Inspired by and written in the wonderful format of 'World War Z' by Max Brooks. No knowledge of the novel is needed at all, but the format is told oral history style, in a series of first person accounts of the zombie war.

The title has little to do with the actual story and instead comes from the movie 'In Bruges' which I am still in love with. I fail at naming things so I always end up with some strange quote connection, apologies. "Purgatory's kind of like the in-betweeny one. You weren't really shit, but you weren't all that great either. Like Tottenham. Do you believe in all that stuff, Ken?"

Four Parts.

Spot the various pop culture references throughout.

PART ONE - THE END

[Mary Jane Parker looks to be the happiest woman in the new world. She greets me in the kitchen of her home, all smiles and welcoming kisses. Her son is painting in the corner of the room, ignoring the entrance of this stranger. She settles in front of me, with a plate of fresh bread, her hands rubbing her round stomach absently. When she begins to tell her story, her cheerful demeanour fades, but only a little.]

I didn't really see it coming. We were a young family with this tiny baby. We had enough of our own problems without worrying about what was happening somewhere on the other side of the world. For us it was finding and keeping jobs, having enough food to keep Ben growing and gas to heat the apartment. We never had a lot of money and it was a stressful time but I was so happy. I had my two beautiful boys together and healthy and nothing could take away that happiness. In those days, Pete and me used to stand over the cot watching Harry sleeping, his little chest moving up and down. I would will it to keep going, terrified he'd somehow forget how to do it. Pete would hold my hand and tell me that everything we went through, it was all worth it. And it was.

We used to have this shitty little TV, it was so old that some of the colours never showed up properly. If someone wore a red sweater the whole screen would be covered in a red haze. It had come from Aunt May and her tiny apartment in Queens. Pete didn't have the heart to throw it out after she died and, well, it wasn't like we could afford another one. It was precious to Aunt May, a present from her husband Ben who died when we were young. Still kids, really, and it shattered her and Peter both. Anyway, while Pete went to work I would sit at home, brain fried from screams and cries and body sore from being a constant food supply. I'd flip through the channels, looking for something interesting. The stories of the Sickness would filter through occasionally but no one actually took them seriously. There were so many jokes – of course the media had a field day with stories of cannibalism in Mongolia and China. There was this conspiracy theorist once, on FOX news, declaring that those were the last days, that it was The End. I laughed along with the rest of America. It sounded so stupid. Asia seemed so far away from me, sitting on that sofa, cuddling my baby. I think there was a lot of arrogance too – that we were somehow too culturally advanced to end up like the Chinese. How wrong were we?

Peter was different. He's always had fantastic senses and he could feel something wrong for months. Of course he didn't tell me this at the time. While I was laughing he was gathering and storing, making sure we had everything we could need if there was a state emergency. Or when. By the time I realised what he was doing, we were almost at that stage. America had had her first infections, supposedly quarantined off and a danger to no one. I was unbelievably relieved that my husband had an extremely paranoid nature.

After those first infections, it all spread so fast. There was mass panic and contagion within weeks and people fled their homes, heading in every direction. Some people went North for the cold while others went for the heat of the South. Loads moved for the coast too, but I don't know what they thought they could do there. Most had no boats or sea experience. Desperation, I suppose. Peter stopped going to work and we would watch the migrations on the few news channels left, locked behind our apartment doors. I'd thought about leaving and heading North, but Peter was insistent we stay. He said that it was suicidal to move so aimlessly, especially with Harry. He was only eleven months old, so small. We holed in there for weeks, witnessing the electricity die out and listening to people screaming on the streets. It hurt Peter really bad to hear them suffer, but we couldn't leave and survive. It was save us or them. Now it sounds so selfish and cruel, but at the time it was the only thing that made sense.

But you couldn't stay there forever.

No. We had lots of supplies but no one could live on them forever. We know that we'd have to move eventually. We planned it for some time, Pete and I. He had one destination in mind – Tony Stark's New York mansion. Peter was interning as a junior scientist in the company at the time and he knew where the mansion was and that It was usually empty as Tony lived primarily in California. He had great ideas about the security of the place – "if anyone would be prepared for a zombie apocalypse it would be Stark, MJ" [imitating a deeper voice]. I didn't know where else we could go, it seemed as good an idea as any.

We used push bikes to cross the city – faster than walking but much quieter than a car or truck. It was surprisingly easy and we had little interaction with Infected. When we did, Peter would handle it before it became an issue. Harry was our biggest worry, that he'd attract the dead with cries or something. He didn't, though, he was so good. It was as if he knows that he had to be quiet. The journey would have been so much more difficult if he hadn't been. We broke into the mansion with some of Peter's more….questionable skills. We couldn't believe our luck at how untouched the place was. We set out exploring carefully. It's a good thing we did too. On the third floor we ran into someone we weren't expecting to see.

