A/N: Finally got around to splitting this into 2 parts. All comments are hugely appreciated. Concrit is particularly welcomed.
When the Lights Go Out
He was in agony. Every one of his remaining ribs felt like it was screaming and the wounds in his chest burned with every step. He stopped, bent double, gasping for breath, sweaty and feverish under the prison jumpsuit. Can't take much more of this.
Hammond turned towards him, eyes narrowed. "Damn it, Murphy. Stop screwing around. We don't have time for this. They're coming. You want to get bitten again?"
...stretched out helpless on the table, the Zs around him, his screams drowning out the sound of their snarls...
"Why not?" he spat. "It was so much fun the first time."
Hammond scowled, gripped his arm and dragged him on as the first of the Zs rounded the corner of the street. "Come on."
"Can I at least have a gun?"
"No. Come on, or I swear I'll leave you here to get eaten."
Murphy shook him off and followed, glancing fearfully back over his shoulder at the Zs loping towards them. They turned the corner, running towards the entrance of the high school, past a makeshift cordon, an empty guard post. Murphy looked inside as they passed, shaking his head.
This isn't right.
They ran up the steps to the main entrance and Hammond set his shoulder to the door, and heaved. They creaked inwards, but only so far. On the other side, a thick chain wrapped multiple times around the handles, held in place by a rusting padlock. Hammond thumped his palm against the door in a fury. "Shit."
"They're coming." Murphy glanced at the zombies surging down the street towards them.
...the straps tight around his wrists, biting into his skin as he struggled, screaming for help...
He squeezed his eyes shut in terror. "Screw this."
Hammond grabbed him as he turned to run, slammed him up against the wall. "Stay where you are." He shot a look at the Zs surging their way. "Hold the goddamned doors open so I can shoot the lock."
"I can't. My chest hurts too much."
"Do you want to die? Hold. The. Doors. Open."
Murphy scowled at him. As he pushed against the door, he felt this jumpsuit tear away from one of the scabbing wounds. A pain like an open wound doused with lemon juice, a wrenching pain in his chest, a gush of sticky liquid. He cried out in pain. Hammond shot out the lock and reached through, jerking and tugging at the chain. It rattled to the ground and they crashed through, heaving the door shut as the first of the Zs reached them.
Murphy's chest burned as he threw all of his weight against the door, his face contorted with fear and panic. But he could feel his strength slipping; his vision tunnelled away and he knew he was going to black out from the pain. He stumbled backwards, staring at the zombies throwing themselves at the door, leaving streaks of blood on the glass.
"Get the chain back on!"
Murphy blinked at him, looked down at the chain. Then he glanced over his shoulder, towards the empty corridor.
"Murphy," Hammond growled. "It'll be the last thing you ever do, I promise you that. Get the chain back on."
Swallowing, Murphy bent to grab the chain. He hesitated, staring through the glass at the zombies. Ugly bastards, all of them. The stink of them filled his nostrils, sickening him. It was the same sickly aroma of death and rot he could smell seeping out his pores these days. A stench that no amount of soap could ever scrub off. It made him sick.
"Any time now, Murphy!"
His mouth dry, he stepped forward and threaded the chain through the handles, meeting the gaze of one of the Zs outside, a man with dirty reddish hair, three days worth of stubble, milky cataract eyes filled with empty hunger. It snapped at him through the glass with teeth encrusted with flecks of old, dried blood.
He jerked the chain tight, and stumbled backwards, feeling like throwing up again. He hadn't been able to keep anything down for days.
"'Bout goddamned time," Hammond snapped, stepping away from the door.
"Hey, I don't take orders from you." Outside the zombies surged against the doors and it crashed inwards. The chain rattled, slipping free. He flinched. "Will that hold?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Well, if you hadn't shot out the lock..."
Hammond glared at him. "Would you rather be on the other side of that door?"
I'd rather not be here at all.
"Let's find this clinic and get the hell out of here," Hammond said. "Sooner I get rid of you the better."
"The feeling's mutual." He was starting to feel dizzy again. He tugged his jumpsuit away from his neck, felt another scab break free with another sublime little needle of pain so sharp his vision blurred.
They moved away from the door and the hungry Zs, along a long corridor lined with lockers, which had been jimmied open and ransacked, books and papers lying strewn across the corridor. The air smelled of dust and neglect.
There's nothing here.
He revised that opinion when they passed the open door to a classroom. Inside all the desks had been dragged to the edges of the room. The middle of the room was stacked high with body bags. Filled body bags, stinking like garbage left out in the sun.
Nothing here but the dead. They stared inside in silence, and then Hammond very carefully closed the door.
"You sure this is the place?" Murphy asked.
"This is where the NSA guy said."
"Well, I'd say his intel is a little out of date." Breathing hard, he put his hand on the wall to steady himself, to keep himself from fainting.
