#32: fic: A Little Madness In The Spring, PG-13
Title: A Little Madness In The Spring
Fandom: Generation Kill RPF
Characters: PJ Ransone, Stark Sands and Alexander Skarsgard, among others
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is entirely fictional.
Word count: 5,500+
Summary: Here there be zombies. After the apocalypse, people try to survive.
Notes: For laiqualaurelote's birthday.
Chloe whispers James James wake up and when he opens his eyes it's morning already, muggy and damp and disagreeable like all the other English mornings he's woken up to before this one. His whole body aches. The inside of his mouth is gritty and when he runs his tongue over his teeth it tastes foul.
"Had a good sleep?" Bettany asks from across the room, where he's perched on a low plastic crate, fastidiously cleaning his guns.
"Maybe," says PJ, sitting up slowly so as not to aggravate his lingering headache. It doesn't work; pain pierces through his skull and he presses the palms of his hands over his eyes in a vain effort to make it go away. "Not really," he groans.
"Welcome back to hell," Bettany tells him, and PJ knows without looking that he's smirking unsympathetically.
In the cracked mirror, PJ looks at himself for the first time in weeks. He's gaunt, practically skeletal, and it is almost as if he has gone back to his smack days, if not for the knowledge that there are no drug dealers in the zombie districts. He makes a wretched attempt at a smile. Girls have always liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkle downwards; now he just looks like he's about to cry.
"Feeling pretty today?" asks Bettany, coming up behind him.
"Fuck you, Paul," PJ replies.
Bettany smiles - a real smile, sharklike and wicked like only he can manage. "Perhaps tomorrow," he tells PJ. "We're leaving."
They're all thin - fear-thin. Bettany, whom PJ remembers as being moderately muscular when they first met, now has a starved, wary narrowness about him. Chloe is as lovely as ever, though; battered and hard with her hair in a snarled knot at the nape of her neck, rifle always at the ready. When PJ pulls on his leather jacket he cannot help but notice how the material hangs in places where it used to be snug.
"Where are we going?" Chloe asks.
"To meet a friend of a friend," says Bettany.
PJ glances around at the hospital supplies they're leaving behind. "Why can't we just stay here?"
Somewhere above them, something lets out a chilling howl. Then an arrythmic thudding begins.
"What the fuck was that?" asks PJ.
"The reason why we can't stay here," says Bettany. "Come on, loves, we've got someone to meet."
---------
His parents name him Stark Bunker Sands probably as a result of a few grams of pot and a night of heavy drinking. Still, the name ends up counting for something - it's a strong name, and Stark is a strong man.
It happens to him the same way it happens for most people: coming in to Heathrow airport and finding out at the screening gate that he has residual traces of the infection. They put him in a van headed towards a quarantine centre two hours away with assurances of, "just another screening - nothing to worry about, sir," still unaware that said quarantine centre (and the surrounding area) has been compromised.
Officially, he's now one of the lost, one of the many who have been written off as casualties in the struggle against the infected. But he's not a casualty - not yet.
If Stark were the poetic sort he'd probably attribute his survival to his name. He's not the sort, though, so his name's probably only half the reason.
Stark has always been good at running. It makes a huge difference, when he and five others tumble out of the van to find themselves in real London; in old London - a dead, desolate inversion of a city that was once the heart of the country. He runs for his life when he witnesses the first transformation (a young woman he shared his tic tacs with earlier in the journey). In the next twenty-four hours, he also masters the art of using a baseball bat the way it is meant to be used - to knock someone's brains out. This is a good skill.
When the man finds him two days later Stark isn't sure whether he's dying of starvation, the infection, sheer terror, or all three.
"Are you a zombie?" asks the man, looking very imposing as he stands over Stark with a very huge gun in his hands.
"I don't know," says Stark, honestly. "Probably not."
"That's good enough for me," the man replies. He has a way of curling his voice around some of his vowels and consonants like he's taking especial care to say them properly. Stark does not get to ponder this for very long, because the man guns down three approaching zombies shortly after their exchange.
The man glances down at Stark and grins. "I'm Alexander Skarsgard."
---------
The authorities dump them in the zombie districts because they don't know what to do with more Americans coming in with residuals. PJ's got ADDICT (P) recorded in his health pass, which means he's fucked even before he attempts to explain to the screening officer at Heathrow that the (P) stands for being "so fucking clean you could see your own reflection, asshole".
He shouldn't have travelled. He knows that now; knows that his buddies were right. "England's fucked up, man," Eric told him, "I don't care how hot that pen-pal of yours is. I've known tons of people who've flown over and never come back." PJ won't be seeing Eric for a long time - that much is clear.
There are only two other people in the van with PJ - a sweet-faced blonde who had earlier conned PJ of not two but three cigarettes, and a man in a suit who looks about PJ's age but acts like he's a lot more important. They sit silently in the back of the van, the man still trying to get in touch with the embassy using his phone. PJ looks out the window at the ruined streets they are driving through, occasionally sneaking a glance at the girl, who is methodically picking at the tattered leather upholstery of the seat she's curled up in.
It's evening when the van drops the three of them off outside the quarantine centre, the driver giving them a slightly apologetic shrug as he hands each of them a mobile Pulser and pulls away.
"What, they're just leaving us here?" asks the girl. Her voice is soft and flat with something like panic.
"Seems like it," says the other man. He has a clammy pallor and a jittery way of moving that makes PJ very uncomfortable. "At least they left us these Pulsers."
"These Pulsers," says PJ, "are fucking useless."
"Does this mean we're on our own?" asks the girl.
"It means we're fucked," says PJ. He casts around for a moment before spotting a metal bar lying in the grass.
"What are you doing?" asks the man, eyeing PJ warily as he picks up the bar and tests its weight in his hands.
"Trying to make us a little less fucked," PJ replies. He hasn't survived a drug addiction and half a year of paperwork and screenings just to land in London and get eaten by zombies. He turns to the girl, who is loading a couple of rocks into the ragged tote she's still carrying. "Excuse me-"
"Chloe," says the girl, not smiling. "My name is Chloe."
"Chloe," PJ repeats. "I'm James," he tells her.
"I'm Hayden," the man interjects hurriedly. "And now that we're done introducing ourselves, what the fuck are we going to do?"
"If we stick together, we can probably get by using one Pulser for now," Chloe says, glancing between the two of them. "I'd like to find shelter but I'm not too keen on camping in there." She jerks her head in the direction of the quarantine centre behind them.
It won't be long before the zombies find them, PJ realises - this place is a dumping ground for fresh victims. The building, probably once a very busy hospital, is now a shell of broken windows and crumbling walls, dark bloodstains on its dull white paintwork. Five large Pulser units stand, chillingly silent, along the perimeter.
"I don't think we have a choice," says Hayden.
