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halfmoth-halfman · 1 year ago

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we're meant for the flies

Pairing: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader Word Count: 1.9k Warnings: zombies, death, blood, medical inaccuracies, guns, knives, animal death mention, gore, suicide technically, cannibalism (zombie) Prompt: Zombie!AU & "I always knew this day would come." Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: we're starting off @glitterypirateduck's GazFest 2023 strong with a lovely little Zombie!AU and some not-so-lovely angst 💜

There were mutterings about a new strain of flu from your fellow nurses when you’d finished your shift early Saturday morning. You thought nothing of it, pushing it to the back of your mind and forbidding it from distracting you from who was waiting for you at home.

It was such a rare and precious thing when Kyle got to spend more than a week at home, and you had planned to take full advantage of every second with him.

You’d gotten to the house just after the sun had risen, practically launching yourself into the waiting arms of your fiancé the second he stepped out the front door. He wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you as close as he could physically get you.

You remember the gentle warmth of the morning sun shining down on your back. His familiar scent of tuberose and vanilla filling your nose, making you feel more at home than you’ve felt in months. The sharp, amused wolf whistle from Mrs. Graham, your elderly neighbor who spent all her time split between being too invested in your relationship and letting her grouchy cat run amuck in your garden.

You didn’t believe in perfection, but that Saturday was damn near close.

By Monday, it was all gone.

Fire and decay consumed the world, the apocalypse carried across the earth on the backs of the dead. Life as you had known it was gone, crumbled to dust under the weight of the confusion and chaos.

Five years later, you still aren’t used to the stench of decomposing flesh and rot that forever lingers in the air. It sticks to your clothes, your car, your skin, never coming off no matter how many times you wipe yourself down.

Kyle, your saving grace, helps keep you focused. You’d gotten a few self-defense lessons from him before the world had ended, but now he has you up early every morning to train. He’s done most of the heavy lifting, if you’re honest. More often you feel more hindrance than help to him, the elite military training giving him far more of an advantage in this new world, but he never once complains.

He does his best to comfort you, to teach you, to protect you.

You do what you can, of course. Your medical knowledge is invaluable now, and Kyle makes sure to remind you of that as often as he can. It’s part of why he’s so adamant about keeping you safe, aside from the obvious.

“Can’t let my favorite doctor go hungry,” he laughs when he forces you to take his rations, trying to joke away your concern. “What kind of husband would that make me?”

You see the exhaustion in his eyes, and it kills you to watch him always put himself last. It borders on suffocating sometimes, his concern for you. There are times when you want to scream at him to let you help him, let you offer more than just your presence and ever-changing inventory list. He’s taught you how to use a knife and a gun and your fists; you can protect yourself if you need to, but he refuses. He keeps you safe and tucked away whenever he has to run for supplies, and clings whenever he returns.

You know why he does it, why he holds you so close at night as you fall asleep to the screeching and wailing of the distant undead.

(You’d only met his team a few times in the past, but you knew how much they meant to him. You remember his determination to find them again when the world went to shit, leading you through neighborhoods and towns to get to their supposed meet-up spot.

You remember the exact moment when, after three months of walking and fighting, you’d finally made it to that dusty, boarded-up pub on the outskirts of the city.

His team was there, in all of their undead glory. Skin peeling and blistered, wailing around the black blood pouring from their mouths as they dragged their decaying fingers down the boards on the windows.

Kyle was quick to get you out of there, finding an empty store for the two of you to hole up in for the night.

The moment it was safe, he crumbled. You held him through the night, letting him silently sob into your shoulder. All you could offer was quiet comforts and a promise that you would never leave him.)

So, you let him hover, let him worry as you swallow down your complaints, and follow his plan to keep the two of you moving. It works for the most part, keeping both of you alive for longer than those you encounter on the road. You pass by the bodies, half-eaten and rotted, thanking whatever higher power may be watching for your continued luck.

Luck can’t continue forever, though, and so it is that five years, six months, and twenty-eight days later, you find yourself in an abandoned flat trying to staunch the bleeding from Kyle’s side. It’s difficult to see, the only light available to you the pale moonlight shining through the hole in the roof and the flickering of your dying flashlight, but you refuse to let that stop you.

You clean his wound, wipe the darkening blood away with quick and delicate hands, purposely ignoring the rasping of his breath and the teeth-shaped holes. He grips onto your arm, squeezing with all of his hindered strength when you try to disinfect it.

Kyle calls your name, his voice so weak it brings instant tears to your eyes.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. You know what you’ll see if you do.

You need to pretend, need to keep yourself in this illusion or you’ll lose your mind.

Maybe if you could do stitches, he can hold on until you find someone–

Kyle calls your name again, a weak hand landing atop yours. He laces your fingers together, the sharp cold of his a stark contrast to the blood-slick warmth of your own. You glance up at him, and the bubble bursts.

Even in the silvery moonlight, you can see the dark veins growing across his face. Cheeks already starting to sink, those beautiful brown eyes already fading to a milky beige. He coughs once, watery and rough, and you can see the blood sinking into the lines between his teeth.

Still, he smiles.

“I always…knew this day would come,” he wheezes, trying to laugh.

You don’t care about hiding, don’t care about making noise. You curl forward, cradling his face in your hands as you sob.

“So glad…got more time…with you.”

You press your forehead to his, and he moves his other hand to rest against your cheek. It takes a painful effort, his limbs already beginning to stiffen.

“Always…love you.”

“I love you too,” you cry, never taking your eyes off of his. He tilts his head up, and you meet him for a kiss without hesitation.

You don’t pull away until his eyes fall closed and his arm goes slack, his hand sliding from your cheek to land on the warped wood floor with a hard thud.

You only have a few minutes before he turns. You know what you should do, what he’s made you promise to do should this ever happen.

You grab your gun from your bag, aiming at him–at the love of your life–with shaking hands, and you know you can’t do it.

Instead, you scream.

A mournful wail that rattles your chest, echoing across the empty room. You shriek and cry and beg for mercy from a God you know won’t answer.

When his eyes open again, you squeeze yours shut. You hear the telltale groan, the shuffling as his body sits up.

A brief second, a silent moment, before he screeches and launches himself at you.

You raise the gun.

The drive back to your home is long and tedious.

You don’t waste your ammo, taking back roads and side streets to avoid as many of the shambling undead as possible. Any that cross your path, you mow down with your SUV and no remorse.

Your street is worse than you left it, abandoned cars scattered across the road, flora overtaking the fences and walls, and gardens worn down after years of being trampled over and unwatered.

Mrs. Graham’s corpse lies on the broken rocking chair on her porch, the skeleton of her cat still curled up in her lap.

You stop in front of your old house, staring up at the broken windows, peeling paint, and overgrown ivy crawling up the side paneling. Something stirs in you, pained and nostalgic.

A groan from your backseat brings you back to reality, and you sigh.

You step out of the car, taking a moment to clear the porch steps of as much dirt and dust as you can.

Something screeches further down the road, a small chorus responding to it from one of the other houses.

You open the back passenger door of the SUV, stepping back as Kyle shambles out, nearly falling onto the driveway. Your shot to his leg left him unable to run like the others and gave you just enough leverage to get his hands tied together. After that, it was easy to tie a scrap of cloth over his mouth and keep him from biting you.

He tried a few times on the road, but all it amounted to was his mouthing at your shoulder through the cloth while you drove.

You walk to the steps, and he limps after you. He doesn’t stop when you take a seat, falling on top of you. You move him to the side with a huff, pulling your knife from its holster as he sits up. His opaque eyes follow you as you lean over and begin slicing through the rope around his wrist.

The screeching down the street is closer now, a flurry of footsteps before something crashes into one of the abandoned cars.

The moment his hands are free, Kyle grabs at you. His nails are too blunt to scratch now, paper-thin skin ripping when he moves too fast. You lean back against the wooden railing, as he lunges for your neck, trying to sink his teeth into your pulse.

You bring a hand up, settling it on his cold, clammy cheek.

“I’m sorry, my love.”

Your fingers curl into the cloth around his mouth, pulling it down as you crane your head and expose your neck.

The pain is unbearable, like fire burning through your veins. It only takes seconds for your hands to go numb and your vision to blur. Kyle doesn’t stop, not even as blood spews from your neck. Not even as he reaches bone.

It couldn’t have ended any other way.

You never could’ve killed him.

There was no conceivable world where you’d want to continue without him.

Your body soaks in the pain, letting it morph into an aching throb as your lungs begin to constrict.

You think back to the day he proposed, after the celebrations, when you both sat on these very steps watching the sun sink behind the horizon.

You hadn’t stopped smiling, positively beaming as you admired your ring and the way it shimmered in the golden light while Kyle gazed at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

A smile blooms across your face, the taste of iron flooding your mouth as your undead love finally pauses in his feast, trails of tendons and muscle and vocal cords hanging from his lips.

When you finally looked up at him, he leaned in close, forehead pressed to yours as he murmured, “Til death do us part, right?”

You had pressed your lips to his in a tender, heart-filled kiss. Pulling away to murmur against his lips.

“Not even then. I’m with you forever.”

#gazfest #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #mw fics #moth writes #tw: death #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: suicide #tw: cannibalism #tw: animal death #private

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sinon36 · 7 months ago

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Echoes of Salvation: The Deal (Part I). Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x afab reader (Zombie AU)

Part II

The story starts after the dash.

Warnings: some gore, some mistakes, some bad writing (eh… we all have to start somewhere), not proof read, some independent woman surviving on her own without the need of help from men (cause I like self reliant women and people in general, they are a great inspiration to us all, really).

Disclaimer:

Dear readers,

Please be kind. This is my first fanfiction ever that I wrote and posted, so please be kind and overlook any potential inaccuracies, mistakes, grammatical errors as I’m not a professional writer and also English isn’t my native tongue. Though I have studied British English I am sure I haven’t really managed to accurately portray the British way of speaking, so please, feel free to point out anything that might poke you in the eye while reading this.

Also, I would like to tell you that this fan-fic is the love child of my obsession with our favourite masked man Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, and my love for anything zombie apocalypse or world-ending alternate universe or actual universe. Tbh If I wasn’t a poor student I would probably be a prepper, just like Frank from HBO’s TLoU. Most likely will be. I’m a little weird like that, you’ll see more in the future.

To close this little rant, I hope you’ll enjoy it, even if it’s short, I would really like to continue this if you deem it worth it enough. This will probably be a slow-burn kind of romance: 1. because I’m a sucker for the kind of slow-burn strangers/enemies to lovers fanfics, and 2. because it’s more realistic, let’s calm the whore-y instincts and be reasonable people that don’t climb masked 6-feet-tall strangers like trees.

With everything said I do not own the Call of Duty character Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley (*whispers*Though I wish I did*) BUT I do own this piece of fanfic. Please don’t steal it. Repost it but please do give credit to other people’s work. You may notice some similarities to other fanfics, cause duh, I also read a lot of that, (isn’t that one of the incipient stages to becoming a fanfic writer?), but I would really like to give a shout out to the fanfic author that really inspired me to put fingers to keyboard and a fanfic into Tumblr, please, *drum rolls* a round of applause for @nsharks with her lovely fanfic ‘Bleeding Blue’. She’s really wonderful and you should really check her out.

Have fun reading and don’t forget to leave a comment or a heart. I wouldn’t mind suggestions of what to name Simons’ daughter. That would really make my day 😊

P.S. Sorry to all the fishing loving people out there, what I said was based on my impression of the fishing experience and should be taken with a grain of salt.

Yours truly <3

Synopsis:

It’s been five years since the outbreak happened. Five years ago, in London, a terrorist group released a virus in the city center. 24 hours later, people start developing flu-like symptoms. 48 hours later the infected turn into mindless ghouls biting healthy people and spreading the infection. Everything happened so fast. The army came in and tried to contain the outbreak but soon chaos engulfed the whole country. You learn that similar attacks happened all over the world: New York, Beijing, Moscow, Athens, and Tokyo. City by city, the whole world is ending.

You survived thanks to your mid-twenties life crisis that made you move into a cottage house by the lake in Lake District. The land you own is surrounded by thick lush forest that offers perfect cover for the tiny brick house that is your safe haven. With a water source close, off-the-grid energy, and a garden full of plants, fruit trees chickens, and whatnot, you live a comfortable life tucked away, far from the dangers of the cities. You are so far out of reach that in the past years you only saw a handful of infected, survivors that traveled far to escape and distant neighbours that got infected in the towns nearby. You can’t remember the last time you saw another person. But you are used to your loneliness. The end of the world brought only a mild inconvenience, now that you can no longer order things online and watch movies on Netflix or HBO. But with a library full of books, a homestead to keep you active and your Border Collie companion, Bellamy, life is good. Life is peaceful.

One day, while you are out fishing, a masked man, armed to the teeth and carrying a young girl in his arms threatens to kill you if you don’t provide him with medicine for his sick daughter.

The sky is cloudy above but some sunbeams break through to warm the crisp air this fine early spring morning. It’s a good time for fishing now that the water is warmer, they come closer to the bank in search of food. It’s a boring task after you arrange all your tools and launch the line in the water. It’s a game of waiting and watching for any small tugs or movement of the neon-coloured fishing line. You picked up fishing after a couple of months into moving here, when everything was a mess and so many repairs and renovations had to be made around the house. The guy from the tutorials you used to watch on YouTube talked about the calmness and relaxation fishing brought to him. Maybe you weren’t cut out to stand all day on shore and gawk like an idiot for hours at the thin plastic line submerged in the lake water. But you cannot deny the proud feeling catching a fish brought to you when the line finally went taught.

