When It All Goes to Hell by ohnoscarlett, PART 1 of 3
TITLE: When It All Goes to Hell
AUTHOR: ohnoscarlett
BANDS: Panic, MCR, FOB
PAIRING: Brendon/Spencer
WORD COUNT: 26k
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: sex, violence
SUMMARY: It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...
NOTES: Many thanks to the mods of bandombigbang. As always, this was a lot of fun. Thanks also to my fabulous and long-suffering beta, cloudlessclimes. Couldn't have done it without you, bb.
Spencer swung his arm, sending the machete cleanly through the neck of the guy in front of him and lopping of his head. He didn’t even wait for the body to hit the floor before he turned away and made sure the rest of the room was clear.
Spencer liked to carry a machete, a sawed-off shotgun, and a flamethrower. It was good to have a variety of reliable weapons, not to mention a backup for your backup. He tended to rely pretty heavily on the machete, even though close-contact wasn’t ideal. Close-contact with zombies seemed to be just the way it goes.
At least, that was generally what went through his head when he was knee-deep in it.
There had been seven zombies in this particular neighborhood. Spencer found them easily enough and hadn’t even had to break out his expendables. His fee would go a long way covering gas and food if he didn’t have bullets and propane to replace.
The guy in charge--the mayor, an alderman, a councilor, somebody with money, whoever--met him in the street once it was safe to be outside again. This place hadn’t been that bad, and frankly, Spencer wondered what was wrong with these people if they couldn’t pick off a couple zombies themselves.
It was hard to believe that this was his life. Spencer hunted zombies for a living. Ha ha. For money. He was good at it, and there was a need, so it was a natural progression.
The guy met Spencer out in the street when he was done. He had to stand there for a while, waiting until people decided it was ok. Sometimes it took some time, especially when there weren’t gunshots or a fire to extinguish. But the guy came out soon enough and handed Spencer an envelope thick with cash. Spencer just nodded and turned away silently, the envelope clutched tightly in one hand, machete in the other.
He had to find a place to stay for the night.
***
So Spencer was a zombie hunter. He was employed by survivors to hunt and kill zombies wherever they popped up--and they did, with an alarming frequency. Spencer didn’t have a phone, or email, yet people seemed to be able to find him. People still talked, even if a lot of the modern amenities had gone to shit with no one to manage them.
Spencer walked down the middle of the street with his head up and his machete held loosely at his side. He always made sure to look clearly whole and healthy so nobody with a nervous trigger finger would be tempted to take him out. Zombies shambled, so Spencer walked with a purpose.
He stopped at the end of the block and looked down the cross streets. He had come without a plan and left the same way. Plans had a tendency to fall through, so Spencer often just went where the wind--and outbreaks--took him. Los Angeles kept him busy.
The twitching of curtains caught his eye, and as Spencer turned he saw a hand and a flash of blonde hair. He stood still for a moment, square in the center of the intersection, but unafraid of traffic. There were few functioning vehicles these days, even though Spencer had one himself that he struggled daily to maintain. He slept in it more than he drove it. Still, Spencer waited. This was usually the time he got an offer.
Sure enough, a minute later, the front door of the house on the corner cracked open and a girl beckoned to him. Spencer had grace enough not to shrug his shoulders, and to drop his eyes to at least pretend modesty. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know what was probably going to happen.
He didn’t sleep with all of them.
***
Spencer appreciated it, he did. He got to sleep in a bed in a semi-secure location, he got a real shower--sometimes even with hot water. He usually even got a meal or two--also sometimes hot. That he often had fervent, we-didn’t-get-eaten-alive-today sex with the older daughters or generally younger women--even a young man or two-- of the communities he serviced... well. He didn’t dwell on it. In the end they didn’t want to keep him and he didn’t want to stay. It all worked out one way or another.
***
Spencer couldn’t decide if he was very slowly working his way east, back to Las Vegas, or trying to avoid doing the same. He hadn’t been back to see his family since before the outbreaks began. His father had been ill for some time, so Spencer had been making the trip with some regularity until finally his father worsened and died. That had been the last time he had seen his mother and his sisters, back at the funeral. He hadn’t heard from them in the months following. Spencer hoped that it was due to the loss of phone and internet connections. His mother was a sensible woman, with resources, and his sisters were strong and smart. He hoped they were holed up somewhere safe. But he had vivid nightmares of the alternative.
***
Spencer woke in the gray light of early morning. He was a light sleeper, he had to be so nothing surprised him in the middle of the night. He couldn’t figure out what woke him until he remembered the girl. She lay curled up next to him, the sheets twisted in her fists. She was having a nightmare. Spencer sighed and petted her hair and stroked her cheek gently til she woke with a start. When she whispered his name it sent a shiver down his spine, like someone walked over his grave, as his grandma would say.
“I have to go,” he said softly.
“I know.”
***
Spencer’s truck was exactly where he left it, about a mile from the last outbreak. He didn’t know why he just didn’t drive right in, but when he walks the last bit he can get a better feeling about the place, and it’s kind of a warm-up, like a pre-game stretch. It’s a risk no matter what he does.
He drives a Land Rover, which, he had to admit, was something of a throwback to his former life. It had four wheel drive, and plenty of room for his stuff in the back, but it was kind of ostentatious. He couldn’t bring himself to trade it; was a good truck, after all.
Spencer did a quick sweep of the area as he approached his vehicle. There wasn’t any chatter about more zombie activity, but it was better to be safe than sorry. When he got near enough, he crouched down to peer under the chassis. Once it was all clear, Spencer heaved open the tailgate to load up his gear.
The flamethrower went in first. It was his largest piece of ambulatory equipment and took up a good deal of the load space. He didn’t have to use it this time around, so it was good with just a quick once-over and a double-check on the propane levels. Spencer took a moment to consider the straps, rubbing one between his fingers and frowning. He was developing a tender spot on his shoulder where the join of one strap had been scraping his skin. He’d have to work it out when he did his last push before moving.
The shotgun went in next. It was an old 12 gauge Remington he found at an army surplus store. The previous owner had taken the trouble to saw off much of the barrel, so the guy behind the counter was more than happy to get the sketchy thing out of his sight. Spencer got it for a song.
Like the flamethrower, Spencer hadn't needed to use his shotgun to clear up that last patch of zombies. The gun needed to be dismantled and cleaned anyway, but he could do it when he was in for the night. He was getting low on rounds too.
One more brief glance around and Spencer shut the tailgate before walking around to the drivers side. He set the machete in the passenger seat, an easy grab if he needed it. It wasn't his best choice while driving, but Spencer figured that one day he'd bring up the shotgun instead. For now though, the machete was his favorite and he rarely put it down.
Spencer maneuvered his truck carefully through the empty streets. The place he had been staying in on this side of the city wasn't far. He had given up his house fairly quickly after the first outbreaks. It had been a nice house, but it was impossible to keep secure; too many windows. These days he preferred smaller and darker, if he could get it. Ideally, he tried to stay in an upstairs apartment with a separate entrance. It was even better if he could disguise or barricade or pull up the stairs. He really liked when he could pull up the stairs.
Nothing was moving when Spencer pulled into the driveway, but he sat still after cutting the ignition anyway. He tried to move quietly--which really explained much of his reluctance to drive the truck most of the time; it was rather loud in what had become the silence of the modern world. Noise attracted zombies. When still nothing stirred, Spencer got out and fetched his things to take inside.
His place of late was a second floor back apartment whose steps were hidden behind a stucco wall. Spencer held a weapon in each hand as he walked around the building. The entire block had been empty since before Spencer had arrived, but he had managed to stay alive this long by being careful and he had no intention of stopping now.
Spencer made it inside and bolted the door behind him before setting down his things. He had never been surprised by a zombie once he had made it inside of wherever he was staying, but Spencer pulled a pistol from his pack and inspected the apartment just the same. Once he was satisfied, he sat at the kitchen table to take stock.
At some point in the preceding 24 hours he had decided to go. He needed to know about his family. He needed to know if his mother and sisters were ok. LA could do without him.
Spencer had a twelve point list for emergencies. In pre-zombie Los Angeles it had been contained in a duffle bag in the back of the closet in case of earthquakes. It quickly morphed into a set of rubbermaid bins that he scavenged to keep full.
