Hey, so this is totally my baby so don't treat her too badly, okay? Also, it's edited from what it originally was, but nothing major or anything yo.
Trigger warnings for gore, blood and swearing. Also zombies. And there's sex later, so.
Title taken from Muse's Shrinking Universe.
Phil wakes up at five.
There's something up and he knows it yet in his cocoon of blankets he can try and pretend that there is nothing wrong.
He hears Dan wake up in the room next to him.
It's five thirty.
Something is very wrong indeed.
The street outside seems oddly quiet. There is no traffic moving, no engines roaring, no blazing horns or screams of sirens. Silence. An eerie, disturbing silence and Phil's stomach is churning. He can't hear the footsteps of pedestrians, or their quick phone conversations, just an eerie, disturbing silence.
That scares him.
In a London apartment, he should be able to hear something.
His heartbeat echoes in his ears, a sure fft fft fft and maybe it's too fast for a resting position, but it's his. It's a clash, normality versus what could very possibly be anything. He focusses on the metaphor, breathing shallowly but evenly and pretends there is nothing wrong.
A bloodcurdling scream echoes from the street outside.
He hears Dan stiffen in bed and they both sit up with baited breath because that scream was something that no human being should have to produce and they both know it. There's something else out there, rising slowly but surely, low and increasing in volume.
A growl.
A low, twisted human growl that starts as a muffled gurgle but becomes a sinister and threatening tune.
There's something out there.
Phil's door opens slowly and he watches as Dan approaches him. He can see the terror in the younger boy's eyes and he knows that the same emotion is reflected in his own. Breathe. He pretends that it isn't. Breathe. In Dan's hands is his laptop; flipped open. The light is casting an alien light onto his features, skin glowing in the artificial light. He can see Dan's shaking and he knows that he is too.
"Phil." Dan says quietly and Phil nods slowly, eye contact not breaking. "Look." He says simply as he turns the laptop around. Phil's eyes are drawn to the screen instantly, eyes focussing on the pixels, light sending daggers into his brain. It's bright and he's tired: fuck, he should be sleeping but there's adrenaline in his veins and he's pretty fucking sure he just heard someone die.
The screen is set to the BBC news channel but there's no reporter. Instead, there's just image after image after image of burning cities and hoards. Hoards and hoards and hoards. There's blood covering the streets and the hoards are running and clawing and tearing.
Phil knows what they are; he's seen enough movies to know what they are. He's thought about it sometimes, when he's bored, what he would do if this very situation were to happen. If they should happen.
He doesn't care what he should call them, he just knows they're trouble. They're mutants, infected, undead, zombies.
There's a headline flashing across the bottom of the page, a headline that sends the first coils of dread down Phil's spine, chills his skin.
Britain Quarantined
Phil's eyes meet Dan's again. The laptop is placed on the floor noiselessly and Dan's smooth steps get closer and closer to him. Phil hasn't moved. He can't, he can't.
His eyes flicker back to the screen. It's like a film but this isn't a film this is real life and he needs to pull himself together. He can't.
Dan places a trembling hand on his shoulder and he whispers, "what do we do?" and he sounds so broken and it fucking kills him. Because he should know, but he doesn't. He's just Phil; normal Phil from up North. Normal Phil. He knows nothing about zombies apart from that in the film everyone always dies brutally. Yet he's sure that they can't stay here.
He doesn't know where it's come from but he can feel the need to protect Dan bubbling up inside of him. He acts purely on instinct, slowly sliding out of bed and putting one finger to his lips. "Stay as quiet as you can. Get dressed and cover as much skin as possible." His breathing is shaky with nerves but he manages to stay composed, voice wavering only once. "You pack clothes, I'll get food and weapons."
He sees Dan gulp at the mention of weapons, but what the fuck was he expecting, and he gives him a look that he hopes is reassuring.
He watches as Dan leaves the room again, his laptop left behind and Phil stares at it again just to prove to himself that this is really happening.
The screen stays unchanged.
He changes quickly, a pair of thick jeans and a leather jacket deemed sufficient and he pulls a hat over his head. He leaves his glasses on.