You try and ward off the boredom and instead try to focus on the warmth that spring brings after months of endless cold. The birds are singing in trees, preparing nests for future offspring, and the lake is calm, with bubbles on the surface indicating the abundance of fish. Life is good. Bellamy enjoys sunbathing next to you rolling in a patch of grass. Everything is peaceful. Nothing really happens here anyway. You close your eyes basking in the good feeling that overtakes you.

A branch snapping behind you wakes you from the meditation you have fallen into. You raise and turn from where you are crouched over your equipment. You come face to face with a strange figure.

‘Show me yer hands’ he tells you in a thick British accent, eyes focused on you and handgun aimed at your chest. He wears all black and a haunting white skull mask. He is tall, at least 6 feet tall, body poised to kill. In his other arm, you can see a little girl hugging his neck.

You slowly raise your hands. At your foot, Bellamy growls baring her teeth at the stranger sensing danger. You shush her grabbing her by the caller to keep her from attacking the armed man. You stand still watching in apprehension as the man studies you. You look at the ground where you left your backpack and your hatchet.

‘Don’t even think about it’ comes the gruff order. You nod trying to convey that you understand the situation. ‘There’s nothing in that bag worth a bullet’ you tell him in an even tone despite fear creeping down your spine. He hums in agreement. ‘And if you wanted to kill me you would’ve done it by now.’ He watches you like a hawk its prey. ‘So…’ you pause carefully measuring your words, ‘what it is that you want from me?’ he gestures you to take a few steps back and you drag Bellamy by her collar.

He kicks at the backpack spilling the contents. A bottle of water and a half-eaten sandwich, a hunting knife, and a rectangular box in which you keep the hooks, lures, fishing lines, and other small fishing equipment. He turns his gaze back at you and nods toward your dog. ‘Put a muzzle on it or I’ll shoot it’. your blood runs cold at the thought of losing your sole companion. You scramble to untie the scarf you keep tied around your wrist that you use to wipe away sweat from your forehead. You wrap the piece of cloth around the dog’s snout tight enough to not slip away. Next, the dark-clad man tells you to pack your fishing gear and collect your backpack, with one hand keeping it outstretched to the side and the other one grabbing at Bellamy’s collar guiding her forward. ‘Move. Eyes forward. Any sudden moves and I drop you.’

He walks a couple paces behind you. For how big he is you can barely hear him walk on the path. You can feel his gaze burning in the back of your head and the gun pointed at your back. As you start down the path you can make out the roof of your small house. Once you get at the gate you stop. ‘open it’ he instructs. ‘The key is in my right pocket’ you say slowly gesturing to said pocket. ‘Mhm,’ you hear him grunt. You slowly release Bellamy and fish for the key in your jacket’s pocket. You slowly take it out and put it in the keyhole turning it and opening the gate.

The familiar sight of your front garden does nothing to appease you in this situation. Bushes full of colourful flowers hug the narrow path toward the house. The wind catcher hung above your porch clinks melodically as a gust of warm wind catches on it. you take a few more steps on the stone path before you and you hear the gate closing behind you. What once was your safe space now traps you in with a stranger ready to shoot you or worse.

‘Tie the dog to that pole’ he orders you again. On your right, there is a small pole stuck in the ground. He throws a roll of paracord next to you. You don’t move at first. You had never tied Bellamy down before. You can’t even remember when you last put a leash on her. She likes to roam free and run around. The click of the gun behind you tells you that you have no choice. You drop the backpack and start to drag her to the pole. She tries to resist but you shush her and urge her to move. Once you finish tying her you turn towards the stranger. He nods towards the house and you start walking hands raised on either side of your head. Once you open the door he urges you inside.

‘Where do you keep the medicine?’ he grumbles urgently. ’Bathroom.’ you nod to the right of your living room. ‘Go get it!’ you don’t wait around you spring toward the white door. After a couple of minutes grabbing most of what you keep in the over-sink cabinet you emerge hands filled with gauze of all sizes and different bottled pills. You return to find the man placing the girl on the couch. She appears to be asleep. You almost forgot about her. She looks about 8-years-old. Brown hair is chopped short in a pixie cut. She’s wearing blue-washed jeans and a dark green hoodie that’s too big on her.

You watch as he peels the hoodie from her limp body. Underneath she wears a striped t-shirt, but what catches your attention is her left upper arm. Red stained gauze is wrapped around. You are still in your approach keeping a safe distance. ‘Was she bit?’ the words rush out in apprehension. From where he kneels next to her his eyes snap at you. ‘No’ he denies the implication of your words. ‘Put that on the table and go sit by the door’ You do as you're told eyes darting between the girl and the man. You drop everything on the coffee table and go sit by the entrance door hugging your knees. You watch as he works on bandaging the kid. Your eyes are glued to the girl’s arm.

Even though you lived so far out into the wilderness you saw pictures on the internet of bites from the infected. You read the posts of the survivors and heard the news broadcast on all channels. Then everything went quiet. The cable didn’t work and your phone had no signal. You knew shit hit the fan and that it was serious. Then, a few weeks later you saw your closest neighbour, Neil, an elderly farmer who lived about half a mile further up the river’s bank, growling and stumbling trying to catch Bellamy who was running scared towards you. You tried to talk him out of the trance-like state but to no avail. He kept stalking towards you, ready to take a bite out of you. You tried to tell him to keep his distance and warned him that you would protect yourself. The rest was a blur. You faintly remember grabbing the hatchet that you used to cut down logs for your stove. And then the struggle with the man, Bellamy barking, you crying out pleas for him to stop. In the cacophony of noises, you hit him with the blade right in the neck. The next thing you knew, your neighbour lay in a pool of dark blood hatchet still. It took you a while to register what you have done. You just killed a man. You couldn’t forget the way he lay there, on the gravel, hands stretched outwards bloodshot eyes staring emptily at the sky. That was the first time you encountered an infected. You distinctly remember the fear and adrenaline that took hold of you. The feelings that gripped your heart so tight and that made you take a life take over you as you watch the little girl, possibly infected, unconscious but on her way to the same madness that turned Neil into a savage monster all those years ago.

'She's feverish. You got meds or something to bring the fever down?' his question brings down from your rising panic at the thought of being stuck inside with a possible infected. ‘There should be some anti-inflammatory pills and some antibiotics. They are out of date but they could still work.' He grabs hold of the med kit you brought. He sorts through the drugs checking the expiration dates. When he comes across the antibiotics, he studies the pack carefully, his eyes darting back and forth from the label to the girl. 'How much can I give her?' he asks with a hint of concern his stern facade crumbling slightly.

You look at him unsure what to say. Those pills have been bought before the start of the outbreak. You doubt expired drugs have any effect anymore. You refrain from saying that though. He is stressed, he might take his anger on you. ‘She’s a kid, you mumble, so, about half of each.’ He carefully considers his next action. ‘She’ll need water to take them, you add from down the floor. And some food…’ He nods in understanding. ‘May I?’ you don’t know why you offer this stranger help. First, he disturbs you from catching dinner, next, he threatens to kill you and your dog, now he takes over your house and medicine. But you can recognize the desperation in his look, the way he fumbles with the packaging. He is a parent trying to save his kid. Even though you don’t have any of your own you recognize the parental instincts, the same ones you exert on Bellamy.

He looks at you unsure of what to do. He surrenders in defeat and nods at you to go on. You rise to your full height, which doesn’t add up to much compared to him. You walk past them all the way to the back of the living room where you disappear behind a white door. After a couple minutes, you reemerge from the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and a bowl of steaming vegetable soup you made this morning. You slowly approach the couch watching him for any sign that you might cross a line. Instead of any aggression he takes a step back and allows you to go closer to the girl. You place the bowl and the glass on the coffee table and kneel next to the couch.

The girl opens her eyes and looks at you with distrust. Like father like daughter… you think to yourself. But you try to smile at her try to reassure her. ‘I brought you some soup, love’ you say in your most sincere and kind voice. ‘You must eat a little and then take some pills that will make you feel better’. You try to persuade her. She stares at you for a minute then at the man. They are suspicious of you and they have all the reason to be. You are a stranger to them as much as they are to you. Funny you are in the position to try and win their trust in your own home. You take the spoon you brought for her and dip it in the bowl. You take a spoonful and hover it close to your face blowing a little over it and then you swallow it. You can’t help the little moan of appreciation for your own cooking skills. ‘See? It’s good.’ You look at her with a small smile.

You don’t know where this came from; you blame it on the 6-foot-tall armored stranger whose stare drives daggers at the back of your head and your desire to keep your head on your shoulders and all your blood in your body. You don’t outright hate kids but you were never good around them. With a sigh, she sits upright and takes the spoon from you. She eats slowly. You keep watching her. She is a pretty kid. She has blue eyes and freckles on her small button nose. You wonder if she looks anything like the man behind you. She is pale and sweat collects on her little forehead most likely from her fever. She eats half of the soup you brought her and then turns her gaze towards the man. He hands her the two halves of the pills. She takes them in her small hand and grabs the glass. She hesitates. ‘It’s okay’ you reassure her and with a nod, she puts the half tablets on her tongue following up with large gulps from the glass. She scrunches her little nose in disgust at the chalky taste. ‘Atta girl’ you hear him utter from behind you. ‘Now lay down and rest.' he says to the girl in a stern yet gentle voice. He watches her nod and lie back on the couch her eyes half-lidded. He sighs, 'Good for now. ' he mutters under his breath. His eyes are fixed on her as he gestures to you. 'Come with me.' You rise from the floor and follow him outside the front door.

He leads you outside. When you cross the threshold, he takes a deep breath and a look of relief washes over his stern features. He gestures for you to sit on the front porch with him. 'We need to talk...' 'Yeah' you say crossing your arms defensively over your chest and standing as far away as the length of your porch allows. you take a moment to study him as he fixes you with a cold stare. You notice the many pockets on his vest and belt. A patch on his chest reads S.A.S. He's ex-military, you muse. His uniform makes much more sense now. But the mask still unnerves you.

He leans against one of the wooden porch support beams right hand hovering on the pistol holster. You think it's an act to intimidate you, to remind you that he is still armed and ready to strike you down in your own home. You stare at him a little defiantly. You’ll be damned before you let this weirdo intimidate you on your turf. He studies you from head to boots and back up. You sigh and square your shoulders showing him you are not afraid of him. ‘I’ve been watching you.’ He tells you in a matter-of-fact tone. You try to suppress the surprise on your face. You look down at his boots avoiding his icy gaze.

He’s been stalking you, and the realization dawns on you. You didn’t even notice his presence around the house. Stupid, you think to yourself, I’m growing complacent. But not even Bellamy caught his smell and she usually barks when someone or something comes close to the house. But earlier at the lake, he took you both by surprise. He’s good at keeping his presence concealed, you have to give it to him. You nod to yourself in understanding. He probably knows the layout of your house by now, he knows you are alone, and he waited for you to be outside and ambush you. You start imagining all the horrible things he could have done to you. But no, he instead approached you, gun pointed at you, nevertheless, when he could have already killed you and taken over your house by now. You hum and make eye contact with him.

‘Why keep me alive then?’ you ask him without beating around the bush. You study his mannerisms trying to catch something, anything to prove you he’s human. But he’s as unreadable as a statue. His gaze remains fixed on you, unblinking and stoic. You feel him studying you, taking in every detail of your person. He seems intent on reading into your every move.

In an even tone, he answers, 'Because you’re not a threat.’ His response catches you off guard, ego a little bruised at that, but you can’t argue with his logic. If he wanted to, he could have killed you by now, that’s for sure. You remain silent for a moment, processing his response. ‘But that doesn’t mean I trust you.’ He adds kicking off the beam and taking a step closer to you. He looks down at you tilting his head a little like a bird of prey watching a mouse, waiting for it to give chase and make the hunt more fun. You don’t give in to the urge to run inside and hide in your bedroom. Instead, you take a step towards him and look up at him ‘Because you need me’ you speak quietly. You can imagine a raised brow under that mask. You smile in triumph; even though he acts tough he needs help and all the intimidating façade was in a desperate attempt to get it.

‘I get it’ you continue having him figured out. ‘Your kid is sick and out there dangers are lurking at every turn. You need a place to stay until she gets better.’ You finish voicing your theory on why he’s really here having this conversation with you. His eyes closed in defeat. Gotcha, you smile even more widely at your deduction. ‘You can stay, you say as you turn and walk down the three steps of your porch heading towards the gate. ‘On one condition, you add stopping in your track. You turn fully towards him and he watches you curiously as if you’d have any power to demand him anything. ‘No harm comes to me or my dog’ you say remembering his earlier threats of him offing you both. ‘Do we have a deal?’ it’s not unreasonable, though it irks you that you have to bargain for your safety with a stranger. ‘Deal.’ He says in his usual gruff voice nodding to you in sign of respect for your demand.

‘Good’ you say as you stalk off towards where Bellamy lays muzzled and tied like a prisoner of war. You free her and she jumps at you happy to be in your proximity. She must have been worried sick here all alone. Poor thing. You then go to the gate and slide the too-large bolts meant to keep any unwanted guests outside. Or inside in your case. ‘And to think nothing interesting ever happens around her, right, Bell?’ your rhetorical question is met with a bark of agreement.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #zombie au #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod x reader #call of duty #slow burn #simon riley imagine #simon riley fanfic

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howlsofbloodhounds · 4 months ago

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Stupid Bad guys questions, that are as thought provoking as they are idiotic:

1 - Who’s the most likely to vandalize the minecraft bases of the others?

2 - Who’d be the best at Dance Dance Revolution?

3 - Who’s the most likely to accidentally start a new religion?

4 - In the case of a zombie apocalypse, who’s getting thrown to the zombies as a sacrifice?

5 - In a fight, who’d be the most easily distracted with the use of online slime scooping videos?

