The car, a late model Dodge, had broken down in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia. The golden chariot that had delivered them from the utter Hell of Las Vegas, through the burning desert, the desolate Great Plains, and most of the way through the Bible Belt had slowed and sputtered to a stop and no amount of prodding or coaxing would convince it budge.
As he and Anatoly trekked slowly through the forest, travelling in a route parallel to the road, Harry found himself missing the beefy roar of the car's engine; he'd always found that it did a remarkably good job of blocking out the hissing moans and half-roars of the groaners, as they'd been dubbed by an acquaintance back in Las Vegas (now dead and forgotten). Now that the car was gone, he could hear them again.
Harry couldn't believe this unending Hell had started with something as innocuous as an extended vacation.
Immediately after school, to the surprise of no one, Harry had joined the auror program. The program had been grueling, the training intensive, but soon after he'd become an auror proper. The time passed uneventfully and thirteen years, several breakups (one large and several minor), and a few promotions later Harry found himself as the overpaid and under stimulated Head of the Auror Office. No one had ever told him just how boring it would be.
So, Harry decided - or rather Hermione and Ron had decided for him - that he should take a vacation, travel abroad, have the adventures that people longed to have instead of the dark ones that had been forced upon him in his youth. The first stop had been Russia and Harry was certain he had never been to a more dreary place, then he'd gone to Hong Kong which he found more to his taste despite the fact that he didn't speak the language. Finally, he hopped a plane to Las Vegas - international travel by muggle means was slower but a far sight more tolerable than the system that had been cooked up by wizards.
One week after he'd landed in Vegas Harry had discovered that he was reaching the end of his allotted month of vacation time and started to make arrangements to travel back to England. That was when the borders closed.
As it turned out a disease had been moving through the United States for several days and Harry had been all too busy gambling away his money and living the high life to have noticed. Being stranded in America with only his wand, a duffle full of muggle clothing, and an assortment of cheesy souvenirs for his friends back home, Harry had made his way to the nearest magical hub to try to book a series of international portkeys to get him across America and then across the pond and back home. This plan was immediately curtailed by the military rolling into Vegas and declaring martial law, followed soon after by what Harry could only describe as the end of the world.
On the dawn of what Harry had decided would be his last day in Las Vegas, he'd come to the conclusion that using his magic to run a few military checkpoints would be preferable to staying in a military occupied city for the foreseeable future. He had gathered his luggage and a long walk and a few military checkpoints later the whole city exploded into panic. People were running into the streets, many bleeding, many more dying. The thing of it was that the dead didn't remain as such. As the dying and dead filled the streets Harry looked around and spotted the Eiffel Tower replica of the Paris Las Vegas hotel. Line-of-Sight apparition was ill-advised at such great distances but as one of the recently dead stumbled towards him, maw dripping with blood and human viscera, he decided that the risk of splinching himself was the lesser of two evils. With a sharp crack he disappeared from the street and reappeared on the balcony just below the precipice of the Eiffel Tower replica. From there Harry Potter had front row seats to the end of the world.
Now, three-hundred and some odd days later, Harry walked through the woods with Anatoly the Russian tourist, the last friend Harry had and perhaps the strongest man he knew. Harry's auror training had taught him how to track, how to kill, how to survive in the wilderness without a wand, but Anatoly seemed to be a breed apart. Harry assumed he was some sort of Ex-Special Forces, or whatever the Russian equivalent was, but Anatoly never talked much about his past and that suited Harry just fine. The Russian had taught Harry how to shoot and they'd kept each other alive for the better part of a year, even as everyone else they knew was claimed by death.
They drew to a stop at a set of train tracks, although the tracks weren't specifically why they stopped. The sounds of what could only be a massive group of groaners could be heard up ahead, likely a herd that was roaming down the road. Harry glanced around for a good tree before tapping Anatoly on the shoulder and scrambling his way up the tree as quietly as possible. Anatoly was quick to follow. They couldn't see much through the foliage of the tree, but they would certainly hear when the coast was clear. All that was left to do was hunker down and wait the groaners out.
"Train tracks run North and South," Anatoly whispered up to Harry. "Which way you think is nearest town?"
Harry looked away from his fingernails that he'd started to clean with his knife, a seven inch Ka-Bar he'd taken off of a dead soldier. "Flip a coin, mate. One direction is as good as the other."
Anatoly just nodded and they settled down for a long wait.
LINE BREAK
By the late afternoon, the majority of the groaner herd had moved on. They could hear them down the read, back where they'd left their car, but the bulk had moved on enough that they could climb out of their tree and continue on their way. Anatoly had indeed flipped a coin and South was the direction they chose.
Two hours of walking at a steady pace brung them to a small abandoned house off the tracks a ways. The fence was crumbling and the door was broken completely off the hinges but it was as good a place as any to wait out the night. They walked up to the door frame, knives out, and knocked loudly on it. After a few seconds, shuffling and moaning was heard as a walking pile of dead flesh shuffled its way to the front door. Anatoly was quick to shove his knife into its ear.
Harry searched the house as his companion set up a crude alarm system in the door frame. In the bathroom he found a medicine cabinet and caught a look at his reflection in the dusty mirror. His hair was wild and long hanging down around his face and nearly touching his shoulders. His beard was thankfully just over an inch long although it was similarly dirty. Thankfully a corrective procedure soon after he'd left school had made sure Harry wasn't worrying about his glasses during the undead apocalypse. The red flannel he wore was covered by a kevlar vest covered with many pockets. He'd found it in a private residence of all places. Harry was pulled out of his stupor by footsteps in the hall and quickly opened the cabinet and took the lone bottle of aspirin that was inside before walking out to meet Anatoly.
