![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
onemuseleftOkay, so technically this is the Sixth Fandom that Ended in a Zombie Apocalypse, but really. We all saw this coming, right?
Just a small scene, set an indefinite amount of time after the zombies overrun New York.
Kevin is awake and on his knees in bed, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, before he even fully registers the fading scream that woke him.
The light flickers over Grant, scrambling out of bed, then cuts across empty space to Alexis, sitting up in her bed, a baseball bat clenched in her hands. "Get your gun," Kevin orders her in a low voice and she nods as she swings her feet over the side of the bed and jams them into her shoes.
Demming is on guard by the window. He's staying behind cover as much as he can, but the rifle is resting on his shoulder and he's peering through the sights down at the street below.
Kevin kills the flashlight and slides out of bed as silently as he can, bare feet soundless on the hardwood floors of their hideout. Demming doesn't look too worried, but he hasn't lowered the rifle yet either, and none of them have stayed alive this long by letting their guard down.
The moonlight is bright enough for him to see the street below and he takes up position on the other side of the window and looks down. There's a man in the street, staggering almost drunkenly down the block.
He's still alive and Kevin is already running the risks of a rescue op in his mind when he hears the hoarse, animalistic scream of a Feeder on the hunt.
Behind him, Grant drags in a deep, harsh breath but doesn't make any other sound. Alexis is still and silent, her red hair too easily seen in the moonlight, but she's exchanged the bat for a handgun.
"How many?" Kevin asks, keeping his voice just above a whisper. Soft voices don't travel nearly as far as the harsh sibilant hiss of a whisper, but it still feels too loud, too obvious in the dark.
"Few dozen," Demming says and then Kevin can see them, too.
They come pouring down the street, out of alleys and down fire escapes, clamber through broken storefront windows and stagger through open doorways. The city's dead, come to feed.
They swarm over the poor bastard beneath them and there's nothing Kevin or the rest of them can do to help anymore.
He and Demming both ease back from the window. They've seen this before and neither one really wants to see it again.
"Go back to sleep," he tells the kids.
It was Demming's shift, so he keeps watch while they crawl back into their beds. They can hear the horde below, but the sounds of the feeding are too faint to make out. Just the constant growl and snarl of the Feeders reach them.
****
"We need a plan," Kevin says the next morning.
It's a listless group that looks back at him. Alexis is almost as sunburned as he is, but her eyes are bloodshot and weary. She's too thin, nothing but skin and bone and lean muscle, no hint of the curves she'd been growing into. Grant isn't much better – he'd been scrawny and lean when they first found him and the constant stress and worry seems to have eaten away at him like a sickness. Demming is tired from taking watch, and he leans back in his chair and absently rubs at his bad leg with one hand while he fishes another pear slice out of his can with the other. He has a permanent five o clock shadow these days because they have to be careful rationing water, and the shirt he's wearing hangs on his frame like it was made for someone two sizes bigger. Which he had been, when he'd first worn it.
None of them look any better than Kevin himself does, he knows it. Too thin, with his own stubble and shaggy hair. There are cuts and scrapes on his fists that haven't healed yet.
He stopped being hungry a while back, now there's just a vague discomfort deep in his skin and bones that he's pretty sure he can live with for a while longer.
"We're almost out of ammo," Demming says. They're keeping their voices down, they always speak in sotto voce, barely above a whisper because they never know where a Feeder – or worse – might be lurking. "We've got two reloads for Alexis's weapon, a couple of magazines for the glock, a box of shells for the shotgun and maybe, maybe, a full reload on the colt."
"The rifle?" Kevin asks, because that is probably the most important. Demming can't run for shit anymore, but his aim is good enough to cover the rest of them, get them in and out of places they need to go.
"If I'm smart about my targets, I say we've got one supply run left in us," Demming says. "But if we screw up anywhere along the line, we're gonna be defenseless."
"Where can we get more ammunition?" Alexis asks. She has a snacksized bag of trail mix for breakfast, peanuts and raisins and brightly-colored m&m knockoffs. "Is there a sporting goods store we can get to?"
"Something better," Kevin says, and the weight of her expectant gaze makes him feel stronger and so incredibly exhausted all at once. He wonders if Castle had ever felt like that, or if it's just the disaster scenario that brings it out. "The weapons locker at the Twelfth Precinct."
