*/ Exigence */ Team - FRM
A/N: Originally written for zombi_fic_ation's Zombie Fest 2012. Prompt 41: Friends don't let friends eat friends.
Word Count: 1,546
Featuring: Team
Rating: FRM
Genre: Drama/Suspense
Warnings: mention of zombies; graphic violence, mild gore, [spoiler]major character death
Beta: moit
Exigence
You shot him! Goddammit, you fucking shot him!
~ ~ ~
Timothy McGee was a man of accuracy, his mind worked quickly and precisely, and he was admittedly proud of that fact. In his opinion, all things in the world could be explained, verified and justified by science, and most importantly, they always followed some basic logic. Things that didn't were mere phantoms, fantasies, nightmares-the fact was that Tim refused to believe in the existence of things that could by no means exist.
It wasn't easy to revise his point of view, even in the light of the impossible, even after he fired his whole damned magazine into one of them without any hint of it even realizing it was under fire; it marched on until someone, Gibbs, he assumed, aimed right at its head, and bam. Over and out. Nothing left but a lump of dead meat and a foul smell.
Their defense line was a joke; the team was outnumbered, surrounded, and in big goddamned trouble. Not exactly what they expected when they were called to this crime scene.
Upon their arrival at the cabin, someplace way up in Shenandoah National Park, everything seemed normal, or as normal as could be, given the circumstance that they had two victims whose bodies were turned into a meal-not even Tony felt like making a bad joke at the disgusting sight of raw flesh and entrails. The rangers who had called them made their excuses quickly after the team got in, and rightfully so.
Ziva was the first to notice the complete silence surrounding them. Not a bird, not a stirring in the undergrowth, not even the wind in the trees. It raised gooseflesh on her arms. Of course, Tony would laugh at this, quoting, “They're coming to get you, Ziva.” Tim just rolled his eyes, pretending to neither hear nor see any of this. He couldn't help but smirk, though, when Tony's little jibe earned him a slap to the head.
The man went quiet and soon they all focused on their work.
It wasn't before sundown that Ducky and Jimmy were ready to leave with the bodies-and that was when it all started to go downhill.
Tim cast a glance outside the front door and noticed someone nearby in the shadows of the trees. Shielding his eyes against the low-hanging sun, he stepped outside and called out, “NCIS. What are you doing here?”
He didn't receive any response other than a low-pitched growl, but that made him ready his weapon. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Gibbs standing beside him, and Tim gave a small nod towards the MEs, asking them to take a step back.
“Federal Agents,” Gibbs shouted. “Identify yourself.”
Another growl. The figure approached, slowly but determinedly. Another person appeared, another, and yet more, five or six altogether, none of them showing any sign of cooperation or even acknowledgement. Tony mumbled something that sounded like “… the fuck's wrong with these people?” and stood at Tim's other side, Ziva right behind him. Ducky stared into the shadows before finally taking a few steps back, dragging Jimmy along who still held one end of a stretcher; Jimmy stumbled and fell, and the dead body slid down as he finally let go.
All of a sudden, without any logical reason, an almost tangible tension hung over the scenery like The Sword of Damocles.
And then, all hell broke loose when Gibbs gave another warning, followed by Ziva firing her weapon almost instantly. Tim took a step forward, breaking the line for Ducky and Jimmy to seek cover inside the cabin, and opened fire himself, reacting, adjusting to an out-of-hand situation the best he could.
Later, Tim could not explain nor even quite remember how he got attacked, but all of a sudden, one of them came out of no-fucking-where and grabbed him by his jacket. For a moment, all Tim could do was stare into these lifeless eyes, before the … thing … sank its teeth into his arm-and still, he stood rooted to the ground, as if watching a scene from a movie. He felt the pain, sharp pain, heard the disgustingly slushy sound of his flesh being consumed, but it wasn't until Gibbs called his name that Timothy McGee's accurate mind came to the conclusion he had to do something.
He managed to free himself, but how they retreated and whatever else happened from that point on seemed blurred and dusty-and maybe it was to Tim's own best that he didn't know; there was no use in knowing about all the details that marked the downfall.