"Aspirin," Harry said as he held out the bottle.
"Peaches," Anatoly responded as he held out a sealed can. "Also this." His second hand contained a single black hair tie. "Get hair out of eyes."
Harry took the tie and quickly tied his long hair into a topknot while he followed Anatoly into the living room. The Russian fished a can opener out of his pack as well as a bowl. He poured half the peaches into the bowl and handed it to Harry and they shared a quiet meal as the Sun set.
LINE BREAK
Harry was jerked awake on the living room floor by the sound of rattling cans. He gripped his M4 rifle and looked around for Anatoly to find him nowhere in sight. Anatoly's pack was still where he'd left it but his AK-74 was missing, telling Harry that the Russian was still on watch.
Harry slipped the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and walked out of the living room and down the hallway that led to the front door. They had moved the couch out of the living room and into the hallway to block the way of any groaners that might have made it past their crude alarm system. On that couch Harry found Anatoly. He was fumbling with a lighter while a cigarette hung from his mouth. Harry took it from his hand and lit it for him.
"That was you making all that noise?" Harry asked as he grabbed the pack of cigarettes and pulled one out for himself. He had initially been reluctant to start smoking, but cigarettes were easier to find than food most of the time and the nicotine soothed his appetite when food was scarce. Harry tried to limit himself to one or two smokes a day.
"Da. I thought one last smoke before it's over."
"Over? What are you...?" As Anatoly held up his right hand, Harry noticed that there were only three fingers attached to it and it was bleeding heavily.
"Ah, shit. Bugger it all."
"Large group, maybe fifteen, maybe more. Coming down from North. Tried to run, not to attract attention, tripped." Anatoly let out a rueful chuckle. "Went out to take piss, should have brought rifle."
As Anatoly mentioned his rifle, Harry noticed it leaning next to the door frame. He quickly moved to Anatoly's right side while pulling his knife.
"Give it here," he said, reaching for Anatoly's hand. "I'll cut it off while there's still time."
"No time. Listen." Anatoly pointed out the doorway, and suddenly Harry could hear them. The signature groaning that served as a precursor to death or a long run.
Anatoly started working off his forearm pads. "Grab my rifle." Harry did so and handed Anatoly his AK-74. "Take these," he said as he handed Harry his forearm pads. "Did no good to me in the end. Maybe they save your life. Now, get me my pack." As Harry ran back further into the house, Anatoly shouldered his rifle, waiting for the approaching horde.
When Harry arrived at the sleeping area, he gathered his own pack and threw it on his back first, then put on Anatoly's, now his, forearm pads, and then got the Russian's pack. He ran back to the entryway where the sounds of the undead were growing. He set Anatoly's pack down next to him.
"There are two grenades in the bottom, give me one, you take other. Take my smokes, too." Harry did as he was told and handed Anatoly a frag grenade then pocketed the other. He found one unopened pack of cigarettes in the pack that he quickly shoved into the side pocket of his cargo pants. Anatoly turned to grin at him, his half smoked cigarette clenched in his teeth.
"Now I die like big American hero. Yippee Ki-yay, motherfucker!" He shouted as the first groaner entered sight of the doorway. As Anatoly opened fire, Harry ran in the other direction. He made it out the back door and into the treeline by the time he heard the shots stop.
"Poshel na khuy!" These were the last words Harry heard Anatoly speak, faint as they were, before they were followed by an explosion. Harry found the train tracks and kept running.
LINE BREAK
Harry sat on the train tracks, looking downhill and across a small creek at a zombie infested prison. He had walked down the tracks for the rest of the night and much of the morning. As his stomach rumbled, Harry lit a cigarette.
There was a good chance that there was food in the prison, and if this one was anything like Azkaban, it probably wasn't too close to any towns. He couldn't pass up this chance. He couldn't clear the entire prison alone, but finding food wouldn't involve clearing the whole prison. As he was mulling this over he heard footsteps approaching to his right. He looked over and spotted two men, one holding a crossbow and the other a whopper of a revolver, both pointed at him.
"Nice day, isn't it, boys?"
"Don't touch that weapon," said the one with the revolver. He inched his way closer, but Harry turned away and looked at the prison again.
"Have you ever seen something so promising?" He motioned to the prison. Harry heard them whispering amongst themselves and stood up, drawing their attention back to him.
"Hey! Sit back down!" That was the one with the revolver again. The one with the crossbow seemed to speak very little, if at all.
"I'm hungry. I don't know about you, but I can't pass an opportunity like this up. If you're going to shoot me, make sure it's in the head, would you? Flak jacket and all, wouldn't want for you to bollocks it up."
Harry took two steps before the same man stopped him. "Well... How are you going to get in?" He sounded conflicted, like he was doing something he was sure he would regret later.
Harry turned around with a grin. "Hadn't given it much thought."
The man sighed and turned to his partner. They started whispering heatedly at each other. The one with the crossbow seemed purely against whatever the one with the revolver was proposing, but in the end he seemed to relent.
"I'm going to give you just one chance. You'll help us take this prison, but if you try anything, anything at all, there are more of us and none of us will hesitate to put you down." He nodded at the man with crossbow and he walked off. Harry sat back down on the train tracks.
"Harry, former copper," Harry said as he held out his hand to the other man.
He hesitated for a bit before taking the hand. "Rick, former sheriff."
A/N: You'll learn why Harry isn't running around doing magic and apparating all over the place probably next chapter, it's not a very complicated reason.