First on the list was water. He had one of those big old picnic drink coolers with the spigot at the bottom, but it leaked incessantly and he was always on the lookout for a replacement. Spencer had a whole bin full of plastic water bottles which he kept in reserve for when he didn't have access to water he could boil. The water in a lot of places was still running, if cold and of dubious quality. Spencer fired up his propane camp stove and set a pot to boil. He wanted as much water as he could stow if he was going into the desert.
The second item on his list was, of course, food. A quick search when he first moved in to the apartment had revealed relatively well stocked cupboards. Many places were left as if their inhabitants had simply evaporated into thin air. Spencer tried not to think about it too hard. The outbreaks had swept through with incredible speed, leaving most people flat out dead. Most of those who survived whatever it was didn't really last much longer. It took mere days for the first zombies to emerge, and they finished off the majority of the people who were left. And zombies didn't need canned goods.
Since Spencer was moving on, he methodically searched the cabinets and pulled down everything edible. It was mostly cans, and various boxes that looked promising. His food bin was nearly full, but he figured he could run down and check out the house proper later, see if they had anything good. He was craving Oreos in the worst way.
Spencer was lucky enough to have been perfectly healthy, down to even lacking seasonal allergies, but you never knew what could happen. He searched bathroom cabinets just as he did the ones in kitchens, and even bedside tables. People put stuff all over the place. Spencer merely collected what he found and placed it all in a plastic tool box. Somebody might need it someday, even if it was just aspirin.
The first aid kit was a completely separate entity that he kept tucked down in the well on the front passenger seat. It was crammed full of bandages and rubbing alcohol and gauze and neosporin. He kept it close, even though he knew that if he ever had a real need of it he was pretty much screwed.
The old duffle bag, formerly Spencer’s emergency kit, now served to hold smaller miscellaneous items; essentially the remains of the kit. There he kept a utility knife, duct tape, a battery-powered radio and some extra batteries. In reality, he rarely used it, but he had it if the need arose.
Spencer had another bin that held cleaning supplies, more or less. There was a bottle of bleach, laundry soap, and his personal kit: bath soap, deodorant, toothpaste, all that. He kept a couple spare changes of clothes, and lots of socks and underwear. There was another one for colder weather gear, with a warm coat, hat, gloves, and a good pair of boots. Spencer hated the cold, but he felt the need to be prepared.
He hadn’t been much of a camper, back in the day, but Spencer still had a fairly decent sleeping bag and one of those little blue foam mats to add one more layer between himself and the ground. When he was in an apartment that really wasn’t an issue; he just slept in a bed. But the sleeping bag was there if he needed it, and he often did, sleeping in the truck.
The last things Spencer checked before he considered himself ready to move were his weapons. He cleaned and sharpened the machete, then dismantled and cleaned the shotgun. More shells would not be out of order, nor would more propane, both for the camp stove and for the flamethrower. He hadn’t even pulled the flamethrower out of the truck when he got back, but he could slap on a piece of duct tape to the rough patch on the strap and consider it good.
He needed to go to the store.
***
Spencer found a guy determined to stick it out and keep on doing what he was doing--in this case, running an army surplus store--shortly after the outbreaks started. It came in incredibly handy. Spencer would drive across the city to stock up on things if he had to, and he often did. There were a few like Ian, stubbornly convinced that in time, the zombies would be eliminated--or at least under some sort of control--and life would return to what it once had been. Spencer wasn’t operating under that assumption, but he wasn’t going to burst anyone’s bubble. They could figure it out for themselves.
With his truck packed up and the apartment cleared, Spencer felt just about ready to head out to Vegas. If anyone had propane and 12-gauge shells, Ian would. And Ian usually had a good ear for what was going on in the street.
He drove slowly through the city. It was pretty quiet, even at midday. Ian’s store was in Old Hollywood; emphasis on the old. It was a dump, even more so than it used to be. Most people stayed inside, so odds were that if he saw anyone, it was probably a zombie. The closest movement Spencer saw was still blocks away, so he couldn’t tell who it was, nor was he in the mood to investigate.
There was a plain sign up on the door to the store to indicate that it was indeed still open, but no neon or anything flashy. It always made Spencer chuckle, thinking of “Clerks”, a movie he had seen several times. He figured Ian probably had too. It wasn’t a sheet and shoe polish, but it had it’s charm.
I assure you we are open.
Ian’s sign also had the date. It was a subtle signal that things were a little different. So many places did still have their “open for business” signs up, but simply because they were never taken down. You kind of had to know the army surplus store was still operating, to want to look for it, but Ian did his best not to attract unwanted visitors, zombies and scavengers alike.
Spencer parked at the end of the block and walked the rest of the way. He only carried his shotgun and the machete, hung from a sheath on his belt, which bumped against his thigh with every step. It was quiet, but Spencer felt off.
There was a doorbell newly mounted at the entrance to the store, with tiny lettering instructing patrons to “please announce your presence”. Ian hadn’t wanted to accidentally shoot someone just trying to do some shopping. Zombies didn’t read, and they didn’t tend to politely let you know they were coming in. Spencer pressed the button and waited; presumably it could be heard inside. He hoped it was heard inside.
He didn’t have to wait long. Spencer had the chance to glance around and be sure nothing was about when the door opened and Ian smilingly beckoned him inside. Ian was a young man about Spencer’s age, with a messy head of curls and thick glasses. Spencer had liked him immediately.
“Spencer!” he cheered. “What are you in for?”
“Usual,” Spencer replied, even as Ian turned away, disappearing into the warren of shelves and boxes. He returned bearing a carton of propane canisters with an entire case of shotgun shells balanced on top.
“Have you tried salt rounds?” Ian asked as he thumped his load on the counter.
“Salt?” Spencer wondered.
“Yeah!” Ian assured him with a wide grin. “I’ve been doing some research--”
“Zombie movies?”
“Yeah. Apparently, feeding zombies salt will return them to the grave.”
“Huh. So, like, feeding zombies. Put out a salt lick?” Spencer suggested doubtfully. Ian laughed.
“Not literally! I don’t think... But like, shoot them with it? It’s got to be easier to reload with something like rock salt than it is with buck shot. Do you know how to reload?” Spencer shook his head and Ian was off again into the back of the store without further comment.
Spencer just shook his head as he watched Ian go. The store had a little generator, and sporadic electricity. Ian liked movies-clearly-and watched something as often as he could. Spencer figured it was his coping mechanism, his way to stay sane. But then Spencer also figured that Ian thought he was Han Solo. He was resourceful, at least.
Spencer was a fast learner. Ian had all the components and the tools and showed Spencer how he could just get empty shells and fill them with pretty much anything he wanted. It could turn out to be a useful skill, particularly because bags of rock salt could be found in almost any store, and if he still had to buy them, for significantly cheaper than regular rounds.
“I kind of don’t want to have to experiment,” Spencer admitted hesitantly, rolling a fresh shell between his fingers.
“Well,” Ian began, and his tone made Spencer peer at him suspiciously.
“What?”
“You might be able to try it out around here,” he admitted.
“Seriously? What do you know?”
“I think we might have a couple in the neighborhood,” Ian said flatly.
“Have you seen them?” Spencer asked, voice tight. Ian shrugged.
“Not up close, but near enough to tell. They’ve got the walk.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Spencer said with a sigh. “Let’s clean up your neighborhood. Can’t let it all go downhill. Come on.”
“I--”
“What is it?” Spencer asked.
“I can’t see for shit,” Ian muttered, looking at the floor.
“But your glasses--”
“Broke. These ones are old,” he gestured toward his face. “I can see enough to get around and stuff, but if I need to read... And I’m a terrible shot anyway.”
“Jesus, Ian.”
"Yeah," Ian replied sheepishly. "Can you--"
"Yeah," Spencer said, low, starting to steel himself for the encounter.
"I can afford you, you know."
"Don't worry about it, Ian," Spencer returned. "We can test your theory."
Ian just grinned as Spencer loaded the shotgun.
***
Spencer moved slowly down the street in the direction Ian said he had last seen zombies. It was no guarantee that he would find anything, but it was as good a direction as any. It was back the way he had come, and Spencer wondered if it had been zombies that he had seen out of the corner of his eye on the way over.
Movement got his attention further down the block. Three zombies were shambling around the corner and definitely homing in on him. Spencer took a deep breath and flicked the Remington off safe.