Can't take much more of this.
Hammond stopped, holding up his hand. "Hear that?"
Murphy pushed himself away from the wall. "I don't hear a goddamned-"
"Shut up, Murphy. I'm trying to listen."
"Hey, you asked," Murphy muttered under his breath. But he listened. There was something coming, the sound of rapid footsteps coming closer. He started to back away, blood rushing in his ears. "It's a Z."
...teeth descending. The stark, helpless agony as human teeth grind into his flesh, ripping and tearing...
Hammond aimed his gun as a figure burst out of a corridor and skidded to a halt, his high tops squeaking on the polished floor. Murphy caught a glimpse of a young man, skinny, mixed race, short dreads crammed beneath a baseball cap. He stared at them, his eyes wide and startled, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Stop," Hammond snapped, and then the young man turned on his heel and sprinted away. "Damn it." Hammond chased after him. Murphy hesitated, glancing back, but down the corridor he heard the Zs crashing against the door, the rattling of the chain. He swallowed in fear, and followed Hammond, his lungs rattling with every breath.
What the hell did you do to me, Dr Merch?
He almost hoped Hammond did get him to the CDC. Just so long as Dr Merch was there, and he could make good on his promise to... well, not eat the bitch's brains. But something painful and unpleasant.
He turned the corner and nearly collided with Hammond, who was breathing hard himself. "Lose him, did ya?" Murphy said, once his own wheezing fit had passed.
"Screw you."
"Fast little bastard, whoever he is."
A crash came from back down the corridor, the sound of the zombies breaking through the main entrance. Murphy flinched, started backing away. How many of them now? He could almost smell them already, although he wasn't sure if it was actually them or the stink coming from his own wounds, the rot at the heart of him.
"Come on," he said to Hammond. The crazy bastard was actually looking back, maybe even thinking about making a stand. With every day that passed, Murphy was starting to think he might actually have to kill the man. He didn't think there was any other way of getting away from him; Hammond watched him too closely. He'd never thought of himself as a potential murderer before, but if there was one person he could happily kill... Actually, no. Scratch that; the person would be Dr Merch. No question about it. But Hammond would be next in line.
The cries of the Zs echoed down the corridor. "Hammond, come on!"
Hammond nodded grimly and they rounded the corner to see the doors to the gym ahead of them. "Here," Hammond said. "If this damn clinic is here, this is where they'll be."
"You sure about that?"
But Hammond was already opening the doors. Over his shoulder, Murphy saw the gym was filled with makeshift camp beds, row after row after row. Sitting on the beds, and standing in the aisles, were Zs. Men and women and children, some ragged and tattered and rotting, some whole and fast and strong, and all of them turning to stare at the open doorway and the two living men.
"Oh shit!" Hammond jerked his gun up as the first of the Zs sprinted towards them. He dropped it with a single shot, but more were coming, and then Murphy turned, saw the Zs from outside charging towards them.
Dizzy with fear and panic, he scrambled backwards, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder in case there were more Zs coming the other way. "Murphy!" Hammond yelled. "Help me with these goddamned doors!"
"Yeah, I don't think so. Sorry."
Murphy fled. He ran down the corridor, and up an empty echoing staircase, his lungs burning with every breath. At the top, he looked frantically left and right, the screeches of the Zs sounding too close, and flung himself down the corridor and into a classroom, slamming the door behind him. He backed away from it, pushing his fingers into his hair, and then shoved a desk in front of the door.
The scrape came from behind him. A cold fist of terror clamped around his heart.
They might be alive, he thought, closing his eyes. Oh shit, I hope they're alive.
Slowly, painfully, he turned around, stared helplessly, hopelessly, at the Z lurching towards him, one foot dragging along the floor behind her.
She would have been beautiful once, every post-pubescent boy's fantasy of the perfect teacher, a blonde with an amazing rack, the sort of rack that would have made him stop and look twice in another life, maybe even think about asking her out for a drink. Only now her skin was greying, and the stink of rot rose from her in waves, and all he could think was that she smelled just like him. Whatever ran through her veins, whatever passed for blood in her decrepit system, it was inside him too.
When her lips peeled back from yellowing teeth, he whirled to drag the desk away from the door. But something wrenched in his chest, a sudden overwhelming fire-burst of agony, and his legs crumpled beneath him. Gasping for breath, he caught hold of the desk, his body trembling as he levered himself up and turned to face the Z. He cursed Hammond for not trusting him with a weapon.
"Wait," he said uselessly. As if zombies could be reasoned with.
Only it seemed to work.
She faltered, tilting her head to one side. Her lips twitched and she drew in a rattling breath, her snarl seeming less hungry, more curious. She sniffed, and behind her whited eyes, something flickered.
