Live Free or Die Hard Fanfic -- "Dust to Dust"
Title: Dust to Dust
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2019
Summary: The plan was to reach the CDC in Atlanta. In the early days Matt had pointed out that if anyone was working on a cure or an antidote, they would be there. He'd pictured men in white suits hunched over Bunsen burners, analyzing slides of the deader's diseased cells under high-powered microscopes. That was when the reanimated were mostly restricted to the cities with the largest populations, when there was still some slim chance of regaining control.
Back when he still believed that if anyone could reach Georgia, breach the CDC and save the world, it was John McClane.
Notes: Written for tamingthemuse, for the prompt "dust you are and to dust you will return". Zombie AU. In my head this takes place in the TWD universe, but there's no reference to the show beyond a mention of a place name.
Dust to Dust
by Severina
It's amazing how fast civilization comes crashing down after the release of the virus.
No one wants to take the blame. Russia blames the Chinese; the Chinese blame the Americans; the Americans blame the North Koreans. It's equally amazing that no one pushed the button, ended it all with some fiery blasts and a series of mushroom clouds. Instead, the reanimated just… spread. Moving out from the cities, biting and infecting more people until those people died and rose again and continued the cycle, multiplying beyond imagining. New York City, New York state, the east coast, America, the world.
The plan was to reach the CDC in Atlanta. In the early days Matt had pointed out that if anyone was working on a cure or an antidote, they would be there. He'd pictured men in white suits hunched over Bunsen burners, analyzing slides of the deader's diseased cells under high-powered microscopes. That was when the reanimated were mostly restricted to the cities with the largest populations, when there was still some slim chance of regaining control.
Back when he still believed that if anyone could reach Georgia, breach the CDC and save the world, it was John McClane.
Now, they're still mostly heading south. But they both know, though they don't speak of it, that's there's no cure waiting for them, no little pill that will prevent infection. There is only the heat, and the mosquitos, and the dead staggering through the streets.
Matt's finger traces the lines on the map, even though he's not quite sure where they are. He glances up to see that someone has left directions to a place called Yellow Jacket Creek, scrawled hurriedly onto a piece of battered cardboard and duct-taped to the roadside sign. Matt tries to let his eyes slide past the directions, the scribble of a name. Whoever he was, he's probably dead now. Or worse than dead.
He turns back to his map, squints at the tiny print. The names of the towns they pass through no longer matter.
John pulls up outside the small cemetery at the side of a church, lets the car idle. Matt opens his mouth to remind him that they're running on fumes as it is, that the last few abandoned cars they've checked have already been drained of every last drop of gas. Closes his mouth again without saying a word. Follows John's gaze instead, to the small group of survivors huddled around the gaping maw of a new grave. The removed dirt sits in a pile next to them, shovels stuck into the mound and waiting to be put to work.
The preacher looks like he hasn't had a good meal in weeks, bones practically protruding from skin stretched tight over a tall, gawky frame. But his voice is strong, carrying even over the purr of the engine, over the moaning coming from behind the closed doors of the church. "Cursed is the ground because of you. Through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life," he intones, and Matt shivers less at the words than at the sound of a voice carrying so loudly on the wind when all he knows is stealth and silence; at the knowledge that this will announce their presence to any reanimated in the area more surely than a single idling car.
"What are they doing?" Matt hisses. He catches movement from the corner of his eye, swivels in the passenger seat to follow the path of a lone deader at the far end of the block. This one was a woman, once. Now she's little more than greying flesh stumbling on a broken ankle as she lurches into the crosswalk, what was once a pretty spring dress hanging in tatters on her skeletal frame.
"John," he warns.
"Shhh," John says.
"For dust you are, and to dust you will return," the preacher ends, and when he lifts his head from the contemplation of his bible his eyes meet Matt's, cold and unblinking. Matt shrinks back unconsciously. There is no sanity left in that gaze.
