Shenanigans: So, I solemnly swear I will finish my other story. I just got out of school ('tis ridiculous, I know), and I am almost done with the next chapter for it. But, this was bouncing around in my head, and I wrote it quickly and it might be kind of bad. But I have a thing for zombies.

If I continue this, it will end up being Sylar/Claire. There will be some bumps and twists. But ya know.

I was sort of inspired by the song 'Closer' by Kings of Leon. Has nothing to do with zombies, but it was this end of the world vibe to me. I love the song, so if you feel so inclined, please do have a listen.

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes or the concept of a zombie apocalypse. I'm sure there will be certain zombie themes that occur that have occurred before whether by accident or on purpose. I'll try to note if its on purpose.

Enjoy!

Carnage

Prologue: Over

There it was. The stench. The smell of soiled flesh and old blood.

His nose twitched imperceptibly—not that there was anyone to perceive it. As far as Sylar knew, he was the last man on earth.

His grip tightened around the cool surface of his handgun, the only possession he still held dear if only for the fact that it was his lifeline and his last connection to the world before it had ended. The gun had belonged to Noah Bennett. Call him vindictive, but even in Sylar's years as a changed man, he could not resist the small satisfaction he would glean from stealing Noah's gun upon their first 'reuniting.' He had not seen Noah since that reunion, and he had a feeling he never would.

A strange gurgling sound vibrated the air, and he had no doubt as to why. He edged his way along the cement wall of the abandoned gas station, silent as the grave. He had to resist laughter at the thought; otherwise, he would give himself away. He came to the wall's corner, and with a deep breath, he lunged around the edge, gun held steady in both hands as he spotted it: a woman, late twenties, blonde hair, nice figure, dressed for a summer night out. He narrowed his eyes and with a slow exhale, he pulled the trigger. A shot sliced the air, and she screeched one last time as the bullet hit her square in the forehead. She tumbled backwards, lifeless once more.

Sylar remained frozen for several vital seconds, heart beating raucously as he listened for any others. Upon hearing none, he stood, weapon still in hand as he drew closer to the gore. The victim was a male. By the smock, Sylar assumed he was a worker at the gas station. A redhead, skinny, a lot of freckles. Sylar watched him, waiting for any movement; there was none. Still, as a precaution, he aimed towards his head and released a shot for security. He glanced briefly at the blond, but he thought better than to waste bullets. He gave one last scan to the surrounding area and finally tucked his gun into the back of his jeans, turning back towards his motorcycle.

The images were burned into his memory, just like every other damn picture. The blonde had been kneeling over the redhead, hands plunged into his stomach as she pulled out his innards, tearing with bloody teeth at the material like a dog. She herself had on obvious bite wound on her shoulder; the poor girl had been a victim, too, and Sylar had happened upon them while filling up his gas tank. While he wasn't the ruthless killer type any longer, he had developed some sense of obligation to humanity, so when he did find himself in the circumstance to put one of the creatures down, he did because he was sure if he had been in the same situation, he would hope someone would do the same.

Sylar filled his tank after syphoning an abandoned car (no gas station he'd come to had had any gas left) and afterward trudged through the wreckage of the station to throw some food in the luggage compartment on the back of his motorcycle. The bike itself wasn't too bad. It was a black affair that roared like a lion as he sped down the empty roads, though Sylar had to admit he had no knowledge of bikes or bike types and didn't have time to learn when the necessity for one rose. All he knew was basic driving skills from something he'd read in passing years ago, and that was enough for his survival.

After covering all the fundamentals, he took a second to breathe, leaning heavily against one of the pumps, convincing himself that it was still worth it to keep going, to keep fighting; maybe he was human kind's last great hope. Maybe he was the last reproductive male on earth, and he'd have to help rebuild the population. Maybe he'd have to lead the way when this great mess was over.

Over. He had to laugh at himself. Out in the desert in the middle of nowhere, Sylar had to remind himself that 'over' had already happened. What was left was everything after 'over.'

The virus had struck with hardly any notice in the year 2023. The first reported cases were in Germany. A man dead from a heart attack woke in the morgue and bit the doctor on duty. They sedated him and placed him in tight restraints in the mental ward, but he continued to snarl and bare his teeth at anything with a pulse. One day, a schizophrenic patient in the ward wandered into the man's bedroom, as her supervisor had been on the phone discussing his divorce, and the patient was also bitten. The two bitten were perfectly normal for four days, showing no signs of illness. But, on the fifth day, they woke with blood shot eyes and chest pain. The bitten doctor immediately sought treatment, and under intense observation for days six and seven, other doctors watched as their colleague's heart slowly but surely stopped, though he remained completely awake and alert: alive. However, in his eyes was a lack of recognition, a glazed expression, a stupidity. Within seconds, he was rabid as the doctors hadn't thought to restrain him; he bit two more. A similar occurrence happened with the schizophrenic patient, and it wasn't long before there was an outbreak in Germany.

But, the outbreak didn't end there. Soon, it was in Poland, Austria, France. It made its way to Spain and Portugal, finally crossing continents into Morocco and its neighbors. International air transportation was halted to prevent spread, but it was too late. The first case was in Quebec, and it was over for North and South America.

There it was again, that word: over.

He remembered how the news reports had started in the early stages: urgent, red banners flashing danger zones and threat levels, people running furiously in the backgrounds of anxious reporters, a 24/7 nightmare for the media. But, a few months into the pandemic, and the news started to dwindle. There were less people in the background, a heavier sadness to the reporters. Half a year into it, and there were almost none left. The last one Sylar had heard was a local station in Indiana, the young female reporter with tears in her eyes saying:

"I've been bitten…This is the last report for me and for the station. Hell, it might be the last one in the world. So, if I am the last face of recorded humanity, I must urge you all to survive. To keep fighting. No matter what happens after now. I'm Gabrielle Higgins…Goodnight."

It was sappy and pathetic, but in the face of the apocalypse, the Gabrielle's lack of eloquence under pressure was all Sylar had left; that had been the last voice he had heard, and that was a year and a half ago. It was the only hope he had, and if it kept him alive, then so be it.

Finally, he found the will to move. Sylar pushed himself off the pump and trotted over to the earlier massacre. Careful to not breathe, he dragged the blonde by her lifeless hands towards the car he'd taken gas from; he did the same to the redhead. Using a hose, he syphoned more gasoline out of the car and drenched the bodies, hot tears running down his cheeks. Kneeling, he drew himself close to the blonde's face, staring into her cold green eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her temple.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

He stood and pulled a lighter out of his pocket, swiftly rolling the switch and watching the gentle flame before dropping it on the pair (he had another packed away) and saw their bodies ignite, the stench growing even more foul. He waited anyway.

Sylar could not understand how it happened, but he had grown sentimental. He knew an apocalypse could do that to you, but he had been like that before the end. He had suddenly become caring, and that caring had turned into a respect for the sanctity of life when the end of humanity had come. Perhaps because it was 2025 and he had yet to encounter life again. Either way, he found himself standing there, quiet, watching the passing of these two strangers' lives into the next world because he felt that every human being deserved it; every person deserved to have the end of his or her life marked. Otherwise, it was like you never existed.

He stayed until the fire began to smolder; it had grown darker. Sylar returned to his motorcycle and hopped onto its seat, allowing the bike to roar to life as he disappeared down the empty road.

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