It was a bright, sunny day in Lima, Ohio, when Quinn Fabray was attacked in the McKinley high school locker room by a drooling, wild eyed man. He burst in on her changing, and before she could even yell a "Who the hell are you!" or "Could you at least wait until I'm done?" he leaps on her and begins chomping on her shoulder. Understandably shocked, Quinn began bludgeoning him with the nearest thing she could find (which happened to be her lock). However, he kept holding on with his teeth and it hurt. Desperate and in pain, Quinn increased the strength and number of her blows. The result was that his neck broke and the arms holding her down weakened sufficiently enough that she could free herself. Dizzy and losing consciousness, Quinn still somehow managed to pry the man's teeth from her. The sizable hole left behind, however, was a traumatic enough sight that Quinn almost immediately fainted. She lay unconscious on the locker room floor for thirty minutes before dying of blood loss.
That was the end of her life.
Two hours, twenty seven minutes, and thirty two seconds later, Quinn awakens to a strange fuzziness and a sticky sensation on one side of her face. She sits up, blinking and disoriented, and raises one arm to feel herself over. The left side of her face is sticky with some kind of substance, and when she draws her hand away her fingertips are stained red. She stares at the crimson blood, not quite understanding what it is or why it's there. Slowly, she turns her head to take in her surroundings.
Collapsed right next to her was the body of a man. Quinn scans him with wide, horrified eyes to see that he's dressed in a blue t-shirt and black slacks. His neck is dotted with purple and blue bruises-bruises that she had put there herself. Her eyes look even higher up to see that this was probably a guy in his thirties, with tousled brown hair, a well defined jaw, and brown eyes. She blinks. He's staring right at her.
"Hello," the man says. "Good to see you've finally awoken." His lips curve up into a kind of half smile. "Good morning, kid." Quinn stares, shell shocked, before she finally finds her voice and lets out an ear piercing scream.
"Hey, hey!" The man protests. "There's no need for that! You could have at least done it when I still had control of my arms and could cover my ears!" He waits resignedly as Quinn just screams louder. Eventually, though, she runs out of air and quiets down.
"Well, now that that's over…" the man gives her an apologetic smile."My name is Frank. Sorry for killing you." Quinn's jaw drops. She shakes her head slowly.
"What are you talking about?" She asks, not believing what she's hearing. "I'm not dead."
"You are, kid," Frank says gently. "Look at your arm. And please, try not to scream as much this time." Quinn is understandably freaked out at this point. She really, really does not want to look at her arm. But at her murderer's encouraging smile, Quinn swallows audibly and allows her eyes to roam to the dreaded area.
There is a huge, gaping hole on her upper left arm. Quinn stares with a kind of morbid fascination, examining the wound. The whole arm is dark red with drying blood, but she can just make out the jagged edges where her flesh was torn. It's only then that she notices she's been sitting in a pool of her own blood.
"Wow," Frank says, breaking the sudden silence in the room, "You're taking this a lot better than I expected."
"I…I think I need to throw up," Quinn says quietly. Her face scrunches up in disgust, and she almost immediately leans over, retching.
"Oh dear," Frank wrinkles his nose. "Never mind." He silently watches as Quinn hurls and then rests on her elbows with her head down.
"Oh God," she says, "oh god, oh god, ohgodohgod-" Her back heaves as she begins panicking, drawing in huge gasping breaths but somehow not being able to get enough air.
"Hey!" Frank yells, "Breathe, kid! Breathe!" He pauses. "Actually," he muses, "since you're already dead, I don't see the harm in a little oxygen deprivation." Quinn ignores him, still hyperventilating.
"My arm," she gasps, "There is a huge chunk of my arm missing!"
"Well, technically it's not missing," Frank tells her, "it's in my stomach. Feel free to cut it open and take it back if you like; I can't feel anything below my head and it's not like you can kill me anyways. But I don't know if it's in the same condition, because I'm not sure if zombies have digestive acids."
"You're not helping!" Quinn screams at him. She goes quiet though, staring at him like he's crazy. But honestly, she's the one imagining obviously dead people talking; she must be the crazy one. "Zombies?" Quinn asks.
"Yeah," Frank says, giving her a sad smile. "That's what I am. That's what you are now, too."
"You're insane," Quinn says, shaking her head frantically. "You mean flesh eating, undead zombies? They don't exist!"
"It looks like we have a nonbeliever!" Frank snarks, "Just look at your arm again-there's no more blood flowing out, see? That's because it's all over the floor. You're dead. Somehow, though, you're still talking to me. And believe me when I say that we're not in heaven; we're still here among the living, only, we aren't. Living, I mean."
Quinn doesn't say anything, but Frank can tell by the uncertain expression on her face that she's beginning to believe. "And the flesh eating part?" she asks in a small voice.
