Title: Count the Days
Pairing: Axel/Roxas
Warnings: zombies, violence, language, sex, things of a disturbing nature, reckless optimism
Rating: M/R
A/N: Primarily inspired by the TV series "The Walking Dead" and the novels World War Z and The Road. Also – happy birthday to me, I'm now . . . . 23.
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts, but I do get a kick out of writing for the fandom.
Summary: Roxas counts the days, makes little marks in his notebook to keep track of how long the dead have walked and how long he and Axel have been traveling.
Prologue
There is a silence on some roads that would send some into madness; it stretched like some vast, yawning chasm across the landscape, enveloping and devouring all in its path.
The desolation seemed to last an eternity; broad flatlands stretched as far as the eye could see and even beyond peripheral vision. The sun bore down on the already baked earth, heat radiating from the dust and soil and asphalt. There were mountains in the distance, far to the end of the road, beyond their reach by several days; the horizon's edge seemed to melt everything together, the heat rising from the road and dirt making what was ahead seem hazy and undeterminable.
A few crows gathered in the brush off to the side of the road, screeching and cawing as they circled the area warily. Lifeless black bodies of crows were littered in the dirt, some half consumed by the insects that made it their job to help the decomposition process along. They were the first to find the body, now barely recognizable as a young visiting nurse - all that was left now was a pile of picked-clean bones. She'd died long before her body collapsed in the brush, and moved no longer. The birds found her and made meals of her already mottled flesh for days before they fell from the sky, feathers falling away, and never moved again. One of the crows perched up on the electrical line, beak stretched open in a warning call to its brethren.
The dull roar of a motor approaching fast on the asphalt sent the birds flying off, screeching their protests only to have a screaming engine dull them. It flew right past the copse of brush, disturbing only the birds still attempting to make a meal out of the scraps of flesh still on the girl. It's a newer-model Hundai, a larger vehicle that could effectively seat around five if two-thirds of the car wasn't packed with survival gear and food. As it was, there were only two occupants of the car: a driver and a passenger, both of whom were eerily silent as they picked up speed along the road. U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" was playing from an old mix CD in the player, lyrics whispering just above the sound of the engine.
"Don't push the fucking engine, you idiot," the passenger growled, low and very agitated. He gripped the inside of the car door tightly.
"We've still got a few gallons left," the driver snapped, remaining stony-faced despite the obvious tension in his body.
"The warning light went on hours ago."
"Not even two," the driver corrected testily. "These models get excellent gas mileage."
"I don't care, we're stopping as soon as we see something."
The driver didn't answer, but the tightening in his jaw and his grip on the steering wheel betrayed his own frustration. They'd been traveling for too long, and had been confined to the car for too many hours together – partners though they might be, only a tentative and brittle truce kept them from killing each other every day.
As it was, the driver – tall and lanky, a man seemingly built out of sharp angles and cutting words and twitchy, nervous movement – wasn't sure what exactly made him turn back around for his current companion. Axel – that was this rather agitated and pensive man's name – knew he had a reputation for going looking for trouble, but he wasn't a masochist. At least on most days. Axel shook his head, closing bright green eyes and ignoring the few strands of vibrant, fire-engine red hair that fell loose from the dirty braid holding the rest back. He was caked in dirt and grime and sweat, courtesy of the complete lack of running water or showers they'd found along their route for the last two weeks – and Axel wasn't about to start using their reserve water.
Axel liked to think sometimes that his companion was a stray he'd picked up in some no-name town, a boy with no distinctive features or even a name that he could kick out of the car at any point in time, no guilt or second thoughts. But he knew Roxas, knew him well enough to know that if he did try to kick him out Roxas would hunt him down and beat his skull in, and then take the car without a second glance.
Roxas was shorter and not as thin, but no less dangerous than Axel. Lank blond hair hung over his forehead, a far cry from the impeccably styled hair Axel remembered; he had eyes that were blue like the deep parts of oceans and a voice that could ring just as cold. Axel can remember a time when it warmed in his presence, bright and laughing sharply – now the warmth is gone, along with everything else they might have become. Then again, the Roxas he preferred to remember wouldn't have allowed himself to go this long without a shower, or would have kept an old wifebeater with dried blood on it to wear.