Spencer was a pretty good shot--he had to be to survive, doing what he did day after day. His first shot hit a zombie in the shoulder, causing it to fall backwards and trip up the second. Spencer aimed and shot at the third zombie, hitting it square in the chest and again lifting it off its feet. Spencer's third shot took off most of the tripper's head as it got to its feet.
There were still two rounds left but Spencer took a moment to reload while he waited to see if the zombies were really dead. Both of his coat pockets were full of the salt rounds that he and Ian had made in the store. Spencer quickly slipped a few into the breach as he moved a little closer to the twisted pile of rotting flesh on the pavement.
He was fairly sure the one without most of its head was dead. Taking care of the brain did the job no matter what method was used. Spencer was kind of surprised that salt did so much damage, but as he got closer and could see better, he could see similar results with the one he got in the chest. It wasn't generally a killing blow for a zombie--you usually had to destroy the brain--but this shot would have killed a regular person, and the zombie seemed down for the count. Normally, shooting a zombie in the chest wouldn’t even slow it down. Salt seemed to do what buckshot couldn't.
Spencer's first shot hadn't quite done the job. The zombie lay twitching on the ground, writhing like anyone would who had gotten shot in the shoulder. Spencer was pretty close; enough that shooting the zombie again seemed like a waste of ammunition. Instead, he unsnapped the sheath and withdrew his machete. The zombie was on its feet again once Spencer was in reach, but a quick slash finished it off, in a particularly messy fashion.
Spencer walked back to Ian's store just as carefully as if he hadn't just killed what were presumably the only zombies in the area. On one hand he was pretty excited about proving Ian correct about the effect of salt rounds on zombie flesh, but on the other he was kind of annoyed. Salt seemed to accelerate decomposition, so what Ian had said about "returning zombies to the grave" was fairly accurate.
Even as he turned away the three zombies were little more than piles of mush in the street. It still had to be a kill shot, as evidenced by zombie number one, but salt did way more damage. Even if it made for extra gross machete work later. Spencer's duster was coated in a viscous layer of zombie guts all down one arm and the front on that side.
Ian was lurking behind the door when Spencer got back. Spencer was reaching out to press the bell when the door just opened. Ian made an awkward, aborted movement that looked like it was meant to be a hug but speedily turned into an enthusiastic high five. Spencer just laughed at him.
"You're disgusting," Ian said, taking in Spencer's gore-spattered duster.
"Thanks, man," Spencer replied dryly.
"No, I mean--" Ian gestured vigorously at Spencer's coat and made a face.
"I need to wash, like, before this dries. It's a bitch to get off," Spencer said.
"Yeah, yeah, it's--" Ian sneezed violently, scrubbing at his eyes behind the thick lenses. Spencer blessed him. "Thank you, ugh. Allergies. Dude traded for a case of water purification tablets--"
"When he could boil-?"
"Totally. So he traded me a goat."
At his words, a tiny black and white goat trotted down the aisle straight toward Spencer. It was no taller than his knee, and it had little tufts of fur sticking up around what must have been button-sized horns. It looked ridiculous. The goat paused briefly to look up at Spencer, little head cocked to the side as if considering him, then continued on to Ian and promptly butted him in the knee.
"Ow!" Ian cried, rubbing his knee and scowling as Spencer gasped with laughter. "See how you like it; it's yours."
"Ian, I'm--"
"Nope," said Ian with a shake of his head, curls flying. "Take it. Just adds insult to injury. I'm allergic, right? And the damn thing hates me." Then he added under his breath, friendly, my ass. Spencer almost choked.
"What am I supposed to do with it?" Spencer crouched down to get a closer look at the animal and it gave up harassing Ian to skip over and nuzzle his hand.
"I don't know," Ian replied. "Milk it?"
Spencer looked closer.
"Not unless you know something I don't," Spencer said, scratching the goat's head. "This guy is male. I'm pretty sure if I squeeze that it's not going to be milk coming out."
"Um, whoops?" Ian laughed.
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer grumbled, giving the goat one last skritch before standing and brushing his hands together. "Bathroom?"
"Around back," Ian pointed.
"That's safe."
"I use what I've got," Ian said with a shrug.
Ian led Spencer out to the back entrance of the store. He wondered why there wasn't a bathroom actually inside the building, but he let it go, figuring he should just be grateful there was one at all. Ian poked his head out the door and looked around, then opened it wider for Spencer to pass through. He could see the bathroom door when he stepped outside. It was stupid, and Spencer found himself shaking his head across the open space.
It was as distracted as he ever got, in a relatively safe place, five feet between the doors. That was when people got hurt. Spencer tugged open the bathroom door and something moved. The machete was in his hand in a flash, the light coming through tiny, high set windows just enough to make out a shape huddled in the corner.
"Shit," Spencer muttered to himself, and then fell to the floor as the goat butted him from behind and took him out at the knees.
There was a flurry of movement in the corner and Spencer prepared to die. The zombie got to it's knees just as Spencer did, and then did something... Inexplicable. It held out its hands and cooed: at the goat.
Spencer stood, shaken, as the goat trotted over to the zombie. Or something. Spencer had never seen anything like it. The zombie--the guy? Didn't exactly look right. He was pale, even in the dim light, but not quite as deathly gray as a zombie, let alone that he clearly wasn't rotting. But it was the sound that he made. Zombies didn't vocalize.
“Fucking goat,” Spencer muttered. Then he looked at the guy. “Are you ok?”
“Mrmfh.” Spencer raised the machete, getting his attention. “Uh, more or less?” the guy croaked. “I’ve been better.”
“Have you been bitten?” Spencer asked cautiously.
“No,” the guy answered quickly. “But. I’m... sick. I don’t know--”
The tension leeched from Spencer’s shoulders a tiny bit.
“Ok,” Spencer said, daring to step a little closer. “Sick we can deal with.”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
“Well, we’ll see.”
Spencer closed the distance to the sink and finally managed to sponge off the greater majority of the gore coating his front. His coat would survive another day. He glanced down at the goat, still being cuddled and petted by the Not-Zombie half curled up on the floor. He wasn’t too sure about the goat’s prospects. It looked like dinner.
Spencer scrubbed his hands, splashed water on his face, and took a deep breath before he turned around to assess the situation. The guy was cuddled up in the corner murmuring wordlessly to the goat. Spencer just leaned against the sink looking at them for a minute. He couldn't have been lying about not being bitten. The reaction was fairly quick, and he definitely would be stumbling after Spencer's brain by now. But he did look sick, so Spencer said the only thing he could come up with.
"You need to come inside with me. We'll check you out. Can you walk?"
The guy nodded, so Spencer extended a hand and helped him to his feet. The guy groaned when he got upright, and for one terrified moment Spencer thought he had been wrong and this guy was going to rip into him. But he didn't. He just stood there breathing hard and looking like he was trying not to vomit.
"Don't puke on my shoes," Spencer said, a little harsher than he intended. The guy's eyes flicked at him, a quick up and down.
"I'd be more worried about your coat." The guy's voice was like broken glass, but the hint of a smirk left Spencer wondering.
"Come on."
Spencer dragged the guy out of the bathroom, barely sparing a glance to make sure no more zombies were around. The goat threatened to trip him up again, prancing around their feet and generally making a nuisance of himself. Ian had shut the door to the shop behind him, so after three steps, Spencer pounded on the closed door and shouted.
The door popped open immediately and Ian ushered them in with wide eyes. He dragged a chair seemingly out of nowhere, and the guy fell into it, exhausted after thirty seconds on his feet.
"What is this?" Ian asked, voice pitched low.
"He was hiding in the bathroom," Spencer replied.
"Is he..."
"I don't think so, but--" Spencer began.
"I haven't been bitten," the guy interrupted hastily. "I told him so," he added, pointing at Spencer.
"How about we look, ok? Uh..."
"Brendon."
"Brendon, ok. This is Ian; it's his store. I'm Spencer. Come on, let's get your jacket off."
"I've never had somebody so urgent to get me out of my clothes," Brendon joked. Ian snickered, but Spencer just looked at him blankly.
"Uh huh. Can you lift up your shirt?" Spencer asked, peering at Brendon's unbroken, if grimy, skin.
"You want me to take my pants off too?"