"Why do you think I attacked you?" Frank says. He sighs. "I tried not to, you know. Lasted about a month and a half before I went crazy with hunger, and well, here we are now." Quinn looks distraught.
"Why aren't you still starving?" Quinn points out, "I don't think my…I don't think you ate enough to make up for a month."
"You broke my neck," Frank says bluntly, "It's kind of hard to be hungry when I can't feel my stomach."
"Oh." Quinn says. She falls silent, just staring at him.
"If it's any consolation," Frank begins quietly, trying to be soothing, "I kept yelling for help after you fainted-hoping someone could come on time, you know? But I guess no one heard me." His face falls. "I really suck at this comforting stuff, don't I?"
"It's okay," Quinn reassures her murderer absently, "I suck at it too." She's still staring blankly, but then she shakes her head, trying to snap herself out of it. Quinn stands woozily, almost like she's drunk.
"I'm going to go take a shower," Quinn tells the man lying on the floor. He does a little twitching thing with his head.
"Sorry," Frank says, "I was trying to nod. Anyways, go ahead. When you're done, though, you're going to have to clean this place up and disinfect it. We don't want anyone else catching the zombie virus, so you're going to have to take extra precautions like not touching people's wounds or sharing drinks." He waggles his eyebrows at her, grinning. "That means no kissing, either."
Quinn decides not to mention how gross that thought is and walks in the direction of the showers without saying anything. She's not sure how to handle the bombshell that's just been dropped into her life, so she's going to deal with it the only way she knows how.
"Being dead isn't so bad!" Frank yells after her from his position on the floor, "it's almost like being alive, except-"
"Living impaired!"
"What?"
"I'm living impaired!" Quinn shouts back again.
Frank looks confused but all he responds with is "whatever you say, kid."
Deny, deny, deny.
When Quinn gets out of the shower, skin blood free (although her clothes aren't as salvageable; she's forced to put her stinky sweats back on), she walks to the nearest supply closet to get cleaning materials. Quinn grabs a mop and proceeds with cleaning up the blood-desperately not thinking about who it belongs to-while Frank chatters away. He's still lying on the floor and getting in the way, because Quinn doesn't want to touch a dead body.
"Why are you here so late anyways?" Frank asks curiously.
"I was exercising," Quinn replies. She may not be a Cheerio but she's going to stay fit, pregnancy or not. The thought makes her pause and glance down at her (still) protruding belly.
"Is my baby dead, too?" Quinn asks, staring down at it in horror. Frank blinks.
"I don't know," Frank responds, "Technically it should be, since it can't get anymore nutrients or oxygen from you. Did you know that the oxygen in your blood passes through to enter the baby's blood? That's how it breathes." He does that twitchy thing with his head again, although this time Quinn thinks he's trying to shrug. "I don't think so, though, because we're dea-living impaired, and yet our bodies somehow still function and our brains haven't decayed…It could be alive still, although it's probably got the zombie virus." Quinn frowns. They had almost reached nine months, and now…
"How did you know that stuff?" Quinn asks abruptly, trying to get her mind off other things. When he blinks in confusion, she elaborates. "About the baby's breathing."
"Oh." Frank smiles, "I was a doctor, before I got turned into a zombie. I've spent the last month trying to resist eating flesh and to develop a cure." He sighs. "I guess I've failed on both accounts.
"A cure?" Quinn pauses in her work and leans on the mop. "You mean there's a cure?"
"I mean I've been looking for one," Frank corrects her, "not that I've found one. You shouldn't get your hopes up." Despite his warning, though, Quinn feels her spirits lifting. She smiles and goes back to cleaning with more vigor. When the place is clear and properly disinfected, Quinn steps back to admire her work.
"It looks like none of this ever happened," she says a bit wishfully.
"Hello?" Frank interrupts, "Dead body here! Aren't you going to clean me up?" Quinn scowls at him; she was trying to avoid that.
"What should I do with you?" She sighs, resigned. "Drag you out and just dump you? I think the janitor would be a little bothered." Frank grimaces.
"No, that's unnecessary," he says hastily. "Does your school have those fire alarm thingies with an ax next to it?" At Quinn's nod, he continues "go get it and bring it here. And don't worry about breaking the glass or people noticing, because that's the least of our troubles." Frank also tells her to fetch some matches or a lighter. Quinn follows his instructions without any mishap, and returns carrying the heavy red ax in both hands. It makes her nervous.
"What should I do with it?" She hates the high pitched, scared way she asks him. Frank looks at her seriously.
"I'm going to ask you not to freak out," he says, "but you're probably going to anyways. I want you to cut my head off."
"Wha-No!" Quinn screeches, "I'm not cutting anyone's head off! I don't even want to touch you!" She feels like she might be sick again. "You're not serious," she protests weakly, "you can't be."