"Uncle Johnny wouldn't recommend it," says PJ, suddenly remembering those frankly ludicrous public service announcements that used to air in between the Saturday morning cartoons.
"So kids, listen to your Uncle Johnny," Chloe parrots in a throaty drawl, "in the event of an emergency, remain in your homes."
"Wow, yeah," says PJ, grinning despite their situation.
"Fuck Uncle Johnny," Hayden snaps. "It's going to rain."
They end up camping out in a smallish garage originally intended for ambulances, huddled around one of their three Pulsers while trying to forget the cold, their hunger, and the fact that their expected rate of survival is probably zero.
When PJ wakes up, Hayden is gone. He reaches over to rouse Chloe only to realise that she is already wide awake, staring fixedly at something behind him.
"What is it?" PJ asks.
Look, mouths Chloe.
PJ turns to the entrance of the garage. At least ten misshapen figures are standing out in the rain, held back, presumably, by only the faint radiation of their Pulser.
"Where's Hayden?" asks PJ, crawling backwards till he's next to Chloe.
"There." She points at one of them on the right.
"Fucking hell," says PJ. "He went off and brought friends."
The only reason why they're not dead or similarly infected is because of a device the size of a transistor radio, and PJ knows enough about Pulsers to know that portable ones don't last forever. For a while they just sit there trembling together as they watch the zombies standing only slightly more than five metres away from them, fidgeting soddenly, limp hunger in their slack expressions.
"Chloe. Do you have the other Pulsers?" PJ finally whispers.
"Yes," says Chloe.
"Okay," says PJ, more to steady himself than anything else. "Okay. Put those in your bag. When I say go, we'll bring this one to full power and make a run for it."
"Remember, children," Chloe is murmuring as she slides a trembling hand round to grip PJ's wrist, "what would Uncle Johnny do?"
"Kick their asses and run," PJ whispers. "That's what he'd do."
Three months ago, PJ received a commendation award from the police for chasing down and apprehending a robber who was trying to rape someone. He still remembers that shaky feeling of adrenaline; fear and fearlessless mingled together in a tense knot of uncertainty. What he's experiencing now is ten times worse.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Go!"
PJ grabs his metal bar and scrambles to his feet, Chloe close behind and clutching on to their Pulser, which whirs into overdrive as she wrenches the setting to full power. The zombies stumble back, but before PJ and Chloe can make a run for it, the Pulser sputters and dies.
"What do we do now?" Chloe shrieks, as the figures begin lurching towards them.
"Get the other one working!" PJ hisses, holding his metal bar aloft.
"Oh my god," Chloe moans, fumbling inside her tote. "Oh my god."
The zombies are closing in. PJ stands his ground, ready to bring the bar crashing down onto the skull of the nearest one, when a gunshot rings out suddenly. The zombie crumples to the ground.
Two more shots. Once-Hayden goes down as well.
Chloe gets the Pulser working; as it judders to life, the other seven zombies stumble backwards in a grotesque parody of anger and fear.
"Hang on, loves," calls a voice from outside. It's a man's voice, ridiculously calm. "Be with you in a bit."
"There are seven of them," PJ shouts back. "I don't know if our Pulser's going to last."
"Do you mind doing me a bit of a favour and just driving them out?" asks the man, still sounding as if he's just inviting them over for a cup of tea. "Bit hard to get a shot from here."
"What the fuck?" Chloe whispers, but holds the Pulser out shakily anyway.
"Okay," shouts PJ. "We're trying!"
"Thanks, mate."
They've barely taken two steps forward when four more shots ring out, one after another, each hitting a zombie right in the head.
"Holy fuck," says Chloe. "Who exactly is this guy?"
Her question is answered almost immediately, when a tallish man in a trenchcoat appears at the entrance and takes out two of the remaining three zombies with a hatchet.
"You there, with the metal bar," says the man, pointing at PJ and then at the last zombie. "Aim for the head."
PJ readjusts his grip on his weapon, before whacking the zombie across the forehead as hard as he can. There is a sick crack upon impact, and the zombie collapses to the ground, still twitching.
"Lovely," beams the man, before bringing his hatchet down on the zombie's head once more for good measure. He grins up at them when he's done. "Paul Bettany, pleasure to meet you."
---------
It seems that they cannot start the morning of a road trip without killing at least fifteen zombies and stunning the rest of them with a cranked-up Pulser. By the time they pile into Bettany's van they are completely wrecked and covered in grime again.
"Wonderful," says Bettany, as he reverses out of the hospital lobby (living in the zombie districts has its plus points) and runs over three more zombies. PJ sits in the back seat and clings on for dear life to the two drained Pulser canisters as they careen off down the street.
"Now will you tell us where we're going?" Chloe asks. She's still gripping her rifle - hasn't put it down since Bettany taught her how to use one.
"We're meeting up with some guys I know," Bettany replies. "Out of the districts, a little way away from the Green zones. They're like us - people with residuals, living off-grid."
"Why couldn't we have met up with them earlier?" asks PJ. They've spent a month subsisting on meagre food rations in the basement of the hospital Bettany has camped out in, taking turns to operate and charge the Pulsers and occasionally venturing out in pairs to look for other stragglers. It's not been the best of situations; PJ's only taken one shower in the past three weeks, and every day has either been spent climbing things, taking out zombies or running away from them.
"The incubation period for the infection is a month long," says Bettany, simply. "It's happened before. We take in a guy, he later turns, and someone has to clean up the mess."
"Who are you people?" asks Chloe.
Bettany turns a corner, barely avoiding an armless zombie dragging its feet as it crosses the street. "Thought you'd never ask," he quips. "I suppose you're aware of hunting as a business, am I right? Hunting zombies. All the veterans do it - Johnny's got his own crew assembled in Arizona."
"Johnny Depp?" PJ repeats. Depp's the man who invented the Pulser, while hidden in a friend's fortified basement during the first months of the infection.
"Heard of any other veterans of the apocalypse named Johnny?" asks Bettany, glancing at PJ in the rearview mirror. "Thought not. So Uncle Johnny's earning a shitload of money taking care of zombie infestations for the US government, and a couple of his good friends across the pond start wondering if they can get in the business too. A little franchising, if you like. One of these guys is my best friend, who asks me if I'd like some direction and purpose in my life after losing my wife and two children during the Lockdown."
"Oh my god," murmurs Chloe. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks, darling, but I'm quite all right," says Bettany, flashing her a quick grin that might or might not be slightly wry. "Went absolutely out of my mind with a ton of alcohol for a while but that friend put me to rights. Where was I? Ah, right." He swerves past an overturned car in the middle of the road. "So we start a hunting business, get a shitload of guns and ammo, set up our own Pulsers. He even calls his son down - this guy's not local, you see - but there's still only three of us."
"What's wrong with having only three of you?" asks PJ.
"Bit of a small operation, don't you think?" asks Bettany. "It's all right if you're running away from the buggers, but if you're planning on securing towns and things, five is the absolute minimum."