Spencer actually looked down at Brendon's pants and then bodily hauled him out of the chair to look at the backs of his legs. Both Ian and Brendon were fighting a losing battle with the giggles, though Spencer failed to see what was so funny, and told them so.
"It's just--you're just so--so serious about it," Ian replied mirthfully.
"It'll be way less funny when he's gnawing your arm off later, if we miss something," Spencer pointed out.
"How many times do I have to tell you? I have not been bitten!" Brendon snapped.
"Okay. I can see that." Spencer huffed out a breath that sent the hair in his face in every direction instead of just in his eyes. He continued much more gently. "Can you tell me what's wrong then?"
Brendon nodded, then launched into his tale.
"I started feeling sick right around when all... this started happening," Brendon said. Ian and Spencer nodded. A lot of people had gotten sick. Unfortunately, most of them either ended up dead or zombified, which was as good as dead.
"This whole time?" Ian wondered.
"Yep. And it's getting worse." At Spencer's totally unsubtle jolt of alarm, Brendon continued. "Not very fast. I've been feeling like shit for ages now, but it's different than when it first started."
"Like, how?"
"At first it was just my voice. I used to sing, but then it was like I was going through puberty again. My voice started cracking, and I got all hoarse. But then I noticed I was feeling really weak, like my muscles weren’t working right, no matter how much time I spent at the gym, and I started losing weight.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Like, I’ve always been kind of a skinny little guy, right? Well, I can eat and eat and eat and I still lose.”
“Is there anything else?” Spencer prompted.
“Little things,” he said, waving it away with his hand. “The biggest thing is the weakness. I’m stiff and clumsy now. Clumsier than usual, anyway.”
“Your walk...” Ian suggested.
“Yeah. Rather zombie-like, right?”
“Yeah,” Spencer and Ian agreed. “Weird,” Ian added. Spencer elbowed him.
“What have you been doing all this time?” Spencer asked, eying Ian.
“Hiding out,” Brendon replied. “And when I had to go out, blending in.”
“What do you mean, ‘blending in’?” Spencer wondered.
“Where I lived, over in Santa Monica, was hit pretty hard.” Spencer and Ian both made noises of agreement. “Lots of zombies. I stayed at my place for a while, but eventually I had to go out, when I ran out of stuff, you know? And when I did, I couldn’t get back. It was just... overwhelmed. I was already sick, and not too quick on my feet. The zombies weren’t interested in me. They’re pretty easily distracted,” Brendon snorted, and Spencer looked at him funny. “Like, I get that, right? ADHD all the way, but I figured out pretty quick that if I just held out for a minute, they would forget about me. Then I could fake it and get away.”
“Fake it?” Ian asked.
Brendon demonstrated from his chair. The vacant expression, head hanging at a weird angle, arms dangling at his sides. It was a pretty good impression.
“You can... fake it,” Spencer clarified.
“Yep. They totally fall for it. I made it all the way over here on foot.”
The three of them just sat there for a minute in silence.
“Holy shit,” Ian finally said.
“Yeah,” Spencer and Brendon agreed.
“Where are you trying to go?” Ian asked hesitantly.
“At first I was just trying to get somewhere safer,” Brendon said.
“There really isn’t anyplace safe, at least not in LA,” Ian replied sadly.
“Better than Santa Monica,” Brendon added with a grin. “Then I decided I’d try to go home.”
“Where’s home?” Spencer asked.
“Vegas.”
The quickly drawn breath drew their attention to Spencer. Brendon just looked at him curiously, but Ian knew Spencer well enough to know what Vegas meant to him. And he knew about Spencer’s plans.
“This is perfect,” Ian said, nudging Spencer in the arm.
“What?” Brendon wondered, looking from Spencer to Ian and back again.
“Um,” Spencer began lamely. He needed to think, preferably alone, for a minute. “I’m from Vegas.”
“Oh yeah? No way!” Brendon raised his hand for a weak high five. Spencer lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but humored him anyway.
“Spencer,” Ian prodded. Spencer shot him a look.
“I’m going. To Vegas,” he said at last. Brendon’s face lit up, and something in Spencer relaxed. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Do I ever!” Brendon laughed. Spencer scowled, and Ian poked at him.
“Lighten up, man.”
“He’s going to eat me alive,” Spencer muttered. Brendon heard, of course, and howled, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Spencer just shook his head. Between the goat and Brendon, he was fucked.
***
Ian helped them go through the truck, reorganizing and repacking one more time before they left. Spencer dared to bring the truck closer in, pulling it around back in the alley that bisected the block. Spencer had been mostly ready to go anyway, so it didn’t take long to add Brendon--and the goddamn goat--to the mix.
It actually took longer to get Brendon cleaned up. He was pretty filthy having been pretending to be a zombie. He cleaned up nice. Spencer found himself surreptitiously checking him out. It made him roll his eyes at his own behavior, because seriously. He had thought the guy was a zombie only hours before. He had to have some standards. Rules. Guidelines.
Ian presented Brendon with an aluminum baseball bat just before they went to get in the truck. Brendon took it like it was something precious, which, all things considered, it kind of was. Spencer was really just happy that Ian didn’t go and give him something stupid, like a gun. Spencer would gratefully take another gun to keep as backup, but he sure as hell wouldn’t give one to Brendon, who looked like he could barely hold his own arms up, let alone heft a gun long enough to point, aim, and shoot.
“You’re a team now,” Ian said.
“I guess so,” Brendon returned.
“Watch his back.”
“I’ll do my best,” Brendon said, and Spencer got the crawly feeling the back of his neck that someone was watching him as he went through things one last time.
“He’s my friend,” Ian said seriously.
“I can tell.”
“Now he’s yours.”
“No,” Brendon replied. “But he will be.”
“I hope so,” Ian said, opening the door to the rover and boosting up the goat to sit in Brendon’s lap.
“I’d lay money on it,” Brendon said confidently, settling in.
“Does he have a name?” Ian wondered, suddenly switching topics and gesturing at the goat.
“You didn’t give him one?” Spencer asked, leaning across the middle to peer at Ian through the passenger side window. Ian shook his head.
“Buttercup,” Brendon suggested.
“Buttercup? For a billy goat,” Spencer said slowly.
“Why not? Are we gender stereotyping? We can name him whatever,” Brendon shot back.
“Like ‘Dinner’,” Spencer mumbled. Brendon pressed his hands over the goat’s ears, shocked.
“Yeah, Buttercup,” Ian chimed in, snapping his fingers, but then jumping at the sharp sound and looking around hastily. “I love that movie!”
“Huh?”
“For fuck sake, Spencer, ‘The Princess Bride’? Westley, Buttercup. The Dread Pirate Roberts, the Six-fingered Man. ’Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’”
“Oh yeah, ok,” Spencer said, shaking his head and smiling. Ian was ridiculous.
***
They drove east along route 10 for what seemed like forever. Before the outbreaks, it took Spencer only about four hours to get to Vegas. It took them about that long just to get out of LA.
Spencer had been avoiding the freeways as he hopped around from job to job, but he chose to try the Hollywood Freeway to leave. It wasn't quite the parking lot it was during rush hour in days past, but it was tougher than he anticipated. Spencer had to navigate around abandoned vehicles left and right. It was just as bad as the surface streets.
Spencer didn't really mind the drive. It wasn't like he had to dodge pedestrians or anything. It was slow going, but he did have company for once. Brendon napped frequently, if only for twenty or so minutes at a time. When he was awake, he talked a lot.
There had been a girlfriend and a dog along with the apartment in Santa Monica. They hadn't come home one night early in the outbreaks, before anybody really figured out that something was seriously wrong. It was part of the reason Brendon hadn't left his apartment for so long. He hadn’t gotten out of bed much either.
“I thought she had left me,” he said softly, looking out the window. “I didn’t know. We fought sometimes. I thought she didn’t come back because she’d had enough, that she-“
“Don’t,” Spencer said firmly, but gently somehow too. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“How could I have known? It’s more likely for your girlfriend to walk out on you than it end up being the zombie apocalypse.”
“True,” Spencer laughed, and Brendon brightened a little. Spencer smiled to himself and just kept driving.
CONTINUE ON TO PART 2...