She's not going to kill me, he thought, wildly. I'm gonna be like the king of the zomb-
And then she came at him. Snarling and snapping her teeth at him, she clawed at his face. He caught hold of her wrists, and the two of them tumbled backwards like lovers falling onto a bed. He landed badly, almost blacked out from the sudden rush of pain, and then she was on top of him, her teeth snapping inches from his cheek, flecking his skin with her saliva. He screamed for Hammond, screamed for help. Wedged his forearm under her throat, trying helplessly to push her off him. But in death, she was unnaturally strong, and he was way past his best, and there was no way he was going to win this fight. She was going to rip his throat out and devour his brains and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
Maybe he should just let her do it.
The door crashed inwards, the desk scraping along the floor making a noise like nails down a chalkboard. Murphy saw Hammond, saw a cold gun barrel resting against the dead woman's temple. He barely had the chance to register one thought – No! – and then Hammond pulled the trigger.
Her brains splattered across the room. She crumpled on top of him, her head resting against his chest like they'd just made love.
Sorry, he thought, dazed. I'm so sorry.
And then Hammond was dragging him to his feet and over to the window. Murphy glanced back at the woman, then at the door. They were coming, the others. He could hear them. No way Hammond could kill them all.
Hope they rip his goddamned throat out.
Hammond swung a chair, smashing it through the glass. He glanced grimly at the door, jabbing the worst of the shards out of the window frame with the butt of his gun. "Go on," he said. "Jump out."
Murphy stared at the ground far below. "You gotta be kidding. We're on the second floor."
"Do I have to babysit you every step of the way? Jump down or I'll throw you out and drag you the rest of the way if I have to."
Murphy swallowed, hooked one leg over the edge of the window frame. Shrieks echoed down the corridor, and Murphy glanced at the door, his heart beginning to skip. For a moment he was back in another room entirely, strapped to a table, vulnerable and helpless, unable to do anything but watch and scream as the dead men flooded inside. He closed his eyes, and dropped.
He hit the ground hard, crying out in pain as his leg twisting beneath him. He knelt in the flowerbed, felt warm moist soil beneath his hands, breathing hard. Hammond landed beside him, looked up at the window. "Let's go."
"I can't..."
"Murphy!"
He reached for the wall. Felt rough brick beneath his fingers. He felt light-headed as he pushed himself up, almost toppled straight over again with pain and exhaustion. And now his leg was hurting too. Every inch of his body screamed with protest, but Hammond grabbed him, forcing him on and around the edge of the building.
Was he ever going to get a chance to rest?
"Damn that useless NSA guy," Hammond muttered. "Yet another lead that doesn't pan out. I'm getting sick of this. And you." He slammed Murphy against the wall. "You were going to leave me, you son of a bitch."
"I don't owe you a goddamn thing, Hammond."
Hammond's eyes narrowed. "I got you out of that prison, didn't I? At the expense of my men."
"You were after Dr Merch, not me. And don't think I've forgotten how you stood by and watched while that Dr Mengler injected me with poison. How's the air up on that moral high ground of yours? Thin, I'll bet."
Hammond slammed him into the wall again. Something dislodged in Murphy's chest. "You're alive because of that vaccine."
"And don't say I'm not grateful," Murphy snarled past the sensation of something caught in his throat.
"You—"
Hammond drew back, as Murphy hacked up a wad of sputum that tasted of blood and something sour. When he spat it out, it slapped wetly against the floor, a clump of clotted black matter. His body spasmed, and a wave of dizziness crashed over him.
"You're disgusting."
"Hey, I didn't ask for this." Murphy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Can I get some water?"
"You really think I'd let you drink out of my water bottle? After that? Screw you, Murphy. Where's yours?"
"Lost it."
Someone screamed. Immediately Hammond was turning away, raising his gun. The young man from earlier hurtled by, a group of Zs close behind, loping like wolves. Hammond advanced, firing his gun. Dropped two of the Zs with head shots. Another swung towards them, snarling, and Murphy plastered himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut.
The young man glanced desperately towards them, and then the Z behind him grabbed his backpack. He screamed, scrabbling at the straps, trying to fling it off him. One foot hooked around the other and he tripped, sprawling on the asphalt. The Zs fell on top of him, tearing at the pack. His helpless screams rose about the sound of their snarls, and Murphy pressed his hands over his ears.
More shots rang out, then silence. Murphy opened his eyes, risked a cautious peep around the side of the building. The Zs were dead. The young man had rolled onto his back and was staring in disbelief at their bodies and at Hammond advancing. He scrambled to his feet, not seeming to notice the way Hammond kept the gun trained in his direction. When he spoke, his voice was high with fear and panic. "You let them out? What the hell, man? Why'd you let 'em out?"
"I just saved your life," Hammond said. He sounded pissed.
