A/N: Howdy! I hope you all had a wonderful New Year! I am ecstatic to announce that this fic will be written by not only myself, but also the fantasticwonderful Gray Glube and ScarlettWoman710.
Anyway, introduction time.
Enjoy!
It's Michael, Tate's son all grown up, who thinks to fill Murder House in on the fact that the apocalypse has arrived.
There hasn't been a living tenant in years. Eventually, word gets out that the place makes Amityville look like a bed and breakfast and realtors throw in the towel. On the one hand, it's nice, not having to share the place with anybody else, worrying about someone adding to the permanent occupancy or putting in the effort of scaring folks away. But without buyers, there's no one to pay the cable bill, or the heating and air, water. And winters in the drafty death trap are downright miserable.
Over the monotony of imprisoned immortality, most of the ghosts opt to go into downtime during the cold months, a hibernation of sorts. They fade out of consciousness until the sun is back, warming them into motion again.
So of course, the zombie apocalypse breaks out at the ass end of January.
"So what?" Tate grumps sleepily from where Michael had found him curled in Violet's old armchair, skin pale and paper thin.
Michael has a shotgun propped back against his shoulder and shrugs. He eyes his father. "Oh, I don't know. I was thinking maybe this was news that warranted a visit."
Tate yawns and rubs the sleep out of his eyes, cracks his neck and sits up a little more. When his head clears, he can hear panic and the blare of car horns outside.
"Yeah, okay. Thanks. Just one thing though, we're fucking ghosts. We can't - " He doesn't finish his sentence. Michael hauls him up irritably by one arm and shoves him in the direction of the frosted window.
Out on the lawn, an uncoordinated mess of limbs and spilled entrails, lies Mrs. Montgomery.
Tate watches her for a moment, because that's nothing new. They've all been gutted once or twice, not to mention stabbed, shot, dismembered, etcetera. But in the next minute, Nora is moving again, ambling up onto her feet and lurching across the yard toward the gate. Except that her wounds haven't healed. There's still an empty gape in her abdomen, and the way she moves doesn't even resemble how she would normally titter about.
So they're not immune? And they're still bound to the house?
"Fuck."
Michael claps Tate on the back. "Yup," he says cheerily, before busting the window pane with the butt of his gun and climbing out onto the roof. "Good luck, Daddio!"
Tate gives him an absent wave, mind whirring with what the fuck to do now and in what order, and then Michael is gone.
Even though they aren't close anymore, haven't been since she died, Tate tells Violet first. She gives him the same spiel he'd given Michael, but eventually comes around.
"You know what? I'm not even surprised," she sighs, already mentally making a list of who to wake up first.
Tate tosses her a sweater that'd been lying on her desk and heads for the attic.
When everyone is more or less functioning again and up to speed, they take to raiding the basement for weapons. The last owner was a middle-aged bachelor. He had a safe and was out in such a hurry that there's a chance he may have left it behind.
"Jackpot!" Chad whoops from under the stairs, motioning for Dr. Montgomery's stethoscope so Hayden can crack the code. Inside, they find a few rifles and handguns, along with a padded case of hunting knives.
Tate emerges from the other end of the basement with his own personal supply, gripping his shotgun fondly and tossing Violet a semi-automatic.
"No fair," Hayden pouts, running her finger over the edge of one particularly wicked knife blade before fitting it into the sheath she's strapped to her thigh. Violet silently reaches over her to pick out a handgun for Ben, looking smug.
They all bicker and barter about who deserves what until Vivien quiets everyone with an ear-splitting whistle.
"Now, just hold on people. There's no sense in arguing about arms when we're still stuck. If we don't find a way to break whatever spell is keeping us here, we're all sitting ducks."
There is a ripple of agreement amongst the ghosts.
Ideas are thrown out, suggestions to burn the house down, perform an exorcism, make an animal sacrifice.
In the end, it's the Montgomerys that unknowingly release them. When the souls of the original Murder House ghosts are gone, the curse is no more.
Appropriately, it's Mrs. Montgomery that takes out her husband. Later that afternoon, Charles wanders outside after spotting his wife tear open the belly of a stray cat from a second story window.
He gingerly approaches her, palms raised. "Darling?"
With a wet inhale, Nora turns and lunges, dead cat forgotten in favor of a proper meal. Poor Charles doesn't even see it coming. She's ripping into his throat before anything even registers on his face. He's dead and twitching in under a minute, and re-animated in the next few. The other ghosts almost see it as a mercy killing. What Charles had been doing all this time in that basement, it wasn't any semblance of living.
Thaddeus has to be physically removed from the basement. He hasn't been out of the dark in almost a century and it's a challenge just getting him up the stairs into the main house..
Travis and Tate walk at either side of him, Thaddeus hefted up between them by his arms.
"It's for your own good," Travis promises, dodging a slash of claws. "You don't have a prayer cooped up down there."
Tate kicks the screen door open and hell breaks loose. The sun bores into the monster's deathly pale skin, turns it a bright pink and seeds blisters in the first few seconds. Thaddeus screams, a bloody, violent sound, and pulls free of the boys' grip. He bolts across the yard towards a stretch of shade on the other side of the street, scrambles up over the iron fence, and out onto the asphalt, more agile than any of the ghosts would have thought possible for the creature.
The sprinkling of zombies already on the loose don't even glance in Thaddeus' direction when he charges past. Maybe he shares little enough with humanity that his presence doesn't even register. More like a fellow zombie than a human being.
Once he's off the lot, that's it. Game over. See, it all began with Nora and Charles, the building of the house itself as well as the eternal death and unhappiness that would follow. Mrs. Montgomery's murder-suicide set things into motion, but her husband and herself were trapped only by their frail minds, living in a loop, and only after their time did the house willfully keep subsequent residents past their expiration date. Wanting and regret are powerful emotions. They overflowed from Nora and Charles both, and into the very house itself.