The drive is silent for a little while as Axel studiously ignores the flashing red light signaling the end of the gas – the literal end, there's no extra canister in the back seat of the car to use in case of an emergency like this. Then Roxas sat up higher in his seat and reached for the wheel, threatening to take it but not really meaning it. "Pull over," he hissed, allowing the desperation to creep into his tone. "There's a house up here, pull over. These folks might have a bit extra."
Axel turned the wheel, pulling the car off the main road as they approached the house – a one-story looking rather desolate surrounded by absolutely nothing. The grass was dead, the house itself looked abandoned, but there was a pickup truck out in the side yard that seemed like an opportunity. There was a shed out in back as well. The car rolled to a stop in the driveway, with Axel staring out at the structure all the way. "Might be empty. They may have been hit," he added with a grim frown.
Roxas unbuckled his seat belt, grabbing one of the surgical masks he kept around and a large, heavy tire iron. "Never know until we take a look. Maybe they've got some running water."
Axel got out the car, still eyeing it warily. "Suppose we'll see," he said, pulling the elastic string of his own surgical mask over his head. They weren't sure if the sickness was airborne yet – could never be too careful. Axel grabbed his handgun from the pocket between their seats and followed the blond up to the door. Only the dull hum of insects greeted their ears.
Roxas leaned over and tried to peek inside the windows for any signs of movement. "Nothing," he said, frowning slightly. "No movement inside."
Axel knocked loudly, fist pounding on the door. "Hello?" he called, putting his ear closer to the door. When he could only hear the faint sounds of crows in the distance, Axel shrugged and jimmied the door. Finding the lock weak, he shoved his shoulder against the door and sent it flying.
The interior of the house was dark, and the floorboards creaked under their feet as they carefully made their way inside. They crossed directly into the living room, where the furniture seemed pretty disheveled, like it had been shoved aside in a hurry.
Roxas sniffed the air and grimaced. "Something's dead."
Axel followed suit and made a barely-contained retching noise. "I'll second that. Question is, is it mobile?"
Roxas didn't immediately dignify the question with an answer, but reaffirmed his grip on the tire iron. "Check all the rooms, I guess."
The kitchen and dining room were both clean (other than the layer of dust and the unwashed dishes in the sink), as was the bathroom. To their dismay the water had been shut off, so there was no shower to take advantage of. A small child's bedroom revealed only a colorful teddy bear with a few brown stains, and that the bed itself had been slept in some time ago; there was an eerie stillness that had creeped into every corner of the house, freezing even the tiny dust particles caught in the sparse sunbeams peaking through the blinds.
"Roxas," Axel called warily from down the hall, in front of the master bedroom. The blond felt his heart leap in his throat and start hammering wildly. Something obviously wasn't kosher with the situation.
"Yeah," he answered quietly.
"Think I found the source of the smell," Axel answered simply.
Roxas came to stand beside Axel and grimaced again. He was used to bodies though, and it was only the adrenaline rushing through his veins and making him loopy that made this one any different. It was a woman, mid to late thirties, curled up on the bed. She'd been dead for at least two weeks, Roxas estimated based on decomposition.
"Think she's a walker?" Axel asked, nudging him.
"Nope," Roxas responded definitively. "She blew her own brains out," he offered as explanation, gesturing to the revolver in her hand, the entry wound beneath her chin, and the dried blood and brain matter that stained the headboard and wall.
Axel immediately relaxed. "Well then. I say we check the truck and the shed, see if she's got any extra gas she never got around to using."
"That bedroom over there belonged to a little kid," Roxas noted, heading towards the door. "Think maybe someone took her?"
Axel shrugged again. "Maybe Mommy dearest was infected, had Dad take the kid before shit went down."
"Maybe," Roxas conceded.