"So you're not actually hunters," Chloe summarises.
"Not yet," Bettany replies. "We're pretty lethal at the moment, but still at more of a... gathering stage."
"Gathering," PJ repeats. "Gathering... people like us?"
"So this is a recruitment drive?" asks Chloe.
In the driver's seat, Bettany shrugs. "I don't save people's lives for free, you know."
---------
After two hours of driving, they pull into a compound that looks, despite PJ's best efforts to imagine otherwise, like a heavily fortified junkyard. Huge Pulsers line the high fences at regular intervals, hooked up to rumbling generators connected to a haphazard sprawl of solar panels. In the middle of the landscape of broken-down vehicles and disemboweled mattresses sits a dilapidated Victorian-style house.
Two men are standing at the entrance, beaming and waving enthusiastically as the three of them get out of Bettany's van.
"Is your Papa back yet?" Bettany calls to the taller man.
"He went out again with the other two," the man replies. As they draw near, PJ can see that he's at least an inch taller than Bettany and would be every bit as imposing if not for the fact that he's wearing a tartan dressing gown and a pair of slightly ridiculous grizzly bear bedroom slippers. Standing next to each other they almost look like brothers; two equally but diversely eccentric figures with a distinctly Aryan look about them.
"He said he'd be back soon, though," adds the other man. He's slightly shorter but no less muscular, and he's holding a battered-looking baseball bat. PJ notices that his eyes are very green.
"Right," says Bettany. "You haven't been introduced. This," and here he gestures at the taller man, "is Alexander Skarsgard. His friend over there is Stark Sands, who, more than a year ago, found himself in a similar situation as you two. Gents, this is James Ransone and the lovely lady is Chloe..."
"Sevigny," Chloe supplies, primly.
"Lovely," Bettany replies. "And now if you'll excuse me, it's been a long four weeks, and I'm going in to make myself a cup of Earl Grey."
He vanishes off into the house, leaving the four of them staring awkwardly at each other.
"Let me get this straight," says PJ after a long moment. "The British government pronounced me a biological hazard and left me to die by zombie in the middle of London. I've been rescued by a man who in every way possible fits the description of 'shady character' and whose notion of safety is bringing us to a house that looks exactly like the one from Fight Club."
"Cool house, huh?" Skarsgard murmurs, lips quirking into a grin that makes him look slightly goofy.
"For a while we had a nagging suspicion that we were the same person," Sands says. He has a rapid-fire way of talking that makes everything he says sound like it's going to be extremely important. "Then one day we jerked off in the same room and Alex's dad walked in on us."
"So now we know," Skarsgard concludes.
"That's just kind of gay," PJ informs them, wondering why the hell anyone would bring something like that up in a conversation with people they've just met.
"I'm afraid not," says Skarsgard, looking slightly pained.
"Believe me," Sands adds, "we've tried. If it worked at all between us we'd be going at it like rabbits."
"It's hard to live alone," Skarsgard tells them, by way of explanation. "Paul only visits once a month, and I think Lee and Pawel like to pretend they don't know us."
"Not that we'd want to do any of them," says Sands.
"Or each other," Skarsgard finishes.
"...I'm going to get some tea," says Chloe, heading into the house.
"It's nice meeting you," says Skarsgard, staring after her.
"Is she your-" Sands begins.
"No," says PJ. He's not sure if he should sound more regretful. "I'm going to get some tea."
---------
The phrase Bettany uses to describe Skarsgard and Sands is "slightly batty", but after three days in the same wing of the house as the two of them, PJ is quite ready to amend it to, "rather fucking demented".
"That's apt, too," Bettany agrees, peering at PJ over his newspaper. Now that there isn't an active zombie threat, Bettany has become suprisingly sedentary, spending most of his time in an armchair with a cup of tea on the side table. PJ has only seen him get up twice since their arrival at the house, apart from visits to the bathroom or when he's shuffling off to bed - the first time was to get another teabag and the second was to swat Skarsgard with a newspaper for standing in front of the television.
"Where did you even find these guys?" PJ demands. "I mean, Skarsgard has a diagram of a 2015 Pulser tattooed on his lower back."
"You have tattoos too," says Bettany mildly. Before PJ can protest about how his tattoos look miles better, he adds, "I'd say Alex's are rather more useful."
The house is constantly noisy - the stairs creak and the doors make a hollow thunking sound no matter how carefully they try to shut them. When Chloe isn't in the basement shooting things, the others are watching videotapes of old Swedish soccer matches on the small television screen in the sitting room. The Pulsers are perpetually switched on, surrounding them with a cacophony of metallic grumbling.
Skarsgard and Sands appear to have no concept of personal space. Some mornings, PJ finishes pissing in the toilet bowl only to turn around and see Skarsgard brushing his teeth at the sink and Sands getting ready to take a shower. He has no idea what Skarsgard used to do but Sands used to be an actor - he has a lovely singing voice that nevertheless puts PJ on edge every time he climbs cheerfully into the bathtub together with PJ.
At points, PJ is convinced that they're winding him up intentionally - if Bettany were the one doing it that would certainly be the case - but there's something hopelessly sincere about what they're doing; as if it's a silent, silly ritual of welcoming him into the fold. Skarsgard could pat PJ on the back and say, "You're a hunter now, like us," but he doesn't. Instead, he stands in the mirror and compares PJ's no dice tattoos with his Pulser diagram and later steals most of his cornflakes at breakfast. They revel in the ridiculousness of the fact that they are alive, alive and whole and kind of very badass when they're actually hunting some zombies.
A week after they arrive, PJ wakes up to find Skarsgard standing by his mattress, dressed in black a full-body jumpsuit.
"That is a disturbing amount of ammunition you have strapped to your chest," PJ observes, after a moment of sleep-addled confusion.
"Somebody has to save your ass," Skarsgard says kindly.
Outside, the others are loading what appears to be the entire contents of the armoury into the larger van.
"Hurry up, children," Bettany calls as he flings a crate of insect spray into the back seat, "Mum hasn't got all day!"
"What's going on?" PJ asks, snatching his leather jacket out of Skarsgard's hands and pulling it on over the stiff undershirt he's been sleeping in.
"We've got an assignment," Sands tells him, giving the both a once over. "Shoes, Alex."
"Right," says Skarsgard, toeing off his bedroom slippers and wandering off, presumably to locate his boots.
Chloe is weaving through all the chaos of loading up like she's been doing this all her life. She's still wearing the same jacket and jeans she had on when they first met, but has since lopped off most of her hair such that very little of it pokes out under the beanie she has on. PJ looks at her, hardened and changed from weeks of having to survive and keep alive, and wonders if the others can see a similar transformation in himself.
"Where are we going?" PJ asks Sands.
"Epping," Sands replies, excitement making him talk twice as urgently. "I have no idea where that is, but we're going to secure the town."
