies? Are they kidding?"
"Doesn't sound like it. After 'War of the Worlds,' or whatever, they started putting warnings before their radio plays. We should confirm it, though. We're not far from the next town..." Sam pulled out the map from the glove compartment, checked their route. "I'll give Bobby a call, too, see if he's heard anything. I figure he would have called if he heard about this, though. Or someone else, for that matter."
Dean shrugged. "Maybe he wouldn't have. I mean, Bobby's pretty isolated, out where he is. Not too bad for defending against zombies, I guess, if push comes to shove, but maybe he wouldn't have heard right away."
"Or maybe he couldn't call," Sam suggested grimly, and Dean shuddered.
"Maybe it's just around here, hasn't spread anywhere else. Call him."
There was a tense few minutes while Sam dialed Bobby's number, then his backup line, then started working his way through all of the phone numbers Bobby had given them if they ever needed a cover story: the FBI number, the CIA number, the Homeland Security number.
"Nothing. He's not picking up."
"The lines are working though, right?"
"Yeah."
"So maybe he's out on a hunt."
"Cell phone's off. Or out of the service area, anyway, and he doesn't have voicemail on his cell."
"Goddamn Bobby, still can't get in touch with the twenty-first century."
"Says the guy who still listens to cassette tapes in his tape deck."
"Hey, those are classics! And it's not like my life depends on my getting an MP3 player, you know?"
"Okay," Sam wrenched the conversation back on topic. "So we stop in the next town, find a TV, and hope one of the news stations is covering... whatever this is. Then we try Bobby again, and figure out where we go from there.”
Dean blew out a breath, rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sounds like the beginnings of a plan, anyway. Let's go.”
And with that, they hit the road.
In the apartment building, Dean took point as a matter of course, Sam falling in behind him without so much as a mutter of complaint, which was a nice change of pace. Apparently the zombie apocalypse ―and Dean was pretty sure he'd never get tired of saying those words― was a great way to make little brothers get their priorities straight. Or maybe Sam was just biding his time and would pitch the hissy fit to end all hissy fits at some later, yet-to-be-determined date when they weren't in immediate danger of having their flesh consumed by ambulatory corpses. Like he said: priorities.
The building was four stories tall, one story taller than the two to either side, which was an advantage in this situation: they would get a good vantage point to look at the street, and jumping to the roofs next door would be easier from a height. Not for the first time that day he wished they'd brought their flashlights with them, but they'd been out in broad daylight before. No reason to think they'd need the extra illumination then, but of course it was an entirely different kettle of fish now that they faced the prospect of an entire night spent roaming the streets of a decently large town filled to capacity with zombies.
He moved forward carefully, aware of Sam's presence a few paces behind him, though he couldn't hear him at all except for the occasional breath that seemed to echo harshly in the stillness. It was the silence that, for once, reassured him: zombies weren't discreet about their presence anywhere. They moaned or grunted, and in some really unsettling cases they hissed and snarled. Those were the ones to look out for, they'd quickly learned ―the ones that moved fast and retained some semblance of animal cunning, and either ambushed you from above or else snatched you with some sort of weird tongue or a tentacle or whatever the hell it was that Dean didn't particularly want to think about. Sam had gone on and on about how weird it was, because weren't all the creatures just humans infected with a virus? A mutation like that made no sense, etc., etc., until Dean had none-too-politely ordered him to shut his cake hole. That had earned him an entire afternoon's worth of sulking and blessed silence, even though by the end of it he was kind of beginning to miss Sam's endless jabbering.
Dean opted to bypass the third floor entirely. There was no sense in borrowing trouble when they could just go on by and get to the fourth floor without the risk of running into anyone who'd managed to make it home after getting infected. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell as they climbed, and he could hear his blood pounding in his ears from the exertion, but other than that, there was silence. He was reaching for the handle to the door that would lead them to the main hallway of the fourth floor when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Wait,” Sam said softly. “Listen. You hear that?”
