Stupid Teenagers Must Die!
Title: Stupid Teenagers Must Die!
Author: charactereyes (writing journal for ishidashipper)
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero eventually.
Rating: R for swearing, gruesome zombie death, and eventual boysex. Possibly.
Summary: Gerard hadn't thought his life could get worse after high school. Zombies proved him wrong.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: This is the first of about five parts. Also, Bob is not in this fic because he is chilling with the Used somewhere zombie-free. Just thought I'd mention it.
Beta: redheaded_itch
Gerard looked at the pills and wondered if he should leave a note.
He was genuinely torn about that. On the one hand, it seemed only polite- his parents and his brother and hey, maybe even Ray would be upset and confused, and he owed them a little bit of closure. Maybe owed himself, too.
But he hadn't written anything in a long time. The teenage death poems he'd written a few years before were buried inside his desk, underneath a pile of old pay stubs. He drew these days instead, and who ever heard of a suicide cartoon?
He didn't even know if he could write anything more complicated than a grocery list anymore, to be honest.
He took a deep breath and smoothed one trembling hand over his hair, trying to make himself calm down. It was a Friday night. His parents were out at some movie or play or something, and Mikey was at a friend's house. There was still plenty of time. He reached for a piece of paper and a pencil, wondering if there were rules about suicide notes. Maybe they needed to be written in blood, or at least red ink. But Gerard was a firm believer in working with what he had.
Dear Mom and Dad, he started. (And Mikey, he added as an afterthought.)
I'm not really sure how to say this, but I keep on thinking back to when I was little and I'd show you my drawings and you told me how wonderful they were, how I could be anything I wanted to be. I'm thinking about that and I'm trying not to get angry at you, because I'm starting to wonder if you lied to me all these years and I just bought it like the fucking asshole I am.
He wondered if he should cross that out, because even if it was his suicide note, it was also his mom, and she had very certain views on swearing. He left it in anyway.
I'm twenty-two years old and I work at a fast food restaurant. I haven't had a girlfriend in three years because I'm a fat fucking loser and I live in my parents' basement. Nobody will touch my art, which means that going to college and getting a degree was fucking useless. What's the point of school if I'm still drawing in your goddamn basement after that?
I'm not getting angry at you guys, I swear. I love you all so much it fucking hurts. I just can't do this anymore. I've tried, I promise I've tried, and I'm sorry. It's just too much. Maybe I can be whatever I want to be, but I don't know if I can live up to my own expectations.
Love, Gee.
He read it over a few times, then added a postscript.
P.S. Mikey, Moxie likes half a cup of dry and half of wet each morning. Remember to mix them up with a fork or she won't eat it.
He had just dotted the last 'i' when he heard glass shatter in the living room.
His first thought was vandals. This wasn't the best neighborhood and Belleville wasn't the best town- just last year someone had spray painted the word 'faggot' on the garage door. He looked around the bathroom for something to use as a blunt instrument and found a toilet plunger. Wielding it like an axe, he edged out the door and down the stairs, keeping to the shadows.
Something had broken the bay window- something big, by the looks of it. There was a strange smell in the air, like undercooked meat left out too long. Gerard tried to breathe through his nose as he padded noiselessly into the kitchen.
"Listen, you fucker," he began, and then he saw who the fucker was, and he stopped.
It was his dad. Sort of. At least, he was wearing his dad's clothes and had the approximate shape and size of his dad, and had the same irregular bald patch in his thin grey hair, but something wasn't right. He looked as though he'd been broken in a dozen different places and carelessly reassembled. His eyes were wrong, too- they were milky, like they'd grown a film.
Gerard noticed all this in less than a second, because his father- his father?- ran across the kitchen towards him with his beefy arms outstretched. He was hissing and moaning somehow simultaneously, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. Gerard didn't have time to think, just react; he swung the plunger as hard as he could, and it smashed into his father's skull with a sickening crunch. He dropped, twitching, onto the linoleum.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!"
Gerard did not have one of those dime novel moments where he wondered who was screaming. He knew it was him. He certainly knew it wasn't his father, mostly because his father's brains were currently splattered across the kitchen floor.