He's about to leave his room but he pauses at the last minute, casting one last glance over his shoulder. He knows that this is probably going to be the last time he'll ever see the room and it pains him, but there's nothing he can do about it so he simply turns back around and walks down the corridor. He feels... Weird? Nostalgic, maybe, wishes that he'd done more, or something. Wishes that he'd appreciated the four white walls or the bedspread or the central heating.
In the hallway his footsteps seem too loud, his breathing seeming to echo in the small space and he's so scared but he tries to pretend that he isn't. Pretends it's a game, fools himself.
He enters the kitchen, his eyes already scanning for things to use as weapons. His eyes focus on the frying pan on the stove; so old that metal is heavy and worn and the handle is long. It's perfect and Phil's stomach twists as he imagines being his by it. He sees the baseball bat in the corner, conveniently given as a gift by a fan a week earlier.
And then... The fans?
His stomach flips when he thinks of them. How many are already dead? How many more will die? He knows that there is very minimal hope that himself or Dan will survive and the thought of a million fans dying makes his head spin. It's fucking pathetic, really. The British Isles are closed off and he's worried about a few million teenagers that he's never once met beore. But, then, these few million gave him the life he has, had, and them simply being dead, gone is. It's. No.
He grabs his rucksack from the door and starts shoving tins from the cupboards into it. Clears his mind, thinks survival only. He knows fresh food will be of no use: fresh food rots. He shoves dried foods into the bag, fruits and packaged carbohydrates because that's what they'd do in Hollywood. He finds the matches, the first aid kit and right at the last minute the bottle of whisky because it'll take the edge off later when they need it and they always drink it in the films. He places the bottled water from the fridge into the bag and tests the weight.
It's too heavy, of course it is.
The bag is swung onto his back and it digs painfully into his shoulders but there's absolutely nothing he can do about that because it's the bare essentials. He sighs as quietly as he can and shudders beneath the weight on his shoulder. Then chuckles dryly at the irony, because wasn't it only yesterday that he was wining about having too much on his shoulders?
He's about to leave when his eyes latch onto something on the fridge. It's the collage Dan made; the foursome and their parents and then just them together and he feels a strange contraction in his heart that he recognises as pain. He plucks the picture from the door and folds it into his pocket.
If it's the last thing he does, he vows to find them.
He staggers back along to Dan's room, tripping over his own feet. Dan's sat in the middle of the floor, arms wrapped tightly around his legs and hands clawing at his knees. The first thing that strikes him in the situation is his basic instinct. Fight or flight. But when he looks closer he can tell that Dan is still human, he can see the tears rolling down his cheeks and the racking sobs through his body. Human. A sigh of relief.
Phil scoops him up, wrapping him into a quick hug. He pulls back quickly, but pauses, eyes firmly staring into Dan's. He doesn't know why he does it but he does and there is no logical explanation but nothing is logical anymore.
He leans in again and pecks Dan softly on the lips.
He tries to persuade himself it means nothing but he can't when he sees the expression on Dan's face.
He doesn't know who started it but suddenly they're kissing hungrily, hands tugging in each other's hair and tongues clashing. It's a violent meeting of lips and teeth and there's no love, but there's something there and maybe, just maybe, it could be something close. Dan captures Phil's bottom lip between his teeth and Phil shudders with a moan low in his throat. It doesn't register that they're best friends and best friends don't do this, all they can feel is the tension dissipating.
They pull away from each other and suddenly they're both smirking with swollen lips and suddenly there's a little bit more hope. And they may be in what might just become and apocolypse, but hey, at least they got to make out first.
"Remember when I said I wouldn't do you even if you were the last person alive?" Dan inquires, smirking lightly. Phil nods jerkily. "Bullshit."
They giggle together for a minute, regardless of the situation they're currently in (zombies, hello).
Dan ruffles his hair and Phil can't help but giggle. He notices how it's straighter than it was last time and he frowns. "Dan? Did you, er, straighten your hair?" Dan looks at Phil, blushes and averts his eyes. That's a yes, then. "Seriously?" Dan nods sheepishly. Phil giggles again and Dan joins in too, shrugging.
Downstairs a bang then a long, drawn out scream.
Dan's head snaps up. "Was that-?"
"Mrs McGregor." Phil whispers softly.
Dan whimpers. "Shit."
There are more bangs then footsteps. Dan gulps.
