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“Fuck, dude! Go! Go!”
Gravel crunches underfoot as sneakers speed down the slope, breaths hurried. Kyle remains in front, head snapping side to side as he races to the nearest building, a rickety old barn house that seems to be bolted shut. He gives the doors a tug regardless, eyes scanning above as his chest spills out air.
“Dude, get inside!”
“Then find a way in!” He shouts, slipping his rifle off his shoulder and keeping his back to the doors as he shoots at the animated corpses following their path. Stan rounds the corner, noticing a weak spot in the boards and stomping it in before crawling inside.
“Any time now, man!” Kyle shouts over his shoulder. He’s running out of ammo, and hasn’t near enough to hold out the amount that’s flocking in on them.
“Over here!”
He doesn’t wait another second before slinging it back over his shoulder and chasing the voice. Stan searches for something to close the opening as Kyle drops to his hands and knees, the rifle blocking him from entering. Stan’s inclination to chuckle dissipates as decayed hands grasp his ankle.
“Dude! Shit!”
“Fuck off!” The redhead yells, twisting himself onto his left arm as he kicks the zombie back with his free foot. The smell of rot flushes through the wood, and Stan grabs his bicep as more hands claim anything they can reach. Kyle chokes as his rifle slides off his shoulder and is tugged on his throat, still squirming to get free. He manages to duck his head under the strap and clasp onto Stan’s jacket as the latter gets a good grip on him and pulls him inside.
There’s reluctance in releasing Stan as Kyle gasps for breath. Stan hurries back to his feet and turns a wheelbarrow on its side to seal the opening, pressing his back to it as frenzied blues fix on his friend.
“Are you okay, dude? Did they get you?”
“I’m fine, fuck.” Kyle wheezes, scraping a hand through his hair. He notices tears through his jacket and jeans, and maybe pain hasn’t settled in yet, but he takes his word for it. The last thing he wants to think of is Kyle becoming infected. If he says he’s fine, he’s fine, surely.
Kyle braces his hand on his knee as he stands and scans their surroundings. Stan puffs out a breath, unable to separate the panic from his voice. “What the fuck are we going to do now? You chose like, the place with the weakest walls ever.”
“What else was I supposed to do?!” Kyle replies, his volume also spiked. He throws his shoulders as he spins around, eyes still occupied. “We needed to get out of the open!”
It’s silent for a breath, save for the groans and shuffle of feet outside. Stan swallows. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, I just—I just need to think.” His hands fix back to hair, head tipping back to the ceiling. The roof has caved in a little, but it hardly provides an exit. There’s no telling how they could get up there, and if they did, he’s not sure he’d want to test the structural integrity of it. It probably couldn’t handle one body, never mind two.
“Any ideas?” Stan asks softly, considerate of his own tone. He learned his lesson one too many times about questioning Kyle when he’s under pressure. The redhead sighs and swipes his jacket away from his hip, removing a pistol-like gun from its holster. Stan’s throat knots.
“What are you doing?”
“What other choice do we have?” Kyle asks, outstretching his hand. Stan zips open his backpack and trudges through the supplies inside, retrieving and tossing him a cartridge. He loads it, plastic and metal snapping, emerald eyes meeting his gaze as if he awaits an answer before taking action.
“It’ll only attract more attention.”
“They already know we’re here,” Kyle says, and suddenly his voice sounds weak. His eyes catch the way his fingers shake, knuckles whitening around the handle. Last chance. Last resort. “We can only hope that the others will find us.”
Stan bites his lip, but knows there’s no use in protesting anymore. There’s no reason to. Kyle’s right. What else can they do?
At his silence, the redhead sighs, lowers his head and raises his arm. He fires the flare, a burst of light in the sky that rains down between the four walls. The bang echoes in Stan’s ears like it’s a plea for mercy, like it’s a final cry for saviour, because that’s all it is. Kyle allows the gun to fall to the dirt before dropping down beside him, shoulders laxing and head tilting back as the door pounds like thunder. Stan watches him for a moment, distraught by the loss of fire in his friend. Kyle always fights for survival. He always finds a way out, always challenges the odds, never abandons hope. Stan’s throat feels nearly too tight to breathe, but he manages out a few words that he didn’t intend to be taken as a joke.
“Should we pray?”
A laugh rolls out of Kyle’s chest like a rusted wheel. “To who?”
“I don’t know.” He squeezes his hands in his lap, eyes glueing on their shoes, caked in mud and seams frayed. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“You remember what Craig said from the start,” Kyle says quietly, “no god can save us now.”
It’s too much to talk now, but Kyle doesn’t seem to struggle.
“What god even is there if we got into this mess?”
“Maybe someone’s coming,” Stan whispers, “maybe they saw. Craig, Tweek, Butters—I don’t know. Maybe even Cartman.”
Kyle closes his eyes and breathes out a final laugh. “God. I’d give anything to see Cartman right now.”
“I even miss my dad,” Stan admits weakly. Wood splits. Kyle takes his hand.
“At least I never got to lose you.”
It spills. Something snaps in his chest, a pressure unlocks, and Stan’s arms are around him, unable to hold still as he sobs. He feels him embrace him, too.
“I’ve got you,” Kyle whispers. Stan opens his mouth, but the walls crack and the rot foams in. A mess of scrambling, decayed limbs thrash through the opening. It’s all so loud, and all he can do is hold Kyle until it’s quiet. Until the tension thins, until the rot consumes.
He never lets go.