Kuroshitsuji belongs to Yana Toboso; The Mask of the Red Death belongs to Edgar Allan Poe. I just smashed the two together in a weird, zombie-steampunk AU. Enjoy the insanity, and don't forget to review!

.

.

SLAMSLAMSLAM

The sound was like an urgent heart beat, reminding Ciel of his all-too-fragile mortality. He didn't mind though—in fact, he was grateful for the incessant thud of fist-on-metal, because it drowned out the screams of his remaining loved ones. It was just Ciel and Sebastian in the underground lab, standing at either end of the small table like two men about to duel. That was almost an accurate description—except the only one of them facing up to death was Ciel.

"What are your odds, Mr. Phantomhive?" Sebastian asked. As always, his tone tight-roped the line between polite and mocking, and as always that serene smile stretched his mouth, even as blood streaked from the place where Ciel's ring had split his lip. In the lantern light, that blood glistened red-black like whiskey.

Ciel ignored the tone, the smile, the blood, and picked up the syringe. Only once the needle was sunk deep into Ciel's flesh did he allow himself to consider Sebastian's question.

One Month Prior

It's winter, Ciel realized with a start. The young man clenched the black mesh overcoat tighter around himself and wished he'd worn a proper jacket underneath. Three years hiding indoors almost all the time, three years of waking only at sunset, and three years of talking to the same, gradually reducing cluster of acquaintances had taken its toll on Ciel's concept of time and order. Now, from the chill slicing through his flimsy coat and dress clothes, he could deduce that it was mid-to-late November.

Ciel didn't have time to ponder this development, however, as a pair of half-rotted arms came clawing at him from a shadowed alcove. There was plenty of time to see the body behind those arms materialize, the gaping maw and cheekbones peeking from mottled skin. She (it) was close enough to be an immediate threat but far enough for a clean shot. Ciel took aim with the handgun he'd been carrying and pulled the trigger in a matter of milliseconds. The Infected fell to the ground, (completely) dead. The bullet pierced it's heart directly—Ciel had always been a good shot—and now it lay in the gutter, continuing its steady decay in peaceful silence. This one had a yellowed piece of gauze wrapped around its eyes, but garish red splotches marked the spots where her optical organs had once sat.

With a muttered swear, Ciel picked up his tread through the alley, much more quietly this time. Out of habit, he straightened his respirator, making sure that the filters on both sides of his mouth were working. Odds of catching The Red Death from something other than an Infected bite were rare these days, but Ciel was not taking any chances with the airborne disease. He was remained calm as ever, though; Ciel Phantomhive was not a nervous man.

Even with the potential dangers, this walk was familiar, almost comforting, just like the steady hiss of his respirator. Humans really can adapt anything, Ciel thought sardonically, after a time. He was almost to the factory when he saw it: the Infected mob and the man they were about to rip limb from limb.

Ciel doubled back a step, glacial eyes widening. He had never seen so many Infected in one place, and after just one person. The first thought in Ciel's mind was to leave before he was noticed; this man was nothing to Ciel, and altruism was not in his nature. But there was something so strange, so off about the sight, that Ciel felt compelled to act. With a swing of his arm and a twitch of his finger, Ciel fired the first shot, then the second, then a third. They dropped like flies each time and Ciel licked his lips; yes, he was an excellent shot.

Soon it got tricky. About a third of the Infecteds turned and started shambling towards Ciel, closing the distance as Ciel reloaded. With mechanical proficiency, Ciel ejected the empty magazine and slotted a fresh one in. It took little more than three seconds, but Ciel had time to stare at the man across the way—the man with the raven hair and wicked red eyes, the man who was quickly, cleanly, and rather casually eviscerating Infecteds with a pair of short daggers.

There was little time for observation, though, as the creatures were taking advantage of Ciel's break in fire. He sent bullets into five rotting chests in short order, then shot four clumsy blasts at a pair that had crept too close for comfort. There was one more left, and Ciel took aim but cursed when the gun jammed. While he banged the pistol against the leather of his glovelette, Ciel guaged the distance of the Infected, the speed of its gait. Five seconds, no more, and it would be upon him.

One, two,

Ciel dropped the jammed pistol and reached for the other gun hooked to his belt. It had been fight or flight, and instinct had driven Ciel to fight; he hoped it was the right move, because he really didn't want to die for some fucking stranger in a dark alley when he was this close to perfecting his cure.

Three,

Click, Ciel cocked the new gun.

Four,

Exhale. Aim. If Ciel didn't hit the heart straight on this time, he was good as dead.

Five,

Fingers wrapped around Ciel's wrist, catching him by surprise. The hand was well decayed—Ciel could see it's yellowed phalenges—and the little flesh left felt soft and slimy against his own. He could still shoot; if he didn't hit the heart, it might be close enough to knock the creature away. But now it—the Infected was naked, but so rotted there was no way to specify it's gender—was gnashing violently at the air before Ciel's face, and it's teeth were streaked with blood, and oh God he could see bits of flesh stuck between the molars, and—

"Careful, there."

