"Oh good, you're awake."
Lovino blearily shakes his head and groans. His head is killing him, worse than when he got horribly drunk the first time he tried wine. He mumbles out a curse and throws an arm over his eyes to block out the harsh sunlight.
"Who the fuck are you?" He hacks, throat sore and dry. "Where am I?"
"Well, good morning to you, too, puppchen," an accented voice snarks, grating on Lovino's ears. "We are currently at . . ." Something creaks and muttering is heard. "Sunshine Motel, your home away from home!" The words are said with false cheer, and the Italian wants nothing more than to go back to sleep.
"Oh, merda, don't tell me I had a one night stand with a fucking German," he groans, finally putting a finger on that familiar accent. Was he really so drunk that he stooped to sleeping with one of fucking potato bastards?
"Believe me, I wouldn't touch that hot mess with a five meter pole." The person, a male, Lovino thinks, snorts, and he has the sudden urge to strangle the German. "Besides, you should be thanking me. I saved your life, show a little goddamned gratitude!"
Scowling, he grinds out a sullen, "thank you," and then immediately demands to know what the fuck happened and why does his fucking head hurt so bad, dammit!
"Yeah, you sorta got trampled in the mad rush to get off the streets. I saw you bleeding on the side of the road and felt sorry for you, so I brought you back to my motel room. Thanks are accepted in the form of food, good food. Not like McDonald's or Burger King or shit like that."
Lovino groans again and raises his head, ignoring the sharp pain in his neck. He is in some nondescript motel room, walls patterned with sickly green paisley. His head hurts, his side hurts, his whole body is just one large ball of pain. He twists his head to the right and jolts, immediately regretting it when a wave of nausea churns his stomach. "Fuck!"
"Yeah, I'd advise not moving," the stranger says, not unsympathetically.
"Vaffanculo," the Italian snarls, fingers clutching at his side.
Gusting a whiskey-laced sigh that Lovino can smell due to the stranger's close proximity, the German helps him up into a sitting position and dribbles a bit of alcohol down Lovino's parched throat. Once that ordeal is over with, Lovino takes a closer look at the man to see if his pain-addled mind made him see things, but his appearance remains the same: off-white skin, platinum-blond hair, and dark pink eyes.
"Hey, you're-"
Smile stiff, the man cuts him off with, "Awesome, why yes I am, thank you for noticing!"
Lovino frowns but decides to let the subject of the man's weird looks drop. "Are you going to explain why the hell I would be bleeding on the side of the road because a group of fucking morons doesn't look where they're running?"
Sighing, the man flops back in his chair. "You, my irritating companion, and I are currently living the Dawn of the Dead life. Kiss your zombie-free days goodbye!" With a manic grin, he chugs the remaining contents of the bottle.
"You've gotta be shitting me," Lovino says flatly. With a low groan, he lurches off of the bed to the window and squints through the bright daylight. Two stories down, a group of slack-jawed people mill about, and Lovino is about to turn to the potato bastard and ask him what fucking zombies was he babbling on about when a sharp gunshot rings out and one of the people falls to the ground, her head split wide open.
"What, what the, she just," Lovino babbles, gaping as the others begin to howl and stagger around aimlessly.
The German dashes across the room and yanks the other man down to the ground, face indifferent as he presses a clammy hand over Lovino's mouth. "If one of them saw you, we'd be knee-deep in the fuckers. Also, don't yell or scream because I think loud noises set them off."
Once the clamor dies down, the German helps Lovino to his feet with a muttered apology ("Sorry, forgot you were injured." "Like hell you did!") and, peers around the edge of the window sill. "Yeah, we've got a survivor across the street. Whoever it is picks one of them off every once in a while. Earlier he would just shoot them, but a couple of them wised up and went into his building, then came out a little while after. Figured he was dead until they started dropping again."
Lovino follows the other's lead and peeks through the window. Now that he isn't blinded by the sun, he notices the other bodies lying in the street, and the dark blood painting the fronts and hands of the remaining drifters. Scowling, he says, "And how do we know that these are zombies?" He spits the word out with derision.
"See those bodies right next to the black Mustang?" At Lovino's disgusted gag, he adds, "That was some guy and his pretty little girlfriend. They tried to run past the zombies and, well, you can see that they didn't make it."
Still feeling the bile rise up in the back of his throat, the Italian slowly slides down to the floor and curls up, resting his forehead against raised knees. "Alright, give me the statistics on these things. Their speed, strengths and weaknesses you've observed, anything that could help us." Already his mind is mapping out a plan of escape; he knows this town city, knows the back alleys and shortcuts and rooftops, and he'll be damned if he dies like some loser by a fucking zombie.