"You," says Bettany, shoving a map into PJ's arms, "navigation."
"What?"
"Navigation," Bettany repeats. "You'll keep an eye out on the roadsigns."
"Any word from the others?" Sands asks.
"They're there with another team, laying out Pulsers," replies Bettany. "I can't believe Jude fucking Law got there first, of all people."
"Our Pulser's up," Chloe calls. "We're ready to go."
Bettany nods. "Shall we?" he asks, before heading towards the van. "Though I have absolutely no clue why all of you are so bloody excited," he adds. "This entire operation's success rate is exponentially lowered to begin with, by virtue the fact that I am English."
"Alex is from Sweden," Sands offers comfortingly. "Maybe it cancels out."
"No, that only works if he's Swiss," Bettany replies, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine. "Get used to the idea that we're utterly fucked, my friends. If we do survive, we'll all be pleasantly surprised and delighted."
"Just drive, Paul," Skarsgard tells him.
They've made it out of the compound and are three hundred metres down the street when Bettany suddenly slams the breaks and reverses all the way back in, almost crashing into the gate as it slowly creaks open.
"What the fuck, Paul?" snaps Chloe over the cans of mushroom soup that have just tumbled into her lap.
"I forgot the tea," says Bettany, scrambling out of the car and sprinting over to the house to retrieve his thermos.
"Oh my god," PJ moans. "We're really fucked."
---------
Disastrous start aside, the team gets back into the swing of things right around the time Bettany knocks over three consecutive zombies and Skarsgard winds down the window to take down a particularly rabid-looking one that's bounding towards them with startling vigour.
PJ's in front, poring over Bettany's large and tattered map, which turns out to be slightly outdated and (quite understandably) missing important roadblocks and car pileups that have occurred since publication. Bettany's method of overcoming such obstacles and setbacks seems to involve careening dangerously around them at sharp angles that make the van wobble and tip impossibly. The entire journey is interspersed with disapproving, "for fuck's sake"s from Chloe and faint snores from Sands, who has fallen asleep on Skarsgard's shoulder. In the meantime, Skarsgard has taken it upon himself to keep the mood light by regaling them first with anecdotes from his time in the Swedish marines, and later a series of jokes with punchlines impossible to accurately translate into English.
It's like a loud, noisy family road trip through a hellish landscape with even stranger company, where PJ is somehow suddenly the sanest person present. Bettany is maddeningly competent but still jittery at the wheel, and he alternates between requesting for "more fucking tea" and grumbling about how he needs to take a piss.
By the time they reach Epping, everyone has a headache - PJ's as a result of squinting at the map for close to four hours and Bettany's from the stresses of driving and the dwindling tea supply, while both Skarsgard and Chloe blame theirs on the vehicular Pulser. Only Sands is still sleeping like a baby, but he jerks awake when they pull into the car park where three other vans - or more accurately, two vans and a campervan - are stationed. All three vehicles have similar Pulser units attached to their roofs, PJ notes, but only one van - the smaller one - features a craggy Swedish man waving energetically out of its window.
"Yes, we've made it, Stellan," says Bettany tiredly, when the man hurries over to their window. "Safe and sound - does that monstrosity belong to Law, by the way?"
"I'm afraid so," Skarsgard Senior replies, before reaching through the other window to pat his son on the back. "I'm also afraid we're just about done with the assignment."
"You can't possibly be serious," Bettany exclaims, the same time Skarsgard buries his face in his hands.
"He's not joking," says another man approaching the car. From the look of disgust on Bettany's face it is possible to infer that he is Jude Law. "We're almost done, actually. You've missed all the fun bits."
"Lovely," Bettany replies, in a tone that suggests quite the opposite. "I don't suppose you have any hot water, do you?"
"You're in luck," says Law. He's got an infuriatingly rakish way of saying things that rather gets on PJ's nerves. "We brought a kettle. Shall I fill you thermos for you, mate?"
"That would be lovely," Bettany tells him, thrusting the empty thermos out at Law with a grin that would easily be mistaken as cordial if not for the fact that the entire exchange is taking place with all the van's doors shut and the window wound only halfway down.
They watch as Law heads off towards the campervan in search of hot water.
"He's English," Sands points out.
"Yes," says Bettany, "but they also have a legitimate Swiss person to cancel out their Englishness."
"Does this mean," Chloe demands, "that we've spent four hours in agony just so we can fill Paul's thermos flask and turn right back around?"
"I told you it was a good thing that we ran all those zombies over," says Skarsgard blandly.
"The good thing," Skarsgard Senior corrects, "is that we still get the money."
"Hooray," says Bettany, "now if only we could spend it on something. Oh, and look, poofter brigade headed towards us."
"How many times must I tell you to stop insulting homosexuals, Paul?" murmurs Skarsgard Senior.
"You'll probably have to remind me again after the one with the receding hairline hands me back my thermos flask," Bettany replies through gritted teeth, not bothering to lower his voice.
They're in for a very long night.
--------
The rule of thumb for any post-apocalyptic expedition, futile or not, is that some sort of zombie swarming must occur at some point along the way. As this does not happen while they are in Epping, it is only logical that this mishap must occur on their journey back.
Or at least, that's how PJ rationalises it.
The fact is that Pulsers are not infallible - careless rigging or plain inclement weather can seriously interfere with the transmitting devices. That, combined with the fact that the gate hadn't been closed properly after their second exit, has resulted in at least twenty zombies roaming the premises when they arrive back at the house.
"And that's not counting that asshole leaning out of the second floor window," Chloe adds.
"Bloody hell," says Bettany. "You leave for a day and the whole place goes to shit."
A number of the creatures now appear to have noticed them, and begin to shuffle towards their van. PJ can count at least seven on his side, three of which seem fresh and are thus moving slightly faster.
"I think," says Skarsgard, "that this would be a good time for that expression about mountains and Mohammed."
"You know," PJ tells him, "that makes very little sense."
"Or we could just decide on a plan of action that involves kicking their asses," Sands suggests.
"We could do that," Skarsgard replies, beaming round at everyone as he begins fiddling with his shotgun.
Outside, more and more zombies are swarming out of the house, and PJ wonders, with a sinking feeling, exactly how much time they'll have to spend cleaning the place up and making sure that no zombies are still hiding in its numerous shadowy corners.
"I'm all for kicking their asses, in case this comes to a vote," says Chloe.
"Me too," PJ adds, "though it would be nice if Paul could run a few of them over before we leap heroically out of the van."
"That can be arranged," says Bettany obligingly. He cranes his neck round to glance at the others. "Shall we, then?"
They're badass, PJ has to admit. They're seriously badass.
End
Notes: Thank you forochel for the beta. Title from this poem by Emily Dickinson. This story is a rather demented spinoff from a larger post-apocalyptic RPF universe laiqualaurelote located here: plague_project. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BB.♥
Fandom: Generation Kill RPF
Characters: PJ Ransone, Stark Sands and Alexander Skarsgard, among others
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: This is entirely fictional.