He paused, holding his breath. Sam's hearing had always been the better than his. In fact, on a hunt, he pretty much relied on Sam to hear or spot stuff he'd missed. Dean had always been more proficient when it came to the down-and-dirty parts of hunting: he was a natural with most weapons, a crack shot, had lightning reflexes. Sure, he bragged about them and gave Sam a hard time, but even when he wasn't exaggerating for the benefit of a girl, or to make Sam roll his eyes, he knew he was damned good at what he did. But Sam was the one with the insight, the one who could be relied on to pay attention when it was necessary, and so when Sam told him to stop and listen, that's exactly what he did. A moment later, he heard it too: a low sob, too hurried and muffled to be the moaning of a zombie. A woman, by the sound of it.
“Is it one of those crying ones?” Dean made a face. Some of the zombies they'd encountered huddled in corners and wailed like women in distress, but if you approached them or made too much noise or, hell, even shone a light at them, they went batshit insane and tried to rip you to shreds. It was the worst thing they'd encountered to date, and he was sort of hoping there wasn't anything worse out there that he just didn't know about it.
“Doesn't sound like it. It's just a whisper, no wailing or moaning.”
“So, civilians, you think?”
Sam nodded. “Probably.”
“Okay. Stick close, we don't want to spook 'em, especially if they have guns.”
He eased the door open, slid along the wall and stopped a few paces in, listening. Sam motioned with one hand, indicating a door across the hall, then called out. “Hello? Anyone there?”
Immediately Dean was on guard, listening for the tell-tale sound of a zombie shuffling toward them, or, worse, a horde whipped up into a frenzy by a sudden noise. There was a scuffling sound behind the door, and a thin whisper.
“Yes, yes! I'm here!”
Sam was across the hall in a single step, gun levelled. “Are you alone? Anyone with you?”
“I have the kids with me,” the voice grew louder ―a woman's voice, Dean decided after a moment, though it sounded hoarse, maybe from crying. “Oh, God...”
Kids. Jesus. Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, feeling a little queasy that the first thought to cross his mind was that kids would slow them down. It was so damned easy to fall into that particular trap. So much for saving people and hunting things.
“Okay, open the door, please,” Sam said, in his best witness-soothing voice. “We can help, but you can't stay in there.”
After a moment there was the scraping sound of a chain being removed and a deadbolt sliding out of its lock, and the door opened a crack, then wider, revealing a woman not much older than Dean, her black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her brown eyes swollen and rimmed with red. She was dressed in a ratty grey t-shirt and jeans, with high tops that might have been white at some point, and she stared at them blankly, as though they might have been nothing more than annoying door-to-door salesmen interrupting her afternoon soaps. Dean thought she might even be pretty, under different circumstances.
“What do you want?” The look she directed at them was at once hopeful and suspicious, not that Dean could blame her. These were uncertain times, and, zombies aside, well, people were animals. Who knew what else she'd had to deal with the last couple of weeks?
“We're heading toward the evac zone,” Sam said. It wasn't a lie. There were posters and graffiti all over the place, telling people where to go for evacuation, and the Impala was parked near one. Just because they weren't going to evacuate with the others didn't mean they weren't going that way. “You should come with us. It's not safe here for you.”
The woman shook her head. “I can't... my babies...” she glanced back into the apartment, her expression suddenly fearful. “Claude left without us,” she added.
“That your husband?”
She shrugged. “I can't leave them.”
“Where are they?” Sam leaned over, carefully put a comforting hand on her shoulder, kept his tone gentle. It was the same tone he used with frightened children, wounded animals, and the few completely insane people they'd had to deal with over the years. Dean felt something cold slither down his spine. Why wasn't Sam just telling her they'd take the kids with them? “What are their names? What's your name?”
“Sheila. Sheila Huggins.”
“And your kids?”
Sheila wrapped her arms around her stomach, shoulders hunched even as she leaned into Sam's touch. Dean still couldn't figure out how he did it. “R-Robin. Robin and Jessie. God, how can I leave them?” Her voice broke.
“It's okay, Sheila,” Sam's expression said that it was anything but okay, but she wasn't looking at him, too caught up in her own misery. “Where are they now?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Okay, Sheila. I'm going to go check on them. You stay here with my brother, all right?”