AUTHOR: ohnoscarlett
BANDS: Panic, MCR, FOB
PAIRING: Brendon/Spencer
WORD COUNT: 26k
RATING: NC-17
WARNINGS: sex, violence
SUMMARY: It’s like a combination of Zombieland, I am Legend, and Romeo and Juliet, except everybody doesn’t all die in the end. (Because most people are already dead due to the zombie apocalypse.) Spencer is a zombie hunter, and Brendon is the guy he almost kills. Brendon is sick, and to save him, they have to race against time...
NOTES: Many thanks to the mods of bandombigbang. As always, this was a lot of fun. Thanks also to my fabulous and long-suffering beta, cloudlessclimes. Couldn't have done it without you, bb.
Spencer swung his arm, sending the machete cleanly through the neck of the guy in front of him and lopping of his head. He didn’t even wait for the body to hit the floor before he turned away and made sure the rest of the room was clear.
Spencer liked to carry a machete, a sawed-off shotgun, and a flamethrower. It was good to have a variety of reliable weapons, not to mention a backup for your backup. He tended to rely pretty heavily on the machete, even though close-contact wasn’t ideal. Close-contact with zombies seemed to be just the way it goes.
At least, that was generally what went through his head when he was knee-deep in it.
There had been seven zombies in this particular neighborhood. Spencer found them easily enough and hadn’t even had to break out his expendables. His fee would go a long way covering gas and food if he didn’t have bullets and propane to replace.
The guy in charge--the mayor, an alderman, a councilor, somebody with money, whoever--met him in the street once it was safe to be outside again. This place hadn’t been that bad, and frankly, Spencer wondered what was wrong with these people if they couldn’t pick off a couple zombies themselves.
It was hard to believe that this was his life. Spencer hunted zombies for a living. Ha ha. For money. He was good at it, and there was a need, so it was a natural progression.
The guy met Spencer out in the street when he was done. He had to stand there for a while, waiting until people decided it was ok. Sometimes it took some time, especially when there weren’t gunshots or a fire to extinguish. But the guy came out soon enough and handed Spencer an envelope thick with cash. Spencer just nodded and turned away silently, the envelope clutched tightly in one hand, machete in the other.
He had to find a place to stay for the night.
***
So Spencer was a zombie hunter. He was employed by survivors to hunt and kill zombies wherever they popped up--and they did, with an alarming frequency. Spencer didn’t have a phone, or email, yet people seemed to be able to find him. People still talked, even if a lot of the modern amenities had gone to shit with no one to manage them.
Spencer walked down the middle of the street with his head up and his machete held loosely at his side. He always made sure to look clearly whole and healthy so nobody with a nervous trigger finger would be tempted to take him out. Zombies shambled, so Spencer walked with a purpose.
He stopped at the end of the block and looked down the cross streets. He had come without a plan and left the same way. Plans had a tendency to fall through, so Spencer often just went where the wind--and outbreaks--took him. Los Angeles kept him busy.
The twitching of curtains caught his eye, and as Spencer turned he saw a hand and a flash of blonde hair. He stood still for a moment, square in the center of the intersection, but unafraid of traffic. There were few functioning vehicles these days, even though Spencer had one himself that he struggled daily to maintain. He slept in it more than he drove it. Still, Spencer waited. This was usually the time he got an offer.
Sure enough, a minute later, the front door of the house on the corner cracked open and a girl beckoned to him. Spencer had grace enough not to shrug his shoulders, and to drop his eyes to at least pretend modesty. He couldn’t pretend that he didn’t know what was probably going to happen.
He didn’t sleep with all of them.
***
Spencer appreciated it, he did. He got to sleep in a bed in a semi-secure location, he got a real shower--sometimes even with hot water. He usually even got a meal or two--also sometimes hot. That he often had fervent, we-didn’t-get-eaten-alive-today sex with the older daughters or generally younger women--even a young man or two-- of the communities he serviced... well. He didn’t dwell on it. In the end they didn’t want to keep him and he didn’t want to stay. It all worked out one way or another.
***
Spencer couldn’t decide if he was very slowly working his way east, back to Las Vegas, or trying to avoid doing the same. He hadn’t been back to see his family since before the outbreaks began. His father had been ill for some time, so Spencer had been making the trip with some regularity until finally his father worsened and died. That had been the last time he had seen his mother and his sisters, back at the funeral. He hadn’t heard from them in the months following. Spencer hoped that it was due to the loss of phone and internet connections. His mother was a sensible woman, with resources, and his sisters were strong and smart. He hoped they were holed up somewhere safe. But he had vivid nightmares of the alternative.
***
Spencer woke in the gray light of early morning. He was a light sleeper, he had to be so nothing surprised him in the middle of the night. He couldn’t figure out what woke him until he remembered the girl. She lay curled up next to him, the sheets twisted in her fists. She was having a nightmare. Spencer sighed and petted her hair and stroked her cheek gently til she woke with a start. When she whispered his name it sent a shiver down his spine, like someone walked over his grave, as his grandma would say.
“I have to go,” he said softly.
“I know.”
***
Spencer’s truck was exactly where he left it, about a mile from the last outbreak. He didn’t know why he just didn’t drive right in, but when he walks the last bit he can get a better feeling about the place, and it’s kind of a warm-up, like a pre-game stretch. It’s a risk no matter what he does.
He drives a Land Rover, which, he had to admit, was something of a throwback to his former life. It had four wheel drive, and plenty of room for his stuff in the back, but it was kind of ostentatious. He couldn’t bring himself to trade it; was a good truck, after all.
Spencer did a quick sweep of the area as he approached his vehicle. There wasn’t any chatter about more zombie activity, but it was better to be safe than sorry. When he got near enough, he crouched down to peer under the chassis. Once it was all clear, Spencer heaved open the tailgate to load up his gear.
The flamethrower went in first. It was his largest piece of ambulatory equipment and took up a good deal of the load space. He didn’t have to use it this time around, so it was good with just a quick once-over and a double-check on the propane levels. Spencer took a moment to consider the straps, rubbing one between his fingers and frowning. He was developing a tender spot on his shoulder where the join of one strap had been scraping his skin. He’d have to work it out when he did his last push before moving.
The shotgun went in next. It was an old 12 gauge Remington he found at an army surplus store. The previous owner had taken the trouble to saw off much of the barrel, so the guy behind the counter was more than happy to get the sketchy thing out of his sight. Spencer got it for a song.
Like the flamethrower, Spencer hadn't needed to use his shotgun to clear up that last patch of zombies. The gun needed to be dismantled and cleaned anyway, but he could do it when he was in for the night. He was getting low on rounds too.
One more brief glance around and Spencer shut the tailgate before walking around to the drivers side. He set the machete in the passenger seat, an easy grab if he needed it. It wasn't his best choice while driving, but Spencer figured that one day he'd bring up the shotgun instead. For now though, the machete was his favorite and he rarely put it down.
Spencer maneuvered his truck carefully through the empty streets. The place he had been staying in on this side of the city wasn't far. He had given up his house fairly quickly after the first outbreaks. It had been a nice house, but it was impossible to keep secure; too many windows. These days he preferred smaller and darker, if he could get it. Ideally, he tried to stay in an upstairs apartment with a separate entrance. It was even better if he could disguise or barricade or pull up the stairs. He really liked when he could pull up the stairs.
Nothing was moving when Spencer pulled into the driveway, but he sat still after cutting the ignition anyway. He tried to move quietly--which really explained much of his reluctance to drive the truck most of the time; it was rather loud in what had become the silence of the modern world. Noise attracted zombies. When still nothing stirred, Spencer got out and fetched his things to take inside.
His place of late was a second floor back apartment whose steps were hidden behind a stucco wall. Spencer held a weapon in each hand as he walked around the building. The entire block had been empty since before Spencer had arrived, but he had managed to stay alive this long by being careful and he had no intention of stopping now.
Spencer made it inside and bolted the door behind him before setting down his things. He had never been surprised by a zombie once he had made it inside of wherever he was staying, but Spencer pulled a pistol from his pack and inspected the apartment just the same. Once he was satisfied, he sat at the kitchen table to take stock.
At some point in the preceding 24 hours he had decided to go. He needed to know about his family. He needed to know if his mother and sisters were ok. LA could do without him.
Spencer had a twelve point list for emergencies. In pre-zombie Los Angeles it had been contained in a duffle bag in the back of the closet in case of earthquakes. It quickly morphed into a set of rubbermaid bins that he scavenged to keep full.