"Bring them," the preacher says, and Matt starts in his seat, sure that more survivors are about to converge on the car, drag them from the relative safety of the vehicle. But the only movement is the slow, laborious opening of the double doors of the church to reveal several men leading two of the reanimated wrapped in chains out into the early afternoon sunlight.
Two deaders, and one live human being.
The reanimated struggle against the binds, yellowing teeth snapping; wobble unsteadily at the edge of the open grave before tumbling inside.
The woman's dress is streaked with dirt and gore, her eyes hollow as she stumbles between the two men at her side. Her lips move, and Matt squints to read her lips. Please. Please. Please.
"It's an honour we bestow upon you," the preacher says when she reaches his side. Long cadaverous fingers cup her cheeks, turns her face to his. She hangs between the arms of her guards, body limp and exhausted. "You will be the food to serve our fallen brothers on their journey from this world to the next. You are chosen. You are blessed."
Her lips never stop moving. Please. Please. Please.
Matt's stomach lurches, wanting desperately to spew up the canned stew he'd eaten that morning, watching the sun rise. Back when he didn't know there were worse things than the deaders loose in the world. "John," he moans.
John's Sig is already in his hands, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he opens the car door. Matt takes a quick look around to make sure the female deader is still at the other end of the block before joining him.
"You take the one on the right," John says.
They fire almost simultaneously, the bullets rocking the guards back on their heels. They're dead before they hit the ground, and they'll stay there. Head shots are second nature, now.
"You got about ten seconds to let her go," John calls out.
The preacher doesn't even look surprised, caresses one dirty hand over the girl's cheek before he releases her. "This is none of your concern, friend," he answers, his speaking voice carrying easily over the ground that separates them. Matt again suppresses a shiver at the pure insanity in that gaze before he leaves John to deal with the preacher and turns his attention to the rest of the survivors, half of whom look like they've been drinking from the same well of crazy as the holy man. But none of them make a move to run, to grab weapons, to make a charge on the car. They just… stand there. Swaying in place, like they're listening to music that Matt can't hear.
"Beg to differ," John says. "Throwing living people in with the deaders? That's murder in my book. Friend."
"Then we are clearly reading from a different good book," the preacher answers. "Come. Join our congregation. Your sins of killing Brother Adam and Brother Tyler will be forgiven. Be enlightened."
John snorts. "Right. We'll be enlightened right into a grave." He flexes his finger around the trigger. "Time's up, fucker. Free the girl or you go the way of Brother Adam, there. And I don't think the man upstairs is gonna take too kindly to what you've been doing in His name."
The girl's lips still haven't stopped moving - Please. Please. Please. - but it's only when she turns to the right, lifts her arm toward him imploringly, that Matt sees the red ring of the bite mark on her forearm. Barely enough to break the skin. Shallow enough that it would be at least forty-eight hours before the fever hit, another twenty-four after that before she died. Enough time that she would have made a good long meal for the deaders in that grave.
And he knows, as sure as he knows the feel of John's hands on his skin, that the bite was done to her deliberately.
Chosen. Blessed.
Please, her lips move silently. Please.
Matt fires instinctively, his bullet taking her between the eyes. As the girl's legs fold beneath her and she sinks to the ground he senses John jerk beside him; turns to see John staring at him wide-eyed, shocked.
"No time to explain," Matt says quickly.
He jerks his head toward the cemetery. His killing of the girl has galvanized the survivors in the way that neither Brothers Adam and Tyler's deaths nor the threats against the leader have. The shovels are pulled from the earth, the arms wielding them thin and sickly but powered now by rage. The preacher is in a state of apoplexy, his bible waving in his outstretched hand. "They have destroyed the Chosen One," he screeches. "Kill them!"
They are back in the car before the first of the survivors has cleared the wrought-iron fence, squealing past the female deader even as she reaches out with clawing hands to snatch at the side panels. They travel another half a block, the sounds of shouting behind them and their own engine drawing more of the reanimated from behind the houses, sending them stumbling and staggering toward the car.