Word count: 5,500+
Summary: Here there be zombies. After the apocalypse, people try to survive.
Notes: For laiqualaurelote's birthday.
Chloe whispers James James wake up and when he opens his eyes it's morning already, muggy and damp and disagreeable like all the other English mornings he's woken up to before this one. His whole body aches. The inside of his mouth is gritty and when he runs his tongue over his teeth it tastes foul.
"Had a good sleep?" Bettany asks from across the room, where he's perched on a low plastic crate, fastidiously cleaning his guns.
"Maybe," says PJ, sitting up slowly so as not to aggravate his lingering headache. It doesn't work; pain pierces through his skull and he presses the palms of his hands over his eyes in a vain effort to make it go away. "Not really," he groans.
"Welcome back to hell," Bettany tells him, and PJ knows without looking that he's smirking unsympathetically.
In the cracked mirror, PJ looks at himself for the first time in weeks. He's gaunt, practically skeletal, and it is almost as if he has gone back to his smack days, if not for the knowledge that there are no drug dealers in the zombie districts. He makes a wretched attempt at a smile. Girls have always liked the way the corners of his eyes crinkle downwards; now he just looks like he's about to cry.
"Feeling pretty today?" asks Bettany, coming up behind him.
"Fuck you, Paul," PJ replies.
Bettany smiles - a real smile, sharklike and wicked like only he can manage. "Perhaps tomorrow," he tells PJ. "We're leaving."
They're all thin - fear-thin. Bettany, whom PJ remembers as being moderately muscular when they first met, now has a starved, wary narrowness about him. Chloe is as lovely as ever, though; battered and hard with her hair in a snarled knot at the nape of her neck, rifle always at the ready. When PJ pulls on his leather jacket he cannot help but notice how the material hangs in places where it used to be snug.
"Where are we going?" Chloe asks.
"To meet a friend of a friend," says Bettany.
PJ glances around at the hospital supplies they're leaving behind. "Why can't we just stay here?"
Somewhere above them, something lets out a chilling howl. Then an arrythmic thudding begins.
"What the fuck was that?" asks PJ.
"The reason why we can't stay here," says Bettany. "Come on, loves, we've got someone to meet."
---------
His parents name him Stark Bunker Sands probably as a result of a few grams of pot and a night of heavy drinking. Still, the name ends up counting for something - it's a strong name, and Stark is a strong man.
It happens to him the same way it happens for most people: coming in to Heathrow airport and finding out at the screening gate that he has residual traces of the infection. They put him in a van headed towards a quarantine centre two hours away with assurances of, "just another screening - nothing to worry about, sir," still unaware that said quarantine centre (and the surrounding area) has been compromised.
Officially, he's now one of the lost, one of the many who have been written off as casualties in the struggle against the infected. But he's not a casualty - not yet.
If Stark were the poetic sort he'd probably attribute his survival to his name. He's not the sort, though, so his name's probably only half the reason.
Stark has always been good at running. It makes a huge difference, when he and five others tumble out of the van to find themselves in real London; in old London - a dead, desolate inversion of a city that was once the heart of the country. He runs for his life when he witnesses the first transformation (a young woman he shared his tic tacs with earlier in the journey). In the next twenty-four hours, he also masters the art of using a baseball bat the way it is meant to be used - to knock someone's brains out. This is a good skill.
When the man finds him two days later Stark isn't sure whether he's dying of starvation, the infection, sheer terror, or all three.
"Are you a zombie?" asks the man, looking very imposing as he stands over Stark with a very huge gun in his hands.
"I don't know," says Stark, honestly. "Probably not."
"That's good enough for me," the man replies. He has a way of curling his voice around some of his vowels and consonants like he's taking especial care to say them properly. Stark does not get to ponder this for very long, because the man guns down three approaching zombies shortly after their exchange.
The man glances down at Stark and grins. "I'm Alexander Skarsgard."
---------
The authorities dump them in the zombie districts because they don't know what to do with more Americans coming in with residuals. PJ's got ADDICT (P) recorded in his health pass, which means he's fucked even before he attempts to explain to the screening officer at Heathrow that the (P) stands for being "so fucking clean you could see your own reflection, asshole".
He shouldn't have travelled. He knows that now; knows that his buddies were right. "England's fucked up, man," Eric told him, "I don't care how hot that pen-pal of yours is. I've known tons of people who've flown over and never come back." PJ won't be seeing Eric for a long time - that much is clear.
There are only two other people in the van with PJ - a sweet-faced blonde who had earlier conned PJ of not two but three cigarettes, and a man in a suit who looks about PJ's age but acts like he's a lot more important. They sit silently in the back of the van, the man still trying to get in touch with the embassy using his phone. PJ looks out the window at the ruined streets they are driving through, occasionally sneaking a glance at the girl, who is methodically picking at the tattered leather upholstery of the seat she's curled up in.
It's evening when the van drops the three of them off outside the quarantine centre, the driver giving them a slightly apologetic shrug as he hands each of them a mobile Pulser and pulls away.
"What, they're just leaving us here?" asks the girl. Her voice is soft and flat with something like panic.
"Seems like it," says the other man. He has a clammy pallor and a jittery way of moving that makes PJ very uncomfortable. "At least they left us these Pulsers."
"These Pulsers," says PJ, "are fucking useless."
"Does this mean we're on our own?" asks the girl.
"It means we're fucked," says PJ. He casts around for a moment before spotting a metal bar lying in the grass.
"What are you doing?" asks the man, eyeing PJ warily as he picks up the bar and tests its weight in his hands.
"Trying to make us a little less fucked," PJ replies. He hasn't survived a drug addiction and half a year of paperwork and screenings just to land in London and get eaten by zombies. He turns to the girl, who is loading a couple of rocks into the ragged tote she's still carrying. "Excuse me-"
"Chloe," says the girl, not smiling. "My name is Chloe."
"Chloe," PJ repeats. "I'm James," he tells her.
"I'm Hayden," the man interjects hurriedly. "And now that we're done introducing ourselves, what the fuck are we going to do?"
"If we stick together, we can probably get by using one Pulser for now," Chloe says, glancing between the two of them. "I'd like to find shelter but I'm not too keen on camping in there." She jerks her head in the direction of the quarantine centre behind them.
It won't be long before the zombies find them, PJ realises - this place is a dumping ground for fresh victims. The building, probably once a very busy hospital, is now a shell of broken windows and crumbling walls, dark bloodstains on its dull white paintwork. Five large Pulser units stand, chillingly silent, along the perimeter.
"I don't think we have a choice," says Hayden.
"Uncle Johnny wouldn't recommend it," says PJ, suddenly remembering those frankly ludicrous public service announcements that used to air in between the Saturday morning cartoons.