If the German is surprised by his easy acceptance of the situation, he doesn't show it. Sighing, he extracts yet another bottle of whiskey from his jacket and chugs half of it before handing it to Lovino. "They're pretty slow, none of them can go faster than a walking pace, but I don't think they can run out of energy. They've been walking out there for who knows how many hours without stopping, so if you trip or something and can't get up, you're screwed. Headshots kill them, nothing else, but if you don't get them good, they'll get back up. And they seem to be somewhat intelligent since those couple of zombies wised up and went into that survivor's building."
Lovino nods and takes a swig, grimacing at the burn. "Weapons?"
The German gestures to the nightstand, where a pistol lays. "I've got that, but that's it. Carries a seven round clip, and I've got an extra in the drawer." He squints and cocks his head. "I didn't peg you as a team player."
"My head feels like it's about to split open, my side hurts like some bastard punched me there, and I don't have any fucking weapons," a pained gasp as his head throbs, "so I don't really have any other fucking choice but to depend on you!"
Grinning, the German rolls onto the floor with a thump and snatches the whiskey bottle back. "For a little shit, you've got a lotta spunk. I like it!" Extending a hand, he says, "The name's Gilbert Beilschmidt."
Lovino slaps the hand away and replies with a gritted, "Lovino Vargas, you bastardo mangia–patate!"
Gilbert laughs an annoying, rasping cackle. "This looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Lovi."
"Fuck you. And don't call me that!"
After half an hour of hushed arguing, in which Lovino, using his status as a local, badgers the German into following his plan, the two are ready to brave the streets.
Gilbert presses his ear to the thin wooden door, holding his breath as he listens for movement. Giving the other man a gesture to stay back, he slowly opens the door and peers out, breaths quick and shallow. Seeing that the corridor is clear, he darts out, pistol held in front of him, and motions for Lovino to follow. They skulk down hallways and up stairs, never once running into anyone else.
"I think all of them are on the street," Gilbert explains as Lovino wipes the blood off his head, "because I threw an empty bottle out the window earlier; their groans were bothering me. They heard the crash and came running, so there shouldn't be any left in the motel."
Yeah, shouldn't being the operative word, the Italian thinks darkly, eyes darting around and body tensing at every sound. They've made it to the roof without any problems, but experience has taught Lovino that life likes to fuck with bastards who don't really fucking need the extra baggage.
A few quick hops across bone-shattering drops, and they face the second floor rusty fire escape of a tall apartment building.
"Please don't tell me you live on the top floor," Gilbert groans.
"Fuck no," Lovino scowls. "That block's gang lives there.. I live on the ninth floor."
The German drops his head into his hands. "Fuck me."
The clang as Lovino jumps onto the fire escape is nerve-wracking, and he freezes as Gilbert follows with a grunt. Wincing at every metallic noise, they make their way up past four windows, flinching every time a lurching figure passes a cloudy window.
"Most of the apartments in my building don't have front doors that lock, but the residents have guns. The stupid fuckers don't know how to use them properly, though, so I'm betting most of the apartment is dead. And these are the kind of people with kids and dogs that don't know how to shut up, either, so these 'zombies' are probably crowded around the survivors' doors."
At the fifth window, they ready themselves. Lovino slides the window open, then stands back as Gilbert slithers through the narrow opening before trailing in after him. The hallway is free of blood and gore, which is slightly heartening. Several of the doors hang open, apartments abandoned, but a few are securely closed, faint whispers emitting from behind them.
They creep to the door at the very end of the hall, and, as Lovino searches his pockets for the keys he just had a fucking minute ago, dammit, Gilbert keeps an eye on the shadowy doorways and stairwell. After several heart-pounding minutes, the Italian forces the door open and drags Gilbert in after him. As Lovino stalks off to who knows where, the German occupies himself with pushing a wide, heavy dresser in front of the door as quietly as he can.
"Well, that was anticlimatic," Gilbert whispers disappointedly to Lovino's scowl.
"Come on, bastard." The Italian turns away to a dark doorway, through which is a cluttered bedroom. He makes a beeline for the squat wooden drawer beside the bed. With his back to the other man, Lovino hisses, "I'm going to let you know right fucking now, if you think that you're going to get what you want from me and then leave me for dead, I will make fucking sure that my undead self will hunt you down and kill you."
