Chapter Text
Fuck me, you think, digging your tattered sneakers deeper into the ground. You’re hoping to gain better traction on the dirty road as you run–sprint away from the creature at your back. Gravel gives way, making the asphalt slippery as you try to maneuver through the barren streets or the abandoned town and away from the monster trailing behind you.
You don’t need to be bolting at full speed, but any form of running is tough due to your injured knee. You’d twinged it the other day as you ran through the forest with a horde of undead lazing after you, locked in on the stench of your blood.
You’d tripped over an upturned root and fell harshly, landing directly onto a stone. The crack of your knee smashing into the rock cracked through the forest and the zoms had grunted loudly in response, almost gleefully, like they knew you’d been downed.
It truly is just your luck.
Something always seemed to go wrong in your presence. If it wasn’t dropping your last can of food into the river while you were crossing it was attracting a group of undead while you were grumbling loudly about just how shit your luck really was. It was the man you’d trusted who’d ended up robbing and abandoning you while you slept, leaving you only with the short knife tucked into your boot at the time.
Hell, you were probably somehow connected to the apocalypse happening.
You chance a look over your shoulder, and for a split second your heart calms and you slow your pace, the road clear behind you.
Hunched over with your hands on your knees you gulp down the arid summer air. The stifling heat chokes you and you cough loudly to clear your airway, sucking in a large breath just as a bead of sweat rolls down your mouth. You wheeze, coughing harder as the tiny offender slips its way down the wrong pipe.
Like you said, bad luck.
Pounding on your chest, you wince. Your hacking will attract more. You need to stop.
Scanning your surroundings, you try to gather your bearings of where you are in this small, rundown town. You were just supposed to be passing through for the usual runs of searching shops for food and unused supplies. Your backpack is a little too light for your comfort.
You’d convinced your comrade to split up, and now you're regretting it more than ever. The town is small enough, quiet enough with the rustling leaves and sounds of birds chirping nearby. There were no human moans, no scuffing of shredded shoes dragging across the pavement, no sound of safety switches clicking off.
It’s silent.
You cut off your coughing abruptly and straighten, swallowing uncomfortably. Your tongue is thick in your mouth and your throat is dry from lack of water. You’re down to your last bottle, and choking on your own sweat has only made you thirstier. Your heart pounds in your chest, too loud for you to make out the sound around you but it’s then that you realize–
It’s silent.
The wildlife has gone completely still, birds sensing the threats lingering nearby, falling quiet in their nests. Not only do zoms lure for tasty human flesh, but they’re known to trap any living creatures they can.
A low inhuman growl drags your attention away from the trees. It grates against your skull like it always does, a cry for help, a cry for flesh. Your head snaps around back the way you came.
You curse.
Really, really unlucky.
Not one, but three undead come stumbling out from behind the building you’d passed. It’s an old laundromat, and one of the zoms is clad in a half-torn dirty t-shirt that you think could use a good washing. Or burning. They’re tripping over their own stupidly clumsy feet, and when they catch sight of you, pick up your sweaty, delicious scent over the soft breeze, their milky white eyes zero in on you.
Grunting softly, you begin jogging away from them. Running has never been your favorite hobby, but it’s imperative to your survival now. Doesn’t matter that your lungs feel like they’re on fire with every step, your knee sending sharp shockwaves of pain up your leg with each step.
At least it isn’t broken.
Ignoring the throb in your leg, you reach for the holster wrapped tightly around your waist. You’d had to punch another hole into the leather to keep it tight enough not to slip down your rapidly slimming hips. You know you won’t find anything there, that dick had stolen your gun long ago. These days, the worn leather belt housed a knife, but you’d dropped it in the initial scuffle with the leader of the small zom pack chasing after you.
You’d laughed, thought it was your comrade and had shoved the creature off of you. But when your fingers had torn through the delicate flesh on the zombies arm, rotting veins and thin skin spilled out over your hand you were quick to your senses. Reaching for the knife, hand slicked with thick, chunky blood. Your grip slipped once, twice, and the zombie was up in an instant, pushing against the hand you’d planted across its chest.
Finally tugging the knife loose from where it was nestled in your holster was a relief that turned sour as the zombie swiped out. Dumb luck had the flailing limb striking true, knocking the weapon from your unsteady hold. It landed with a soft thump, a small cloud of dust puffing up and clinging to the black blood coated hilt.