1. They all will. Killer does it because he’s a bitch and he thought it was funny—he comes with increasingly creative ways and even manages to mimic specific types of vandalism to pin it on Horror or Dust, thus causing arguments between the two.

Horror hates them both, but was minding his own damn business until Dust (Killer) bothered him first. He blew up Dust’s place and left a sign insulting his non existent mother.

Dust probably blew a place up accidentally and then started doing it on purpose because he likes the sound of TNT exploding. He specifically only really targets Killer but Killer never bothers to fix any vandalism, instead finds a way to memorialize all the damage.

After Horror blew up Dust’s place, Killer blew up Horror’s and somehow managed to frame it as Dust getting revenge. Horror now refuses to make another house or base and instead roams around, mining and making armor and weapons.

Killer suspects he is planning a little ambush on Dust and watches Horror skitter around the game world like a bug with increasing amusement. Dust has no idea what is going on because he is planting a garden now.

2. Probably Killer. Dust would prefer to sleep and Horror claims to have better things to do. If Horror does attempt to try a round, if only to try and push Killer down a peg, he wins just by doing the bare minimum because I think that’s funny. It doesn’t help that any time Dust sits and watches the two of them play, he always attempts to trip Killer up.

3. If we’re talking accidentally, then probably Horror. If only because he knew the exact words to say to a group of desperate, starving people to convince them to resort to eating humans.

Killer would start a religion on purpose if it serves his or Nightmare’s goals. He probably already has in a way, whispering in in-code AUs’ ears about myths and legends of the dreadful, evil, powerful God of Negativity. Wielding both fear and reverence.

And given his cryptic occasional comments about Players and no one really having free will, I’m sure if certain conditions were met, a new religion based around Players could even crop up. That one would probably be accidentally for Killer.

4. Killer is the first to ask a similar question in a zombie apocalypse. Horror and Dust answer by throwing him out to the herd.

5. Probably none of them. Dust would probably be too lazy and tired to fight anyway, not interested in anything outside his own timeline, so he’d probably just take the device the video is playing and put on whatever he wants to watch.

Horror might get momentarily distracted, if only because of the absurdity or because the light/noise coming from the screen caught him off guard.

I doubt much of anything can stop Killer from trying to fight or kill you if he’s decided he’s going to fight or kill you, especially if that’s amongst what he’s been ordered to do. Maybe if he already finds the fight to be unbelievably boring, he’d probably get distracted.

But in that case he’d probably just pull out his Gaster Blaser and end the fight quickly rather than waste his time, then he’ll pick up the device and watch some slime scooping videos while standing over someone’s corpse.

( @jay-justjay ).

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onnahu · 4 months ago

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Batman apocalypse au

Part 1 - the beginning; Batman, Robin and Batgirl

Bruce Was 8 when the apovalypse came. His parents died in the first wave. Now I don't know if we're going with zombie, or aliens, or maybe the most scary - just earth doing earth things. Yeah. I'll go with that.

Let's say the capsule Clark came to earth in did somehow wavered the climate or ozone layer or wtv. Anyway, it triggered an apocalypse. He still got adopted by Kents, but they parented him in the world where everyone's against everyone. Although maybe the joined some group of survivars or... nvm, it's not about them.

Anyway. An earthquake kills Martha and Thomas. For now, society is still working, so after the first chaos, emergenvy services menaged to bring Bruce to Alfred. Btw Wayne Manor is in crambles. So yeah.

Catastrophies only come afterwords. Earthquakes, storms, cyclons. At some point, we lose electricyty, emergency services stop working, bc people have to care for their own families. Society collapses.

Bruce grows up with Alfred who teach him how to shoot, how to fight. (Bruce has some deep, unfounded fear/hatered for guns, tho. Maybe it's from his past life...) As people become more desperate, gangs starts to form. Who is stronger, that will live. The law of the jungle. Bruce and Alfred live in what stayed from the Wayne manor. Alfred grows vegetables in the garden, and is merciless with his rifle if someone comes too close.

When Bruce is around 14, they find out his cousin, Kate Kane, is alive. At least was alive a week before when she left gotham, looking for purpose in this dangerous world. Bruce want's to follow in her footsteps, but Alfred says no.

It's only three years later, when Alfred wakes up to find a letter and a radio Bruce fixed up. Now, 17 years old Bruce Wayne goes into the world looking for a way to help people.

Who would have know - some cult/assassin organization called the League of Assassins is still functioning in perfect condition. And it's not even because of the Lazarus Waters. They are secluded enough and skilled they can do whatever. And they have plans for the world. Not that Bruce knows about them. Not yet, at least. (Also he falls in love. And his DNA is stolen one night when he sleeps. Not that it matters. Not at all.)

After another 4/5 years, Bruce finds his way home. He's glad to see Alfred alive, even if more tired. Alfred gives him an earful, but still welcomes him with an open arms. Bruce Wayne takes on himself taking care of what was left of Gotham.

It's about 15 years sunce that fateful night, when Bruce finds himself in Gotham when he sees flying Grayson fall from the building they tried to find a safe space for night with their son. Bruce hurries up, and finds a man, later we learn his name is Tony Zucco, trying to grab a child - 9 years old Richard Grayson.

Tony Zucco menages to run away, as Bruce is more occupied with the newly orphanes child. But Richard Grason, in his head, swears a revange on him.

Not long after, Robin joins Batman in Gotham.

One night, Batman meets one Jim Gordon, who lost his wife to earthqake and his son to that apocalitic madness. Jim wants to ressurect the emergency services. People need someone to execute law and give medical help. They quickly become friends.

It turns out Jim has a sweet daughter, Barbara. Too smart for her age. At the rapid age of 13, she becomes Batgirl. (Oh by the way, did you heard about that gal running around calling herself Batwoman?)

Babs and Dick are quick friends, but when Dick is older and become more brash, tored of Gotham and Bruce, and runs away, she declines his offer to join him, deciding on staying with her father and Batman.

So when 17 years old Dick is running around finding friends who will eventually become Titans, Batman and Batgirld (and Batwoman, but she kinda does whatever she wants to do on the other end of Gotham so yk) are a sole protectors of peace. This is a year later, when while on his way out for patrol, he catches a 12 years old kid trying to steal his potatoes. Guess who that is? Jason Todd.

#batman apocalypse au #batman #dc comics #jason todd #dc #robin #batfamily #bruce wayne #barbara gordon #batman and robin #batgirl #alfred pennyworth #jim gordon #gotham city #superman #clark kent

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strangerquinns · 1 year ago

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Deadly Reunion| Chapter 16

Eddie Munson x female!reader // a stranger things apocalypse au

summary: You and Eddie have been best friends since childhood. But when the outbreak happened five years ago, you were torn from one another in the chaos. but now you’re left alone, after your group was killed by another radical crew, leaving you to seek out what was once home. // zombie apocalypse Hawkins set in 1993

warnings: angst + adult themes w/ descriptions of violence, blood, torture + other zombie apocalypse related issues (no use of y/n)

word count: 2.2k+

⪻ previous chapter | next chapter ⪼ | stranger things masterlist

You sat toward the back and watched on with a void of emotion settling within your chest. The soft sound of sniffles and coughs could be heard as you listened to Mike speak. Though he was speaking of happy memories with his sister, there was a melancholy to his voice that was all too familiar. The dark circles beneath his brown eyes, along with the paleness of his skin, showed the effect of losing his sister. Your chest tightened for a moment as a flash of Nancy’s last moments struck your mind.

Your eyes scanned across the crowd and stopped the moment they fell upon Robin. She sat huddled on a bench with Steve sitting beside her. Her eyes were red as tears moved silently down her cheeks. A part of you wanted nothing more than to go to her, be another source of comfort. But the other part of you kept your feet in a place where you stood at the back of the room. Feeling out of place with the rest of those that mourned for Nancy.

When the news moved through the camp that Nancy’s body had been recovered days after you’d come home, you couldn’t help but be shocked. You stood there, knelt beside the garden box you were weeding through, and saw the men carry her with a tarp lain over the body. Your stomach rolled knowing her body was beneath there. It was enough to cause you to quickly move to the other side of the farm plot and empty your stomach of your breakfast.

As the days passed you could see the worry on Eddie’s face whenever he was with you.

“You can tell me what’s going on, sweetheart,” Eddie whispered one night as the two of you laid side by side in bed.

“I know,” You spoke with your voice muffled as you buried your face more into his pillow. “Nothing is wrong.”

“You know you can’t lie to me,” Eddie spoke a little sterner with his voice. “I can tell something is wrong. You’re not sleeping well; you have barely eaten the last couple of days…please…tell me.”

How could you tell him that Nancy’s death was bringing up things you still weren’t ready to deal with.

“…will meet in the cafeteria hall and have dinner as a family, for those that want to pass any word of condolence to the Wheelers, please do so now.” Chief Hopper’s voice snapped you away from your thoughts. “Also we will be holding a small ceremony of burial for family and close friends only right after dinner. Thank you.”

Slowly everyone began to rise from their seats before shuffling out the back door of the large room and back down the hall. It was weird to be holding a funeral with the condition that the world is left in now. But also it left a soft comfort to see something of old normalcy still happening within the small town.

You’d stayed in the hallway after exiting with some of the group. The flow of people began to thin out, and toward the end, Robin was with some of the last to leave. The moment you saw her, you couldn’t stop but step forward. Robin sucked in a quick breath of shock before relaxing the moment she saw you. The two of you collided as you wrapped your arms tightly around her and squeezed slightly. Robin let out a soft whimpering noise and returned the hug.

“I’m so sorry,” You spoke, your voice low as others continued to pass. To the side, you could see both Steve and Eddie waiting. “I wanted to come and say something sooner…b-but…I…”

Robin stepped away, a small space between the two of you, and quickly began to shake her head. The glisten of tears returned to her blue eyes. “No, y-you don’t have to explain.”

“Are you ok? Since…” Your words hung in the air but knew the rest of the sentence was understood.

“I’m ok.” Robin nodded “Today will give some closure.”

“And everyone else? I-I wasn’t sure if I should’ve said something to her mom.”

“The Wheelers will be ok. I’m sure having her home is going to bring some closure.” Robin shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t said much either. Steve’s been the one really talking with them.”

You nodded your head and squeezed her hands tightly as you held them in your grasp. The corner of Robin’s lips turned up with a sad smile before the two of you turned toward the two men waiting for you – the rest of the camp was already gone and headed to the cafeteria. You did the same to Steve, as you did Robin, the moment you were close enough. His arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace, you whispering words of sorrow, before pulling apart.

“You guys going to come up for dinner?” Robin asked, her question more pointed toward you.

“Uh…” You hesitated, “She’s coming.” Eddie answered for you.

He stepped up beside you and clasped his hands with yours, giving them a light squeeze, before leading you up the stairs. A small flare of panic moved through you for a moment but settled away the closer you go to the cafeteria. The sounds of conversation ventured out into the hallway as a welcome before walking into the crowded room. Eddie held to your hand the entire walk up to the food counter, each of you grabbing a tray, before moving back to a table. He led you toward the table where Gareth and a few others sat and pulled you to the seat beside him.

Dinner went as normal, Eddie never letting go of you and always keeping his hand on you. Have it resting in your lap as the two of you ate. Or reaching over to hold your hand as he continued his conversation with Gareth. Eddie pretended not to notice you pushing around your food, barely taking bites. But you didn’t miss the pinched worried look on his face.

The sound of footsteps caused the table to slowly die down from its conversation and everyone’s attention pulled toward the person approaching the table. When you looked up, your eyes were met with the tired and weary face of Chief Hopper. The grays in his hair and mustache seemed to be more prominent since the last time you saw him a few days ago.

“Evening everyone,” Jim spoke as he created the table, then his gaze fell upon you. “Can you come with me for a second?”

You felt Eddie’s hand tighten his hold on yours, but you were frozen in place, non-reacting to his tight hold.

“M-Me?” You stuttered, the feeling of a lead ball dropping into your gut.

“Yes, please.” He spoke, “You can come too, Eddie.”

Jim didn’t say anything else before turning and moving to exit the cafeteria.

“W-What does he want?” You spoke as you turned to look at Eddie.

Eddie closed his eyes for a moment as he sighed heavily, “I was hoping he was going to wait a little more.”

“Wait? Wait for what?” You asked a small flare of panic in your tone.

Through your mind, all you could think of were negative possibilities. Was Hopper changing his mind now about letting you stay within the camp?

“When Steve and I got debriefed after coming back, it might’ve…come out that you knew of the group that we ran into.” Eddie’s dark eyes looked down at you, his thumb moving back and forth over the back of your hand. “How you’ve dealt with them before.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him, feeling like your entire body felt like it was filled with ice. Without a second thought, you moved your hand from Eddie’s grasp and followed down the same path that Hopper left out. The only thing going through your mind as you moved through the halls was that the only way Hopper would know about your past, was if Eddie told him.

When you walked into the Chief’s office that in the west side of the Lab, you walked in to see Steve sitting in one of the chairs along with some of the men you’d seen keeping patrol on the gate.

“Please, take a seat,” Hopper spoke, pointing toward the empty chair beside the man.

Your heart felt like it was in your throat, as you slowly sank down into the worn-down chair. The sound of the door caused you to look over your shoulder and saw Eddie slip into the room.

“Now what is said in this room is to stay between those in this room.” Hopper started, “Now it has been brought to my attention that you have encountered the group that you came upon. The same group that had killed Ms. Wheeler.”

“I-I…” You spoke before clearing your throat. “I have. Right before I made my way back up here my old camp had run into a group that wore the same symbol as the ones we had run into.”

Hopper slowly nodded his head, “And they had killed most of your camp. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” You spoke meekly.