Sam carefully steered her to Dean, then motioned over her head to indicate that he'd be right back. Dean made a face to show exactly what he thought of that plan of action, but there wasn't much he could do about it now. Sam's expression was grim, and that never boded well. He was gone less than two minutes, and when he came back, the colour had leeched from his face. He looked at Dean, shook his head, and Dean had to swallow a mouthful of bile at the thought of what was locked in that bathroom.
“Sheila, you have to come with us,” Sam placed a hand on her elbow. “You can't stay here. I'm really sorry.”
She nodded, as though she'd just been waiting for someone to give her permission to leave. “Claude left...” she trailed off, then took a deep breath, and Dean saw the desolate look leave her eyes, if only for a fraction of a second. “He left me alone with our babies. What was I supposed to do?”
Sam put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a careful hug. “You did the right thing, Sheila. Come on with us, we'll get you to the evac zone, okay?”
“Sheila,” Dean broke in. “Do you have a gun? Anything you can use as a weapon?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Robinson down the hall is a hunter.”
Dean got her meaning right away. “Good. Show us where, and we'll get the hell out of here.”
Bobby had answered his phone after the fifth try that first day, and Dean let himself collapse bonelessly onto his motel bed, feeling the knot of anxiety in his chest dissolve. “You boys okay?”
Sam let out a sigh of relief that was half a sob. “Yeah, yeah we're fine Bobby. What about you? You scared the hell out of us! Why didn't you answer your phone?” He set the phone on his bed, hit the 'speaker' button so Dean could talk to him too.
“We're kind of busy here,” Bobby replied testily. “In case you hadn't noticed, the whole world is going to hell! I've been organizing things with the town, getting us set up so the infection won't spread too far.”
“How bad is it where you are?”
“Not too bad. We've got it contained. At least, I hope we do. You boys are right in the thick of it, though. It'll be a hell of a trick for you to get out of there in one piece.”
Dean flopped back onto the second bed in the motel room they'd found for the night. “Yeah, we kind of figured that when we drove through the first horde of zombies. Bobby, what the hell is going on?”
“Damned if I know, kid. No one seems to know where this came from. We're just battening down the hatches. Most of the hunters I've talked to are holding their own, but I don't know how long we can last against all of these... things. I've had to put down a few of my neighbours, and let me tell you, it ain't exactly conducive to people listening to what I have to say. As far as most of them were concerned, I just sell scrap metal and used cars. As introductions to the supernatural go, this is one of the rougher ones.”
“God. Okay, we need to figure out how to get out of here. Can you put us up for a while, if we make it out there?”
“Of course,” Bobby sounded insulted. “We could use all hands on deck. You idjits try not to get yourselves killed on your way here, you hear me?”
“We'll try, Bobby,” Sam ducked his head with a small grin. “You got any advice to keep us alive?”
“Aim for the head.”
“Nice,” Dean groaned. “Take care, Bobby.”
The few television stations available at the motel were only showing snow at this point, though a few of the pay-per-view channels were still up and running. “Figures that porn would be the last thing to go,” Dean commented.
“It's like the cockroach of the entertainment industry,” Sam agreed while he hacked a neighbouring WiFi signal, fussing with the controls on the laptop in search of some arcane alignment of the stars, or whatever it was he did whenever he wanted to get free Internet in their motel rooms. “Which means you ought to be kept happy long after the rest of the world is turned into a shuffling, brainless mass.”
Dean flicked through channel after staticky channel, until he eventually alighted upon one that still appeared to be up and running news reels, though the time stamps indicated they were already over a day old. He toed off his boots, stripped off his jeans, socks and t-shirt and lay back in his boxers and undershirt, flexing his toes and enjoying the feeling of no longer being in the same clothes he'd been in for the past sixteen hours.
“How did we even miss this for so long? It's been, like, a whole week.”
“Well, where were we for the past week?” Sam pointed out reasonably, not bothering to look up from where he was tapping quietly away at the laptop keyboard.
“Yeah, all right, we were driving through the middle of nowhere,” he conceded. 'And you were unconscious,' he wanted to add, but held his tongue.
“And you had your tapes playing the whole time, so there wasn't any chance we'd hear the news. The infection rate is a lot higher in cities and towns, so probably it hasn't spread to where we were yet. Or it might have by now, who knows?” Sam shifted his weight in his chair, trying to ease the stiffness in his muscles.