"Come on." Phil stammers, handing him the frying pan that he'd dumped on the floor in his haste to comfort Dan.
Dan stares at it in repulse. "A frying pan? A fucking frying pan? The fuck do you take me for, a zombie slaying housewife? Fuck me."
"Oh, you want to go out there unprotected then, huh?" Phil hisses, rolling his eyes, but nevertheless hands him the baseball bat, snatching back the pan. Dan tries it out in his hand, giving it a few test swings that deem it good enough.
Downstairs they hear the scabbling of hands and a wet tearing sound. Neither discusses what they think it is causing them.
They shut the front door behind them and begin to tiptoe down the corridor. The air is rank; too hot with a putrid stench that is all too similar to rotting flesh. Or, rather, what Phil would estimate rotting flesh smells like. They pull their scarves around their faces, and Phil watches as Dan puts on a pair of 3D glasses.
Phil sniggers, rolling his eyes at him and Dan hisses, "what?" but Phil ignores it because they both heard that bang on the stairs.
The double doors swing open.
Sunken, telescopic eyes pierce and glow. One half of the face is completely ripped away, muscle and cartilage exposed and from the corner of it's mouth a frothy red substance dribbles. It's eyes are dull inside sunken sockets, shining in the artificial light but still dead. So, so dead. The skin has turned a sickly yellow, patchy and already moulding in places. A gargled moan escap from its lips and it lurches forwards, body swaying with startling speed towards them.
Phil's arm flies out to the side, pushing Dan back and he rushes towards it, frying pan held above his head. Dan watches in awe and respectful fear as the pan strikes it across the head with a resounding crack and it crumples to the floor.
Dan holds the baseball bat in Phil's direction. "Swap back?" Phil snorts and shakes his head, toe nudging the figure hunched on the floor.
It is only then when they realise.
"Mrs McGregor."
The both say the name at the same time, eyes flickering towards the heap on the ground, then back to each other.
Dan shrugs. Phil shrugs too and says with as much conviction as he can because he knows it's true: "we couldn't have saved her anyway." Dan nods because of course he's right.
"We need to think about this more." Dan says after a moment of deliberation and Phil agrees. "Think, where would they go in the films?" Phil laughs quietly as he realises that they've both been using the same tactics for survival and shrugs.
"First we get out of London."
Dan hums appreciatively at Phil's suggestion and nods.
"We head in the direction of Leeds maybe, then go North to the Dales?"
"Yeah, sounds good. We find a small village and see if we can hide out there? Y'know, like 28 Weeks Later when they're in that house?"
Phil wants to correct Dan and remind him that it doesn't end well for the residents of that house, but he doesn't have the heart to. If he destroys Dan's hope for the future then neither of them will have any. Phil lost hope the second Mrs McGregor came through those doors, and that's kinda scary because he's never been anything but an optimist.
Dan shifts on his feet, uncomfortable in the silence and clears his throat softly.
He doesn't notice the figure on the floor moving, slowly scraping it's way across the floor towards them.
Until Phil slams his foot onto it's head.
He hears Dan's girlish shriek and the sickening crunch of bones, the squelch of the brain beneath his shoes and he feels bile rise in his throat. He glances over at Dan and he notices that he's gone deathly pale, and there's a tinge of green to his cheeks. He looks like he's going to throw up. Phil doesn't blame him at all. There's blood on his boot and on his jeans and he can feel his stomach flipping.
He just killed someone. He doesn't care that technically she was already dead. It just shows him what he's capable of and it scares him because he never thought he was that strong. His own power terrifies him, and, oh, has he ever sounded so human? It's like when a mother hits their child for the first time and then stares at her palms, disgusted. Like she can't believe her own strength or anger, her own recklessness. Apart from it was a human skull he just crunched beneath his foot. A real, honest-to-god human skull.
Dan takes him into his arms.
No, not human. He tries to remind himself. Tries. Breathe. Dan is human. He is human. Mrs McGregor was human. That's the crucial difference, here. Was. "We have to keep moving." Phil whispers and Dan agrees. "If she got infected, there must be more of them."
The floor rumbles and they're thrown to the ground. They hear windows smashing and car alarms beeping. The crackle of flames and from a blown out window at the end of the corridor near their flat they can see the orange glow of fire.
Oh yes, there's a lot more of them.