The truck was bone-dry, and had no extra canisters stored in the back. Then Axel pointed out the shed behind the house. "My dad would have put any extra gas back there. Shall we?"
"Seeing as we're stuck here otherwise, yes," Roxas chided.
As they got closer, Roxas' ears picked up on an out-of-place sound and stopped dead.
"What's wrong with you?"
Roxas stared straight ahead at the shed doors. "I heard something."
"Well I didn't-"
"You listen to your iPod too loud, you're half deaf," Roxas cut him off caustically. "I heard something . . . rattle."
"Let's not get into what either person is or isn't," Axel grumbled, pushing him forward. "You said it yourself, we have to get some gas if we're going to keep going."
"Fuck you," Roxas hissed acidly. When they got closer, the sound happened again – this time though, Roxas noticed that there was a chain holding the two sides of the door closed, which was the source of the rattling. Roxas stopped abruptly again and narrowed his eyes as he was sure he'd seen the doors move, like there was something inside just itching to get out.
The doors were chained together hastily for a reason.
And this time, Axel noticed too. "Shit," he whispered.
"We need gas," Roxas reminded him, steeling himself and closing the distance even more despite the thudding of his heart in his throat.
They were within feet of the chained doors when whatever was inside shoved them open enough for them to see an eye peering out from the dark, wide and gray from decay, surrounded by mottled skin the spoke of infection. Then the doors closed again, and a rattling moan made its way to Roxas' ears.
Axel cursed, disengaging the safety on his handgun. Roxas reached towards the chain wrapped around the door handles, swallowing and doing his best to ignore the intensified movements of the door and the moan of the infected. Gray fingers, complete with black, bloody nails, curled around the edge of the door, exploring.
Roxas pulled the chain away, and with it gone one door was pushed open to reveal what was a young girl in a dirty, stained sundress. Her eyes were dead and staring but unseeing, mouth tightening in a way that gave Roxas the chills; if she got close enough she'd rip into them, he knew it. Sores and open wounds covered her body, though the one responsible for her predicament seemed to be on her forearm. She went right for Axel, plodding with grim intent as she raised her arms to grab at him.
"Axel," Roxas growled warningly, watching the little dead girl warily as he raised his tire iron.
After the briefest of hesitations – who gets used to shooting people point-blank fast, anyway? - Axel raised his gun and fired one shot after a brief hesitation; there was a small choking sound as the dead girl fell back, brain destroyed, never to rise again.
Roxas was breathing deeply, trying to calm his heart rate. An encounter with an infected person was not something he was used to yet. "Gasoline," he prompted Axel, clearing his throat.
Axel pulled a flashlight from his belt and held it up to see inside the dark shed. He stepped over the downed child, ignoring her completely as he crept inside, shining the light into all of the corners in the cluttered building. A dusty lawnmower, gardening and planting tools, children's toys, bikes – all were stored inside the shed. Finally Roxas spotted a few gasoline containers; he grabbed them and, after testing their weight and deeming them full, Roxas lugged them out of the shed quickly. Seeing nothing else usable, Axel followed him close behind with another container.
"This should last us for a bit," Roxas commented as he filled the tank with the new gas. "As long as you don't overdo the engines."
Axel snorted, rolling his eyes discreetly. "The Rockies aren't that far. We should start seeing other people, maybe a camp here or there."
Once Roxas finished filling the gas tank he stored the remaining gas in the back of the car and got into the passenger seat. Axel let the engine roar to life once more and followed the path of the setting sun while Roxas took out his notebook and began to write.
Thirty-nine hash marks were carved into the inside cover of the notebook; it had been thirty-nine days since Roxas encountered the man from the morgue plotting towards him, since he'd found himself indebted to his ex-boyfriend. If he tried really hard to recall the news from the weeks beforehand, he'd remember that it had been about fifty-six since the first reports of an unknown, unprecedented strain of a virus associated with a blood cancer.
As the world disintegrated around them, Roxas took his notes and Axel pressed the pedal to the floor, all while reciting the zombie survival guide in his head.