Outside, he knew, the family station wagon would be waiting. He just hoped the keys were in there, too. Suicide could wait.
He had to find Mikey.
*
Frank Iero was a weird guy.
First of all he was a year younger than Mikey, but had already accumulated easily three times the suspensions. The current one was for (reportedly) setting the vice principal's car on fire. He was the only guy in his class to routinely use both hair product and eye makeup, and as a result was known around town as a fag. Mikey didn't know if he was actually a fag- he'd had a girlfriend a year or two back, but even Elton John had gotten married once. Anyway, Frank had never come on to him, so it was all okay. He was a fun guy to have around, and his mom always let him stay overnight, and they got to stay up late watching cheesy horror films and occasionally going out back to film their own. Frank had been working on one for about six months; supposedly it revolved around the exploits of a Jersey vampire, but since until recently Frank had only been able to film himself and the foliage, his vision had been constrained. Now, with Mikey in the (literal) picture, he was inspired.
"No, get your head at a better angle. Make it look like you're really dead."
Mikey squirmed on the leaves. Some of them were wet from yesterday's rain, and it was starting to get cold. "Maybe we should go inside," he offered, squinting. Frank had insisted that he take his glasses off, saying that a newly-sired child of the sinful night shouldn't wear horn-rims. "It might start to rain again."
"Fucking pussy. Here." Frank squirted a little more ketchup over Mikey's neck. It didn't quite look like blood, but they didn't have any of the good fake stuff and food colouring always came out pink. "Now rise up- slowly- there you go- turn towards the camera- show your fangs, and-"
"MIKEY!"
Both boys jumped. Frank screamed a little, but managed to cut it off and turn it into a brusque obscenity. Gerard came skidding into the yard, panting and kicking up leaves.
"Jesus, Gee, you scared the shit out of us!" Mikey grabbed his glasses off the ground and stood up, trying to clean the ketchup off his neck. "What are you doing out here? I thought it was your night off!"
"It was." Gerard stood almost doubled for a minute, catching his breath, then gasped, "Mikey, Dad's a zombie. Or was. I think I killed him with a plunger."
Dead silence.
Mikey knew that his brother was weird. Hell, he'd known it since elementary school. For the Future Careers project in fifth grade Gerard hadn't chosen astronaut or fireman like the other underachievers; he'd gone straight to Gerard Way, Vampire Hunter, and been sent for a long conference with the guidance counselor. He'd tried to shield his older brother over the years, keep him away from the worst of the assholes that always flocked to people like Gerard. This, however, was new. This was Twilight Gee.
He would have argued, had another zombie not chosen that minute to come crashing over Frank's fence.
"Shit!" Gerard yelled, his voice wavering. "Mikey, get the fuck out of here- I've got the station wagon, let's go!"
Mikey didn't need any encouragement. Frank, however, had retrieved his camcorder and started filming again.
"Iero, now is not the time!" Mikey grabbed his arm, but Frank held fast.
"When do you think I'll ever get to film this again?"
Another zombie scrambled over the bushes on the left, wheezing and fumbling blindly for the three of them. Foam dribbled from the corners of its mouth, flecked with blood.
"Some other time," Gerard supplied, and this time they all ran. The zombies followed, not at a weary shamble like in the movies but at full speed. Frank narrowly missed slamming his door on one as he got into the station wagon. Greasy, meaty fingers scrabbled at the windows, scraping against the glass.
"Oh, fuck," Mikey whispered, his eyes like saucers. They were crawling out of nowhere now, heading down the streets and staggering out of open front doors. "Where did- where did they all come from?"
Gerard didn't say anything, just threw the station wagon in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. Some of the undead were pulled under the wheels, making sickeningly juicy crunching noises.
"Did you really kill Dad?"
Gerard met his eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded once.
"With a plunger?"
"Fucking impressive," Frank snickered. Mikey glared at him, then reached out and touched Gerard's shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Me neither."
They drove in silence for a full five minutes. Outside the window Belleville flashed by, occasionally surrendering a glimpse of a staggering zombie before closing itself up into green, weedy lawns and dingy houses again.