The Infected slumped, suddenly motionless, against Ciel's chest. Ciel gasped, inhaling fetid air, and backed up so that the corpse slunk to the ground. Now he could see the short dagger buried in it's back, and the thrower of said dagger making his way toward Ciel with long, graceful strides. The black-haired man smiled an uncanny smile as he knelt down to yank his dagger from the cadaver's back, eliciting a rank spurt of black blood.

"You didn't stand down once," he commented, scarlet-hued eyes burning into Ciel's, "there are very few brave men left in the world, you know. You're something of an endangered species."

"I'm not brave," Ciel said flatly; in his mind, he was calculating the likelihood of surviving that last Infected without this man's help. Possible, not probable.

"Could have fooled me. The name's Sebastian Michaelis, by the way."

"Ciel Phantomhive."

The two man stood like that, facing each other but looking around at the small army of Infected's littering the ground like flies in a web. Ciel had never seen such a thing, not since the early days of the disease when Infected mobs and city militias raged in the streets and cut each others' numbers by halves with every strike. There were no formal militias anymore, no police or soldiers, and Infecteds didn't swarm anymore because humans had become scarce and lived in small, hard-to-detect clusters.

Suddenly, a musical chuckle broke the silence. "It's always like this. They adore me. Like moths to flame or bees to honey."

Ciel blinked slowly. "Is it, really?" The shock wore off, and Ciel began stripping his overcoat, "Then I suppose you need this more than me."

Sebastian stared at the coat but made no move to take it. "And what is a heap of black mosquito netting meant to do for my...problem?"

"It's a new synthetic material. It masks your infrared bio-signature from Infecteds," Ciel said. Sebastian raised his eyebrows, prompting Ciel to reiterate, "It reduces your heat emission. Renders you invisible to them, so long as you don't make any noise."

"I see," Sebastian drawled, though he remained frustratingly immobile, "why doesn't everybody have one of these fancy little coats, then?"

"Because I invented them," Ciel lifted his chin, "and I do not hand them out freely. Count yourself very lucky."

Sebastian chuckled scornfully but reached out for the coat. Before he could take it, however, Ciel shot forward and yanked the man's glove off, feeling the pale skin beneath. The red-eyed man hissed in displeasure.

"You're Infected," Ciel snapped accusingly, jolting his hand away from Sebastian's searing hot flesh.

"Am I? Oh dear," Sebastian reached a hand up to his bare face, presumably checking for the fonts of blood that should have been eye sockets, "but I feel quite fine."

Ciel knew he was being made fun of, and this only made him angrier. "You're a Carrier."

"Ridiculous," Sebastian said, but he was truly smirking now, "if I'm a Carrier, than I must be a demon, and I assure you I'm very much human.

"What are you on about?" Ciel asked; the comment threw him off, but he kept his voice hard.

"The church," Sebastian beamed, "or what's left of it. They say that the Red Death is Satan's work, and that all carriers are demons."

Despite himself, Ciel barked out a short laugh before muttering, "Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

Sebastian seemed to perk up, "That's not scripture."

"No, it's Shakespeare."

"So you agree. With the church, that is."

"Not at all," Ciel shook his head. "Humans make up monsters to make themselves look better by comparison. In reality, we're the devils, and this is hell."

Sebastian had spent this entire encounter looking amused, but now he seemed intrigued to boot. "My, my, you really are a scientist aren't you?"

"I don't know what I am," Ciel said, lifting his pistol once again, "but I know what you are. And what you are has no right to be alive."

Sebastian backed up, but that unnerving smirk never left his face, "Careful, Mr. Scientist. Who knows what happens when you kill a Carrier."

"I'll take my chances," Ciel returned brusquely, but he didn't pull the trigger. Not yet.

"I've never been bitten, you know," Sebastian was explaining calmly, as though he and Ciel were having a polite conversation in some tea parlor, "I suppose I was born as such. And I've never infected anybody. Not even by mouth-to-mouth contact."

Ciel's mouth was covered by his respirator, but he couldn't help but think Sebastian was trying to stare past it, at his lips. "Is that the truth?"

"Indeed," Sebastian spread his fingers conclusively, "Are you still planning on shooting me."

"Only if you try anything. Put the coat on and start walking," Ciel jerked the gun back in the direction he came, "I want to be home by sunrise."

For the briefest of instants, Sebastian seemed surprised, then displeased, but soon enough his face settled back into that amused mask, that easy smirk. "Whatever you say, Mr. Phantomhive."

Ciel waited for Sebastian to pass him, then pressed his pistol into that feathery mass of black hair. He lead the Carrier back to his manor with the gun's muzzle, and all the while he couldn't get over the sense that Sebastian was only humoring him.