Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Blade II, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #1) "AU Caryl with any of the different characters that Norm has played over the years. (ie: Replace Daryl with Scud from Blade II or Murphy from Boondock Saints.)." - As requested by Residentgoth.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead – particularly season two and three and just to be safe, all of Blade II. This is an AU/crossover fic, tiny smut warning for later chapters, hurt and comfort, strong language, drug use, the usual blood, guts and gore.
Scud the Stud takes on the Zombie Apocalypse
The acrid scent of singed fertilizer and spilled ammonia filtered through the air around him, harsh and grounding as it melded together with charred fabric and overturned sod as he tossed another mason jar of what he'd dubbed the 'Scud special' into the herd at random.
He didn't have to aim. They were fuckin' everywhere.
They'd been drawn out of the house by the sound of a gunshot, a single, insignificant little blip in the scheme of things, really. Only by the time they'd all piled out onto the porch, part of him half wondering if Rick and Shane had finally decided to cut the crap and work their shit out, the walkers were already halfway across the pasture.
Panic rose up in the back of his throat like bile, like retribution, half convinced that fate was finally coming to collect after all.
Somewhere behind him, someone cut power to the house, but it was too little too late as far as he was concerned. Somewhere near the house, Lori screamed for Rick, for Carl, as the beginning flickers of a fire started licking around the edges of the hay barn. He thought he saw Carol's closely shorn head darting across the front yard, throwing supplies into the back of Hershel's truck, but he lost sight of her when a particularly ambitious walker decided to investigate the ladder that led up to their perch on top of the RV.
His mind was tossing around phrases like 'curiosity killed the cat' and 'what goes around comes around' when his Glock drilled a hole right through the center of the stupid bastard's forehead.
Each movement felt fluidic, slow, like they were stuck in a video recording that's sound was off by just a handful of beats. His chest felt tight, suffocating. Small. He needed to breathe, he needed to-
He shifted in position on top of the RV, hooking another box of his homemade walker remedy with the toe of his high tops as T-dog and Jimmy tossed double handfuls into the center of the crowd that was forming below them. The resulting blasts sent a shockwave rippling through his hair, rocking the RV as walker guts peppered the vinyl sides.
He sent up a silent apology to Dale, promising that he'd give the old girl a good wet down once this was all over.
The taste of expelled shot was gritty and thick on his tongue, as Glenn and Maggie raced back and forth in the car near the pasture, trying to control the spread. But it was the smell that really got to him, the walkers. With so many in one place, the smell of old blood and decomposing flesh was heady, rising in the humid, Georgian air like the world's nastiest heat wave.
It was dark, and by dark he meant full on 'after the commercials', movie theater kind of dark. So, all in all, the night was basically turning into the kind of crappy-ass, B-rated horror flick you turned on when you were half roasted and more inclined to be generous with your opinions.
Christ, what he wouldn't do for just a drag of some of that sweet Durban Poison. Or a box of Krispy Kremes for that matter.
They were trying to buy the others some time, distracting the majority of the herd while Glenn and Maggie picked off the outsiders that were still stumbling through the front field. Everyone else was trying to clear a path and get the RV to Rick and Carl. Only something else must have happened because from what he could tell, Lori and Carol were stalled by the front steps, trying to talk some sense into Hershel about leaving.
But it was a losing battle and everyone knew it. They were surrounded. And all that bullshit about today being as good as any to cash out was only looking more likely by the second.
He snagged another jar, squinting a bit as he tried to find the most heavily populated portion of the crowd as a small group started banging up against the side, rocking the vehicle as Jimmy and T-dog crouched down to keep their balance. The volatile liquid sloshed against the glass as he lined up and aimed. The label, 'fresh peaches, 2003' was barely visible in the high moonlight. It was low tech, but hey, you worked with what you had these days.
The resulting explosion sent a plume of red misting across the roof where they were standing, pearling across their skin and clothing as he tossed T-dog a sheepish smile. Jimmy just retched violently over the side, his cowboy hat fluttering off into empty space as it missed the railing and fell right into a walker's outstretched hand.
He kind of felt sorry about it when he looked down and was treated to the sight of a pile of severed limbs which were twitching and spurting into the trampled grass. Most of the fuckers weren't even dead, but the vast majority were out of commission, groaning and snarling from the growing pile that was starting to spread out around the RV like fallen flower petals. Waving their stumps ineffectually as more of their brethren crushed forward to take their place.
"Alright, I've got to admit, that's pretty badass," T-dog admitted, surveying the carnage below with a conflicted expression, somewhere in between disgust and childish excitement.
"This is nothing!" he retorted, fiddling with one of the lids for a tense moment before he shrugged and just tossed it. The explosive mixture trickled down the rim and onto his fingers as he chucked it in the direction of a particularly dumpy looking walker who was wearing a Budweiser hat and no pants.
"If we make it out of here in one piece, remind me to tell you about my last trip to Prague," he continued, speaking around a drooping cigarette as he lobbed another homemade explosive into the melee.
"Molotov cocktails?" Jimmy asked, side-eying the box wearily, as if it could possibly be harboring some mildly contagious disease even as he leaned down for another jar.
"Fuck no," he shot back, almost defensive at the implication that he would make such an obvious faux-pas. Besides that, it was a waste of booze. And honestly, considering the circumstances, no one wanted to be the asshole that raided the liquor cabinet to make a shitty version of a poor man's explosive in the middle of a god damned crisis.
"Walkers are bad enough. Who wants those mother fuckers chasing you around on fire?" he finished, imagination ramping up into overdrive as he pictured a dozen flaming corpses stumbling after him, reaching for him with the flames kissing their rotting skin, snapping, bubbling, cracking, searing-
"Where'd you learn to do all this, man?" T-dog pressed, diving right into the question he'd seen churning in the back of his eyes since the moment he'd snagged him in mid-run and gotten his help dragging his arsenal out from underneath the log pile on the other side of the house. They'd made it to the RV just in time, with the first walkers spilling onto the front yard as Lori screamed for her boy.
"Google, man," he replied, blowing a strand of hair off of his face as he turned around to answer. "You'd be surprised what kinda shit was just floating around in cyber space before all this." Glad that for once, his response wasn't a complete lie as he tossed another jar into the growing crowd.
"Yes, but how? Hell, when?" Jimmy questioned, wiping his mouth surreptitiously, his fair skin pale and still a bit green as he looked around at the empty boxes.
"Just a few household chemicals mixed together in the proper portions, Jimbo!" he sing-songed, grinning into the dark as the kid's eyes went wide with surprise and perhaps even a little bit of awe as he passed him the biggest jar of the lot.
"Reason number one hundred and one, why you should never piss off a housewife," he added, throwing the words over his shoulder a bit more flippantly than he figured anyone had a right too – especially considering that internally he was fucking losing it.
He was saved having to answer the last bit when T-dog interrupted, yelling something about Rick and Carl as the smell of burning wood and oxidized iron suddenly became impossible to ignore. He looked up, forcing his eyes to focus on where he'd last seen them, hunkered down on the roof just below the loft as a haze of smoke partially obscured his view.
Crap.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Expect more chapters to come, I am kinda feeling my way through this one. I am enjoying working with Scud's character thus far.
Reference: "Durban Poison" is a type of marijuana. It is perfect for hotter outdoor climates and is known for its sweet, uplifting high. Honestly, no idea, if any of that is true, I googled it.