"Gott Verdammt, I fucking pulled you out of the road while those things were running amuck," Gilbert says testily. "If I just wanted stuff, I would've left your ungrateful ass to die and raided some unlucky bastard's apartment."
"Good. Because if you had planned on doing that," Lovino turns to the other, pistol leveled at Gilbert's chest, "I wouldn't even have given you time to say your prayers." With a nasty grin to the German's impressed face, he tucks the gun into the back of his pants. "Well, what are you waiting for, dammit?"
Without waiting for a response, Lovino pushes the mattress onto the floor with a soft flump and lifts up the wooden slats to reveal an abundance of weapons, from sawed-off shotguns to semiautomatics to bowie knives to machetes.
"Jesus, kid, you got a lotta guns," Gilbert says, arching an eyebrow as Lovino methodically extracts the weapons and checks them.
"I like being prepared," the Italian mutters.
"What I want to know is why you're living in a shithole like this when you can afford all this."
Lovino smirks as he tests a blade's edge with the pad of his thumb. "The rent's cheap and everyone stays out of my fucking business. Plus the gangs in this block have paid off the pigs, so I don't have to worry about my apartment being searched or some shit like that."
"Sly little bastard, aren't ya?" Gilbert grins, snagging a Winchester for himself and feeling the balance. "And you've got silencers for them, too? What, are you in the mafia or something?"
"Shut up and help me load these."
They sit in silence until the sun is low in the sky and their stomachs begin grumbling. At the German's whines ("Fuck you, I wasn't whining. I'm too awesome for that."), Lovino sighs and leads him into the tiny kitchen and withdraws two cans of green beans. As the vegetables heat up on the stove-miraculously, the power and water are still running-they hash out a plan to leave in the morning for Lovino's little sister's apartment across town.
"So what's your story?" Gilbert asks once he finishes inhaling the subpar meal. At the Italian's sullen glare, he adds, "What? You can't tell me that you don't have one. People without stories don't keep a fucking arsenal under their bed and multiple first aid kits in their bathroom."
"There's no fucking story," the hostile man mutters, quietly setting his bowl in the sink and stalking off.
Gilbert follows him and watches with a little smirk as Lovino packs two rucksacks with a few weapons and ammunition, a first aid kit each, and canned goods.
"Aww, that's sweet! You're making me a survival bag, too?" Gilbert drawls.
"Fuck off, this isn't for you! It's for my sister when I find her." He frowns as he carefully lays everything in the bag, a worried crease forming between his eyebrows.
"Cool your jets, kid." Gilbert slides down the floor until he sits on the floor. "I've got a sibling that I'm worried about, too. And if your sister's anything like you, then she's definitely alive."
Lovino groans and puts his face in his hands, sinking into a crouch. "She's almost nothing like me, that's the problem," he says, the words coming out muffled. "She doesn't have any fucking common sense, she's loud, fuck, she can barely handle living alone! If she hasn't found a survivor to cling to, I can only hope for the worst." He rocks back on his haunches and flops onto the floor, his face drawn. "I've taken care of every little fucking problem that's run across her scatter-brained path, and because of my own fucking hovering, she's doomed." A short, shaky laugh. "She's fucking doomed and it's all my fucking fault, dammit."
Hesitantly, Gilbert scoots next to the other man and pats him on the back. "Listen, kid, she'll be fine. My little brother's a badass and has a helpless sonar; he'll zero in right on her and protect her."
After a few sniffles (which he vehemently denies later), Lovino pushes the other man's hand away with a curse, embarrassed to be seen so vulnerable. "Go to the living room, you're taking the first watch, bastardo mangia–patate." With his back to the German, he remakes the bed and crawls into it.
When he hears Gilbert's soft footsteps make their way out of his room, Lovino prays to the Holy Mother that the German bastard is right.
"You ready, kid?"
Lovino grunts and hoists the bag onto his shoulders, shotgun gripped firmly in his hands.
Carefully, ever so carefully, Gilbert pushes the dresser to the side and cracks the door open. Not hearing or seeing anything moving, he and the Italian slink into the hallway.
Lovino hisses, "You better not-"
A zombie lurches out of one of the apartments, teeth gnashing furiously. Without so much as a flinch, Gilbert raises his pistol and shoots it between the eyes, and the body falls to the ground with a thud that shatters the silence.
"She would always try to set me up with her daughter," Lovino mutters, eyes a little glassy.
"Fuck," Gilbert says as a distant howl floats from the stairwell.