“I need you to tell me everything you know of these people,” Jim spoke, a hint of anger in his tone. You weren’t sure if it was toward you, or the militia group. “This also isn’t our first encounter with these people, seems we have a little more in common. Eddie has told me that you’d learned more of Sarah’s fate?” You slowly nodded your head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you myself. I wasn't exactly sure how to tell you.” Hopper paused for a moment, "This is Enzo, he's in charge of the protection of the camp."

“We believe the group that you’d run into on your last outing is the same one that we’d run into a few months ago.” The man beside you spoke, an accent to his words, and his hardened gaze focused on you. “Same group that killed a few others of our camp.”

A heavy silence filled the room, your head snapping back toward Hopper. “Sarah?”

A deeply saddened look crossed over the older man's face, as he solemnly nodded his head.

“Once you described the symbol, my feelings were confirmed,” The man looked beside you, and toward Eddie.

“I didn’t recognize any of them,” Eddie spoke softly, “H-How…I don’t understand.”

“It means they are still within the area,” Hopper answered “Meaning that this Camp is in danger as long as they are close. We can’t have that. So I need to know everything you know so that we can come up with a plan.”

“A plan?” Steve spoke.

“A plan of attack.” Hopper answered.

You swallowed thickly as you felt a tightening around your throat, before once again, you told your story. Of how you were violently woken in the middle of the night by your mother. Of how you watched those that you loved and cared for like family were murdered as you ran for your lives. Of how your mother was killed in front of you before you barely escaped with your life.

“…after everything I made my way straight toward Hawkins. I haven’t seen them since last week. I-I didn’t think I ever would.” You spoke, reaching up quickly to wipe away the few tears that has escaped and moved down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through,” Hopper spoke, shaking his head slowly with pity swimming in his dark eyes.

“Can I go now? Y-You’ve got what you needed.” You asked quickly, your gaze locked on your fisted hands in your lap.

“Of course, thank you,” Hopper answered, the words not fully out of your mouth before you were up and out of your chair.

You didn’t even give a glance to Eddie as you walked past him quickly.

It wasn’t even a thought to head back to Eddie’s trailer, instead, you quickly walked toward the room that you shared with Robin. When you walked in, you were thankful to see she hadn’t returned. That panic and hurt that you had kept bottled down over the week quickly came back up. The rush of your breath filled your ears with a tightness growing within your chest.

Slowly you made your way toward your bed, barely pulling back the blankets before you slowly pulled into yourself.

Eddie slowly moved down the hall toward your room and stopped right in front of it, his heart breaking at the sound of your sniffles and whimpers on the other side of the wooden door. When he walked back to his trailer to see you hadn’t returned, his heart cracked slightly, but he knew why. Just when he thought he was making progress in earning your forgiveness, Eddie took a step back.

Slowly he rose his hand up and softly knocked on the door, “Sweetheart…please, I-I’m sorry…”

He stood there for a moment and closed his eyes as he listened to you, knowing he was partially the cause. Eddie had been worried about you the past few days since coming back. He knew that something was bothering you but wasn’t sure how to help you.

Eddie pressed his back against the door and slowly slid down to sit. He sat there for the rest of the night. He couldn’t bring himself to leave knowing that you were in pain and suffering.

So instead, Eddie stayed there to be there for you – in whatever way he could.

well....the fluff lasted one chapter. hehehehe... but in all seriousness, it will return obviously. reader has just been through some stuff and has some PTSD and Nancy's death didn't help with that. the two will be domestic and soft soon enough, no worries. but didn't think it would be 100% realistic if they got back to camp and were all couple and cute like nothing happened. please leave thoughts, comments, and predictions, I love love love reading replies left along with reblogs. I can't express how much I appreciate your support with this story. I didn't think people would enjoy it and thank you for proving me wrong. I hope to continue to create a story that you enjoy.

tag list - let me know if you’d like to be added

@mopeymopeymouse / @aris-house / @brxkenartt /@akiratoro420 /@stylesxmunson / @aactuaaltraash / @fandomgirl17 / @ches-86/ @chaoticcancer / @munsonology / @bellamy-barnes / @theonlyh3artbreaker / @idkidknemore / @familyvideowithsteve / @eddiesdingus / @thefemininemystiquee / @the-world-is-a-mess-and-so-am-i / @xdarkcreaturex / @lunr-flwr / @cherry-omi/ @im-emma22@munson-enthusiast / @munsonmecrazy / @jupitar-jul / @katiemrty/ @maddie-luvs-eddie /@eddiemusworld/ @ih3artdanielle / @eddiesguitarskills / @hargrovesswifee /@chaoticcancer / @rh1nestonecowg1rl / @atombombbibunny /@munson-enthusiast / @hellf-1-re / @fangirling-4-ever / @corrcdedcoffin /@sidthedollface2 / @emma77645 / @eddiiiieeee /@beep-beep-sherlock / @moldy-khunt / @bokutoswifey

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things angst #stranger things fluff #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn x you

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azsazz · 2 years ago

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Dead by Dawn (Part 2)

Azriel x Cassian x Reader

Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.

Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, eventual poly!relationship, undead, death.

Word Count: 2,789

(Part 1)

_________________________________________

Night 189

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You hate waking Feyre, you really do.

Neither of you hardly ever sleep these days, and for once on a mattress so soft, so inviting, so luxurious. You almost don’t wake her, jealousy rearing its hot head in your side that you won’t be able to rest on it.

“Fey?” You ask, softly shaking her shoulder.

You feel her body stiffen beneath your hand and you know instantly that she’s awake. The both of you have learned to become light sleepers, a survival tactic that was quickly picked up. That, and having someone to always keep watch.

Feyre sits up quickly, hand unconsciously reaching for her weapon as her eyes search frantically around the room, looking for signs of danger. She’s immediately on high alert.

She blinks once, twice, gathering herself after seeing no imminent threat. There’s a red mark on the side of her face from where she’d curled it under her cheek for a pillow. She studies you for a moment, taking in your furrowed brows and the way you’re tugging your lips between your teeth nervously. She understands that something isn’t right.

“What is it?” she slurs slightly. She feels like she’s been hit with a pile of bricks, and she’s exhausted. The plush mattress beneath her had been the best hug, and seeing that familiar look on your face the cushy bed beneath her turns suffocating. She clears her throat, and her voice loses its sleepy rasp as she slides her legs off of the mattress, tugging on her shoes as fast as she can. “Zoms?”

“Eh, no,” you scratch the back of your head, “S’people this time.”

Her hands still. “People?” Feyre looks up at you for confirmation.

You haven’t seen people in a long time.

“How many?”

“Three.”

She stands from the bed. “How big?”

“Bigger than us.”

Her brows furrow and a deep frown forms as she contemplates. The only weapons between the two of you are a short blade and a rusty gardening scythe. Odds aren’t looking good.

“Think we can take ‘em?”

“One of them is injured, I think, but it’s not a good idea.”

Feyre nods, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. She’s balancing the odds, you know. The situation isn’t ideal, but you’re running low on nearly all supplies, and maybe they have something that can be of use to the two of you. It’s nearly getting to the point of every woman for herself out here.

She fastens her holster tighter around her waist and nods, “Let’s go then.”

“What if they have guns, Fey?” The worry is as clear in your tone as it is on your face, with your eyebrows drawn together and your eyes widening. You try not to react to the spine tingling shudder clawing its way up your back as you think of the last time you’d encountered humans. It hadn’t gone well.

“We just have to be careful,” Feyre explains, “We’ve dealt with worse. Okay?”

You sigh, shaking your head sadly. There is no other choice, this town has been emptied of the resources that actually matter these days.

“Okay.”

“(Y/N), I don’t want to do this either,” she starts. She’s only half lying, but she won’t let you see the way her hands shake at the thought of trying to overpower three men, even if one is injured. She’s hopeful, has been since you met her, and you’re worried it will be her downfall. She’s been lucky so far, unlike you. “But it’s a zom eat zom world out there, and we have to do this to survive.”

The same conclusion you’d come to. Hearing it out loud doesn’t lessen the incessant coiling in your stomach.

“I know,” you sigh. You, on the other hand, don’t trust easily, which is why she and you work well together. She might be a glutton for survival, brilliant in that aspect of the apocalypse, but you’re the voice of reason. Unfortunately, this isn’t a decision that offers an easier solution.

The two of you will do anything to survive.

Even if it means killing other humans.

“Hey,” she says softly, placing her hands on your shoulders, “We have to eat too, (Y/N).”

It’s times like these that you can’t believe you’ve only met her a few weeks ago. You’d quite literally run into each other, a horde of zoms chasing after the both of you. There hadn’t been time to grapple for weapons or try to wrestle the bag off of her back, instead clutching each other's arms tightly as the zoms crowded in. You remember the terror in her piercing gray eyes and had made the split decision to drag her down the only way the undead weren’t blocking.

She’d been with you ever since.

You release a breath and nod more firmly. You know that you’re in desperate need of food and water, as you had just shared your second to last can of beans. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

As Feyre readies herself – forcing her tired eyes wide open and giving her cheeks a couple of slaps – you brief her on the three figures you saw run into the store across the street, pointing to the run down building out the murky window.

“Fey,” you grab her arm as she steps out into the street, “What if he’s bit?”

“Then he should be happy about what we’re going to do,” she replies quickly, but the slight quiver to her tone tells you that it’s the last thing she wants.

Killing the live ones was just…different. Harder to forget.

She leads the way out the back of the clothing store. The door creaks on its rusty hinges and you cringe, but you’re ready all the same, watching Feyre’s back for zombies. She shoves the door shut quickly, cursing at the high pitched grind it makes as it swings closed. It’s not so loud that the three men across the block will be able to hear it, but it sounds like a scream compared to the eerily silent night.

“C’mon,” she whispers, taking the lead.

You creep through the back alley as quietly as you can. Feyre notices you limping slightly, your jaw clenched tightly against the pain and a sense of guilt washes over her. She should have let you rest first, maybe elevated your leg, but she’d given into her selfishness too easily today and let you take the first watch.

Her steps falter for a second and she almost turns to usher you back to the safety of the abandoned clothing store but at the last moment changes her mind. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts. You both needed resources more than rest.

“Alright (Y/N)?”

Only then do you realize she’s been whispering a plan to you.

“What?”

She huffs a frustrated breath. Leave it to you to miss the plan.

Feyre counts to ten. She tries to calm herself but she’s pissed. She’d barely gotten any sleep, you’re both in constant danger, and you’re not helping by not listening.

She knows that she should give you the benefit of the doubt, but in such a time like this she can’t be bothered.

“You’re going up there first,” she points impatiently to the fire escape. “Wait for me and we’ll sneak in through the window. See? It’s already open.”

You squint up to the second floor, where indeed, the window is missing. It must be an attic or a storage room of sorts. If it’s a cafe maybe there will be some sort of abandoned food. Your saliva thickens and your stomach growls loudly at the thought.

“Once we’re both up there, we split up. Hopefully they’ll be sleeping and it’ll be an easy kill. We go through their stuff and then we’re out of here. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whisper back. You tuck the knife back into your belt and then Feyre is there, helping boost you up to the lowest rung of the ladder. The bottom half has been broken off (or rusted away, you’re not completely sure but it’s nowhere to be seen on the ground).

You struggle for a moment, grappling with the metal as you try to support your own weight. There’s little muscle left on your arms, and they’re burning by the time you’ve caught your balance on the bottom rung. Peeking down at Feyre, you see her looking around the alley to make sure it’s still clear. When her gaze meets yours again and she catches you frozen in place, she waves frantically up at you, a signal that you better get your ass moving.

You make your way up the ladder as silently as you can. When it groans under your weight you pause and hold your breath. Your heart is in your throat and it’s difficult to hear anything but the raging drums in your ears. You strain to listen but there’s no sounds of warping metal or screws being stripped of their threads, so you continue your climb.

You only let out the breath you’re holding when the ladder turns into stairs.

Peering over the railing, you wave Feyre up.

The girl on the ground backs up a few steps before she’s sprinting forward and jumping to grab onto the first rung of the ladder. She’s always been athletic, or at least that’s what she told you, and she doesn’t have an injured knee, so it’s a fairly easy task for Feyre.

She pulls herself up with an ease that you’re jealous of, her ability to move so swiftly and silently.

Feyre nods towards you, a silent agreement of what you have to do.

You slide your knife from its home on your hip, and then Feyre’s slipping into the window.

You follow closely behind.

You’ve only just pulled your other foot inside of the room before someone’s knocking the weapon from your hand and slamming you up against the wall, a hand clasped around your throat.

Your head cracks against the brick wall and you see stars, stunned by the strength of whomever had grabbed you. Their hand is warm, calloused deeply, you can feel the warped texture of it against the smooth skin of your neck, clamped tightly over your pulse points.

You claw at their arm once the shock wears off and the adrenaline kicks in. You don’t care that you’re probably breaking skin. Good. You try to move further up the arm, over the bulging muscles to claw at their face but their reach is far longer than yours and you end up swiping at the air like a fool.

The breath is caught in your throat – not only from the firm grip they have around your esophagus – but also because of the man the large hand belongs to.

He towers over you, easily a whole foot taller than both you and Feyre. The moonlight casts through the open window, illuminating his dark features. His plump lips are set into a firm line and his eyes are blazing with anger and what you think might also be a tinge of fear. His inky black hair falls across his equally dark brows, the heat and effort from carrying his friend has the tendrils damp with sweat.

You know that you should be scared out of your wits, but if you’re dying you’re glad it’s by the hand of this handsome man and not by the hand (teeth) of a zom.

The ice cold barrel of a gun presses into your temple, an icy promise of death. Okay, now you’re scared out of your wits.

“Say goodbye,” he spits at you, cocking the gun back. His voice is like darkness and gravel, and you lie to yourself and say that the goose bumps pimpling over your flesh is from the gun and not his low timbre.

