"Holy shit!"
Alexander ducked as a baseball bat narrowly avoided contact with his skull, before colliding with the face of a half-decomposed woman.
"You ought to thank me for saving your sorry ass from being on the menu for tonight's feast!"
"Well, you could of at least warned me!"
"Fuck off Hamilton! Maybe next time I'll let you get devoured by the undead masses!"
If someone told Thomas Jefferson that he'd be in the middle of a street in the Heights, surrounded by a horde of teeth-gnashing zombies, with only a baseball bat, a pistol and a short, angry Caribbean man with a filthy mouth, then he'd have just laughed at them in the face. Heck, he would have told them to write a book about it, as it sounds like the great basis of a comedy. But, there he was. And the gremlin just wouldn't shut up.
"You wouldn't dare," Alexander said, raising his rifle and picking off a few of the closer zombies that shuffled up, "My aim is too good. Not to mention that you'd get bored after a while, being by yourself." Almost as if to prove a point, he fired another shot, which managed to kill off about four zombies at once with just the one bullet.
Thomas rolled his eyes, and muttered under his breath, "Just get to The Winchester Cafe, have a cup of coffee, and wait for all this to blow over..."
20th October 2017
"There are claims that a new disease, known as the Seabury Virus, named after the doctor who discovered it, has potentially been used in biochemical warfare by the UK military with considerable success, and there are talks of bringing the weapon into our own military tactics..."
Alexander wasn't paying all that much attention to the television. He took another swig of coffee, and looked at the screen of his laptop, where the latest draft of an essay about financial reform was halfway written. His debt plan would be the answer to the whole of the economy's problems, so it had to be perfect. He gave what he'd already written a quick glance, before continuing to type out his thoughts as quickly as they came to him.
"Why do you write like you're running out of time?"
"John..." Alexander looked over his laptop at his partner, noticing the dark rings under his hazel eyes, his curly hair pulled back into a messy bun. John worked in a military lab, specialising in biology and its uses in warfare, and lately he'd not been home all that much, leaving before even insomniac Alexander woke up, and getting home when Alexander was found passed out on his desk after an all night writing session. Alexander didn't like the fact that John was working himself so hard.
"Come back to bed, that would be enough..." John said, wrapping his arms around Alexander's waist, "It's a rare Saturday that we both have off of work, and I thought that we could spend some quality time together..." he gave Alexander a peck on the lips, and a coy wink, before releasing his arms and sauntering back to the bedroom, swaying his hips. He looked back at Alexander, and smiled, Alexander felt that when John smiled, that he'd fall apart, despite being so smart. "I wish, my dear Hamilton, that I may show you in actions rather than in words that I love you..."
"You seriously can't keep it in your pants, can you?" Alexander sighed, as he saved his work and closed the lid of his laptop. John gasped, and feigned innocence, before Alexander got up, and practically chased him into the bedroom, laughing at the other man's silliness, despite everything.
"Phew, that was a close one!"
They'd finally made it to the bodega, one of the last ones that hadn't either already been ransacked by survivors or overwhelmed with the undead. It was locked, probably as a precaution in case somehow the whole nightmare was reversed and the owners could return. Thomas raised his bat to smash the door, but Alexander stopped him. "Do you honestly want to be eaten alive Jefferson?"
"Do you want to starve to death, Hamilton? Unless you have a better way of getting in there?" Thomas lowered his bat. If he was in any other situation, then he'd have argued back, refused to let some short, smart-ass tell him how best to survive. But they'd managed between them to stay alive up to this point, which was more than they would have done if they hadn't reluctantly teamed up. Besides, he didn't really have the energy to fight Alexander, not after fending off that horde. He looked at Alexander, exasperated. "So, any ideas?"
Alexander had slipped his backpack off his shoulders, and was rummaging through it, muttering under his breath. Thomas noticed that he did this when he was in thought, putting a plan together or really pissed off. Occasionally all three. Eventually, Alexander found what he was looking for, a few hair pins.
"I don't think now is the time to fix your hair, Hamilton," Thomas sneered.
"I'm not doing anything with my hair, you twat," Alexander snapped, "Haven't you ever had to pick a lock before?"
"If you'd have just let me break in, we'd already have food and water by now."
"If I had," Alexander sighed, "You may have alerted any zombies that might happen to be behind this door, or hidden around this building to our presence, and that's the last thing we need, I only have one magazine left here," he patted his rifle, "and I cannot just throw away my shot."
Alexander made short work of the lock, which clicked open effortlessly. Even Thomas was impressed, as the two men crept in.