"They were so fast," Frank murmured wonderingly to himself. The brothers pretended not to hear him.
"Where are we going?" Mikey asked Gerard timidly. He knew that when his brother got a certain look in his eyes it was best to just go with it; stopping him wouldn't work.
"Downtown."
"What's downtown?"
Gerard met his eyes again, briefly.
"Ray Toro."
*
Ray was a simple guy.
He hadn't always been. In high school he had considered himself to be a deep, poetic, complicated sort of person. He wrote love poetry and admired sunsets and even listened to chick bands sometimes. But somewhere between graduation and his current stint as a shelf stocker at Best Buy his lofty ambitions had simmered down to three basic objectives.
One: Eat.
Two: Drink.
Three: Get as many ladies as possible.
So far Objective Three had been a failure, but, he reflected as he sat down to microwave pizza and a six pack, Objectives One and Two were alive and well. There was a Dario Argento marathon on that night, and he didn't work until Tuesday. Things were looking good. Relatively.
Which was why Gerard crashing the station wagon into his kitchen window pissed him off so much.
Gerard hadn't intended to arrive with such a bang, of course. He just wasn't the best of drivers.
"What the fuck?" Ray snarled, casting one regretful look at his six pack before storming out the front door. The station wagon's tires spun crazily in the weedy shrubs beneath the busted window. The car's hood had given slightly on impact, but was otherwise fine.
Gerard sat in the front seat, frowning. "Huh," he said. "The airbags didn't go. I might have to tell someone about that."
Ray stood barefoot on his front step, looking from Gerard to the car to the window and back to Gerard, who seemed to realize that some sort of apology might be in order.
"Oh, right. Sorry about the... that," he said, gesturing.
"That?" Ray sputtered, his face flushing. He was not sure how to deal with this situation. "That? Dude, you just crashed your fucking station wagon through my window! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Um. Lots. But you should probably get in the car now, because if there're so many out by Frank's house there's bound to be more down here."
"More what, exactly? More lunatics in station wagons crashing into some innocent motherfucker's house in the middle of dinner?"
Next door someone lurched onto the porch, moaning.
"Not exactly," said Gerard, looking anxiously into the rearview mirror. "Just get in the car and we'll explain, okay?"
Ray sputtered for another minute or two, then, unable to think of a viable alternative, climbed into the passenger seat.
"This had better be fucking good," he said, a little weakly, as Gerard backed up over the broken glass.
"It is. Just buckle your seatbelt."
"Why? Got a grudge against some other kitchen window?"
"No, but we might have to run over a couple of people on the way. It might get bumpy."
*
Five minutes later Ray felt as though he had a better handle on the situation.
"Okay," he said. "So there are zombies."
"That's right," said Gerard.
"And they are currently rampaging around Belleville, eating people. Thereby creating even more zombies."
"Yep," said Frank.
"And you killed your dad?"
Gerard gripped the steering wheel harder than he had to. He could still see his father in his mind's eye, splattered all over the kitchen floor.
He didn't feel guilty, not really. That was why he felt so guilty.
"Uh huh," he replied.
"Okay." Ray stretched a little and leant back in his seat. It was nice to be in the know. "So, should you guys call your families or something? Mine all went to Tuscany for a week, lucky little shits. They should be okay."
"My mom's working at a steakhouse a few towns over," Frank said wryly. "If she's turned into one of the slavering undead she probably won't notice until her smoke break."
Neither of the Ways said anything. Mikey looked increasingly rabbitlike, shrinking down in his seat and staring out of the window. Gerard wished he knew what to do for him. He wondered if there was anything he could do at all.
"Maybe we should turn on the radio."
It was Mikey's suggestion. Even he looked surprised that he'd said it.
"Yeah," Gerard said slowly, reaching for the dial. "Yeah, they might be broadcasting- I mean, we can't be the only ones that noticed this, right? They can't all be..."
His voice trailed off as station after station filled the car with hot white noise and the hiss of static. The air waves were dead, and outside the car the sun was going down.
"We need to figure something out," Frank said eventually. "Gerard, where are you even going?"