Your heart hammers in your chest and you feel dizzy. Where the fuck is Feyre?

You can’t help the little smirk that tugs at your lips as you watch his golden eyes widen slightly in fear as the curve of Feyre’s blade coils around his neck likes the whispers of fluid tattoos you’re just now noticing. The tip of her scythe comes to rest right below his Adam’s apple.

The hand wrapped around your throat loosens just slightly.

“Put the gun down,” Feyre’s voice is quiet yet firm, threatening, “Before I fucking slit your throat.”

You watch the man think through his options. His throat bobs and your gaze follows the slow trail of blood from the nick in his neck down to where it soaks into the collar of his dark shirt.

The gun is slowly removed from your head and you grab it in shaky hands before Feyre can tell you to. You slide out of his grip, shuffling a few steps away, aiming it right at the attractive man’s head.

“Don’t make any sudden moves,” you demand.

“No, you don’t make any sudden moves,” a new voice says, startling the both of you. Another man enters the room, his gun raised and aimed at Feyre. He’s shorter than the boy that was pinning you to the wall, but his stature exudes power. His hair is also dark, and you think that they could be related maybe, by the similar structure of their faces.

You immediately turn your gun to point it at him, but you spare a nervous glance to Feyre who’s gaze hasn’t left the man she’s got under knifepoint. Smart girl. That’s the last thing you want her to do, look over to the other handsome man. You don’t need her attention drawn so that the taller man can slip out of her grasp and take her down.

“You shoot her and I shoot you. Then I shoot your friend,” you find yourself saying, voice even. It surprises you.

The man with the gun seems stumped for a moment before he turns his gun on you. Your heart halts in your chest. “Then I’ll kill you.”

“And I’ll kill Shadow,” Feyre answers with a roll of her eyes, nodding at the man she’s holding captive.

The man makes a face at the nickname but stays otherwise still.

“Do it, Rhys,” the one in Feyre’s grasp replies harshly, kile he’ll do anything to keep the other boy safe.

“What? I’m not letting them kill you Az,” the man – Rhys – says desperately.

Az. You mouth his name and it tingles on your tongue.

Az pinches the bridge of his nose, “For fucks sake Rhys–”

“No,” Rhys cuts off his friend.

Their banter is annoying and you’re beginning to think it’s some sort of way to distract you and Feyre because there are three of them and only two are here with you in the room.

You jolt into action, taking one step closer to Az. You ignore the gun Rhys is pointing at your face.

“Go get his gun,” you tell Feyre quietly. She wears a questioning look on her face, her bright gaze flicking between you and Az’s broad shoulders.

With a nod of encouragement, she moves. She’ll ask later.

She pushes Az away from her but he’s so large that he hardly gives a step closer to you. Your gun stays locked on Rhys, but as soon as Feyre takes a step closer to him, it swings to land on her.

There’s a zip of electricity in the air as their gazes meet and it makes everyone’s spine straighten painfully.

Your gaze flicks to the man holding the gun to your friend. Rhys has deflated a little, no longer standing in a threatening pose with his chest puffed out. With the quick glance you take you catch the slight tremor in his hands and the fear in his eyes, despite the edge to his voice.

“Fey, get the gun. He’s not going to shoot you,” you order, calmly returning your stare to Az, who’s watching you through narrowed eyes.

“Like hell I won’t,” Rhys threatens as Feyre takes another cautious step forward. “Don’t come any closer, darling.”

“Fey,” you talk over him sternly. You’re not fucking around. Not this time.

“How do you know, (Y/N)?” Feyre questions, clearing her throat a little. Her voice sounds unlike her own, as if she’s watching herself from miles away.

I know because I’m not capable of shooting either.

“Because if he does, I kill his friend, then him, then their friend downstairs.”

Both men turn to gape at you. Clearly they didn’t know that you’d seen them dragging their friend across the seemingly abandoned town.

Feyre takes the chance now that Rhys is caught off guard, lurching forward to grab the gun from his hands.

Only Rhys is too quick and pulls the trigger.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

(Part 3)

Taglist: @writingsbychlo @kemillyfreitas

#azriel x reader #cassian x reader #azriel x cassian x reader #cazriel x reader #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acotarxreader #zombie au #azsazz

267 notes · View notes

brisquad-unit-4402 · 2 years ago

Text

zombie au with ike ft. luxiem - In Pursuit to and from the Sun

(i think this submission got lost in the sauce and i can't find it but at least i still have this screenshot)

lmao sorry i went off the grid for a sec. life happens, you know, applied for some vsf programs, went on a classified operative excursion away from my post and got a new writing software. i actually wrote the last of this on a helicopter returning from the mission so that’s why i didn’t proofread beforehand sorryyyyy. but more importantly I TOUCHED GRASS. guys. i touched so much grass. i touched so much grass i could replant a garden. call me a topiary, i touched that much grass. is this what it’s like to work at a dispensary? bc i touched so much grass

a few disclaimers: this fic is ike centric but contains general luxiem angst as a treat and may be read in a platonic or romantic tone, whichever you prefer. it's also another 10.7k words long so if you want to read but don’t have the time, use a like/rb as a bookmark. most importantly: heed the tags for this one, i kind of went off the deep end here

tags: platonic relationship, hurt no comfort, angst, zombie au, no happy ending, gender neutral reader

⚠️ major character death, suicidal thoughts, gore, infection, arson, and apocalypse-typical violence

continued au notes and commentary here (spoilers)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Ever since the initial zombie outbreak, you’ve been running around the country with your best friend Ike and the circle of close friends you both share. You’ve made peace with the fact that it will always be hard. You and your band hop around from town to wilds, with no real objective other than to survive. Every location has something to glean, after all. It’s just that the zombies are always on your tail, and there’s only so much looting to do before the chorus of dead can tear you and your family apart.

It’s deluded to pretend you’re the invulnerable main characters, though. You and your friends are in a townhouse currently being ambushed by a strain of zombies. You swear they’ve gotten more intelligent since your last encounter. A dense herd of bloodthirsty undead is one thing, but a dense herd of bloodthirsty undead that have a chance of understanding positioning is another. Closing doors is barely a second of relief now.

You were lucky to be in a room with Vox when you got ambushed. He lived his post-apocalyptic life with a rebar rod in his hand, wrested from a collapsed concrete building early in during the initial outbreak. He claimed to be a trained swordsman once, and even though the rebar was more of a club than a sword, you admit you would’ve been worse than dead if you didn’t have him by your side. You’re sure he’d be screwed without you, too. Now that the world’s gone to the dogs, you stay prepared with a pair of climbing picks that can clobber in zombie brains just as well as scale walls. Vox shoved zombies out of the way while your picks cleared a path to escape from the house out through the window, Vox in tow.

You and Vox reunite with Ike and Shu outside. The former keeps various kitchen knives hidden under his no-longer white mantle, and defends Shu from stragglers while he digs into his backpack. You notice his weapon, an iron fire poker, by his feet along with a bottle. He rips sheets off of an old Millwall brick to stuff inside the bottle.

“Blowing the place up,” Shu says, in case you didn’t make the connection already. His breath is ragged. “Where’s Luca and Mysta?”

Like a stage cue, you hear the rocket of gunfire the second he says it. Your hope is crushed. Noise attracts zombies, and Luca was the only one with a shotgun. If he pulled the trigger, the situation was even more dire than you thought.

Shu grits his teeth and repeats himself, intensity barely restrained. “Where is Luca and Mysta.”

“I’m going back in,” Vox declares.

Ike drives a knife into the head of a fallen body. Destroying the brain confirmed they wouldn’t regenerate, and he minimizes the risk as precise as a surgeon. He made short work of the zombies that hadn’t overrun the house yet, but you could see them flood the interior. “Don’t be stupid, Vox, that’s suicide.”

“You heard the gun!”

“And I said that’s suicide!”

“Not if someone goes back in!”

“How are you going to find them without getting yourself killed?” Vox opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and Ike took advantage of it. “That’s what I thought. Luca’s our muscle and Mysta’s a clever guy, you’ve seen him outsmart the zombies so many times before!”

“They know basic organization, Ike!”

“All the more reason not to go back in! Have some faith in your friends!”

Vox grants him an unholy leer through his haunting yellow eyes. “How dare you lecture me about faith when I’m trying to save their lives.”

His glare was lost. Ike focuses on confirming the dead stay dead. His back is turned from the swordsman as he chops a skull in two with a butcher’s cleaver. “Because no matter what, they’re going to get out, and they want you out just as much as they’re fighting.”

But Ike’s words were just as lost to Vox; you barely saw the trail of his blood-splattered haori before he ran back to the townhouse, rebar in hand and fury on display.

Shu shoves the remains of the Millwall brick into the cupholder of his pack, a battering ram for another day. He produces a box of matches instead. “It’s best to take them all out at once.”

You speak up. “But Vox just-”

“I know.” Shu’s lips purse. “And I’m not going to throw them. Not until I know they’re all safe.”

You watch as Vox speared through a living corpse, then threw its remains on the ground. The zombies are centered inside the house, but the windows are all covered. The door stays open as he passes through the threshold, but you can’t see a trace of him left.

Ike stabs through a brain close to you and Shu. You see him heft himself up, and the traces of a permanent dead remain on the ground. The head is split open with precision, and the brain blooms out from the skull. It leaks pink nerves and black rot among the blood, like a disgusting flower.

He passes by you, dead set on his goal. “You’re not going, Reader.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“And don’t expect to.” Ike’s words are emotionless, but not cold. As much as he pushes away Vox, you know he cares for everyone in your group like brothers. He’s the least risky out of all six of you- after all, he’s tearing apart zombie brains without a complaint while you catch your breath and Shu stands watch.

You draw your climbing picks and follow him to the field of dead. “Let me help you.”

You feel useless just standing there, after all.

Though the task of confirmation is much calmer than fighting for your life, it’s still unenviable, and you have to admire how Ike distances himself seemingly so easily from it. You try not to look at their faces, but that’s just as impossible. After all, the brain is right between the eyes. That’s the worst part.

You made the mistake of looking into zombie eyes twice in your life.

The first was your first fight of the apocalypse; a zombie had you deadlocked in an aisle of an outdoors store, and only when it was within biting range did you drum up the courage to grab the first thing you saw- two fluorescent orange climbing picks, never used- and drive them into the writhing heart. You bolted then, too focused on escape than freezing, and those climbing picks proved themselves to be your best survival tool in combat and exploration.

The second was the first time you confirmed the dead, and those eyes, that face- skin and bone but youthful, blue bleeding through the iris like a cracked yolk, remains of eyeliner and mascara along her deteriorated features- she was a person, so young, so beautiful when she was alive, like she knew she had decades to go- sometimes you swear she’s the face you see at night when you remember how human and how simply unlucky this world is now. It’s simply unlucky, and being unlucky is simply brutal.

(You held back your tears when you bashed her brain in. Later that night you pulled your best friend Ike aside, and cried in mourning of a woman whose name you never learned. He didn’t complain then, either, and you only sobbed harder when you realized as much as he comforted you, he could never muster up the vulnerability to grieve himself.)

You club a pick into the forehead of the fresh, putrid dead. The other pries it open, and a third swipe pulverizes with finality.

It’s messy. When you drive your weapons into the skull there’s a crack of metal against bone, and a thin gush of blood that spurts out to your arms. Especially large openings reveal nodules of black rot spotted through the brain. If you focus, you can see the moist, moldy texture seep through the wrinkles of the brain, and if you were any less jaded it’d be enough to make you turn your head and hurl.

But the deed is done in only three stabs, and you cling onto that fact. The more mechanical the task is, the easier it is to drive yourself to just get it done. Club, pry, pulverize. Club, pry, pulverize.

You pass by one of Ike’s carvings as you move onto another body. His work is premeditated from habit; he usually does this deed while everyone else recuperates. A standard chef’s knife is his weapon of choice when he faces against zombies, but he keeps a cleaver sheathed to his side when he has the time to get precise. One good slash goes through bone. Bone sweeps through the brain, and the work is done, and he carries on to the next, messy on his mantle but clean in the cut.

There are only a few more bodies left untouched on the yard where you hear heavy steps on the grass and Shu’s voice cry out. “Luca!”

You and Ike snap up. Luca’s blond hair is matted to his face with blood and rot as Vox runs beside him. They look like they ran through a blender of decayed flesh, and considering the herd of dead inside the house, perhaps that isn’t so strange of a metaphor. Even as Luca sprints, he turns to pump shotgun lead to the predators when they get closer, and each corpse’s fall is punctuated by hot gunfire.

Shu calls out his name again frantically. The men return, and so do you and Ike, five missing one. “Luca, where’s Mysta?”

“It’s bloody,” Luca simply says. His breath is short, and he wipes at the mess of gore and hair on his forehead. All it accomplishes is smearing black and red together along his face and in a blotch along his arm.

“But where is he, I need to know!”

“And it’s so much.” He trails off. He stares into the side of the townhouse and beyond the distance. Strapped to his back is his go-to weapon, a baseball bat littered with nails, each with residue dripping off the spikes from freshly killed zombies. “There’s a lot. Oh, I’m feeling kind of- kind of cold.”

“He’s in shock,” Ike says. He takes Luca’s hand in his, but Luca doesn’t even react. “Oh, Luca. What happened?”

“Kind of a lot?”

“Where’s Mysta?”

“He…” Luca’s eyes dart to the center of the townhouse. “He’s stuck, because of me, isn’t he?”

“Alright, lay off the man.” Vox intervenes. “We’re done asking questions. Shu. Your matches. Light it up.”

“What?!” Shu screams at Vox. You’ve heard him yell, but never once have you heard him scream. Especially not with Vox sounding so detached. “No, are you crazy? Mysta is in there!”