“You feeling okay?”
His brother huffed impatiently. “I'm fine. Just stiff from sitting in the car all day.”
“Yeah?” Dean laced his fingers behind his head, ignoring a sudden scene of carnage on the television. Easier to pretend it was just a movie for now. “How's your leg?”
“It's fine.”
He sighed. There was no reasoning with Sam when he got like this. He could be crawling on two broken legs and still insist he was fine. “All right. Well, I vote we book it for Bobby's as fast as we can. First thing tomorrow we hit the blacktop and don't look back.”
Sam shook his head. “There's a flaw in your plan, there, Fearless Leader. We were supposed to go on a supply run today. We're almost out of gas, we used up the last of our food hunting that last Black Dog, and we need to re-stock the first aid kit. The only thing we've got is ammo, and given what I'm seeing,” he motioned at the television screen, which was showing dozens of silhouettes shuffling along a street in a nearby town, “we might not even have enough of that to see us through.”
“So we resupply. Hit the nearest town, find an outlying mall, get as much there as we can and book it. Once we're out of the hot zone we can worry about anything we missed.”
Sam closed the laptop with a huff, but held his tongue, as though it wasn't even worth bothering pointing out everything that was wrong with what Dean had just said. Not that he didn't have a point, but what choice did they have? It wasn't like they could make it far on less than a quarter of a tank of gas, and if things were as bad as the news made them out to be, they'd need to stock up on food they could take with them.
“Are you going to try to get some rest, at least?” Dean stared at him pointedly. “Take a shower, or something. It'll help with your leg, and God knows when we'll officially run out of hot water. If there's one thing that watching every single movie Romero ever made taught me, it's that when the zombies come, everyday commodities become rare as hen's teeth. I'll even let you get the first shower, so long as you promise not to use up all the hot water.”
Sam snorted. “Subtle, Dean.” But he did get up stiffly from his chair in order to limp into the bathroom, and a moment later Dean heard the shower running, the tell-tale sound of Sam shedding his clothes and stepping under the spray.
“Attaboy, Sammy,” he remarked to no one in particular, then let his eyes close, and sank into the last peaceful sleep he would know for a very long time.
That had been a little over two days ago, and it felt like far longer. Now, Dean thought ruefully, all they had to do was pick up where they left off: get to the car, get to Bobby's, and try not to let anyone else get killed on the way.
They ended up picking up another survivor almost as soon as they were clear of the apartment building. They had been able to break into the neighbouring apartment, and while there were few weapons left ―a couple of rifles that had reluctantly been left behind and two handguns― there was plenty of ammunition left over. Everything that Mr. Robertson hadn't been able to carry with him, which turned out to be quite a lot. After a quick crash course in turning off the safety on her gun, and the basics of how to point and shoot a semi-automatic, Sheila was about as ready as she was going to get if she was to have any chance at all of surviving this mess. Supposing she even wanted to survive, considering, but Dean was determined not to think about that. The first rule of hunting was to keep things as simple as possible, and trying to get into the head of traumatized civilians is a surefire recipe to complicate things.
The challenge wasn't in getting up and out of the building, it was the jump to the next roof. On a good day, Dean knew he and Sam could manage it, but Sheila was a question mark, and Sam's left knee was still giving him trouble after their run in with that black dog a few counties over. The short jump could prove disastrous, especially so early in the game. Sam found a solution to their problem in the form of a ladder left on the roof. Stretched out, it was just long enough to reach the next roof. He put a foot on it, tested his weight, and it rattled and wobbled, but ultimately held. He looked at Sheila.
“Dean's going to go first, then we'll hold the ladder while you go, okay? We won't let you fall.”
She nodded, hand straying to the unfamiliar weapons attached to her hips. She hadn't said much beyond what was strictly necessary since they'd left her home behind forever, but she didn't appear in any danger of going catatonic on them or anything like that, so it couldn't be too bad. At least, that's what Dean was choosing to believe. Sam held the ladder as he climbed down, trying not to look down at the street four stories below, the silhouettes of the zombies already beginning to fade in the twilight. They were moving much too slowly for his liking, but there wasn't much he could do about that now. Sheila moved quickly down the ladder, followed more slowly by Sam, hindered by his bad leg and the fact that there was no one to hold the top of the ladder steady as he climbed. It rattled and shook, and Dean's heart lodged itself in his throat as he saw the ladder begin to shift ever so slightly, scraping against the brick.