Gerard shrugged, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. "I'm not really sure. I guess I was waiting for some flash of brilliance."
"Fuck brilliance." But there was a gentleness to the way he said it that made Gerard smile tightly. "We just need someplace safe. Somewhere we can barricade ourselves easily, but that has plenty of supplies. It doesn't have to be permanent, just fine for now."
"The school?" Mikey offered timidly. Gerard shook his head.
"Too much open space. Too big. We wouldn't be able to flush them out. What about Town Hall? There might be some other people there already- banding together in a time of crisis, sort of thing."
"Would you put your faith in Town Hall during a time of crisis?" Frank asked pointedly. The idea was discarded.
"Wal-Mart?" Ray said, and was met by unanimous head shakes.
"Aunt Beth's house."
Gerard glanced at Frank again, confused. "Who?"
"My great-aunt Beth. She was alive during the Second World War, and she always thought it was going to happen again. She'd go on about Hiroshima, and how someday the Japanese would get their revenge on the West by dropping an even bigger bomb on us. She made her husband build her this huge bomb shelter in the cellar before he died and filled it with cans of soup and crackers and shit. I used to play down there when I was a kid."
"You played in a bomb shelter?" Ray shook his head incredulously. "That explains so much."
Frank flipped him off and continued, "She's a real old lady, but she'd be more than willing to believe that there's some kind of apocalypse going on. Hell, she's been waiting for it long enough. And she's always wanted to meet more of my 'little friends,' so." Frank shrugged, looking around for approval.
Gerard nodded slowly, sitting up straighter. A Plan. The thought of having A Plan made him feel better, even if it was as rudimentary as this one.
"All right," he said. "Let's go see Great-Aunt Beth."
*
A few miles away, Matt Pelissier had just gotten off his second-to-last shift at the Gas-And-Go. He was optimistic, whistling even. He and his girlfriend were on good terms for the first time since she'd moved in with him; he had another job lined up at a garage a few towns over; he'd even dug out his drums and started playing again, called his old friend Greg about starting up the old band. Life, he thought, was pretty sweet.
Unfortunately, the zombies felt the same way about him.
Author: charactereyes (writing journal for ishidashipper)
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero eventually.
Rating: R for swearing, gruesome zombie death, and eventual boysex. Possibly.
Summary: Gerard hadn't thought his life could get worse after high school. Zombies proved him wrong.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: This is the first of about five parts. Also, Bob is not in this fic because he is chilling with the Used somewhere zombie-free. Just thought I'd mention it.
Beta: redheaded_itch
Gerard looked at the pills and wondered if he should leave a note.
He was genuinely torn about that. On the one hand, it seemed only polite- his parents and his brother and hey, maybe even Ray would be upset and confused, and he owed them a little bit of closure. Maybe owed himself, too.
But he hadn't written anything in a long time. The teenage death poems he'd written a few years before were buried inside his desk, underneath a pile of old pay stubs. He drew these days instead, and who ever heard of a suicide cartoon?
He didn't even know if he could write anything more complicated than a grocery list anymore, to be honest.
He took a deep breath and smoothed one trembling hand over his hair, trying to make himself calm down. It was a Friday night. His parents were out at some movie or play or something, and Mikey was at a friend's house. There was still plenty of time. He reached for a piece of paper and a pencil, wondering if there were rules about suicide notes. Maybe they needed to be written in blood, or at least red ink. But Gerard was a firm believer in working with what he had.
Dear Mom and Dad, he started. (And Mikey, he added as an afterthought.)
I'm not really sure how to say this, but I keep on thinking back to when I was little and I'd show you my drawings and you told me how wonderful they were, how I could be anything I wanted to be. I'm thinking about that and I'm trying not to get angry at you, because I'm starting to wonder if you lied to me all these years and I just bought it like the fucking asshole I am.
He wondered if he should cross that out, because even if it was his suicide note, it was also his mom, and she had very certain views on swearing. He left it in anyway.
I'm twenty-two years old and I work at a fast food restaurant. I haven't had a girlfriend in three years because I'm a fat fucking loser and I live in my parents' basement. Nobody will touch my art, which means that going to college and getting a degree was fucking useless. What's the point of school if I'm still drawing in your goddamn basement after that?