First on the list was water. He had one of those big old picnic drink coolers with the spigot at the bottom, but it leaked incessantly and he was always on the lookout for a replacement. Spencer had a whole bin full of plastic water bottles which he kept in reserve for when he didn't have access to water he could boil. The water in a lot of places was still running, if cold and of dubious quality. Spencer fired up his propane camp stove and set a pot to boil. He wanted as much water as he could stow if he was going into the desert.
The second item on his list was, of course, food. A quick search when he first moved in to the apartment had revealed relatively well stocked cupboards. Many places were left as if their inhabitants had simply evaporated into thin air. Spencer tried not to think about it too hard. The outbreaks had swept through with incredible speed, leaving most people flat out dead. Most of those who survived whatever it was didn't really last much longer. It took mere days for the first zombies to emerge, and they finished off the majority of the people who were left. And zombies didn't need canned goods.
Since Spencer was moving on, he methodically searched the cabinets and pulled down everything edible. It was mostly cans, and various boxes that looked promising. His food bin was nearly full, but he figured he could run down and check out the house proper later, see if they had anything good. He was craving Oreos in the worst way.
Spencer was lucky enough to have been perfectly healthy, down to even lacking seasonal allergies, but you never knew what could happen. He searched bathroom cabinets just as he did the ones in kitchens, and even bedside tables. People put stuff all over the place. Spencer merely collected what he found and placed it all in a plastic tool box. Somebody might need it someday, even if it was just aspirin.
The first aid kit was a completely separate entity that he kept tucked down in the well on the front passenger seat. It was crammed full of bandages and rubbing alcohol and gauze and neosporin. He kept it close, even though he knew that if he ever had a real need of it he was pretty much screwed.
The old duffle bag, formerly Spencer’s emergency kit, now served to hold smaller miscellaneous items; essentially the remains of the kit. There he kept a utility knife, duct tape, a battery-powered radio and some extra batteries. In reality, he rarely used it, but he had it if the need arose.
Spencer had another bin that held cleaning supplies, more or less. There was a bottle of bleach, laundry soap, and his personal kit: bath soap, deodorant, toothpaste, all that. He kept a couple spare changes of clothes, and lots of socks and underwear. There was another one for colder weather gear, with a warm coat, hat, gloves, and a good pair of boots. Spencer hated the cold, but he felt the need to be prepared.
He hadn’t been much of a camper, back in the day, but Spencer still had a fairly decent sleeping bag and one of those little blue foam mats to add one more layer between himself and the ground. When he was in an apartment that really wasn’t an issue; he just slept in a bed. But the sleeping bag was there if he needed it, and he often did, sleeping in the truck.
The last things Spencer checked before he considered himself ready to move were his weapons. He cleaned and sharpened the machete, then dismantled and cleaned the shotgun. More shells would not be out of order, nor would more propane, both for the camp stove and for the flamethrower. He hadn’t even pulled the flamethrower out of the truck when he got back, but he could slap on a piece of duct tape to the rough patch on the strap and consider it good.
He needed to go to the store.
***
Spencer found a guy determined to stick it out and keep on doing what he was doing--in this case, running an army surplus store--shortly after the outbreaks started. It came in incredibly handy. Spencer would drive across the city to stock up on things if he had to, and he often did. There were a few like Ian, stubbornly convinced that in time, the zombies would be eliminated--or at least under some sort of control--and life would return to what it once had been. Spencer wasn’t operating under that assumption, but he wasn’t going to burst anyone’s bubble. They could figure it out for themselves.
With his truck packed up and the apartment cleared, Spencer felt just about ready to head out to Vegas. If anyone had propane and 12-gauge shells, Ian would. And Ian usually had a good ear for what was going on in the street.
He drove slowly through the city. It was pretty quiet, even at midday. Ian’s store was in Old Hollywood; emphasis on the old. It was a dump, even more so than it used to be. Most people stayed inside, so odds were that if he saw anyone, it was probably a zombie. The closest movement Spencer saw was still blocks away, so he couldn’t tell who it was, nor was he in the mood to investigate.
There was a plain sign up on the door to the store to indicate that it was indeed still open, but no neon or anything flashy. It always made Spencer chuckle, thinking of “Clerks”, a movie he had seen several times. He figured Ian probably had too. It wasn’t a sheet and shoe polish, but it had it’s charm.
I assure you we are open.
Ian’s sign also had the date. It was a subtle signal that things were a little different. So many places did still have their “open for business” signs up, but simply because they were never taken down. You kind of had to know the army surplus store was still operating, to want to look for it, but Ian did his best not to attract unwanted visitors, zombies and scavengers alike.
Spencer parked at the end of the block and walked the rest of the way. He only carried his shotgun and the machete, hung from a sheath on his belt, which bumped against his thigh with every step. It was quiet, but Spencer felt off.
There was a doorbell newly mounted at the entrance to the store, with tiny lettering instructing patrons to “please announce your presence”. Ian hadn’t wanted to accidentally shoot someone just trying to do some shopping. Zombies didn’t read, and they didn’t tend to politely let you know they were coming in. Spencer pressed the button and waited; presumably it could be heard inside. He hoped it was heard inside.
He didn’t have to wait long. Spencer had the chance to glance around and be sure nothing was about when the door opened and Ian smilingly beckoned him inside. Ian was a young man about Spencer’s age, with a messy head of curls and thick glasses. Spencer had liked him immediately.
“Spencer!” he cheered. “What are you in for?”
“Usual,” Spencer replied, even as Ian turned away, disappearing into the warren of shelves and boxes. He returned bearing a carton of propane canisters with an entire case of shotgun shells balanced on top.
“Have you tried salt rounds?” Ian asked as he thumped his load on the counter.
“Salt?” Spencer wondered.
“Yeah!” Ian assured him with a wide grin. “I’ve been doing some research--”
“Zombie movies?”
“Yeah. Apparently, feeding zombies salt will return them to the grave.”
“Huh. So, like, feeding zombies. Put out a salt lick?” Spencer suggested doubtfully. Ian laughed.
“Not literally! I don’t think... But like, shoot them with it? It’s got to be easier to reload with something like rock salt than it is with buck shot. Do you know how to reload?” Spencer shook his head and Ian was off again into the back of the store without further comment.
Spencer just shook his head as he watched Ian go. The store had a little generator, and sporadic electricity. Ian liked movies-clearly-and watched something as often as he could. Spencer figured it was his coping mechanism, his way to stay sane. But then Spencer also figured that Ian thought he was Han Solo. He was resourceful, at least.
Spencer was a fast learner. Ian had all the components and the tools and showed Spencer how he could just get empty shells and fill them with pretty much anything he wanted. It could turn out to be a useful skill, particularly because bags of rock salt could be found in almost any store, and if he still had to buy them, for significantly cheaper than regular rounds.
“I kind of don’t want to have to experiment,” Spencer admitted hesitantly, rolling a fresh shell between his fingers.
“Well,” Ian began, and his tone made Spencer peer at him suspiciously.
“What?”
“You might be able to try it out around here,” he admitted.
“Seriously? What do you know?”
“I think we might have a couple in the neighborhood,” Ian said flatly.
“Have you seen them?” Spencer asked, voice tight. Ian shrugged.
“Not up close, but near enough to tell. They’ve got the walk.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Spencer said with a sigh. “Let’s clean up your neighborhood. Can’t let it all go downhill. Come on.”
“I--”
“What is it?” Spencer asked.
“I can’t see for shit,” Ian muttered, looking at the floor.
“But your glasses--”
“Broke. These ones are old,” he gestured toward his face. “I can see enough to get around and stuff, but if I need to read... And I’m a terrible shot anyway.”
“Jesus, Ian.”
"Yeah," Ian replied sheepishly. "Can you--"
"Yeah," Spencer said, low, starting to steel himself for the encounter.
"I can afford you, you know."
"Don't worry about it, Ian," Spencer returned. "We can test your theory."
Ian just grinned as Spencer loaded the shotgun.
***
Spencer moved slowly down the street in the direction Ian said he had last seen zombies. It was no guarantee that he would find anything, but it was as good a direction as any. It was back the way he had come, and Spencer wondered if it had been zombies that he had seen out of the corner of his eye on the way over.