"So kids, listen to your Uncle Johnny," Chloe parrots in a throaty drawl, "in the event of an emergency, remain in your homes."
"Wow, yeah," says PJ, grinning despite their situation.
"Fuck Uncle Johnny," Hayden snaps. "It's going to rain."
They end up camping out in a smallish garage originally intended for ambulances, huddled around one of their three Pulsers while trying to forget the cold, their hunger, and the fact that their expected rate of survival is probably zero.
When PJ wakes up, Hayden is gone. He reaches over to rouse Chloe only to realise that she is already wide awake, staring fixedly at something behind him.
"What is it?" PJ asks.
Look, mouths Chloe.
PJ turns to the entrance of the garage. At least ten misshapen figures are standing out in the rain, held back, presumably, by only the faint radiation of their Pulser.
"Where's Hayden?" asks PJ, crawling backwards till he's next to Chloe.
"There." She points at one of them on the right.
"Fucking hell," says PJ. "He went off and brought friends."
The only reason why they're not dead or similarly infected is because of a device the size of a transistor radio, and PJ knows enough about Pulsers to know that portable ones don't last forever. For a while they just sit there trembling together as they watch the zombies standing only slightly more than five metres away from them, fidgeting soddenly, limp hunger in their slack expressions.
"Chloe. Do you have the other Pulsers?" PJ finally whispers.
"Yes," says Chloe.
"Okay," says PJ, more to steady himself than anything else. "Okay. Put those in your bag. When I say go, we'll bring this one to full power and make a run for it."
"Remember, children," Chloe is murmuring as she slides a trembling hand round to grip PJ's wrist, "what would Uncle Johnny do?"
"Kick their asses and run," PJ whispers. "That's what he'd do."
Three months ago, PJ received a commendation award from the police for chasing down and apprehending a robber who was trying to rape someone. He still remembers that shaky feeling of adrenaline; fear and fearlessless mingled together in a tense knot of uncertainty. What he's experiencing now is ten times worse.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Go!"
PJ grabs his metal bar and scrambles to his feet, Chloe close behind and clutching on to their Pulser, which whirs into overdrive as she wrenches the setting to full power. The zombies stumble back, but before PJ and Chloe can make a run for it, the Pulser sputters and dies.
"What do we do now?" Chloe shrieks, as the figures begin lurching towards them.
"Get the other one working!" PJ hisses, holding his metal bar aloft.
"Oh my god," Chloe moans, fumbling inside her tote. "Oh my god."
The zombies are closing in. PJ stands his ground, ready to bring the bar crashing down onto the skull of the nearest one, when a gunshot rings out suddenly. The zombie crumples to the ground.
Two more shots. Once-Hayden goes down as well.
Chloe gets the Pulser working; as it judders to life, the other seven zombies stumble backwards in a grotesque parody of anger and fear.
"Hang on, loves," calls a voice from outside. It's a man's voice, ridiculously calm. "Be with you in a bit."
"There are seven of them," PJ shouts back. "I don't know if our Pulser's going to last."
"Do you mind doing me a bit of a favour and just driving them out?" asks the man, still sounding as if he's just inviting them over for a cup of tea. "Bit hard to get a shot from here."
"What the fuck?" Chloe whispers, but holds the Pulser out shakily anyway.
"Okay," shouts PJ. "We're trying!"
"Thanks, mate."
They've barely taken two steps forward when four more shots ring out, one after another, each hitting a zombie right in the head.
"Holy fuck," says Chloe. "Who exactly is this guy?"
Her question is answered almost immediately, when a tallish man in a trenchcoat appears at the entrance and takes out two of the remaining three zombies with a hatchet.
"You there, with the metal bar," says the man, pointing at PJ and then at the last zombie. "Aim for the head."
PJ readjusts his grip on his weapon, before whacking the zombie across the forehead as hard as he can. There is a sick crack upon impact, and the zombie collapses to the ground, still twitching.
"Lovely," beams the man, before bringing his hatchet down on the zombie's head once more for good measure. He grins up at them when he's done. "Paul Bettany, pleasure to meet you."
---------
It seems that they cannot start the morning of a road trip without killing at least fifteen zombies and stunning the rest of them with a cranked-up Pulser. By the time they pile into Bettany's van they are completely wrecked and covered in grime again.
"Wonderful," says Bettany, as he reverses out of the hospital lobby (living in the zombie districts has its plus points) and runs over three more zombies. PJ sits in the back seat and clings on for dear life to the two drained Pulser canisters as they careen off down the street.
"Now will you tell us where we're going?" Chloe asks. She's still gripping her rifle - hasn't put it down since Bettany taught her how to use one.
"We're meeting up with some guys I know," Bettany replies. "Out of the districts, a little way away from the Green zones. They're like us - people with residuals, living off-grid."
"Why couldn't we have met up with them earlier?" asks PJ. They've spent a month subsisting on meagre food rations in the basement of the hospital Bettany has camped out in, taking turns to operate and charge the Pulsers and occasionally venturing out in pairs to look for other stragglers. It's not been the best of situations; PJ's only taken one shower in the past three weeks, and every day has either been spent climbing things, taking out zombies or running away from them.
"The incubation period for the infection is a month long," says Bettany, simply. "It's happened before. We take in a guy, he later turns, and someone has to clean up the mess."
"Who are you people?" asks Chloe.
Bettany turns a corner, barely avoiding an armless zombie dragging its feet as it crosses the street. "Thought you'd never ask," he quips. "I suppose you're aware of hunting as a business, am I right? Hunting zombies. All the veterans do it - Johnny's got his own crew assembled in Arizona."
"Johnny Depp?" PJ repeats. Depp's the man who invented the Pulser, while hidden in a friend's fortified basement during the first months of the infection.
"Heard of any other veterans of the apocalypse named Johnny?" asks Bettany, glancing at PJ in the rearview mirror. "Thought not. So Uncle Johnny's earning a shitload of money taking care of zombie infestations for the US government, and a couple of his good friends across the pond start wondering if they can get in the business too. A little franchising, if you like. One of these guys is my best friend, who asks me if I'd like some direction and purpose in my life after losing my wife and two children during the Lockdown."
"Oh my god," murmurs Chloe. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks, darling, but I'm quite all right," says Bettany, flashing her a quick grin that might or might not be slightly wry. "Went absolutely out of my mind with a ton of alcohol for a while but that friend put me to rights. Where was I? Ah, right." He swerves past an overturned car in the middle of the road. "So we start a hunting business, get a shitload of guns and ammo, set up our own Pulsers. He even calls his son down - this guy's not local, you see - but there's still only three of us."
"What's wrong with having only three of you?" asks PJ.
"Bit of a small operation, don't you think?" asks Bettany. "It's all right if you're running away from the buggers, but if you're planning on securing towns and things, five is the absolute minimum."