Time froze as you stared at the zombie, letting out an unamused puff of air as your heart kicked into gear. It’s head jerked forward on fractured bones, the clacking of it reverberated up your spine like a hot knife, and you winced. The zoms mouth parted and its rotting gray tongue rolled out, lapped at the air, tasting your scent.
It shoved harder against your hold.
You’d managed to wrestle the undead away, pushing it to the ground, but you hadn’t had the time to grab your trusty knife that you’d carried with you since the beginning of the end. You climbed to your feet and side stepped the cracked hand reaching for you, the bony tips of fingers free from dead skin, sprinting away.
Unsure of which way to go, you raced up the road away from where you had last seen your friend. You wouldn’t let her get caught because of your stupidity.
You try to outrun them, weaving in and out of the few buildings in town, but they’re locked on your scent, although you’re pretty sure you smell like one of them by now, you can’t even remember the last time you’d showered.
Rounding the corner of an old bar, you debate stopping for a drink. You pray that there’s an unopened bottle of vodka, or tequila inside. Hell, you’d take just about anything right now.
Making a mental note to come back around and search the bar, you trip. You use your hands to catch you, cursing as your palms scrape against the pebbles and dirt. You hope that there’s no blood, muttering beneath your breath as you survey the alley. There’s a tall chain link fence blocking your path.
Well fuck.
There’s no way you’ll make it up in time, and the drop from the other side is a long way. Plus, you don’t know if your aching knee will be able to support your weight against the flimsy metal, having just fallen on it again.
Your day really can’t get any worse.
Your limbs slide against the dusty ground as you flip over. Your fingertips dig down for purchase. The three zoms are approaching quickly, limping closer to you, keen on getting a taste of your flesh. One of them even looks like it’s smiling, peeling lips torn and curled around blackened rotting teeth, grinning at you sadistically.
Your heart stutters in your chest.
This is it.
You search the alley frantically, hoping that there’s at least a broken bottle from the tavern you can use in defense against the looming creatures. There’s nothing but pebbles and litter, not a single potential weapon in sight. You swallow hard, gaze flitting back to the zombies who moan softly, making grabby hands at you like babies do their mothers.
Your back hits the fence and you squeeze your eyes shut tight, the sun blaring hot across your skin.
You’ve had a pretty good run, you think, for someone who’s luck is as shit as yours. 189 days.
You send a silent prayer up above – although you’re pretty sure whoever is supposed to be watching over Earth has taken a break long ago – and hope that your comrade will be okay.
The zoms are almost on you and you curl tighter around yourself, refusing to open your eyes. If you’re going to go, the last thing you want to see is yourself being eaten. No thanks.
There’s a loud warcry just as the long, overgrown, brittle nails scrape against your cheek. You shudder and a shadow crosses your vision for a millisecond, and your eyes snap open. Squinting against the harsh sun you watch as the zombies arms are lobbed off, falling right onto your lap.
Black blood drips thickly and your empty stomach curdles. With a grimace you shove the limp limbs off of your legs and pull yourself to your feet, the zombies attention turning to the new person in the alley with you.
You loose a sigh of relief at the shaky laugh and taunts thrown at the undead, “Come here, you fuckers!”
It’s your comrade. She’s armed with a landscape scythe in one hand and your knife in the other. The sunlight casts over her sharp cheekbones and her gray eyes are almost as pale as the zoms. It’s unnerving sometimes but right now your chest swells with relief. Her menacing (and slightly crazed) smile has her looking like an angel of death.
“Feyre,” you exhale, head falling back against the chain link fence in solace.
The armless zombie struggles, trying to stagger to its feet, but it ends up inchworming its way towards you and your savior. With one quick jab of your knife to its head, the creature goes still.
Feyre jerks the blade from the body and dances around the other two zoms, swiftly moving behind them. You catch one of their attention, beating your hand against the fence, rattling the metal with your hands. Before one can turn around to face Feyre, she uses her scythe, the curved blade protruding from the stomach of the zombie. She grabs the handle with both hands and lifts with a grunt. The body's decomposed muscle and bone give way as she slices from stomach to head, splitting the damn thing in two. When it falls away it reveals a grinning Feyre.
You grimace at the sight. She’d found that gardening scythe a few weeks ago and now it’s her new favorite weapon.
“Gimme,” you gesture to your knife with a nod of your head, the last zombie still slowly making its way towards you.