Movement got his attention further down the block. Three zombies were shambling around the corner and definitely homing in on him. Spencer took a deep breath and flicked the Remington off safe.
Spencer was a pretty good shot--he had to be to survive, doing what he did day after day. His first shot hit a zombie in the shoulder, causing it to fall backwards and trip up the second. Spencer aimed and shot at the third zombie, hitting it square in the chest and again lifting it off its feet. Spencer's third shot took off most of the tripper's head as it got to its feet.
There were still two rounds left but Spencer took a moment to reload while he waited to see if the zombies were really dead. Both of his coat pockets were full of the salt rounds that he and Ian had made in the store. Spencer quickly slipped a few into the breach as he moved a little closer to the twisted pile of rotting flesh on the pavement.
He was fairly sure the one without most of its head was dead. Taking care of the brain did the job no matter what method was used. Spencer was kind of surprised that salt did so much damage, but as he got closer and could see better, he could see similar results with the one he got in the chest. It wasn't generally a killing blow for a zombie--you usually had to destroy the brain--but this shot would have killed a regular person, and the zombie seemed down for the count. Normally, shooting a zombie in the chest wouldn’t even slow it down. Salt seemed to do what buckshot couldn't.
Spencer's first shot hadn't quite done the job. The zombie lay twitching on the ground, writhing like anyone would who had gotten shot in the shoulder. Spencer was pretty close; enough that shooting the zombie again seemed like a waste of ammunition. Instead, he unsnapped the sheath and withdrew his machete. The zombie was on its feet again once Spencer was in reach, but a quick slash finished it off, in a particularly messy fashion.
Spencer walked back to Ian's store just as carefully as if he hadn't just killed what were presumably the only zombies in the area. On one hand he was pretty excited about proving Ian correct about the effect of salt rounds on zombie flesh, but on the other he was kind of annoyed. Salt seemed to accelerate decomposition, so what Ian had said about "returning zombies to the grave" was fairly accurate.
Even as he turned away the three zombies were little more than piles of mush in the street. It still had to be a kill shot, as evidenced by zombie number one, but salt did way more damage. Even if it made for extra gross machete work later. Spencer's duster was coated in a viscous layer of zombie guts all down one arm and the front on that side.
Ian was lurking behind the door when Spencer got back. Spencer was reaching out to press the bell when the door just opened. Ian made an awkward, aborted movement that looked like it was meant to be a hug but speedily turned into an enthusiastic high five. Spencer just laughed at him.
"You're disgusting," Ian said, taking in Spencer's gore-spattered duster.
"Thanks, man," Spencer replied dryly.
"No, I mean--" Ian gestured vigorously at Spencer's coat and made a face.
"I need to wash, like, before this dries. It's a bitch to get off," Spencer said.
"Yeah, yeah, it's--" Ian sneezed violently, scrubbing at his eyes behind the thick lenses. Spencer blessed him. "Thank you, ugh. Allergies. Dude traded for a case of water purification tablets--"
"When he could boil-?"
"Totally. So he traded me a goat."
At his words, a tiny black and white goat trotted down the aisle straight toward Spencer. It was no taller than his knee, and it had little tufts of fur sticking up around what must have been button-sized horns. It looked ridiculous. The goat paused briefly to look up at Spencer, little head cocked to the side as if considering him, then continued on to Ian and promptly butted him in the knee.
"Ow!" Ian cried, rubbing his knee and scowling as Spencer gasped with laughter. "See how you like it; it's yours."
"Ian, I'm--"
"Nope," said Ian with a shake of his head, curls flying. "Take it. Just adds insult to injury. I'm allergic, right? And the damn thing hates me." Then he added under his breath, friendly, my ass. Spencer almost choked.
"What am I supposed to do with it?" Spencer crouched down to get a closer look at the animal and it gave up harassing Ian to skip over and nuzzle his hand.
"I don't know," Ian replied. "Milk it?"
Spencer looked closer.
"Not unless you know something I don't," Spencer said, scratching the goat's head. "This guy is male. I'm pretty sure if I squeeze that it's not going to be milk coming out."
"Um, whoops?" Ian laughed.
"Yeah, yeah," Spencer grumbled, giving the goat one last skritch before standing and brushing his hands together. "Bathroom?"
"Around back," Ian pointed.
"That's safe."
"I use what I've got," Ian said with a shrug.
Ian led Spencer out to the back entrance of the store. He wondered why there wasn't a bathroom actually inside the building, but he let it go, figuring he should just be grateful there was one at all. Ian poked his head out the door and looked around, then opened it wider for Spencer to pass through. He could see the bathroom door when he stepped outside. It was stupid, and Spencer found himself shaking his head across the open space.
It was as distracted as he ever got, in a relatively safe place, five feet between the doors. That was when people got hurt. Spencer tugged open the bathroom door and something moved. The machete was in his hand in a flash, the light coming through tiny, high set windows just enough to make out a shape huddled in the corner.
"Shit," Spencer muttered to himself, and then fell to the floor as the goat butted him from behind and took him out at the knees.
There was a flurry of movement in the corner and Spencer prepared to die. The zombie got to it's knees just as Spencer did, and then did something... Inexplicable. It held out its hands and cooed: at the goat.
Spencer stood, shaken, as the goat trotted over to the zombie. Or something. Spencer had never seen anything like it. The zombie--the guy? Didn't exactly look right. He was pale, even in the dim light, but not quite as deathly gray as a zombie, let alone that he clearly wasn't rotting. But it was the sound that he made. Zombies didn't vocalize.
“Fucking goat,” Spencer muttered. Then he looked at the guy. “Are you ok?”
“Mrmfh.” Spencer raised the machete, getting his attention. “Uh, more or less?” the guy croaked. “I’ve been better.”
“Have you been bitten?” Spencer asked cautiously.
“No,” the guy answered quickly. “But. I’m... sick. I don’t know--”
The tension leeched from Spencer’s shoulders a tiny bit.
“Ok,” Spencer said, daring to step a little closer. “Sick we can deal with.”
“I don’t know,” he said again.
“Well, we’ll see.”
Spencer closed the distance to the sink and finally managed to sponge off the greater majority of the gore coating his front. His coat would survive another day. He glanced down at the goat, still being cuddled and petted by the Not-Zombie half curled up on the floor. He wasn’t too sure about the goat’s prospects. It looked like dinner.
Spencer scrubbed his hands, splashed water on his face, and took a deep breath before he turned around to assess the situation. The guy was cuddled up in the corner murmuring wordlessly to the goat. Spencer just leaned against the sink looking at them for a minute. He couldn't have been lying about not being bitten. The reaction was fairly quick, and he definitely would be stumbling after Spencer's brain by now. But he did look sick, so Spencer said the only thing he could come up with.
"You need to come inside with me. We'll check you out. Can you walk?"
The guy nodded, so Spencer extended a hand and helped him to his feet. The guy groaned when he got upright, and for one terrified moment Spencer thought he had been wrong and this guy was going to rip into him. But he didn't. He just stood there breathing hard and looking like he was trying not to vomit.
"Don't puke on my shoes," Spencer said, a little harsher than he intended. The guy's eyes flicked at him, a quick up and down.
"I'd be more worried about your coat." The guy's voice was like broken glass, but the hint of a smirk left Spencer wondering.
"Come on."
Spencer dragged the guy out of the bathroom, barely sparing a glance to make sure no more zombies were around. The goat threatened to trip him up again, prancing around their feet and generally making a nuisance of himself. Ian had shut the door to the shop behind him, so after three steps, Spencer pounded on the closed door and shouted.
The door popped open immediately and Ian ushered them in with wide eyes. He dragged a chair seemingly out of nowhere, and the guy fell into it, exhausted after thirty seconds on his feet.
"What is this?" Ian asked, voice pitched low.
"He was hiding in the bathroom," Spencer replied.
"Is he..."
"I don't think so, but--" Spencer began.
"I haven't been bitten," the guy interrupted hastily. "I told him so," he added, pointing at Spencer.
"How about we look, ok? Uh..."
"Brendon."
"Brendon, ok. This is Ian; it's his store. I'm Spencer. Come on, let's get your jacket off."
"I've never had somebody so urgent to get me out of my clothes," Brendon joked. Ian snickered, but Spencer just looked at him blankly.
"Uh huh. Can you lift up your shirt?" Spencer asked, peering at Brendon's unbroken, if grimy, skin.