“Sam, get a move on!”
“I'm going as fast as I can!” Sam snapped, looking up anxiously at the ladder. Dean heard him mutter “Fuck” under his breath, and if Sheila hadn't been right next to him he would have echoed the sentiment wholeheartedly. The moment Sam was within reach Dean grabbed him by the belt and hauled him unceremoniously into his arms, just as the ladder finally came loose from its moorings and fell, landing in a broken heap three stories down. For a second they stood, unmoving, and Dean felt his brother shudder in his arms.
“This way,” Dean pointed to the door that lead to the building's main stairwell, yanking on Sam's arm in an attempt to keep them both from thinking about what had very nearly transpired. “We have to keep moving. Keep a sharp eye out, okay? You never know where those things could be hiding. Remember,” he added, mostly for Sheila's benefit, “they're slow until they spot you, so make your shots count, don't attract attention. You don't get extra points for wasting bullets on zombies that are a hundred yards away. This isn't a video game.”
Sam snorted. “Thank you, Dean.”
“Shut up,” Dean grinned. “Anyway, I figure we head directly for the safe house, or as directly as we can manage. No detours, cut through buildings if we can, just try to get there as the crow flies, you know? The only detour we get is to avoid hordes, or those nasty fuckers with the sticky tongues.”
“Smokers.”
“What? What the hell kind of a name is that? That's lame, Sam.”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. You ever hear them breathe? That's the sound of three packs a day, if you ask me.”
“Fine,” Dean rolled his eyes, led the way down the stairs. “Then I vote we call the fat ones 'boomers' because they explode. You got to name one, so I get to name one. It's only fair.”
“Imaginative.” Sam levelled his pistol as the made their way carefully through the top floor of the building. “Stairs to the bottom?” he suggested.
“Hell yes. I hate elevators. Besides, it's only three floors.”
Sam nodded, though Dean could tell he wasn't looking forward to it ―it was going to wreak hell with his knee. Still, there was nothing to be done, and Sam had gone on harder hunts with worse injuries, so they forged ahead. It was when they reached the first floor that Sam lunged forward, slamming Dean into the wall before he could reach for the door that led to the building's lobby. Sheila stifled a shriek, and Dean barely had time to register that anything was happening before Sam was letting go of him, spinning on the spot and yelling at some as-yet-unseen attacker to back the hell off.
“Whoa, whoa!” Dean peeled himself off the wall, turning in time to see his brother forcing a young black guy in a suit against the opposite wall, cheek squashed up against the plaster, kicking his legs apart. “Easy, Sammy! If he's not a zombie, then he's an ally. Dude, you okay?”
“No thanks to this chucklehead!” came the annoyed reply, a little muffled because his face was still mashed into the wall. The man's legs were spread, hands to either side of his head and up against the wall, one still holding a pistol, though his finger was outside the trigger guard, Dean was pleased to note. If nothing else, the guy knew how to handle a handgun. “What the hell, man?” he sputtered as Sam released him with a muttered ―and mostly insincere― apology.
“Didn't want you shooting first and asking questions later,” Sam shrugged. “You clean?”
“Fine. Yes, I'm clean, no bites, nothing. Can I ask questions now? Who the hell are you?”
“Priorities,” Dean interjected, already checking the door for stray zombies. “We're heading to the evac zone. You alone? You want to come with? We can use the extra pair of hands, if you know how to use that thing. Hell, even if you don't.”
“I know how to use it. Name's Danny, I'm alone, and yes, I want in. Beats trying to fend off all them things by myself.” The guy grinned, revealing a row of very white teeth. “Now it means all I have to do is run faster than one of your cracker asses.”
Dean blinked, then laughed. “Fair enough, but we're pretty speedy. I'm Dean, that's my brother Sam, and this is Sheila. Let's go, talk as you walk ―but quietly! Nice suit, by the way,” he smirked. “Dig the red tie. Very 'Shawn of the Dead'.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Only under very specific circumstances.”
Part II