“You sure?” Feyre cocks an eyebrow. She’s still on a high from her last kill, “I don’t mind.”
You shrug your shoulders in response, “Be my guest.”
You let Feyre take the last one, sliding the knife easily into the base of its neck. It’s a more humane kill than the last one, and you’re just glad it’s over quickly.
“Don’t drop this again,” Feyre says seriously, striding over the dead bodies and firmly placing the knife back in your hand. Her fingers wrap around yours tightly, making sure you understand the importance of the weapon.
“Not like I was trying to,” you mumble, looking away from her in shame. Your gaze settles on your hands and your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You hadn’t even known the girl long but here she is, saving your life and sticking by your side even though she doesn’t have to.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she admits softly, looking at you with sad eyes. If she’s saying this because she doesn’t want to be out all alone in the shit world or because she feels a kinship with you from what you’ve both been through, you can’t say.
You sigh, frustrated. “I’m no good for you, Fey. You’d be better off without me.” You wipe the blood from your blade onto your already dirty pants and nestle it back in its rightful spot on your belt.
“Stop with that, (Y/N).” Feyre places her hands firmly on your shoulders and stares into your eyes. Her gray iris’ are piercing, similar and yet different from the undead, like she can see all of your deepest secrets and fears, all of the things you’ve had to do to get here, to stay alive.
You’re vaguely aware of the zombie blood dripping from her blade onto your shoulder and you try not to cringe. “Like hell you’re leaving me in this shithole alone.”
You chuckle softly, ignoring the pang of guilt you feel. Once she finds what she’s looking for, she will absolutely abandon you, your mind supplies.
“Sorry,” you offer quietly.
“Just don’t scare me like that again,” she responds, waving off your apology. There are no ‘sorry’s’ in the apocalypse, no need to ask forgiveness for the evils you’ve committed. You trail Feyre out of the alley, “Use your words next time.”
“Didn’t want to attract more,” you admit, knowing that if you had screamed for help it would only put the both of you in more danger, “Ended up doing that just fine anyway.”
Feyre doesn’t respond to that. She can see that you’re already kicking yourself for what’s happened, even though the both of you are okay. You have a habit of that, blaming yourself for most things that go wrong. You always have.
“You’re limping,” she points out instead, “You hurt?”
“Nah, just fell on it weird,” you try to smile but it looks more like a grimace. “It’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“We should find somewhere to stop. You can rest and I’ll check out the other stores. Maybe we can find you some painkillers.”
The odds are highly unlikely, but you don’t mention it. Not all of the stores in this tiny town have smashed windows and ransacked shelves.
“We’re not splitting up again,” you demand, following Feyre through the broken window of a nearby store. You wince when you lift your leg and pain shoots up it.
You look around the dinghy shop and make a face. It’s a mattress store, and you have no idea how long it’s been since it’s been broken into, but by the looks of the stained and matted mattresses, you can tell it’s been awhile.
Feyre hums in agreement, scythe poised and ready for anything that might pop up and surprise the both of you. You keep your knife tucked tightly in your hand, ready to back her up without a second thought.
“There’s a clothing shop a few stores down. Untouched. Thought we could drag a mattress down there for a night. Sleep on a real bed for once,” Feyre suggests and throws a grin over her shoulder towards you, “Maybe go on a little shopping spree.”
And that’s another thing that differentiates you from Feyre. While she was scoping out for supplies that might actually help you survive in this undead world, you were thinking about booze.
“It would be nice to get some new clothes,” you comment, pulling at the dirty shirt clinging to your sweaty skin. You frown, looking around at all of the mattresses, “And sleep on something comfortable, if we can find one that’s decent, that is.”
Feyre rolls her eyes, “Oh, come on (Y/N). Everyone knows they keep the nice ones in the back. All wrapped up and ready to go.” She raises her eyebrows at you in a silent question, and you nod, silently telling her that you’ve got her back.
Feyre shoves open the door to the storage room and you’re surrounded by stacked mattresses lining the walls.
“Jackpot!”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The both of you had managed to drag a twin sized bed two stores over into the clothing shop with little trouble. You’d ignored the twinge of pain in your leg at the weight. It grows worse the longer you stand on it, but you really do want to sleep in a real bed.
You shove it as far away as you can from the window at the front of the store and tear the plastic wrap off of it. Your heart stumbles as you think that this is what it must feel like for the zombies to tear through flesh. You shudder.