~ ~ ~
Like waves rolling with the tide, the cries and moans alternated with rattling at the door, the windows, and even the walls at times. It was nerve-wracking.
“We're going to get you. We're going to get you. Not another peep. Time to go to sleep.”
“I swear to God, if you make only one more sound, I will hit you over the head with that goddamned ironing board over there,” Ziva spat at Tony. The feigned look of hurt she received in response made Jimmy chuckle nervously.
Lying on the couch, Tim tried to catch his breath, all the same desperately forcing his mind to functioning properly. “Shut up. Both of you,” he snapped, and although his voice wasn't very powerful, the squabblers fell silent. They looked at him with what might have been either concern, consideration, or maybe even pity.
Tim was determined to find an explanation and thereby a clue as what to do next, how to get out of there, preferably alive and in one piece. All of them. His own wound didn't count. It was just a scratch, really, nothing to worry about. He knew he was playing it down, and he had seen enough movies-even if they were made-up nonsense-to have concern flicker through his head, yet his realist self held the upper hand. He'd be fine. He had all the important vaccinations: something to rely on.
Tim took a deep breath.
He'd be fine.
“Ammo?” Gibbs asked.
The combined yield was devastating. About two dozens of them lurked outside, and even if every bullet they had left hit its target, they didn't have enough to kill them all.
“Ziva. Help me reinforce the barricade. Tony, start looking for anything that would work as a weapon.” Both of them nodded and did as they were told.
“Boss, I could-” Tim started, but a shake of the head and a stern look from Gibbs made him fall silent.
“Yeah? What? You're wounded. Take a rest.”
He tried to get back to his feet to make himself useful in any way. “I'm fine. Really.”
“You're bleeding like a slaughtered pig,” Tony countered from behind the kitchen unit. “Boss's right, McBusy-Bee. Take a rest.”
Looking down at his forearm, Tim realized Tony wasn't exaggerating that much. The bandage Ducky had so carefully applied a mere ten minutes ago was already soaked and starting to fall apart.
“I'm fine,” he repeated with much less conviction.
“I will hit you over the head if you do not keep your feet still. And your arm.” Ziva raised her eyebrows.
Tim finally obliged to the concentrated persuasiveness he encountered. Maybe if he'd just close his eyes for a few minutes, he might reset his mind.
~ ~ ~
When he opened his eyes again after what seemed only a blink, he found himself in almost complete darkness. The unintelligible noises from outside had turned into something Tim felt connected to, something that made sense. It seemed they were calling for him. Noticing the excruciatingly tempting smell that hung all over the place, he flared his nostrils and gave a low snarl.
A quick movement nearby made him turn his head toward it, sniffing for its origin.
There.
Warm, pulsing, delicious life.
Mouth-watering.
He stood up, reaching out for the source of his animalistic hunger.
~ ~ ~
When Tim opened his eyes again after several hours, Ziva was ready. She'd seen it coming; they all had, and they'd taken turns on guarding and monitoring their sleeping friend.
She stood so close to him that she could touch him softly, maybe try to venture to that part of him that still was him, but she knew he'd never forgive her for being so unreasonable.
She couldn't let him down. Not him. Not her. Not now.
When she pulled the trigger, a loving, “Good night, McGee,” was on her lips, and it tore her heart apart.
Ziva watched as the bullet hit Tim in the middle of his forehead, sending blood, bone fragments, and cerebral mass splashing against the curtains. She watched as his body sank back onto the couch, convulsing, face showing not a hint of understanding. Ziva stood and watched and watched and stood, not registering the tears burning her eyes, not noticing Gibbs's hand on her shoulder; the world stopped turning until Tony shouted.
“You shot him! Goddammit, you fucking shot him!”
“Yes,” she said hoarsely. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve before she fixed her eyes on him. “And I expect you to do the same for me.”
Tony's expression went from shocked to blank to understanding in a second.
“Won't let you go to Hell, Missy.”