Matt's just beginning to breathe normally again when John abruptly spins the wheel, sliding the car until it's facing sideways in the middle of an intersection. Matt tries to see everywhere at once, his head spinning as he takes in their surroundings. The closest deader is less than three houses away, a male lurching quickly along the centre yellow line, his ropy intestines trailing along the dirty ground behind him. Just past him, two more, fresher than the male. All three are moaning and snarling in anticipation of a feast.
Matt tries to keep the panic out of his voice. "John?"
"Fuck it," John says.
John drags himself half way out of the car, steadies his aim along the roof.
Matt twists in his seat quickly enough to see the top of the preacher's head explode in a shower of blood and bone.
He is still staring when John pulls himself back behind the wheel, squeals away from the intersection mere seconds before the first of the reanimated reaches the car. They don't speak until the town is miles behind them, until they've made their way to a winding country road in the middle of nowhere. John stops in the middle of the road, grips the steering wheel and stares out the windshield. They sit long enough for the birds to start back up in the trees, for the animals to start rustling around in the undergrowth, for the dust called up by their wheels to fall back to the earth.
"You wanna explain what you did back there?" John finally grits out.
Please. Please.
Matt presses the heel of his hands against his eyes, releases them only when fireworks start to go off in his vision.
"Not now," he says. His voice sounds raw to his ears, like he's been screaming. Maybe he has. He lets one hand rest on John's, still wrapped tight around the steering wheel. Hands that would never hurt him, never let anything happen to him, always take care of him. "Not now, John," he says again. "I need… please, John, I need…"
Matt gasps when John takes him in hand, moving unhurriedly, just the way he likes it. He grabs onto the door handle, bites his lips to keep from calling out. His hips piston as he thrusts into the curl of John's hand, and he bares his neck when John leans over to nip and suck at his skin, to murmur soothing words in his ear, words that make him shiver and shake.
Soon, he'll have to explain what he saw, what he knew. Soon there will be another chunk taken out of their hopes for a new world. Soon their fears for the future of mankind will be renewed.
But now there is only this. Something good and strong and right.
"Please, John," he moans. "Please."
.
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2019
Summary: The plan was to reach the CDC in Atlanta. In the early days Matt had pointed out that if anyone was working on a cure or an antidote, they would be there. He'd pictured men in white suits hunched over Bunsen burners, analyzing slides of the deader's diseased cells under high-powered microscopes. That was when the reanimated were mostly restricted to the cities with the largest populations, when there was still some slim chance of regaining control.
Back when he still believed that if anyone could reach Georgia, breach the CDC and save the world, it was John McClane.
Notes: Written for tamingthemuse, for the prompt "dust you are and to dust you will return". Zombie AU. In my head this takes place in the TWD universe, but there's no reference to the show beyond a mention of a place name.
Dust to Dust
by Severina
It's amazing how fast civilization comes crashing down after the release of the virus.
No one wants to take the blame. Russia blames the Chinese; the Chinese blame the Americans; the Americans blame the North Koreans. It's equally amazing that no one pushed the button, ended it all with some fiery blasts and a series of mushroom clouds. Instead, the reanimated just… spread. Moving out from the cities, biting and infecting more people until those people died and rose again and continued the cycle, multiplying beyond imagining. New York City, New York state, the east coast, America, the world.
The plan was to reach the CDC in Atlanta. In the early days Matt had pointed out that if anyone was working on a cure or an antidote, they would be there. He'd pictured men in white suits hunched over Bunsen burners, analyzing slides of the deader's diseased cells under high-powered microscopes. That was when the reanimated were mostly restricted to the cities with the largest populations, when there was still some slim chance of regaining control.
Back when he still believed that if anyone could reach Georgia, breach the CDC and save the world, it was John McClane.
Now, they're still mostly heading south. But they both know, though they don't speak of it, that's there's no cure waiting for them, no little pill that will prevent infection. There is only the heat, and the mosquitos, and the dead staggering through the streets.