"I don't see what the problem here is," Frank says, rolling his eyes, "I've seen dead bodies all the time! Granted, that is because I was a doctor…Anyways," he goes on, "it's not like it will kill me. My body right now is pretty useless, and we need to cut off all the dead weight, no pun intended. Unless," he glances up at her with a knowing smile, "you don't want me to continue looking for a cure?"
Right now, Quinn feels like she's stuck between the metaphorical rock and hard place. She really, really does not even want to consider doing what he's asking her to, but she doesn't want to be a zombie either. She's sixteen, for Christ's sake! She's never left Lima, she's never gotten married; she's got so many nevers she can't even count them all. And if she doesn't start eating people (god, the thought grosses her out) she'll end up losing her mind in a month. She needs a cure; she needs her life back.
"Okay," Quinn says in a strained voice. "I'll do it." Frank beams.
"Good, good. Now, chop away! Just make sure you only hit the neck, okay?" Quinn's hands are shaking, but she positions the ax so the blade is resting lightly near the base of his neck. She swallows, heart thumping, and closes her eyes. Maybe if she can't see, she'll feel better about the whole thing, she thinks. She doesn't.
Quinn tries not to wince at the sound of the ax whirring through the air and through Frank's neck.
"Cool!" Frank says, but Quinn's eyes are still closed. "My vocal cords are still working! Nice cut, kid!" He pauses here, and the next time he speaks he sounds a bit embarrassed. "Oh, yeah…I didn't get to hear your name yet."
"Quinn," she replies, still staring at the back of her eyelids. Maybe she should just keep her eyes closed for the rest of her life. The world freaks her out a little bit right now, and she'd rather not face it.
"Quinn, then. Good work…but there's still some more stuff you've got to do."
"Oh God no," Quinn moans, opening her eyes. The sight of Frank's head unattached from his body and staring up at her is disturbing, but she's too tired to give it the proper freak out session it deserves. Thankfully, there's no blood. "Please. No more."
"It's easy this time, I promise. I just need you to burn my body."
"Your definition of easy does not fit normal society's," Quinn tells him, "I'm beginning to think I'd rather not have to deal with you at all."
"You can't just leave it there!" Frank protests, "You're going to have to burn the mop and sterilize the ax as well." He looks at her reproachfully. "Do you want the zombie virus to spread?"
"No," Quinn sighs. She grabs the mop and ax and throws them on the body. Then, she lights a match. "Are you going to say goodbye?" she asks, trying to prolong the moment before she actually has to do it. Frank rolls his eyes.
"Oh body," he intones gravely, "you have served me well. That you for taking me to the places I needed to go and doing the stuff I needed you to do. You're a pretty good body, too, although I really wish you could have been a little slimmer. And I wish that you could have been more muscular, with a six pack, and that when my wife and I-"
"Oookay, then," Quinn says hastily, throwing the burning match, "goodbyes are done." Frank pouts.
"I was just doing what you asked me to," he says innocently. Quinn gives him a dirty look. They watch in silence as the fire spreads and eats away at the pile.
"What should I do with the ax?" Quinn asks, still gazing at the ashes. The ax is black now, but still usable.
"Just leave it there," Frank says dismissively, "the janitors will clean everything up and come to their own conclusions." He looks up at her. "Anyways, we should probably go home."
"Yeah," Quinn says absently. Then she blinks. "Wait…we!"
"Well, yeah," Frank says as if it should have been obvious. "I can't come up with a cure if I don't have hands! I'm all brains now; I'll need someone to do the work for me. That's where you come in."
"I hate you," Quinn tells him. "I wish I skipped school today. I wish I didn't care so much about fitness. I wish zombies were only in horror movies where they belong."
"If wishes were horses beggars would ride," Frank recites. "Now, are you going to pick me up or what?"
"Can I choose 'or what'?" Quinn asks hopefully. When he scowls at her, she sighs.
"Okay," Quinn says reluctantly. She puts one hand on either side of his face, trying not to shudder, and shoves him into her bag.
"Hey!" Frank yells. "Be gentle."
"Shut up!" she snaps back. She closes the bag on him, and heaves it over her shoulder. It's actually not that much heavier. Quinn then gathers up all of her things and begins walking to her car.
Frank's voice is a little muffled, but she can hear him say "today we fought, you died, I died, you became a zombie, and I became body-less. What do you think will happen tomorrow?"
"I don't know about you," Quinn replies, "but tomorrow I'm going to school."
Author's Rant: Okay, that was one of the weirdest, grossest things I have ever written. It was kind of squicky, no? If this kind of thing really disturbs you, then I'm sorry. But it's okay-this is probably the worst this story is ever going to get in terms of ew-worthiness.
I know I probably shouldn't of started writing another multi-chapter story, but I can't help myself ;.; And it's unbeta-ed, as always, so I apologize in advance for any grammar issues.
Tell me what you think: is this a stupid idea and should I just stop writing it right now? Or should I keep going with it?