"So you're not actually hunters," Chloe summarises.
"Not yet," Bettany replies. "We're pretty lethal at the moment, but still at more of a... gathering stage."
"Gathering," PJ repeats. "Gathering... people like us?"
"So this is a recruitment drive?" asks Chloe.
In the driver's seat, Bettany shrugs. "I don't save people's lives for free, you know."
---------
After two hours of driving, they pull into a compound that looks, despite PJ's best efforts to imagine otherwise, like a heavily fortified junkyard. Huge Pulsers line the high fences at regular intervals, hooked up to rumbling generators connected to a haphazard sprawl of solar panels. In the middle of the landscape of broken-down vehicles and disemboweled mattresses sits a dilapidated Victorian-style house.
Two men are standing at the entrance, beaming and waving enthusiastically as the three of them get out of Bettany's van.
"Is your Papa back yet?" Bettany calls to the taller man.
"He went out again with the other two," the man replies. As they draw near, PJ can see that he's at least an inch taller than Bettany and would be every bit as imposing if not for the fact that he's wearing a tartan dressing gown and a pair of slightly ridiculous grizzly bear bedroom slippers. Standing next to each other they almost look like brothers; two equally but diversely eccentric figures with a distinctly Aryan look about them.
"He said he'd be back soon, though," adds the other man. He's slightly shorter but no less muscular, and he's holding a battered-looking baseball bat. PJ notices that his eyes are very green.
"Right," says Bettany. "You haven't been introduced. This," and here he gestures at the taller man, "is Alexander Skarsgard. His friend over there is Stark Sands, who, more than a year ago, found himself in a similar situation as you two. Gents, this is James Ransone and the lovely lady is Chloe..."
"Sevigny," Chloe supplies, primly.
"Lovely," Bettany replies. "And now if you'll excuse me, it's been a long four weeks, and I'm going in to make myself a cup of Earl Grey."
He vanishes off into the house, leaving the four of them staring awkwardly at each other.
"Let me get this straight," says PJ after a long moment. "The British government pronounced me a biological hazard and left me to die by zombie in the middle of London. I've been rescued by a man who in every way possible fits the description of 'shady character' and whose notion of safety is bringing us to a house that looks exactly like the one from Fight Club."
"Cool house, huh?" Skarsgard murmurs, lips quirking into a grin that makes him look slightly goofy.
"For a while we had a nagging suspicion that we were the same person," Sands says. He has a rapid-fire way of talking that makes everything he says sound like it's going to be extremely important. "Then one day we jerked off in the same room and Alex's dad walked in on us."
"So now we know," Skarsgard concludes.
"That's just kind of gay," PJ informs them, wondering why the hell anyone would bring something like that up in a conversation with people they've just met.
"I'm afraid not," says Skarsgard, looking slightly pained.
"Believe me," Sands adds, "we've tried. If it worked at all between us we'd be going at it like rabbits."
"It's hard to live alone," Skarsgard tells them, by way of explanation. "Paul only visits once a month, and I think Lee and Pawel like to pretend they don't know us."
"Not that we'd want to do any of them," says Sands.
"Or each other," Skarsgard finishes.
"...I'm going to get some tea," says Chloe, heading into the house.
"It's nice meeting you," says Skarsgard, staring after her.
"Is she your-" Sands begins.
"No," says PJ. He's not sure if he should sound more regretful. "I'm going to get some tea."
---------
The phrase Bettany uses to describe Skarsgard and Sands is "slightly batty", but after three days in the same wing of the house as the two of them, PJ is quite ready to amend it to, "rather fucking demented".
"That's apt, too," Bettany agrees, peering at PJ over his newspaper. Now that there isn't an active zombie threat, Bettany has become suprisingly sedentary, spending most of his time in an armchair with a cup of tea on the side table. PJ has only seen him get up twice since their arrival at the house, apart from visits to the bathroom or when he's shuffling off to bed - the first time was to get another teabag and the second was to swat Skarsgard with a newspaper for standing in front of the television.
"Where did you even find these guys?" PJ demands. "I mean, Skarsgard has a diagram of a 2015 Pulser tattooed on his lower back."
"You have tattoos too," says Bettany mildly. Before PJ can protest about how his tattoos look miles better, he adds, "I'd say Alex's are rather more useful."
The house is constantly noisy - the stairs creak and the doors make a hollow thunking sound no matter how carefully they try to shut them. When Chloe isn't in the basement shooting things, the others are watching videotapes of old Swedish soccer matches on the small television screen in the sitting room. The Pulsers are perpetually switched on, surrounding them with a cacophony of metallic grumbling.
Skarsgard and Sands appear to have no concept of personal space. Some mornings, PJ finishes pissing in the toilet bowl only to turn around and see Skarsgard brushing his teeth at the sink and Sands getting ready to take a shower. He has no idea what Skarsgard used to do but Sands used to be an actor - he has a lovely singing voice that nevertheless puts PJ on edge every time he climbs cheerfully into the bathtub together with PJ.
At points, PJ is convinced that they're winding him up intentionally - if Bettany were the one doing it that would certainly be the case - but there's something hopelessly sincere about what they're doing; as if it's a silent, silly ritual of welcoming him into the fold. Skarsgard could pat PJ on the back and say, "You're a hunter now, like us," but he doesn't. Instead, he stands in the mirror and compares PJ's no dice tattoos with his Pulser diagram and later steals most of his cornflakes at breakfast. They revel in the ridiculousness of the fact that they are alive, alive and whole and kind of very badass when they're actually hunting some zombies.
A week after they arrive, PJ wakes up to find Skarsgard standing by his mattress, dressed in black a full-body jumpsuit.
"That is a disturbing amount of ammunition you have strapped to your chest," PJ observes, after a moment of sleep-addled confusion.
"Somebody has to save your ass," Skarsgard says kindly.
Outside, the others are loading what appears to be the entire contents of the armoury into the larger van.
"Hurry up, children," Bettany calls as he flings a crate of insect spray into the back seat, "Mum hasn't got all day!"
"What's going on?" PJ asks, snatching his leather jacket out of Skarsgard's hands and pulling it on over the stiff undershirt he's been sleeping in.
"We've got an assignment," Sands tells him, giving the both a once over. "Shoes, Alex."
"Right," says Skarsgard, toeing off his bedroom slippers and wandering off, presumably to locate his boots.
Chloe is weaving through all the chaos of loading up like she's been doing this all her life. She's still wearing the same jacket and jeans she had on when they first met, but has since lopped off most of her hair such that very little of it pokes out under the beanie she has on. PJ looks at her, hardened and changed from weeks of having to survive and keep alive, and wonders if the others can see a similar transformation in himself.
"Where are we going?" PJ asks Sands.
"Epping," Sands replies, excitement making him talk twice as urgently. "I have no idea where that is, but we're going to secure the town."