Matt's finger traces the lines on the map, even though he's not quite sure where they are. He glances up to see that someone has left directions to a place called Yellow Jacket Creek, scrawled hurriedly onto a piece of battered cardboard and duct-taped to the roadside sign. Matt tries to let his eyes slide past the directions, the scribble of a name. Whoever he was, he's probably dead now. Or worse than dead.
He turns back to his map, squints at the tiny print. The names of the towns they pass through no longer matter.
John pulls up outside the small cemetery at the side of a church, lets the car idle. Matt opens his mouth to remind him that they're running on fumes as it is, that the last few abandoned cars they've checked have already been drained of every last drop of gas. Closes his mouth again without saying a word. Follows John's gaze instead, to the small group of survivors huddled around the gaping maw of a new grave. The removed dirt sits in a pile next to them, shovels stuck into the mound and waiting to be put to work.
The preacher looks like he hasn't had a good meal in weeks, bones practically protruding from skin stretched tight over a tall, gawky frame. But his voice is strong, carrying even over the purr of the engine, over the moaning coming from behind the closed doors of the church. "Cursed is the ground because of you. Through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life," he intones, and Matt shivers less at the words than at the sound of a voice carrying so loudly on the wind when all he knows is stealth and silence; at the knowledge that this will announce their presence to any reanimated in the area more surely than a single idling car.
"What are they doing?" Matt hisses. He catches movement from the corner of his eye, swivels in the passenger seat to follow the path of a lone deader at the far end of the block. This one was a woman, once. Now she's little more than greying flesh stumbling on a broken ankle as she lurches into the crosswalk, what was once a pretty spring dress hanging in tatters on her skeletal frame.
"John," he warns.
"Shhh," John says.
"For dust you are, and to dust you will return," the preacher ends, and when he lifts his head from the contemplation of his bible his eyes meet Matt's, cold and unblinking. Matt shrinks back unconsciously. There is no sanity left in that gaze.
"Bring them," the preacher says, and Matt starts in his seat, sure that more survivors are about to converge on the car, drag them from the relative safety of the vehicle. But the only movement is the slow, laborious opening of the double doors of the church to reveal several men leading two of the reanimated wrapped in chains out into the early afternoon sunlight.
Two deaders, and one live human being.
The reanimated struggle against the binds, yellowing teeth snapping; wobble unsteadily at the edge of the open grave before tumbling inside.
The woman's dress is streaked with dirt and gore, her eyes hollow as she stumbles between the two men at her side. Her lips move, and Matt squints to read her lips. Please. Please. Please.
"It's an honour we bestow upon you," the preacher says when she reaches his side. Long cadaverous fingers cup her cheeks, turns her face to his. She hangs between the arms of her guards, body limp and exhausted. "You will be the food to serve our fallen brothers on their journey from this world to the next. You are chosen. You are blessed."
Her lips never stop moving. Please. Please. Please.
Matt's stomach lurches, wanting desperately to spew up the canned stew he'd eaten that morning, watching the sun rise. Back when he didn't know there were worse things than the deaders loose in the world. "John," he moans.
John's Sig is already in his hands, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he opens the car door. Matt takes a quick look around to make sure the female deader is still at the other end of the block before joining him.
"You take the one on the right," John says.
They fire almost simultaneously, the bullets rocking the guards back on their heels. They're dead before they hit the ground, and they'll stay there. Head shots are second nature, now.
"You got about ten seconds to let her go," John calls out.
The preacher doesn't even look surprised, caresses one dirty hand over the girl's cheek before he releases her. "This is none of your concern, friend," he answers, his speaking voice carrying easily over the ground that separates them. Matt again suppresses a shiver at the pure insanity in that gaze before he leaves John to deal with the preacher and turns his attention to the rest of the survivors, half of whom look like they've been drinking from the same well of crazy as the holy man. But none of them make a move to run, to grab weapons, to make a charge on the car. They just… stand there. Swaying in place, like they're listening to music that Matt can't hear.
"Beg to differ," John says. "Throwing living people in with the deaders? That's murder in my book. Friend."