I'm not getting angry at you guys, I swear. I love you all so much it fucking hurts. I just can't do this anymore. I've tried, I promise I've tried, and I'm sorry. It's just too much. Maybe I can be whatever I want to be, but I don't know if I can live up to my own expectations.
Love, Gee.
He read it over a few times, then added a postscript.
P.S. Mikey, Moxie likes half a cup of dry and half of wet each morning. Remember to mix them up with a fork or she won't eat it.
He had just dotted the last 'i' when he heard glass shatter in the living room.
His first thought was vandals. This wasn't the best neighborhood and Belleville wasn't the best town- just last year someone had spray painted the word 'faggot' on the garage door. He looked around the bathroom for something to use as a blunt instrument and found a toilet plunger. Wielding it like an axe, he edged out the door and down the stairs, keeping to the shadows.
Something had broken the bay window- something big, by the looks of it. There was a strange smell in the air, like undercooked meat left out too long. Gerard tried to breathe through his nose as he padded noiselessly into the kitchen.
"Listen, you fucker," he began, and then he saw who the fucker was, and he stopped.
It was his dad. Sort of. At least, he was wearing his dad's clothes and had the approximate shape and size of his dad, and had the same irregular bald patch in his thin grey hair, but something wasn't right. He looked as though he'd been broken in a dozen different places and carelessly reassembled. His eyes were wrong, too- they were milky, like they'd grown a film.
Gerard noticed all this in less than a second, because his father- his father?- ran across the kitchen towards him with his beefy arms outstretched. He was hissing and moaning somehow simultaneously, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. Gerard didn't have time to think, just react; he swung the plunger as hard as he could, and it smashed into his father's skull with a sickening crunch. He dropped, twitching, onto the linoleum.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!"
Gerard did not have one of those dime novel moments where he wondered who was screaming. He knew it was him. He certainly knew it wasn't his father, mostly because his father's brains were currently splattered across the kitchen floor.
Outside, he knew, the family station wagon would be waiting. He just hoped the keys were in there, too. Suicide could wait.
He had to find Mikey.
*
Frank Iero was a weird guy.
First of all he was a year younger than Mikey, but had already accumulated easily three times the suspensions. The current one was for (reportedly) setting the vice principal's car on fire. He was the only guy in his class to routinely use both hair product and eye makeup, and as a result was known around town as a fag. Mikey didn't know if he was actually a fag- he'd had a girlfriend a year or two back, but even Elton John had gotten married once. Anyway, Frank had never come on to him, so it was all okay. He was a fun guy to have around, and his mom always let him stay overnight, and they got to stay up late watching cheesy horror films and occasionally going out back to film their own. Frank had been working on one for about six months; supposedly it revolved around the exploits of a Jersey vampire, but since until recently Frank had only been able to film himself and the foliage, his vision had been constrained. Now, with Mikey in the (literal) picture, he was inspired.
"No, get your head at a better angle. Make it look like you're really dead."
Mikey squirmed on the leaves. Some of them were wet from yesterday's rain, and it was starting to get cold. "Maybe we should go inside," he offered, squinting. Frank had insisted that he take his glasses off, saying that a newly-sired child of the sinful night shouldn't wear horn-rims. "It might start to rain again."
"Fucking pussy. Here." Frank squirted a little more ketchup over Mikey's neck. It didn't quite look like blood, but they didn't have any of the good fake stuff and food colouring always came out pink. "Now rise up- slowly- there you go- turn towards the camera- show your fangs, and-"
"MIKEY!"
Both boys jumped. Frank screamed a little, but managed to cut it off and turn it into a brusque obscenity. Gerard came skidding into the yard, panting and kicking up leaves.
"Jesus, Gee, you scared the shit out of us!" Mikey grabbed his glasses off the ground and stood up, trying to clean the ketchup off his neck. "What are you doing out here? I thought it was your night off!"
"It was." Gerard stood almost doubled for a minute, catching his breath, then gasped, "Mikey, Dad's a zombie. Or was. I think I killed him with a plunger."