"You," says Bettany, shoving a map into PJ's arms, "navigation."
"What?"
"Navigation," Bettany repeats. "You'll keep an eye out on the roadsigns."
"Any word from the others?" Sands asks.
"They're there with another team, laying out Pulsers," replies Bettany. "I can't believe Jude fucking Law got there first, of all people."
"Our Pulser's up," Chloe calls. "We're ready to go."
Bettany nods. "Shall we?" he asks, before heading towards the van. "Though I have absolutely no clue why all of you are so bloody excited," he adds. "This entire operation's success rate is exponentially lowered to begin with, by virtue the fact that I am English."
"Alex is from Sweden," Sands offers comfortingly. "Maybe it cancels out."
"No, that only works if he's Swiss," Bettany replies, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine. "Get used to the idea that we're utterly fucked, my friends. If we do survive, we'll all be pleasantly surprised and delighted."
"Just drive, Paul," Skarsgard tells him.
They've made it out of the compound and are three hundred metres down the street when Bettany suddenly slams the breaks and reverses all the way back in, almost crashing into the gate as it slowly creaks open.
"What the fuck, Paul?" snaps Chloe over the cans of mushroom soup that have just tumbled into her lap.
"I forgot the tea," says Bettany, scrambling out of the car and sprinting over to the house to retrieve his thermos.
"Oh my god," PJ moans. "We're really fucked."
---------
Disastrous start aside, the team gets back into the swing of things right around the time Bettany knocks over three consecutive zombies and Skarsgard winds down the window to take down a particularly rabid-looking one that's bounding towards them with startling vigour.
PJ's in front, poring over Bettany's large and tattered map, which turns out to be slightly outdated and (quite understandably) missing important roadblocks and car pileups that have occurred since publication. Bettany's method of overcoming such obstacles and setbacks seems to involve careening dangerously around them at sharp angles that make the van wobble and tip impossibly. The entire journey is interspersed with disapproving, "for fuck's sake"s from Chloe and faint snores from Sands, who has fallen asleep on Skarsgard's shoulder. In the meantime, Skarsgard has taken it upon himself to keep the mood light by regaling them first with anecdotes from his time in the Swedish marines, and later a series of jokes with punchlines impossible to accurately translate into English.
It's like a loud, noisy family road trip through a hellish landscape with even stranger company, where PJ is somehow suddenly the sanest person present. Bettany is maddeningly competent but still jittery at the wheel, and he alternates between requesting for "more fucking tea" and grumbling about how he needs to take a piss.
By the time they reach Epping, everyone has a headache - PJ's as a result of squinting at the map for close to four hours and Bettany's from the stresses of driving and the dwindling tea supply, while both Skarsgard and Chloe blame theirs on the vehicular Pulser. Only Sands is still sleeping like a baby, but he jerks awake when they pull into the car park where three other vans - or more accurately, two vans and a campervan - are stationed. All three vehicles have similar Pulser units attached to their roofs, PJ notes, but only one van - the smaller one - features a craggy Swedish man waving energetically out of its window.
"Yes, we've made it, Stellan," says Bettany tiredly, when the man hurries over to their window. "Safe and sound - does that monstrosity belong to Law, by the way?"
"I'm afraid so," Skarsgard Senior replies, before reaching through the other window to pat his son on the back. "I'm also afraid we're just about done with the assignment."
"You can't possibly be serious," Bettany exclaims, the same time Skarsgard buries his face in his hands.
"He's not joking," says another man approaching the car. From the look of disgust on Bettany's face it is possible to infer that he is Jude Law. "We're almost done, actually. You've missed all the fun bits."
"Lovely," Bettany replies, in a tone that suggests quite the opposite. "I don't suppose you have any hot water, do you?"
"You're in luck," says Law. He's got an infuriatingly rakish way of saying things that rather gets on PJ's nerves. "We brought a kettle. Shall I fill you thermos for you, mate?"
"That would be lovely," Bettany tells him, thrusting the empty thermos out at Law with a grin that would easily be mistaken as cordial if not for the fact that the entire exchange is taking place with all the van's doors shut and the window wound only halfway down.
They watch as Law heads off towards the campervan in search of hot water.
"He's English," Sands points out.
"Yes," says Bettany, "but they also have a legitimate Swiss person to cancel out their Englishness."
"Does this mean," Chloe demands, "that we've spent four hours in agony just so we can fill Paul's thermos flask and turn right back around?"
"I told you it was a good thing that we ran all those zombies over," says Skarsgard blandly.
"The good thing," Skarsgard Senior corrects, "is that we still get the money."
"Hooray," says Bettany, "now if only we could spend it on something. Oh, and look, poofter brigade headed towards us."
"How many times must I tell you to stop insulting homosexuals, Paul?" murmurs Skarsgard Senior.
"You'll probably have to remind me again after the one with the receding hairline hands me back my thermos flask," Bettany replies through gritted teeth, not bothering to lower his voice.
They're in for a very long night.
--------
The rule of thumb for any post-apocalyptic expedition, futile or not, is that some sort of zombie swarming must occur at some point along the way. As this does not happen while they are in Epping, it is only logical that this mishap must occur on their journey back.
Or at least, that's how PJ rationalises it.
The fact is that Pulsers are not infallible - careless rigging or plain inclement weather can seriously interfere with the transmitting devices. That, combined with the fact that the gate hadn't been closed properly after their second exit, has resulted in at least twenty zombies roaming the premises when they arrive back at the house.
"And that's not counting that asshole leaning out of the second floor window," Chloe adds.
"Bloody hell," says Bettany. "You leave for a day and the whole place goes to shit."
A number of the creatures now appear to have noticed them, and begin to shuffle towards their van. PJ can count at least seven on his side, three of which seem fresh and are thus moving slightly faster.
"I think," says Skarsgard, "that this would be a good time for that expression about mountains and Mohammed."
"You know," PJ tells him, "that makes very little sense."
"Or we could just decide on a plan of action that involves kicking their asses," Sands suggests.
"We could do that," Skarsgard replies, beaming round at everyone as he begins fiddling with his shotgun.
Outside, more and more zombies are swarming out of the house, and PJ wonders, with a sinking feeling, exactly how much time they'll have to spend cleaning the place up and making sure that no zombies are still hiding in its numerous shadowy corners.
"I'm all for kicking their asses, in case this comes to a vote," says Chloe.
"Me too," PJ adds, "though it would be nice if Paul could run a few of them over before we leap heroically out of the van."
"That can be arranged," says Bettany obligingly. He cranes his neck round to glance at the others. "Shall we, then?"
They're badass, PJ has to admit. They're seriously badass.
End
Notes: Thank you forochel for the beta. Title from this poem by Emily Dickinson. This story is a rather demented spinoff from a larger post-apocalyptic RPF universe laiqualaurelote located here: plague_project. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BB.♥