Instead of falling onto the fresh mattress like you want to, you’d gone back out to search for more supplies before the sun sets. You need water, but it’s scarce to come by these days. You each have one bottle left in your bags from when you’d found a pack of unopened water bottles sitting out in the sun in front of a gas station. It probably wasn’t the best thing to be drinking from a plastic bottle that had been sitting in the sun for who knows how long, but you didn’t have the luxury of being picky these days.
You’d seen one more zombie in the drugstore you were hoping to find some painkillers in, but if the spilled pills surrounding the trapped zombie were anything to go by, it looked like they had gotten to them first.
You whistle to yourself as you walk through the aisles, a slight limp in your step. You kick an open bag of chips out of your way, searching for anything that is still usable to eat for the night.
You’d gotten used to the constant hunger pains, the feeling of your stomach trying to eat itself, contorting in pain when you thought about shoveling a thick and juicy cheeseburger into your mouth. As long as your stomach still jumps at the thought of food instead of flesh, you can manage.
Feyre was built for the apocalypse. She’s figured out how to ration, and she’s always planning, not knowing when you’d find your next meal.
Another reason you were so lucky to have her.
You’re frustrated, having walked down the food aisle three times but still coming up with nothing. The only food left was opened or had rotted out a long time ago, and you don’t need to be getting sick over spoiled food.
“Find anything?” Feyre asks, returning from checking the back room and moving over to where you stand.
“A few bandages, but no food,” you sigh, holstering your weapon. “You?”
She shakes her head, “No food either, but I found these,” she tosses you a bottle of painkillers and you smile gratefully. “Fucker didn’t get to those ones.”
“Thanks, Fey.” You immediately tug off the cap and down two. They catch against your dry throat but eventually work their way down.
You tug your backpack off of your shoulder, stuffing the canister inside. It rattles and you remind yourself to stuff a clean sock into it so they don’t move around as much.
The both of you search up and down the rest of the aisles of the small store just in case. Feyre becomes fascinated over a rubix cube you’d found, still in its package. You smile softly at her as she tears open the plastic and mixes the colors. You both need something that reminds you of the simple life before.
You find some chains and padlocks still handing in their spots in the hardware store and you’re both incredibly thankful. Even though you haven’t found more food, you still have a can of beans you can share, and you have clean clothes and a comfortable place to sleep for the night, so today isn’t as much of a bust as you thought.
“Fuck,” Feyre sighs are she settles down onto the mattress next to you. “Been a rough day, hasn’t it?”
You hum in agreement, passing her the can of beans. You’ve both changed, opting for plain t-shirts and new jeans. You’d almost cried when you found a package of unopened socks, shouting for Feyre like you’d found a cure.
“S’just socks, (Y/N). Calm down,” she’d replied, but the relief shone in her eyes as well.
You share the beans, passing it back and forth in silence, the both of you lost in your thoughts. You’d packed up what you could into your bags. They sit at the foot of the mattress, ready and close just in case something happens. Your new running shoes sit neatly next to them on your respective side of the bed.
“Go to sleep, I’ll take the first watch,” you offer, and who is Feyre to argue?
She settles into the soft bed and is out as soon as she’s comfortable, exhausted from today’s events. You’re constantly worn out. There’s just something about the end of the world that is so very tiring.
You hum to yourself, checking the exits for the third time in two hours. You need something to do or you’ll fall asleep. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Feyre knows it’s because of your slight paranoia that something terrible could happen if you don’t continually check your surroundings. But you’re not wrong.
Checking the lock and chain on the front door, your attention is caught by something moving outside.
You immediately crouch out of sight, peeking out the grimy window into the darkness to see what it is.
Three figures, too fast to be zombies.
Your heart pounds. You can hardly make them out in the dark, but it looks like two people dragging another along between them. They’re tall, you can tell. Must be men. They hurry down the street as you watch on. Your gaze flickers up the street, searching for zombies, your knife gripped in a firm hand, but you don’t see anything.
You wonder if the person they’re dragging with them is injured. They must be, otherwise they’d be running alongside the other two. You wonder how much blood they’re leaving behind as the three of them find an open shop across the street and down a few from where you and Feyre are hiding out for the night. An old cafe of sorts. You’d checked it over earlier, but you suppose it’s as good of a place as any to take shelter in for the night, the window and door still intact.
They’ll be away from monsters, at least.
Everything in the new world is a lot scarier in the dark.