“Light it up, Shu-“

“I said, no! No! No way, not a- not a fucking chance!”

“Shu, listen to me!” Vox thunders. “I’m sorry, but Mysta is gone.”

Shu stands his ground. His features are tense, and his ultraviolet eyes burn holes through the earth. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Mysta is gone,” Vox insists, and you hear his bassy voice break even lower. “I saw it myself.”

“He is not.”

“It was too overrun, it’s miraculous Luca even got out.”

“Mysta,” Luca says, and closes his eyes. Ike holds him upright and rubs his arm, as comforting as he possibly can in the worst situation, as much as possible when his own face is just as distraught as everyone else.

“And I wish with everything that I have that I could’ve gotten him out,” Vox continues, more of his own justification than anyone else. “And I wish I was just a little faster, and that they were a little further away, and, God, that he wasn’t trapped, but he was, and I wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t close enough…”

Shu is murmuring his own protests to himself at this point, and feeling the pit in your stomach yourself, you reach to hold his hand. He jerks away like you’re made of lava. You feel ill. “You’re lying to me.”

“And he got bit, and he knew that meant death. And he ran, ran upstairs, to draw them away from us, and there were more, and he knew, he knew, he knew he was dead but we weren’t.”

Luca lets his head fall on Ike’s chest. Ike becomes his crutch, and holds him. “Mysta.”

“His distraction saved Luca’s life. And mine if I was slow.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He was a hero,” Vox says.

“Stop.” Shu’s eyes shut. He looks like stone about to break, paralyzed in denial as the proper grief is setting in. His hands dive and clasp around yours. He’s trembling. You squeeze back. “Don’t talk about him like he’s dead.”

“He was a hero, and our brother, and the sun. Please don’t devalue his sacrifice like that.”

“Oh my god.” Ike interrupts, and his face is paler than the dead. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Luca, don’t look.”

With one hand, he buries Luca’s head into the fabric of his mantle, and with the other, he points to the tallest point of the townhouse.

You crane your neck up and squint. The townhouse has one window peeking out from the room along one small wall. When you recognize the shapes through the window your legs nearly give out. Startling, saturated, unadulterated horror grips you. You see his hat.

“He’s still alive,” you whisper. “Or he rose. But he’s still surrounded.”

With revived desperation Vox grasps Shu by the shoulders. “Don’t devalue his sacrifice, Shu, you know better than anyone he never wanted to fall victim to that curse. Let him and the rest of the zombies pass on properly, like a hero should. Light the match, please. Please.”

You absorb the chaos as if you weren’t there. You’re detached. Nothing feels real, not even as Ike strokes Luca’s hair, distressed and staring at the window, while Luca is just as distanced as you are. Vox’s heroic resolve shattered as he recounted Mysta’s last moments, and Shu, the smart one out of your group, can’t even function anymore. You knew everyone considered themselves each other’s family, but Shu and Mysta were especially close, and it tears you apart to watch Shu finally grasp the terror of the townhouse ambush.

Shu lets go of your hands to cover his face. Through the gaps between bloodstained gloves, you can see the sparkle of tears. He’s crying. “This isn’t possible.”

“Do the right thing,” you say. “Do what he would’ve wanted.”

Shu stands so still. He looks up to the sky, as if it could all go back just by an hour. The clouds just kept rolling.

He picks up a bottle and lights a match.

“This can’t be happening.” A teardrop nearly flicks out the match, but he gathers his strength, and places it by the newspaper wick. The paper flares alive in caution orange.

Shu breathes in. You see his face is scrunched up from crying even as he tries to aim, and it’s like he’s aged years in a matter of minutes. His face has never truly been clean of dirt or gore in weeks, just like the rest of you, but even under the orange fire his eyes go dull. There’s weight under his eyelids, and his mouth is forced into a tight, shaky frown as he exhales.

“I’m so sorry.” Even when it was a zombie Shu always apologized before killing. He treats it as a blessing of what they once were. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry it had to be this way.”

Shu throws the molotov.

You lose track of Mysta’s silhouette as the townhouse goes up in flames.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

The death of Mysta Rias was the death of the sun, and the world has been even drearier than the desolate land would have you think.

Everyone lives on edge frostily. It’s barely been a month since he passed, but the wound hesitates to close.

Ike is maybe the best adapted to your band of six now as five, but even then you can tell he’s not the same. He’s a champion of reservation. Every sweep of his knives into dead flesh are purposeful, every word spoken is calculated.

You think back on that night you cried in Ike’s arms the first time you confirmed the dead. You still haven’t seen him cry. Strange, since he was the type to get emotional at sappy movies and video games before the first outbreak. You’re worried, but he insists he can keep it together. To be fair, he’s doing an excellent job at not having a conniption, but the way that he acts so much more emotionally distant isn’t exactly inspiring confidence either.

But Vox, for all he puffs himself up about making sure no man gets left behind and all that heroic junk, hesitates far more than his honed swordsmanship would have you think now that Mysta’s gone. It hasn’t gotten in the way of surviving yet, but you have to wonder when it will. He’s gotten indecisive and requires time to think- great for planning, not so much for a live-or-die fight.

Luca’s the one that surprises you. You wouldn’t go so far as to call him happy when your band of friends started roaming the country together, but he was good natured, and was the first to pick himself up from a bad scrape. He had a sly, sideways curve to his lips whenever he laughed, but it’s been so long since you’ve heard it that you’re starting to forget the way his skin curves into smile lines.

He doesn’t smile at all, really. As optimistic Luca was, it was no secret Mysta was the other half of the laughter in your group, and now that Mysta was gone the morale was as well. Luca keeps up his positive attitude as much as he can but it’s rare, and it’s quiet when you see it.

You notice whenever someone lights the campfire, he’s never around to watch it, and no one makes him do it. You don’t think anyone’s ever talked about it out loud, nor has he ever let himself show it. But when he turns around to feel the warmth, Vox is always to his front, blocking off the bright blazes, and sits by him while he cooks game. You have a theory Vox hasn’t given up his hero complex yet, but for as tense as he gets by the fire Luca hasn’t had a breakdown yet either. Unless things change, you won’t bring it up. Your group has never experienced a loss quite like this in the zombie apocalypse, and all things considered, for as awful as the morale it could be much, much worse.

Speaking of much worse, Shu…

He was a wreck when Mysta passed away, and that’s putting it lightly. When you ran from the remains of the burning townhouse and into a forest, your footfalls were punctuated by Shu’s shortened breaths, and he held back hiccups as you left Mysta behind. By the time Vox figured you were safe from the horde and Ike’s feet gave out from exhaustion, Shu’s eyes were shut tight in disbelief.

You barely uttered a word to him before he fell back into sobs, and when you offered a hand he threw himself to you. It was disorienting. You always considered Shu the face of serenity and restraint even in your lives before the apocalypse, and after the outbreak he was always the one that could find the best path to follow for the greater good of all six of you. But now there were only five, and the grief was fresh.

But Shu howled. He clawed himself against your chest in inconsolable wails, and his face was contorted, sore and raw red in splotches of unmuted primality, nearly unrecognizable. There was an animal in your arms. Agonized.

“It’s not possible,” he heaved. His articulation was lost in his eruption. “It can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be!”

You didn’t have any words to say, and clearly Shu didn’t either. He howled again as his bestial hands clutched around your arm. Nails dug through his gloves and into your skin, and if he clutched you any tighter he’d tear the flesh off the bone straight, a creature of despair. Screaming and howling, and soon enough he was choking on his own spit and the block of mourning in his throat, some ugly peals of tears and snot, and the remains of rot on his hands and blood against the hollows of his ghastly cheek; the ash left in his lungs and the smoke that lingered in his hair, and the flames that licked through his fingers and inside the bottle and outside the glass; the blazes that ate through the wood of the house, the very same hue as his brother’s favorite shirts, his hat, flickering a cycle of brightness and color and roiling heat until he knew the fire had swallowed up what remained of Mysta.

Shu had no choice but to scream. When his throat took away that privilege he mustered up what he could of his vocal chords and churned. All his mouth went dry but he still smacked his tongue against his gums and huffed out seethings and surges of thin breath through gritted teeth, more akin to wheezing than anything else he’d howled but the pure distress gone untouched.

He eventually exhaled himself into an uneasy sleep, but even in sleep his face was still struck with suffering. Rest was more like a pause to a realized horror than it was a reprieve. You and Ike cleaned him up and laid him sideways on the ground for the night- after all, it had been an awful day, and as the moon rose in the sky you know you wouldn’t be getting anywhere after the horrible events, much less with an unconscious Shu.

Luca spent the rest of his day detached from his own experience, even after the shock wore off. When Shu’s composure broke, Vox had attended to Luca, and they quietly wept together while Shu bawled. By the time Shu began to rest, Luca looked into the ground, water bottle in hand.

Vox approached you while Ike started a fire and prepared some rations for the rest of the group. “He’s not taking things awfully, but I’m concerned for him,” he said. “Luca, I mean.”

“I know you mean Luca,” you responded. You couldn’t hide your own exhaustion from the day either.

“As much as I hate to say it, Shu freaking out was to be expected. He and- and Mysta- those two- they were so close. And Luca, too. I thought he would freak out like Shu, but hell, Reader, I cried more than him. I know I get emotional and he’s better at keeping it down than me, but…”

Vox’s eyelids fluttered as he looked up at the dark sky. His eyes were red. “I’m just concerned, that’s all. It’s not like him.”

“Well, living without-” Your exhaustion dragged down your sentence before you could finish it. You thought you were well-adjusted to the death, but your voice caught before you could utter his name. You cleared your throat. “Living like this. There’s going to be a lot of weird changes, and everyone mourns differently.”

“I suppose you’re right.” But Vox didn’t look too pleased to hear that. “We need to protect him.”

“He does plenty of protecting himself. And we look out for each other regardless.”

“Then we should look out for him especially.”

“Of course. I don’t want him to get overexerted.”

“And let’s tap out of any interaction if we can, including looting. Last thing we need is to get into another big fight with the zombies, or worse yet, other survivors.”

“Avoiding fights has always been our M.O.” A chilled breeze ran through the forest. Vox fiddled with his haori. You stared right through him. “Sorry if this comes across as weird. But do you really think laying low is a good idea?”

“It’s dangerous to let anything interfere with us.”

“We’re in the zombie apocalypse, Vox, everything is dangerous. It’s not like I can just wave a wand and poof, we’re immune from the plague. Besides, we’re just two out of s- out of five. We’ll figure it out when it’s not so late, and Luca and Shu are in working condition.” You squinted. “Hey. Enough about them for a second. Has anyone ever asked you if you’re okay, Vox?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Is now. How are you holding up?”

“What, do you want me to lie to your face? No one’s doing well.” He averted his eyes, and you knew he was averting the question. “I could ask you the same thing. Shu was intense.”

“Tired,” you said. “Just plain tired. I don’t even think I have the energy to properly grieve.” And just like the man standing before you, you averted your eyes as well. “I don’t think I want to either. I don’t know. I miss him a lot, but I don’t have the time to miss him. Not when the apocalypse is literally unfolding in front of us and there’s people taking the brunt of the loss way harder than I am. I wish I could give him the remembrance he deserves.”

Vox nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything in response, and the silence made you feel like you aged hundreds of years in his presence.

“You’re very observant, Reader,” he finally said. “And you spend a lot of time making your own conclusions before you act. That’s smart. But knowing too much prevents you from action, full stop.”

Campfire smoke curls around the chilly air and by Vox’s face. His head was still angled up to look at the sky, and the orange glow against his sharp features weathered him into a dreary oil painting. There was a gash between his cheek and ear where a tree branch hooked him while he evaded a zombie’s grapple, and the light illuminated the soft pink flesh exposed under the cut of skin. The corner of the gash met his thoughtful frown. “Every moment of life teaches you something. I’m wondering when it’ll be too much and we simply can’t go on the way we used to.”

“Might be soon.”

“Today definitely sped it along.”

The fire crackled. You and Vox sat there unmoving, too focused on the blaze and how controlled it was compared to the townhouse.

Even as the tinder burns, your thoughts were still so awry now that the group got smaller. Vox had a point about Luca. You needed to keep an eye out on him in case he’s putting on a brave front. Even then, you didn’t like how Vox deflected your concern, but prodding him would only make it worse, especially when the loss was so fresh.

Your thoughts drifted to Ike, and how you haven’t managed to share a word with him at all since the townhouse burning. He hasn’t cried, you recall, not a single time since the first outbreak. You admired his composure but now that Vox admitted his own fears for the others (and neglected to tell you the ones about himself), you can’t help the unease that settled into your stomach. What were his thoughts like? Everything went off the rails whenever you tried to collect yourself, but if Ike was able to keep it all under wraps, then his mind must be a storm.

Speak of the devil. Ike hands Luca a small can of beans, but the blond stayed by his lonesome. Your best friend took the empty seat beside you, and gives you and Vox your dinner.

You thanked him, and after savoring what little you had of your portion, you asked how he’s doing.

“Just gotta get through another day,” Ike responded.

Then he tipped the last of his beans into his mouth and stared at the fire, just as you did after talking with Vox. He was unreadable as ever, but the only thing you could glean from him with confidence is that he had just as much on his mind as you thought. Maybe even more.

You wished he would just tell you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

But grass grows over graves, and even if Mysta didn’t have a proper send off, time waits for no one.

Once Shu woke up, his face was a mess of bleariness and exhaustion. Something in his bright eyes froze over during the night. Amethyst faded to plastic.

“We’ll keep moving,” he declared, and his voice chilled you to the core. He called out the order as a leader, not a friend, without the care or delicacy he always granted to your group. His emotion died with Mysta.

(And you saw Vox ready himself to refute, but once he met those purple eyes filled with something unearthly, he shank under Shu’s presence.)