"You want me to take my pants off too?"
Spencer actually looked down at Brendon's pants and then bodily hauled him out of the chair to look at the backs of his legs. Both Ian and Brendon were fighting a losing battle with the giggles, though Spencer failed to see what was so funny, and told them so.
"It's just--you're just so--so serious about it," Ian replied mirthfully.
"It'll be way less funny when he's gnawing your arm off later, if we miss something," Spencer pointed out.
"How many times do I have to tell you? I have not been bitten!" Brendon snapped.
"Okay. I can see that." Spencer huffed out a breath that sent the hair in his face in every direction instead of just in his eyes. He continued much more gently. "Can you tell me what's wrong then?"
Brendon nodded, then launched into his tale.
"I started feeling sick right around when all... this started happening," Brendon said. Ian and Spencer nodded. A lot of people had gotten sick. Unfortunately, most of them either ended up dead or zombified, which was as good as dead.
"This whole time?" Ian wondered.
"Yep. And it's getting worse." At Spencer's totally unsubtle jolt of alarm, Brendon continued. "Not very fast. I've been feeling like shit for ages now, but it's different than when it first started."
"Like, how?"
"At first it was just my voice. I used to sing, but then it was like I was going through puberty again. My voice started cracking, and I got all hoarse. But then I noticed I was feeling really weak, like my muscles weren’t working right, no matter how much time I spent at the gym, and I started losing weight.” He stopped to clear his throat. “Like, I’ve always been kind of a skinny little guy, right? Well, I can eat and eat and eat and I still lose.”
“Is there anything else?” Spencer prompted.
“Little things,” he said, waving it away with his hand. “The biggest thing is the weakness. I’m stiff and clumsy now. Clumsier than usual, anyway.”
“Your walk...” Ian suggested.
“Yeah. Rather zombie-like, right?”
“Yeah,” Spencer and Ian agreed. “Weird,” Ian added. Spencer elbowed him.
“What have you been doing all this time?” Spencer asked, eying Ian.
“Hiding out,” Brendon replied. “And when I had to go out, blending in.”
“What do you mean, ‘blending in’?” Spencer wondered.
“Where I lived, over in Santa Monica, was hit pretty hard.” Spencer and Ian both made noises of agreement. “Lots of zombies. I stayed at my place for a while, but eventually I had to go out, when I ran out of stuff, you know? And when I did, I couldn’t get back. It was just... overwhelmed. I was already sick, and not too quick on my feet. The zombies weren’t interested in me. They’re pretty easily distracted,” Brendon snorted, and Spencer looked at him funny. “Like, I get that, right? ADHD all the way, but I figured out pretty quick that if I just held out for a minute, they would forget about me. Then I could fake it and get away.”
“Fake it?” Ian asked.
Brendon demonstrated from his chair. The vacant expression, head hanging at a weird angle, arms dangling at his sides. It was a pretty good impression.
“You can... fake it,” Spencer clarified.
“Yep. They totally fall for it. I made it all the way over here on foot.”
The three of them just sat there for a minute in silence.
“Holy shit,” Ian finally said.
“Yeah,” Spencer and Brendon agreed.
“Where are you trying to go?” Ian asked hesitantly.
“At first I was just trying to get somewhere safer,” Brendon said.
“There really isn’t anyplace safe, at least not in LA,” Ian replied sadly.
“Better than Santa Monica,” Brendon added with a grin. “Then I decided I’d try to go home.”
“Where’s home?” Spencer asked.
“Vegas.”
The quickly drawn breath drew their attention to Spencer. Brendon just looked at him curiously, but Ian knew Spencer well enough to know what Vegas meant to him. And he knew about Spencer’s plans.
“This is perfect,” Ian said, nudging Spencer in the arm.
“What?” Brendon wondered, looking from Spencer to Ian and back again.
“Um,” Spencer began lamely. He needed to think, preferably alone, for a minute. “I’m from Vegas.”
“Oh yeah? No way!” Brendon raised his hand for a weak high five. Spencer lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but humored him anyway.
“Spencer,” Ian prodded. Spencer shot him a look.
“I’m going. To Vegas,” he said at last. Brendon’s face lit up, and something in Spencer relaxed. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Do I ever!” Brendon laughed. Spencer scowled, and Ian poked at him.
“Lighten up, man.”
“He’s going to eat me alive,” Spencer muttered. Brendon heard, of course, and howled, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Spencer just shook his head. Between the goat and Brendon, he was fucked.
***
Ian helped them go through the truck, reorganizing and repacking one more time before they left. Spencer dared to bring the truck closer in, pulling it around back in the alley that bisected the block. Spencer had been mostly ready to go anyway, so it didn’t take long to add Brendon--and the goddamn goat--to the mix.
It actually took longer to get Brendon cleaned up. He was pretty filthy having been pretending to be a zombie. He cleaned up nice. Spencer found himself surreptitiously checking him out. It made him roll his eyes at his own behavior, because seriously. He had thought the guy was a zombie only hours before. He had to have some standards. Rules. Guidelines.
Ian presented Brendon with an aluminum baseball bat just before they went to get in the truck. Brendon took it like it was something precious, which, all things considered, it kind of was. Spencer was really just happy that Ian didn’t go and give him something stupid, like a gun. Spencer would gratefully take another gun to keep as backup, but he sure as hell wouldn’t give one to Brendon, who looked like he could barely hold his own arms up, let alone heft a gun long enough to point, aim, and shoot.
“You’re a team now,” Ian said.
“I guess so,” Brendon returned.
“Watch his back.”
“I’ll do my best,” Brendon said, and Spencer got the crawly feeling the back of his neck that someone was watching him as he went through things one last time.
“He’s my friend,” Ian said seriously.
“I can tell.”
“Now he’s yours.”
“No,” Brendon replied. “But he will be.”
“I hope so,” Ian said, opening the door to the rover and boosting up the goat to sit in Brendon’s lap.
“I’d lay money on it,” Brendon said confidently, settling in.
“Does he have a name?” Ian wondered, suddenly switching topics and gesturing at the goat.
“You didn’t give him one?” Spencer asked, leaning across the middle to peer at Ian through the passenger side window. Ian shook his head.
“Buttercup,” Brendon suggested.
“Buttercup? For a billy goat,” Spencer said slowly.
“Why not? Are we gender stereotyping? We can name him whatever,” Brendon shot back.
“Like ‘Dinner’,” Spencer mumbled. Brendon pressed his hands over the goat’s ears, shocked.
“Yeah, Buttercup,” Ian chimed in, snapping his fingers, but then jumping at the sharp sound and looking around hastily. “I love that movie!”
“Huh?”
“For fuck sake, Spencer, ‘The Princess Bride’? Westley, Buttercup. The Dread Pirate Roberts, the Six-fingered Man. ’Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’”
“Oh yeah, ok,” Spencer said, shaking his head and smiling. Ian was ridiculous.
***
They drove east along route 10 for what seemed like forever. Before the outbreaks, it took Spencer only about four hours to get to Vegas. It took them about that long just to get out of LA.
Spencer had been avoiding the freeways as he hopped around from job to job, but he chose to try the Hollywood Freeway to leave. It wasn't quite the parking lot it was during rush hour in days past, but it was tougher than he anticipated. Spencer had to navigate around abandoned vehicles left and right. It was just as bad as the surface streets.
Spencer didn't really mind the drive. It wasn't like he had to dodge pedestrians or anything. It was slow going, but he did have company for once. Brendon napped frequently, if only for twenty or so minutes at a time. When he was awake, he talked a lot.
There had been a girlfriend and a dog along with the apartment in Santa Monica. They hadn't come home one night early in the outbreaks, before anybody really figured out that something was seriously wrong. It was part of the reason Brendon hadn't left his apartment for so long. He hadn’t gotten out of bed much either.
“I thought she had left me,” he said softly, looking out the window. “I didn’t know. We fought sometimes. I thought she didn’t come back because she’d had enough, that she-“
“Don’t,” Spencer said firmly, but gently somehow too. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“How could I have known? It’s more likely for your girlfriend to walk out on you than it end up being the zombie apocalypse.”
“True,” Spencer laughed, and Brendon brightened a little. Spencer smiled to himself and just kept driving.
CONTINUE ON TO PART 2...