Dead silence.
Mikey knew that his brother was weird. Hell, he'd known it since elementary school. For the Future Careers project in fifth grade Gerard hadn't chosen astronaut or fireman like the other underachievers; he'd gone straight to Gerard Way, Vampire Hunter, and been sent for a long conference with the guidance counselor. He'd tried to shield his older brother over the years, keep him away from the worst of the assholes that always flocked to people like Gerard. This, however, was new. This was Twilight Gee.
He would have argued, had another zombie not chosen that minute to come crashing over Frank's fence.
"Shit!" Gerard yelled, his voice wavering. "Mikey, get the fuck out of here- I've got the station wagon, let's go!"
Mikey didn't need any encouragement. Frank, however, had retrieved his camcorder and started filming again.
"Iero, now is not the time!" Mikey grabbed his arm, but Frank held fast.
"When do you think I'll ever get to film this again?"
Another zombie scrambled over the bushes on the left, wheezing and fumbling blindly for the three of them. Foam dribbled from the corners of its mouth, flecked with blood.
"Some other time," Gerard supplied, and this time they all ran. The zombies followed, not at a weary shamble like in the movies but at full speed. Frank narrowly missed slamming his door on one as he got into the station wagon. Greasy, meaty fingers scrabbled at the windows, scraping against the glass.
"Oh, fuck," Mikey whispered, his eyes like saucers. They were crawling out of nowhere now, heading down the streets and staggering out of open front doors. "Where did- where did they all come from?"
Gerard didn't say anything, just threw the station wagon in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. Some of the undead were pulled under the wheels, making sickeningly juicy crunching noises.
"Did you really kill Dad?"
Gerard met his eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded once.
"With a plunger?"
"Fucking impressive," Frank snickered. Mikey glared at him, then reached out and touched Gerard's shoulder.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Me neither."
They drove in silence for a full five minutes. Outside the window Belleville flashed by, occasionally surrendering a glimpse of a staggering zombie before closing itself up into green, weedy lawns and dingy houses again.
"They were so fast," Frank murmured wonderingly to himself. The brothers pretended not to hear him.
"Where are we going?" Mikey asked Gerard timidly. He knew that when his brother got a certain look in his eyes it was best to just go with it; stopping him wouldn't work.
"Downtown."
"What's downtown?"
Gerard met his eyes again, briefly.
"Ray Toro."
*
Ray was a simple guy.
He hadn't always been. In high school he had considered himself to be a deep, poetic, complicated sort of person. He wrote love poetry and admired sunsets and even listened to chick bands sometimes. But somewhere between graduation and his current stint as a shelf stocker at Best Buy his lofty ambitions had simmered down to three basic objectives.
One: Eat.
Two: Drink.
Three: Get as many ladies as possible.
So far Objective Three had been a failure, but, he reflected as he sat down to microwave pizza and a six pack, Objectives One and Two were alive and well. There was a Dario Argento marathon on that night, and he didn't work until Tuesday. Things were looking good. Relatively.
Which was why Gerard crashing the station wagon into his kitchen window pissed him off so much.
Gerard hadn't intended to arrive with such a bang, of course. He just wasn't the best of drivers.
"What the fuck?" Ray snarled, casting one regretful look at his six pack before storming out the front door. The station wagon's tires spun crazily in the weedy shrubs beneath the busted window. The car's hood had given slightly on impact, but was otherwise fine.
Gerard sat in the front seat, frowning. "Huh," he said. "The airbags didn't go. I might have to tell someone about that."
Ray stood barefoot on his front step, looking from Gerard to the car to the window and back to Gerard, who seemed to realize that some sort of apology might be in order.
"Oh, right. Sorry about the... that," he said, gesturing.
"That?" Ray sputtered, his face flushing. He was not sure how to deal with this situation. "That? Dude, you just crashed your fucking station wagon through my window! What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Um. Lots. But you should probably get in the car now, because if there're so many out by Frank's house there's bound to be more down here."
"More what, exactly? More lunatics in station wagons crashing into some innocent motherfucker's house in the middle of dinner?"