"Then we are clearly reading from a different good book," the preacher answers. "Come. Join our congregation. Your sins of killing Brother Adam and Brother Tyler will be forgiven. Be enlightened."
John snorts. "Right. We'll be enlightened right into a grave." He flexes his finger around the trigger. "Time's up, fucker. Free the girl or you go the way of Brother Adam, there. And I don't think the man upstairs is gonna take too kindly to what you've been doing in His name."
The girl's lips still haven't stopped moving - Please. Please. Please. - but it's only when she turns to the right, lifts her arm toward him imploringly, that Matt sees the red ring of the bite mark on her forearm. Barely enough to break the skin. Shallow enough that it would be at least forty-eight hours before the fever hit, another twenty-four after that before she died. Enough time that she would have made a good long meal for the deaders in that grave.
And he knows, as sure as he knows the feel of John's hands on his skin, that the bite was done to her deliberately.
Chosen. Blessed.
Please, her lips move silently. Please.
Matt fires instinctively, his bullet taking her between the eyes. As the girl's legs fold beneath her and she sinks to the ground he senses John jerk beside him; turns to see John staring at him wide-eyed, shocked.
"No time to explain," Matt says quickly.
He jerks his head toward the cemetery. His killing of the girl has galvanized the survivors in the way that neither Brothers Adam and Tyler's deaths nor the threats against the leader have. The shovels are pulled from the earth, the arms wielding them thin and sickly but powered now by rage. The preacher is in a state of apoplexy, his bible waving in his outstretched hand. "They have destroyed the Chosen One," he screeches. "Kill them!"
They are back in the car before the first of the survivors has cleared the wrought-iron fence, squealing past the female deader even as she reaches out with clawing hands to snatch at the side panels. They travel another half a block, the sounds of shouting behind them and their own engine drawing more of the reanimated from behind the houses, sending them stumbling and staggering toward the car.
Matt's just beginning to breathe normally again when John abruptly spins the wheel, sliding the car until it's facing sideways in the middle of an intersection. Matt tries to see everywhere at once, his head spinning as he takes in their surroundings. The closest deader is less than three houses away, a male lurching quickly along the centre yellow line, his ropy intestines trailing along the dirty ground behind him. Just past him, two more, fresher than the male. All three are moaning and snarling in anticipation of a feast.
Matt tries to keep the panic out of his voice. "John?"
"Fuck it," John says.
John drags himself half way out of the car, steadies his aim along the roof.
Matt twists in his seat quickly enough to see the top of the preacher's head explode in a shower of blood and bone.
He is still staring when John pulls himself back behind the wheel, squeals away from the intersection mere seconds before the first of the reanimated reaches the car. They don't speak until the town is miles behind them, until they've made their way to a winding country road in the middle of nowhere. John stops in the middle of the road, grips the steering wheel and stares out the windshield. They sit long enough for the birds to start back up in the trees, for the animals to start rustling around in the undergrowth, for the dust called up by their wheels to fall back to the earth.
"You wanna explain what you did back there?" John finally grits out.
Please. Please.
Matt presses the heel of his hands against his eyes, releases them only when fireworks start to go off in his vision.
"Not now," he says. His voice sounds raw to his ears, like he's been screaming. Maybe he has. He lets one hand rest on John's, still wrapped tight around the steering wheel. Hands that would never hurt him, never let anything happen to him, always take care of him. "Not now, John," he says again. "I need… please, John, I need…"
Matt gasps when John takes him in hand, moving unhurriedly, just the way he likes it. He grabs onto the door handle, bites his lips to keep from calling out. His hips piston as he thrusts into the curl of John's hand, and he bares his neck when John leans over to nip and suck at his skin, to murmur soothing words in his ear, words that make him shiver and shake.
Soon, he'll have to explain what he saw, what he knew. Soon there will be another chunk taken out of their hopes for a new world. Soon their fears for the future of mankind will be renewed.
But now there is only this. Something good and strong and right.
"Please, John," he moans. "Please."
.