Just a small scene, set an indefinite amount of time after the zombies overrun New York.
Kevin is awake and on his knees in bed, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other, before he even fully registers the fading scream that woke him.
The light flickers over Grant, scrambling out of bed, then cuts across empty space to Alexis, sitting up in her bed, a baseball bat clenched in her hands. "Get your gun," Kevin orders her in a low voice and she nods as she swings her feet over the side of the bed and jams them into her shoes.
Demming is on guard by the window. He's staying behind cover as much as he can, but the rifle is resting on his shoulder and he's peering through the sights down at the street below.
Kevin kills the flashlight and slides out of bed as silently as he can, bare feet soundless on the hardwood floors of their hideout. Demming doesn't look too worried, but he hasn't lowered the rifle yet either, and none of them have stayed alive this long by letting their guard down.
The moonlight is bright enough for him to see the street below and he takes up position on the other side of the window and looks down. There's a man in the street, staggering almost drunkenly down the block.
He's still alive and Kevin is already running the risks of a rescue op in his mind when he hears the hoarse, animalistic scream of a Feeder on the hunt.
Behind him, Grant drags in a deep, harsh breath but doesn't make any other sound. Alexis is still and silent, her red hair too easily seen in the moonlight, but she's exchanged the bat for a handgun.
"How many?" Kevin asks, keeping his voice just above a whisper. Soft voices don't travel nearly as far as the harsh sibilant hiss of a whisper, but it still feels too loud, too obvious in the dark.
"Few dozen," Demming says and then Kevin can see them, too.
They come pouring down the street, out of alleys and down fire escapes, clamber through broken storefront windows and stagger through open doorways. The city's dead, come to feed.
They swarm over the poor bastard beneath them and there's nothing Kevin or the rest of them can do to help anymore.
He and Demming both ease back from the window. They've seen this before and neither one really wants to see it again.
"Go back to sleep," he tells the kids.
It was Demming's shift, so he keeps watch while they crawl back into their beds. They can hear the horde below, but the sounds of the feeding are too faint to make out. Just the constant growl and snarl of the Feeders reach them.
****
"We need a plan," Kevin says the next morning.
It's a listless group that looks back at him. Alexis is almost as sunburned as he is, but her eyes are bloodshot and weary. She's too thin, nothing but skin and bone and lean muscle, no hint of the curves she'd been growing into. Grant isn't much better – he'd been scrawny and lean when they first found him and the constant stress and worry seems to have eaten away at him like a sickness. Demming is tired from taking watch, and he leans back in his chair and absently rubs at his bad leg with one hand while he fishes another pear slice out of his can with the other. He has a permanent five o clock shadow these days because they have to be careful rationing water, and the shirt he's wearing hangs on his frame like it was made for someone two sizes bigger. Which he had been, when he'd first worn it.
None of them look any better than Kevin himself does, he knows it. Too thin, with his own stubble and shaggy hair. There are cuts and scrapes on his fists that haven't healed yet.
He stopped being hungry a while back, now there's just a vague discomfort deep in his skin and bones that he's pretty sure he can live with for a while longer.
"We're almost out of ammo," Demming says. They're keeping their voices down, they always speak in sotto voce, barely above a whisper because they never know where a Feeder – or worse – might be lurking. "We've got two reloads for Alexis's weapon, a couple of magazines for the glock, a box of shells for the shotgun and maybe, maybe, a full reload on the colt."
"The rifle?" Kevin asks, because that is probably the most important. Demming can't run for shit anymore, but his aim is good enough to cover the rest of them, get them in and out of places they need to go.
"If I'm smart about my targets, I say we've got one supply run left in us," Demming says. "But if we screw up anywhere along the line, we're gonna be defenseless."
"Where can we get more ammunition?" Alexis asks. She has a snacksized bag of trail mix for breakfast, peanuts and raisins and brightly-colored m&m knockoffs. "Is there a sporting goods store we can get to?"
"Something better," Kevin says, and the weight of her expectant gaze makes him feel stronger and so incredibly exhausted all at once. He wonders if Castle had ever felt like that, or if it's just the disaster scenario that brings it out. "The weapons locker at the Twelfth Precinct."