Tate and Travis just stare, eyes feasting on the miracle of one of their own existing beyond the gates. And only when the parental Montgomerys begin hobbling over do they snap back to reality and rush inside.
When people hear of the news, they begin packing immediately, stopping only to gape down at where Thaddeus sits hunkered in the yard across the way.
"I can't believe it," Violet whispers, awed, her hand pressed up against the cool glass of her old bedroom window. She's got a school bag slung over one shoulder, half-filled with clothes and canned food.
Tate stops in the hall on his way downstairs to watch hope wash over her. She looks younger, more like when she was alive than he can remember. And when she catches him watching her, she doesn't even frown, just steps away from the window to roll up a downy sleeping bag she'd found in the attic alongside some climbing gear.
He doesn't ask if she'll promise to tell him goodbye before she leaves, but his heart pangs at the notion this might be the last time he sees her. There's no guarantee she'll want anything to do with him now that it's the end of the world and she's finally free. If he weren't otherwise occupied with preparing to brave the apocalypse, Tate would probably be sick over the idea.
With a sad wave, he continues down the stairs and into the kitchen to fill bottles of water and raid the drawers for lighter fluid and boxes of matches.
By nightfall, people are beginning to form groups and bid their goodbyes. But before anyone leaves, they all gather in the living room next to a battery-operated radio.
There are no live DJs, but the government has set up a station that loops an automated message. Scientists cannot settle on the origin of the breakout as of yet, but they do know it isn't airborne. The infection only transfers through blood or saliva. It is fast-acting and if the initial contact with an infected isn't fatal in itself, a person will succumb to the infection within a matter of hours. There is no known cure, but is advised that people migrate to the nearest military base for safety and further instruction.
"Today has been an emotional rollercoaster," Hayden grouses, getting up to turn off the radio. "It's the end of the world! But we're free! But there's zombies!" She makes a swoop-and-dive motion with her hand and groans.
"And we aren't immune," Patrick adds darkly, eyes bouncing to where Nora and Charles are still circling the front yard, not enough brains to figure out the latch on the gate.
Vivien looks down at the baby bundle in her arms. "Does that mean we're human again?"
Hayden shrugs. "Fuck if I know," to which Violet tacks on, "probably."
The severity of the situation sets in, but it doesn't outweigh the buzz of excitement at being able to leave after all these sit and chatter about where they'd like to go first until Patrick stands and moves towards the front door. A somber quiet settles over the room. Separation anxiety, maybe.
"Well, guess this is it," he says awkwardly, a sack on his back and a pistol at his hip. "You coming?"
A smile breaks out on Chad's face, and with an quick exchange of cheek kisses with Violet, he's collecting his own bag and meeting Pat by the door.
"Later bitches," he crows haughtily, and ignoring Patrick's eyeroll, takes his arm and leads him out into the dark.
Hayden bows out next, offering a fond, "fuck all ya'll," and slipping out alone. Travis scrambles up after her a minute later, rushing out a jumbled goodbye to each and every resident. "Good luck everybody!" they hear belatedly through the window, followed by a familiar, "are you fucking kidding me?"
If they were placing bets on who's going to come out of this mess alive, other than himself and Michael, Tate would put his money on those two. Hayden is smart enough for the pair of them. Cruel and cunning, the apocalypse might be just the environment for her. And with Travis for muscle and company, they could very well thrive.
The others trickle out in turns. Tate watches and waves, and grows more and more wary. Violet is still in the kitchen somewhere, but there aren't many others left, and when they're all gone, she will be too.
Vivien and Ben call her out into the foyer a few minutes later. Lorraine and the girls are going with them, hopeless on their own.
"Come on, honey. It's time to go," Ben calls, smiling proudly when she comes out holding a flashlight in her mouth and a bottle of bleach in both hands.
Violet sets the bleach down at her sides and fits the flashlight into her pack. Tate tries not to pry from where he's seated on the couch, but his heart is hammering against his chest loud enough that he wonders if she can hear it. It's punching out please and 'i'm sorry and don't go all at once.
This is it.
She steps into her mother's embrace and gives her brother a forehead kiss.
Tate wants to scream. He wants to cuff himself to her and keep her forever, wants to swallow her up in his crocodile tears.
Her dad is next. Violet kisses his cheek and makes him promise to keep them safe. He nods, confused, and pulls her into a hug.
Then, and Tate thinks he might shatter when her eyes land on him, Violet smiles. "I can't go with you," she calmly explains to her parents without turning away to face them. "I'm sorry." It's probably only because with him she's got the best chance, but Violet motions for Tate to come over and steels herself against the tears sitting in the lips of her eyes.
"Violet, what are you - " Ben starts, but Vivien hushes him with a hand on his arm. She knows Violet is safer with Tate than with anyone else. Ironic, really.
"We're going to Catalina, I think. Meet us there if you can?" Vivien tells them both, cupping her daughter's face and smiling sadly. "We love you, baby."
"Love you too," Violet says, the words sounding wet, and she hugs them one last time before they all file outside, clutching at her family with the knowledge that this might be it for them.
When they've gone, she turns to Tate, who's looking expectant and a little stunned, and scowls. "What?" she snaps, wiping under her eyes with both index fingers. "Don't get weird on me. It's just that you might not let me die, that's all. Nothing personal."
Tate deflates, but gives Violet a bratty smile for the hell of it. Inside, his heart is sprained but singing. "Well, if you're quite ready, your majesty," he sweeps a hand out towards the door, "shall we?