Days pass. All of them are spent on the road. The group spends as little time resting as possible just to get a few extra miles out to your next destination.

Shu and Luca say it’s to get away, but they end the sentence differently. Shu says to get away from the zombies. Luca doesn’t finish his thought at all.

It’s no surprise that Vox opposes it. The more distance between the group and the townhouse, the more he speaks his mind.

But Shu is determined to go further, just as much as Vox is convinced everyone needs to lay low.

And in all the time you’ve known these men, you’ve never seen any of them fight against one another quite like this. Vox always concedes, but not before Shu spits venom and he flings it right back. Their words are always about the plan, their future, where the group is going and why don’t they wait out the zombies instead of these hourly skirmishes on the road; but everyone can tell there’s more lying in subtext than the literal argument. You’ve seen the way Vox grits his teeth and musters up his courage whenever he’s about to tell Shu off, and you know that disgusted glare Shu gives Vox whenever he brings up hiding from the zombies.

Ike usually ends up being the one to break up their fights. One dismal evening while he lectured them both about teamwork and other platitudes, you and Luca sat next to each other. He’s a big guy, but he’s lost a lot of weight from rationing, and his expression looks like an abandoned dog more often than not these days.

He talks quietly, but plainly. “Shu hates me, doesn’t he?”

“What?” The bluntness startles you. “Luca, listen to yourself. He could never.”

“He could.”

“He wouldn’t,” you insist. “He’s gone through a lot, and he’s not taking it well, but I know it’s always because he wants to protect you. All of us.”

“So is Vox. But he just shuts him down without a thought. You ever wonder why, Reader?”

“To get away from the zombies,” you recite. That’s always his reasoning. Staying put in one place just means more time for zombies to gather at the scent of the living.

“So would finding a secure shelter, like how Vox says.” Luca sits with his knees close to his chest, and watches from a distance at the quelled fight. Vox says something, and you can see Shu’s face contort even though you can’t hear what he says. “But he doesn’t even listen to him. He doesn’t even listen to you, Reader, when you try to break it up.” He holds his legs closer to himself. “I don’t know if he’s ever listened to me. Or anyone.”

“He would if you told him you feel like that. He’d understand.”

“Would he really?” You nearly answer that before you realize the question is rhetorical. “You’ve got eyes, Reader. Be attentive like how I know you always are and look at how he looks at us. Me and Vox.”

You try to follow Luca’s request but Ike is speaking, and Shu’s eyes close.

He elaborates. “It’s not a nice look.”

“He’s stressed.”

“Then why doesn’t he ever look at you like that? Or even better, why does he listen to Ike only, and how come it never seems to stick?”

“He’s going through a lot.”

“We all are.”

Across the camp, you watch Ike run a hand through his hair. Shu is still talking, and Vox sighs.

“I think he blames us.”

You grab Luca’s arm. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s obvious anyways.”

“Because that’s our friend.”

“He hasn’t acted like one for a long time.”

“Because he’s lost so much.”

“We were all friends,” Luca snaps. “We lost just as much. Hell! I was in the house! We were together! And then we got separated, and unlike someone Vox actually tried to help him out until- and I should’ve- we saw him get bit, and I couldn’t- I just, I-”

Luca shuts himself up. Your hand falls from his arm to his palm and squeezes. No life returns your gesture.

You sit in the stagnant silence.

“I’m sorry.” Luca lowers his head. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Get it off your chest, Luca. I won’t hurt you.”

“No, I don’t think I should.” He unwraps his legs, and stands up from the ground beside you. “I’m not going to say it and be an awful friend, even if he’s acting like one.”

Before you could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, Luca already turned his back, and you sat alone from the argument as he walked away from everything.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Despite all their bickering, Shu and Vox lead the group through travel. It’s more likely that the bickering is the exact reason why. The fire iron and rebar push aside the greenery, until Vox stops with his rebar casting the brush aside. “Fucking finally.”

You catch up and look across the hill. Buildings. This used to be a small rest town in a clearing between the hills before the outbreak, but now the bright signs are dimmed out and dirtied. Not a soul lurks in the abandoned town, including the dead.

“We’re not stopping,” Shu says.

“Piss off, Shu. I’m tired.”

“You’re never going to be well-rested.”

“Then how does safe sound?”

“Not possible no matter where you go.”

“But safer than on the road-”

“Guys,” Ike interrupts. “Quit acting like toddlers.”

Vox pouts and Shu squints. None of the three want to get the next word in.

So you speak up instead. “We’re running out of supplies. If we don’t find any more food soon, then we won’t even be able to continue on the road.”

“Reader has a point,” Ike agrees.

Shu’s expression sours. “Fine. We’ll look around, but make it quick. Camping out here is a great way to get robbed.”

“Then we’ll move together and keep watch for one another,” Vox declares, and he smiles. “Welcome to the correct side, Reader, Ike. It’s good to have you on board.”

Ike rolls his eyes. “Don’t drag me into your petty fights.” You fight the urge to quip he’s already in the mess as the mediator.

But the group traverses the hills and enters the remains of the town. The ground is littered with garbage strewn about in the haste for its citizens to flee town- or for the ill-fated, become the corpses dragging along the cement.

The zombies here shamble along independent from one another. That’s the best you could ask for. The only consistent thing about zombie behavior is their danger when in swarms. Alone, they’re nothing but fetid flesh barely clinging onto the skeleton, ready to fall into a hundred pieces at one strike, but when accompanied by others? Fodder makes up for each others’ weaknesses, and no matter how competent or skilled you are, one human is nothing to a crowd of zombies on the warpath.

The zombies of this town haven’t synced up with one another, and you’d like to keep it that way. While on the road, you’ve had plenty of skirmishes with small groups of zombies, but the last time your band faced off against a proper herd, you lost one.

A single zombie clambers to the front of your group. You hear metal against fabric as Ike pulls out his cleaver from its sheath, ready to do the deed, but before he can advance Shu already has his fire poker in his hands and the business end driven through the eyes of the zombie. He twists, assuring the brain is too punctured to allow the body to rise again, and the poker is back at rest. He barely even apologizes to the body as everyone trudges on.

Behind his back, Ike resheathes his weapon. He squints through his glasses, and you can read the confusion between his green eyes. Ike doesn’t meet your glance, but his expression is welcome, as unfortunate as it is. At least you’re not the only one that noticed how out of character Shu has been lately. You’re getting a sinking feeling about him.

However, the moment passes as soon as it appeared, and you and the rest of your friends rove onwards until you come across a set of stairs erring into the earth, surrounded by a dirtied glass entrance.

“Who would’ve thought?” You wonder aloud. “I never would’ve guessed this little town had a subway system.”

Vox raises his hand along the cool glass. “This could be good. The entrance is camouflage pretty well considering the damage of this town, and there might be some preserved food in vending machines. All we need to do is break ‘em.”

“And if there isn’t any food, it’s still a big area,” Ike adds. “Plenty of space and a roof over our heads.”

Luca looks down the staircase. It’s dark, but not unnavigable. The edges of the sidewalk are lined with yellow paint stripes, and features small lights along the walls from a backup generator, most likely. “It’s a good hiding place,” he says.

Luckily for everyone, Shu can already tell he’s defeated, and doesn’t put up much of a fight before you all descend down the stairs.

Not even ten minutes later Luca found a vending machine and smashed it apart with his spiked bat. Vox unwrapped a pack of Oreos with a smug smile.

The subway was no longer in operation and the trains themselves were abandoned, but you found a sign with a map of the station. The subway connected the major areas of the town together, and could be used as secret passages through the ruins.

And most interesting, there were even less zombies underground than under the sun.

“I wonder if the stairs confused them?” Luca says to himself. “Surely a few of them figured it out, since we killed some since we entered the subway, but it might be too complex for herds to come through. Or the architecture itself is confusing.”

You weren’t about to question it. This was one of the most peaceful environments you’ve entered since the outbreak, and there was no way you would ignore the moment to catch your breath, even if you can still cut through the tension with a knife.

You enter first watch with the drifting bond between everyone on your mind, and when Ike relieves you for his watch, you fall asleep in record time.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

An arm jostles you awake. “Reader. Wake up, zombies.”

You curse, albeit a little groggily, but in a flash you’re on your feet. You thumb under your sleeping pad and grab your climbing picks. “I thought we were safe?”

“Not at all.” Your eyesight adjusts after you start walking, but you can already recognize the voice as Ike. Out of the corner of your eye you can spot Shu trying to shake Luca awake, and Vox gathering everyone’s things together. “They’re flooding in fast. Herds of them. Like they’re all on the same wavelength.”

“Like the townhouse.”

It dawns on you and you say it without thinking. Ike’s shoulders freeze over. “Don’t say that. Not so loudly.”

“Fine. What do you need me to do?”

“Get your things together. They’re not here yet, but they will be soon, around the corner we came.”

Vox approaches halfway through zipping a backpack together. “We should take the next right corridor. I remember that leads to a different exit.”

“You sure it’s not the same one the zombies are coming in through?” You ask.

“Positive.”

“We need to stay ahead of the herd,” Shu said, Luca in tow. “No fighting unless absolutely necessary. If we get started now we should be able to get away without overexerting ourselves. Ready?”

No words need to be exchanged. You leave the clearing just as you found it.

A collected groan follows behind you, and a chill runs down your spine. You’ve never heard so many zombies, and never so man all in harmony. The moans arrange together in the cavernous halls, bouncing off the cement and down the station.

The urgency rises once the cries grow closer. Vox breaks out in a run, then Luca, and Shu behind him.

“Right,” Vox calls, and dives at the turn. A zombie greets him. He drives his rebar into its head and flings it away without a second thought like a lancer.

The zombie smashes against a sight with arrows to different stations. Ike swerves out of the way. “Fork ahead, where now?”

“Right? I mean-” He goes one way to view a sign, then sprints the other. “Straight! Straight!”

The dead sing. You can’t think to look back but the smell of rot is suffocating.

Your foot falls under the concrete ground in time with your family, and in time with the stumbling zombies approaching faster than you’ve ever felt before.

Luca halts in his tracks, and you thump against his back. Your mouth parts to speak but your eyes fall upon the exit.

Or rather, the lack of exit.

Boulders of broken concrete hide the stairwell from daylight.

Hot breath strangles you, and you turn with your picks in hand. Swathes of the dead are fixated on your group.

Ike runs straight-on to the choir. You scream out as one reaches for him before he turns at the last fork in the road.

You cut your scream off halfway when you follow him without a second thought.

A hand covered in dirt and mold grasps against the sleeve of your jacket. You swivel and sink your pick into the limb, and the wrist pops off under your blade. The hand goes limp and falls from the fabric.

You hear footsteps behind you, and when Luca speaks up you’re full of relief even if only for a moment. “What now?”

“Just run,” You say back, more of a guess than an order.

Shu drifts in front of you. “Where are we?”

“Give me a moment, I’m trying to think!”

“We don’t have time, Vox!”

“I know, Shu, shut up!”

“Going left!” Ike shouts, and you all move without question.

But you realize only after the zombies cut away the turn that the station turns more decrepit on this side. The tunnels are lined with debris and the floor crumbles away along the painted stripes.

And before you can find a new route, you see a puff of dust from the ceiling.

“The roof!” You shout. You’re gasping to breathe now, and your words stumble upon the exhale.

Shu’s eyes roll up to the flickering light, and you both see the elongated crack above your heads. It’s been in decay for years. How unlucky. How simply, brutally, lethally unlucky.

“Hurry!” He pleads. He’s at the front of the pack, followed by Vox and Luca alongside each other. Ike trails behind you.

The crack in the roof follows your every footstep even as ancient instinct kicks in. Adrenaline shoots through your veins and pushes you forward, accompanied by bits of debris tangling in your hair. The flooring turns from concrete to tile, and with the dirtied mosaic comes a glimmer of hope. Surely you must be going the right way.

The zombies’ cries are loud, but the squeak of your shoe against the tiles is louder. There must be something beyond.

But the ceiling splintering out is the loudest of all.

It all happens at once:

The way that Shu turns at the sound and can’t even get one of his own out before he sees your face-

The powdered cement turning to hail in the blink of an eye-

Your war cry through gritted teeth as you launch off, the fastest you’ve ever run before-

A knife unsheathed in in warmth and frigidity in your midst-

Luca, hated, blamed, petrified.

Your brain catches up through the curtain of scrap. It’s all because of Luca. Even at his most vulnerable, you’ve never thought of him as weak. Nonetheless, his eyes are dead purple crusted against his ghost-white face, and his lips force open while a vein along his neck strains to scream out your name, but he lets out just one small, throaty heave. A miserable noise.

It silences you.

You know it, and he does too. A chunk of ceiling drops mere inches from your last step. Vox approaches, calls out your name before he’s even comprehended the truth before him. You see the dark in his pale eyes tighten into a thin reptilian pupil and he reaches out in desperation.

The last of the ceiling shatters. A broken crag hammers into his palm instead. All you hear is Shu finally get out the scream before the remains of the underground roof shuts you out from your family.

The dead rises in volume. The glimmer of hope evaporates.

You force yourself against the barricade, but your weight is no match for the pile of rubble, and you watch the zombies shamble forward with your back against the wall. The only person you have left brushes plaster away from his eyes with one arm and brandishes a knife in the other.

Ike Eveland looks like hell alive.

It would almost be hilarious if you weren’t facing a subterranean grave. His face is dirtied with mud and rubble, and the legs of his trousers are matted in blood, rot, and dirt, but even then, this is still your best friend. The years you’ve spent alongside him blend together. His once-delicate hands now bear countless scars from travel and fights, but the contours of his face are recognizable even through the dust that mars his skin.

This is an unwinnable situation. You’re locked in checkmate, but Ike stands next to you.