Simultaneously, they rush to the fire escape, slamming the window shut behind them, and scramble down the metal staircase. Moving corpses crawl out of the woodwork as the two fall to the pavement with grunts.
"Well, this is just fan-fucking-tastic!" Lovino huffs as they, at the German's insistence and the added fact that their planned path is clogged with zombies, sprint back to the motel. He scowls mightily, bashing a zombie in the face with the butt of his shotgun as he runs past it.
"Hey, I wasn't the one who couldn't keep his mouth shut," the other man retorts, emptying a clip into a group of zombies and retrieving another from the ammunition belt slung across his chest. He pulls himself on top of a van and helps the Italian up after him.
They stand back to back, the air filled with the sounds of muffled gunshots, curses, and howls.
"Any goddamn day now," Gilbert snarls, glancing at the dark windows of the building beside them.
As if on cue, the zombies surrounding them begin dropping like flies. Once the crowd has thinned out, the gunfire from the building ceases, and, a few minutes later, a tall, blonde, deceptively mild-looking man comes out of the building, leveling a hunting rifle before him and picking off zombies with ease. Very calmly, he walks up to the vehicle where the Italian and the German kill the last of the corpses.
"Hello," he smiles shyly as the other two men jump off of the van.
Lovino squints. "Do I know you?"
A pained expression briefly flashes across the blonde's face. "I work the night shift at the gas station down the road. You always come in when I'm at the register to buy a sandwich from the back and complain about your little sister."
"Oh, right. Mark," the Italian says, kicking a body out of his way as he begins to make his way up the road. "Hey, bastards, you coming or what?"
"It's Matthew," he mumbles, falling into step with the German, who introduces himself and compliments the other on his awesome shooting.
"Quit fucking socializing so we can get off these fucking streets!"
"What I don't understand," Gilbert says as Lovino taps on the closed door to the condo, "is why you lived in that shithole while your sister chilled over here. Shit, even if it's expensive, you two could've shared and split the rent!"
"She doesn't exactly know I'm living in the same town as her," the Italian mumbles, retrieving a key from his jeans' pocket.
"You've taken protective older brother to creepy levels," Gilbert remarks, grinning at Matthew's raised eyebrow.
"Vaffanculo," the Italian snarls, opening the door and stomping inside. He stops in the middle of the living room, surveying the colorful, gore-free surroundings, and scowls. "Feli," he calls out after the front door clicks shut. "It's me, fratello."
"I don't think she's here," Matthew pipes up. At Lovino's, "what the fuck makes you think so, dammit?" he points to the wall left of the Italian. The wall is covered in bold, elegant cursive words reading:
Hi Lovi!
When the zombies started attacking, Luddy and I went to your place that you think I don't know about and didn't find you! But I know you and know that you wouldn't die and would come looking for me! We're going to the safe house in Arizona, the one with the bunker painted in bottle-green, so come and find us soon!
Luddy says to add that if you see his big brother Gilbert (he's albino!) to bring him with you, please, and not to kill him! Even if he is very annoying!
~Feliciana
P.S. Please don't shoot Luddy when you see him just because there won't be any cops to stop you! I will be very unhappy!
"Holy shit, so the dippy girl that my brother's head over heels for is your sister? The one that he wanted me to meet, the reason I'm stuck here in this hellhole?" Gilbert exclaims, dramatically flopping onto-and ruining-the pristine leather couch.
"Thatmacho man potato bastard that's stupid for little Feli is your brother?" Lovino fumes. "I should shoot you where you sit!"
"Don't you think enough people have died already?" Matthew pipes up, unheard as the other two glare daggers at each other. With a sigh, he stands between the two and effectively breaks their eye contact.
"If you guys ever want to see your siblings again," he says calmly, "then I suggest you stop with the drama."
"Fine," Gilbert grinds out. He pouts a little as he slaps a clip into his pistol.
"Fine," Lovino spits.
"Now let's go to the downstairs garage and steal some rich guy's car, okay? Okay."
"If I find out that my sister got hurt on your brother's watch, I will fucking strangle him with his own fucking entrails!"
Meanwhile, at the Nevada-Arizona border, a tall, muscular, blond man sneezes.
"Oh, Luddy, are you sick?" A young woman with amber, doe-like eyes frowns, smashing a zombie's head in with a baseball bat. She turns to him with a pout, front caked in black gore.
"No, I am fine, Feliciana," he sighs, pulling her out of the way of a charging zombie.
"Oh, okay!"
Ludwig shudders at the sheer viciousness his girlfriend displays and is very, very thankful that he has her with him.