"Wouldn'ta been in danger in the first place if it wasn't for you," the kid retorted. Hammond's stance shifted just slightly, and the expression on the kid's face turned to fear. He held his hands up. "Hey, I didn't mean nothin' by it, man."
"Get out here, Murphy," Hammond yelled over his shoulder.
Reluctantly, Murphy, who'd been thinking about making a run for it again, stepped out from the edge of the building. The kid glanced at him, then did an almost comical double-take, eyes widening as he took in Murphy's blood-stained prison jumpsuit.
"What happened to you? You get bit?"
"He's still alive, isn't he?" Hammond snapped.
"Yeah, but... He don't look well, man."
"He's not," Hammond said. "He's a long way from well. Which is why I need to get him to a clinic and fast. My contact said there was one here, but so far all we've found is Zs. You know something about that?"
"Uh..." The kid shifted his weight from foot to foot, his gaze darting from Hammond to his gun to Murphy. And then to the pile of dead Zs. "It got relocated. 'Bout two weeks back? One of the refugees had a heart attack in the night, man. Died in his sleep. That's what they say. What a way to go in the middle of a zombie apoc—"
Hammond rolled his eyes. "The clinic?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry. Always talk when I get nervous. Uh, any chance you could maybe point that gun somewhere— Okay, okay." The kid swallowed, glanced at the Zs again. "Only it's not much of a clinic any more so don't go expecting too much. They've still got a nurse, but she's not exactly Mary Sunshine... And she's got next to no equipment or drugs or anything. That's why I'm here. Trying to pick up supplies." He gestures to the backpack. "Drugs and shit. Doin' my civic duty. 'Cause we got to look out for each other in this day and—"
Hammond pinched the bridge of his nose. "The clinic."
"Yeah, okay. I guess you saved my life and all, so... yeah." The kid picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. "We gotta be quick though. Stay close. Wouldn't want to lose ya."
"Yeah, right. Keep up, Murphy."
They followed the kid through the streets and down an alleyway, past a chicane of dumpsters and to a boarded up door. The kid pulled back some loose boards and squeezed through the gap. Murphy bent double, hacking up another clump of matter, which he spat into his hand – a black fleshy lump, shot through with vivid crimson streaks. He grunted in disgust, and flicked the lump onto the ground, before wiping his hand on his jumpsuit.
Hammond's right, he thought. I am disgusting.
"Damn it, Murphy," Hammond said. "You'd better not be faking this."
He straightened up. "Do I look like I'm faking? I'm dying, you son of a bitch."
"I don't have time for this. If that kid runs again... Get through that door."
Murphy bared his teeth in a rictus grim. "You first." Only then from the street, he heard the shrieks of Zs and he ducked quickly, pushing aside the planks. He dragged himself through, gasping at the pain shooting through the bite wounds in his chest. It took him a moment to recover, and he stood up as Hammond struggled through. They were in a restaurant kitchen, stainless steel work surfaces covered in a layer of dust and grease. The kid was waiting for them.
"What is this place?" Hammond asked. "Restaurant?"
The kid shook his head. "Hotel. Group of us holed up here after the refugee centre fell. Boarded up the entrances and the windows. There's no way in or out except for that door."
"Sounds like a death trap," Hammond said.
Murphy rolled his eyes. "Well, aren't you Mr Brightside?" To the kid he said, "This hotel got a bar?"
"It used to."
"Drunk dry?"
"As the Sahara. Sorry. But there's an emergency generator so there's like electricity and shit. Even running water, although we gotta boil it. The generator's kinda old though. It's always cutting out. Drives Claire batshit. It's actually sort of funny, as long as she's not aiming it at you."
The lobby had probably seen better days even before the turn. The carpet was a dusty, faded burgundy, worn and threadbare, and the air had a stale, unwholesome smell, of must and mildew and decay. The main entrance had been boarded up with a table, and light filtered through the gaps, making dust motes dance like fireflies.
The kid crossed to the elevator, jabbed the button a couple of times. "I hate this bit," he said. "The rule is you never leave it on the first floor. Just in case, y'know. But I hate waiting for it. It's so freaking slow. I keep thinkin'..." He trailed off, glancing at the door.
"Have I mentioned that I'm claustrophobic?" Murphy said as the bell dinged and the doors slid open. He was starting to feel faint again, alternating hot and cold. He could feel a slick puddle of sweat rapidly cooling in the small of his back.
"Get in there," Hammond said, pushing him inside. "I swear, Murphy. I am getting so sick of your whining."
"And here I thought we were getting on so well." He saw himself reflected in the mirrored wall of the elevator, blanched and red-eyed, his hair falling in a greasy mess over his face. He looked like a tattered scarecrow in a prison jumpsuit.
Christ, I look like I'm already dead.