Next door someone lurched onto the porch, moaning.
"Not exactly," said Gerard, looking anxiously into the rearview mirror. "Just get in the car and we'll explain, okay?"
Ray sputtered for another minute or two, then, unable to think of a viable alternative, climbed into the passenger seat.
"This had better be fucking good," he said, a little weakly, as Gerard backed up over the broken glass.
"It is. Just buckle your seatbelt."
"Why? Got a grudge against some other kitchen window?"
"No, but we might have to run over a couple of people on the way. It might get bumpy."
*
Five minutes later Ray felt as though he had a better handle on the situation.
"Okay," he said. "So there are zombies."
"That's right," said Gerard.
"And they are currently rampaging around Belleville, eating people. Thereby creating even more zombies."
"Yep," said Frank.
"And you killed your dad?"
Gerard gripped the steering wheel harder than he had to. He could still see his father in his mind's eye, splattered all over the kitchen floor.
He didn't feel guilty, not really. That was why he felt so guilty.
"Uh huh," he replied.
"Okay." Ray stretched a little and leant back in his seat. It was nice to be in the know. "So, should you guys call your families or something? Mine all went to Tuscany for a week, lucky little shits. They should be okay."
"My mom's working at a steakhouse a few towns over," Frank said wryly. "If she's turned into one of the slavering undead she probably won't notice until her smoke break."
Neither of the Ways said anything. Mikey looked increasingly rabbitlike, shrinking down in his seat and staring out of the window. Gerard wished he knew what to do for him. He wondered if there was anything he could do at all.
"Maybe we should turn on the radio."
It was Mikey's suggestion. Even he looked surprised that he'd said it.
"Yeah," Gerard said slowly, reaching for the dial. "Yeah, they might be broadcasting- I mean, we can't be the only ones that noticed this, right? They can't all be..."
His voice trailed off as station after station filled the car with hot white noise and the hiss of static. The air waves were dead, and outside the car the sun was going down.
"We need to figure something out," Frank said eventually. "Gerard, where are you even going?"
Gerard shrugged, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. "I'm not really sure. I guess I was waiting for some flash of brilliance."
"Fuck brilliance." But there was a gentleness to the way he said it that made Gerard smile tightly. "We just need someplace safe. Somewhere we can barricade ourselves easily, but that has plenty of supplies. It doesn't have to be permanent, just fine for now."
"The school?" Mikey offered timidly. Gerard shook his head.
"Too much open space. Too big. We wouldn't be able to flush them out. What about Town Hall? There might be some other people there already- banding together in a time of crisis, sort of thing."
"Would you put your faith in Town Hall during a time of crisis?" Frank asked pointedly. The idea was discarded.
"Wal-Mart?" Ray said, and was met by unanimous head shakes.
"Aunt Beth's house."
Gerard glanced at Frank again, confused. "Who?"
"My great-aunt Beth. She was alive during the Second World War, and she always thought it was going to happen again. She'd go on about Hiroshima, and how someday the Japanese would get their revenge on the West by dropping an even bigger bomb on us. She made her husband build her this huge bomb shelter in the cellar before he died and filled it with cans of soup and crackers and shit. I used to play down there when I was a kid."
"You played in a bomb shelter?" Ray shook his head incredulously. "That explains so much."
Frank flipped him off and continued, "She's a real old lady, but she'd be more than willing to believe that there's some kind of apocalypse going on. Hell, she's been waiting for it long enough. And she's always wanted to meet more of my 'little friends,' so." Frank shrugged, looking around for approval.
Gerard nodded slowly, sitting up straighter. A Plan. The thought of having A Plan made him feel better, even if it was as rudimentary as this one.
"All right," he said. "Let's go see Great-Aunt Beth."
*
A few miles away, Matt Pelissier had just gotten off his second-to-last shift at the Gas-And-Go. He was optimistic, whistling even. He and his girlfriend were on good terms for the first time since she'd moved in with him; he had another job lined up at a garage a few towns over; he'd even dug out his drums and started playing again, called his old friend Greg about starting up the old band. Life, he thought, was pretty sweet.
Unfortunately, the zombies felt the same way about him.