You speak. “No more exits, right?”

Ike swipes at his face again, and the sleeve of his mantle comes back grayer than before. “I think we both know how this ends, Reader.”

“Yeah. I do.”

You both watch the leading zombie shuffle one foot forward, and each of its followers mimic the motion.

You notice Ike’s hand against his face out of the corner of your eye. Then how his shoulders jerk up for a moment, before setting themselves in place, stony and rigid.

His words break your heart. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Me neither.”

“I wish I could refuse all this- all this-”

He sniffs.

You move without thinking, and your mind is set. You wrap your arms around Ike.

He doesn’t even raise his hands. He just leans against your shoulder lifelessly, and lets the tears fall.

You rub his back as he hiccups into your shirt. How long has he been keeping this locked up? You ache for him and all his repression as his body goes limp against yours, the only thing keeping him standing.

“It’ll be okay.” That’s only a lie you can hope is the truth. “After all this. We’ll be okay. Shu and Vox and Luca, too. It’s a straight shot now that all the zombies are on us.”

“I’m going to miss you. All of you.”

“We’re together.”

“I’m sorry this is how it ends.”

“We still have options.”

He scoffs, even as his voice cracks through his quiet crying. “We’re trapped, Reader. There’s no way out.”

“We can still go out on our terms,” you say. You place your hand over his, the one that holds the knife. “Once we’re gone, the zombies are going to search for the other three.”

You squeeze one last time, and break away from the hug. You look upon the wave of dead flesh and rot, and draw your weapons. “I don’t want them to fight any more than they have to.”

“That’s hopeless.”

“It’s all I can do.”

“How are you so calm about this?”

“I’m not sure myself,” you admit. “It’s just that right now, I know I’m in a losing battle, and I accept that. But I don’t accept just laying down and dying like that.”

Your climbing picks cross together as you ready your eerily still mind. The blades scrape against each other. Metal sings. “And I just want to handle things calmly. After all this time, I learned that from you.”

“I don’t know how you can just remember things like that when we’re about to die.”

“I suppose I only die on my own terms. Hey.”

Ike stumbles to his feet. His knife is pointed to the ground. With a tranquility that evaded you all throughout the apocalypse, you steady his posture and guide the blade up to the dead beyond.

Your hand rises up his arm as his eyes close, and he silently murmurs to himself. You rub his shoulder. “You good?”

Ike exhales. His body lowers as he does, and with the breath comes a relaxed posture. This is the most at peace he’s been since the outbreak strangled the past world.

His eyelashes rise. Stormy green seas focus upon the staggering zombies.

“No.” Ike’s lip trembles. But he’s set on the zombies ahead, and a bolt of lightning crosses through his eyes. “But I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good man.”

“There’s about five of them leading the pack in that corner. We can pick them off and get some more breathing room.”

“Understood, Mr. Tactical.”

“Don’t call me that.” Under the exhaustion and the fear and the grittiness that comes with crying, you hear some of that classic, joking exasperation. You snicker to yourself, but the bittersweet smile remains.

“Mr. Eveland, then.” Your sight hones in on one zombie to your right. Its jaw slides apart as it follows the scent of the fresh living. “It’s been an honor, Ike.”

“Likewise, Reader, we’ll do what we can.”

“Let’s go.”

At your command, you both launch off, laser-focused on the individual dead.

Ike kicks a corpse down to knock it prone, then rakes his knife into the skull, and that’s all you can see before you throw yourself into the fray.

A one-on-one is simple. The zombie in front of you holds out a decrepit hand, perfect for your climbing pick to detach. It stumbles at the force and grants you an opening to clobber its brain in.

Rinse and repeat.

You dive between the steps of your latest kills to divert attention in time to slay another and stay moving. The trick is to use gravity to your advantage. They aren’t smart enough to stand their ground, and when they inevitably fold from the pressure of your picks, it’s like the zombies present themselves for you can finish the job.

The next target swipes at you. You jut one pick down upon the corpse and one more meets the brittle skull. This gives you enough time to duck under a lunge, sweep the leg, and aim to kill.

Something grabs your leg before you plunge the pick in. A body, dismembered from the waist up.

You yelp as yellow-black teeth rise, and frantically kick. The zombie holds on tight, but when you regain your senses, it doesn’t even see the blade incoming before the soft brain squashes in. Splatters of gore and bits of chunky nerve endings sprays against your frame while your sweat mixes in with the stench of rot and muddy mildew.

You step back to reposition. Ike’s clothing is covered in blackened blood, and you watch him plunge his knife into the chests of whatever unfortunate beast approaches next. He twists and yanks out, then goes in for a final blow between the eyes. He has a rhythm established despite the shades of rot against his mantle and shirt. It almost looks routine.

His next victim’s head rolls to the ground and breaks apart like porcelain. The brain is still in place, but the elongated gash through the nervous system confirms it would never rise again.

But one gets the jump on Ike while his back is turned, and he yells out as he thrashes. He swivels on his heel. The zombie maneuvers around even as his hands push back in a fierce gridlock. It snaps its broken jaws in Ike’s face as it snarls, and sinks its claws in. Gunk travels through its saliva.

“I got your back!” While Ike retreats, you trip the dead that crawls in front of you, and dash to his side. You drag your picks into the nape and back of the zombie’s head, and the creature goes limp just in time for Ike to shove it against the wall.

Ike catches his breath, brushes his hand against his arm, and meets your concerned look with a nod in silent gratitude. “They’re gaining on us,” he says. “You don’t need to kill all of them, disabling them is fine!”

“Got it!”

But even that is easier said than done. There are so many zombies in the herd, it looks like you haven’t even left a dent, and your space is getting limited. You hack through the edges of the herd and pray that your wild swipes cut through a limb or two.

“We’re losing turf!”

“Yeah, and I- gaah!”

Ike heaves. Your switch flips from ‘kill zombies’ to ‘check Ike’.

You follow his rasp to the corner of the room, where the ceiling crashed down. His back is pressed against the tiled wall, and he struggles to peel off his mantle.

You don’t even need to ask. His hand clutches his arm, and the chunk of flesh missing from it.

“Holy shit, Ike!” You can’t even mute yourself. Millions of warning bells go off in your head. The internals are coated in a dark membrane from where it meets the oxygen in the air, less red than it is purple, and his veins beside the mutilation rise in an ugly green.

You reach your hands out as you rip off a cut of fabric from your sleeve. “No. No, this can’t be happening-“

He slaps your hand away before you can begin to bandage the blood loss, and immediately crumples. “Don’t do that! It’s the virus!”

“There’s no way it spreads that fast-“

“It will. I don’t want you to have that.” Ike sucks in air through his teeth as he sinks to the floor.

“How did you even-“ you cut yourself off. “It was the zombie that jumped you, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I didn’t even notice the pain when it happened.” He curses in his native language. The green in his veins rise, and branches sprout from the veins under his graying skin, like tree bark. The rapid decay of the outbreak. “Oh, that’s not good.”

The din of the battle behind you is entirely forgotten as you focus on the uneven flesh, the imprint of the bite upon his mangled arm, how nearly every level of the wound has turned to the same rot of the zombies.

Ike’s breathing is labored. The center of his shirt is soaked with the rot of those he killed, and rises and falls shakily.

He smacks his lips, and you’re struck with the realization that talking is a strain. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

You crouch by his side and nod.

“The sheath, on my belt,” he says. “Can you unfasten it?”

You comply without question even through your blurring eyes. I can’t refuse a request from a dead man, you think, and then the weight of your thought slams you.

Ike’s unscathed hand rises from the wound, coated in slick purple gore, and brushes against the handles of his knives. The membrane pools together into beads along the handle. His fingers stop at the last slot in his sheath, and the tip of the cleaver is dyed in the beginnings of the rot.

You think you’re about to vomit your heart out.

“No.” Your voice wavers. “No. No, I can’t do this.”

“You can,” Ike comforts you, and you feel even more like trash. You should be the one comforting him instead. “I trust you.”

And that’s what gets the tears to spill out from your eyelashes. “But I can’t kill you.”

“You said it best earlier. Dying on your own terms, right?”

“But I can’t kill you.”

“I don't want to be one of them,” he admits. “Look around, Reader, we’re surrounded, and we both know there’s no way out. And being one of them, it’s unnatural. It’s just messed up. If I’m going to die, I want to know I’m at rest. None of this- whatever all this is.”

His head lolls to the side. “And I want to see Mysta again.”

The chorus of the dead accompanies Ike’s heavy breathing and your weeping. You are a helpless child.

“I’ll help you,” Ike adds. “I’ll tell you how I usually confirm the dead. You’re my best friend. I trust you.”

It sickens you.

You let out a puff of air as you draw your palm over your eyes. The gore across your face smears over with your tears.

You take the cleaver in your hands.

“Thank you.”

“You deserve better than this.”

“It’s the best we can do. I’m glad.”

“This is so fucked up.” You draw the cleaver with both hands, as if that would end the shaking. Even as you shut your eyes, you can’t get your resolve in place.

“The trick is to be fast,” Ike says, and it disgusts you at how easily he says it. It disgusts you even more when you know the decay is spreading as he speaks, all the way into his raspy voice. “It’s all in the wrist. That’s what keeps it precise instead of clumsy. It’s where all the force is. Don’t swing wide. Just center it where you want to hit. How are you doing?”

“Not good.” Your breathing deepens, a last-ditch effort to remain calm. “I’m scared.”

You force your eyes open. The world floods in white, then falls into the blurred grays of the subway station.

Ike is already so much worse for wear. The bite is entirely blackened, and the discolored skin stretches from his arm to his shoulder, creeping along what little you can see of his neck.

His eyelids are shut, gentle aside from the furrow in his brow.

“Me too.”

Even with his feigned nonchalance, there is so much sorrow laced between his words.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll be safer,” Ike says, and even he doesn’t seem so convinced by it. “Thank you for everything. I’ll miss you too.”

“You’ll always be my best friend.”

You raise the cleaver.

“Please tell Mysta I’m thinking of him. We all are, always.”

“We’ll be watching.”

Ike’s head is lowered, but you still see his attempt at a smile.

You black out as you swing.

There is no memory left of his last moment. It’s all too much to bear.

You cover your face, because looking at him is simply- just- too- much. Blood mixes in with your eyelashes, and you taste metal on your lips.

You don’t even have the energy to scream, or cry, or do anything. You are a husk, and you do not hear Ike’s cleaver clatter to the floor. There is nothing.

Your body moves without your command. You step back, and even though you refuse to look, you know you’re backing away from Ike. Your heart hammers, and so do your limbs. It spreads in droves, this pressure of heartbreak, constricting you and squeezing you apart.

Daggers fall into your skin. You snap out of your stupor.

But once you identify the daggers as teeth, you wish you didn’t.

You tear your hands away from your face as a glob of rot (his rot, you realize, and you can’t even begin to wrap your head around that) flicks out in an arc. The hammering- it’s claws raking against your flesh and tearing you apart like meat.

While you accompanied Ike in his last moments, the outbreak stopped for no one, least of all you. You are no invulnerable main character. You blocked out the roaring chorus as he lay, but it continued outside of your little bubble, and with your back turned they absorbed the last of your free space for a perfect siege.

You veer your head away out of instinct when the teeth pull away, and takes a bite of muscle out with it. The pain is blinding hot- you finally regain your voice in time to screech, but it drowns out through the zombie moans.

A second set of jaws snaps you up. Already your head is spinning, and when you see the sinew from the corner of your vision you resist the urge to faint. If you take a look at the broken skin and extruding vine-veins again, you know you’re going to black out again, and never wake up.

You force your sight to anything else.

You make the mistake of looking into zombie eyes for the third time in your life.

But this time you don’t retain the memory, either. Because for as little time you have left, how could you live knowing that your best friend’s peaceful green eyes snapped open in terror in his final moment?

You choke out, and whether it’s from pain or grief or pure fear, you can’t even tell. Just that it all mixes together into a toxic blend, the poison of your undoing.

And to think, you had the gall to meet such a grisly end head-on minutes ago.

On the ground, next to his limp foot, the steel edge of Ike’s cleaver winks at you.

It’s all in the wrist, he told you, and your blood burns into dust. But Ike is gone, now, and for as horrified as his melted remains were, he was certainly watching your every move.

And the infection is unnatural, and climbs along your shoulder, and there is no agony in the world like this fate.

And you wanted to see Mysta again.

With the last of your strength you regain your legs, and kick off one zombie from your leg. It topples and gives you enough time to shake off another that has you grappled.

The weight shift combined with your blood loss makes you hit the ground hard, but you scrape at the floor nonetheless. You are so weak, and you struggle, so focused on the glint of the blade that you ignore your skin crack apart like mud in a drought.

You reach, bloodied and battered, and so close to rest.

The washed light shines off the cleaver. Its reflection teases you as a monster snatches your foot and send you back into the horde like a toy.

You emit your final scream, and that too dies as hundreds of hands hold you back. Your body and blood is swallowed by the herd of dead.

When you can’t keep your eyes open anymore, the dark in your mind rearranges to replicate the cleaver. Then it flattens, and you see the haunted remains of Ike Eveland between it.

The only sound left is teeth meeting bone.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

#ike eveland x reader #ike eveland #ike eveland angst #luca kaneshiro #mysta rias #shu yamino #vox akuma #luxiem x reader #luxiem #nijisanji x reader #luxiem angst #4402 writes #bsprites #STEALTH PROTOMEN REFERENCE BABEY #this is a bit clumsy but i'm glad it was over 10k words i wonder if saying so much is just my style now #how much of a coinky dink is it that i was binging luca's twd streams and a bunch of southern gothic music when i was writing this #i'll post the full au notes i had operating tomorrow i think

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