Who was that?

Tony Stark. We hadn't known he was in the city, just assumed he was in LA. He looked crazed, so far away from the public image I used to see on TMZ and in magazines. He obviously hadn't been taking care of himself and I thought he was still drunk. He stood blocking our path, Peter in between us protectively. He was aiming this thing at us (a repulsor, I've since been taught), and accusing us of robbing him. Pete was becoming agitated and I could tell that he was debating striking out. I knew he would have killed him to protect us. I took a risk of my own then, on instinct. I stepped out a little, no longer hiding behind Peter but my body curling around my baby. Tony stopped talking and stared at me, lowering his weapon straight away. We were welcome to stay, although we took the offer with lots of caution.

Do you know why he changed his mind?

I didn't for a long time. It was much later, when I knew him lots better that it finally hit me. When I was real young I used to get teased about my hair. It's red.

So was Pepper Potts's.

[Tony Stark downs several fingers of a priceless whiskey before pouring himself another full mug. He notices me watching him and mutters some unrepeatable words before telling me to keep my eyes to myself.]

There were rumours that you didn't drink anymore.

What idiot told you that? Of course I drink, what else is there left to do in this god-forsaken place?

It's harder for the average person to come across good alcohol these days.

And Starks have never been average people. It's been a long time since I had to sit down with one of you types.

Types?

You know, the journalist-vulture-fiend. Acts all charming when they think that kindness will get you to spill your secrets and when that doesn't work, they swoop in for the kill.

I'd like to think this interview is a little different.

Nah, you're all the same. What is it exactly you want me to say here?

I thought Ms Watson explained the situation to you…?

She did but surely you've got your own angle you want me to feed in to.

I'm interested in hearing your own account of the War, Mr Stark. Whatever you want to say, as honestly as possible.

[He makes a show of rolling his eyes.]

Fine. The War. I don't think it's right, to call it that. It never really fit the standard definition of a war, did it? A war is more like an agreement between two sides to go at each other. There's a sort of fucked up communication there. A kind of acknowledgement of what's going on. Our military, they were all of course jumping on that ship, shouting war in the way that seems unique to us fine Americans. But I dunno. What happened, what's still happening, if we were gonna call it something, guerrilla warfare would probably be more accurate. A war you fight on the streets, in dark corners with no rules. No room for your standard weaponry; all that shit they bought with the good old tax payers' money completely useless. You can't actually fight an infection with bombs. So many people had such a misplaced faith in the government. As if at the end of their day they're not human too. Like those men in the forces are going to leave their wives and children at home defenseless to fight a battle they knew they would lose. Every man (or woman I suppose) for themselves. Best way to stay alive.

Where were you when it started?

I was staying in the old homestead in Manhattan. At the time I'd been living in Malibu for years and for good reason. You know, nothing comes close to the golden coast and all that. I was in NYC on business that sadly couldn't have been avoided. I mean, I avoided it anyway but I had to go to New York to do the evasion. In Malibu, Pe-, my PA would have just screeched at me and made me feel all bad. Harder for her to reach and criticize me when I was on the other side of the country. She still managed it though. She always was great at her job.

This time I actually wasn't avoiding the conferences intentionally. I'd hit a creative streak while drunk from a party in the Upper East Side. Not uncommon. I locked myself in my basement and gave Jarvis direct orders to ignore all incoming communications, that I was not to be disturbed. Also not uncommon. I had a habit of hibernating in my workshop without proper food for days. It wrecked Pepper's head, but you know, she understood how it worked. She had a mini kitchen installed in one of the corners so Jarvis could pressure me into eating and Dummy could force grease-covered donuts or something into my mouth while I least expected it.

How long did you spend down there?

Five days. Not even a long time for me. I'd gone for way longer before but this time things were different. This time when I came out of my hole the world had changed itself. Or something had changed it.

[He laughs coldly.]

I didn't even notice until I looked out a window. I went upstairs and stopped at my mother's pride and joy, a massive window overlooking fifth avenue. I looked out and there was nothing. The city that never sleeps and nothing. There was no light, no people, just shit strewn all over the streets. And then I reactivated all of Jarvis' protocols and he filled me in on the situation. There were-. I had, missed so many phone calls and messages in that time. The very few people I had that actually cared a little bit about me, ringing. Was I alive, had I heard the news, did I have a magic weapon to fix it all, was I scared too. Then there were no more messages because the power ran out and even Stark phones don't last forever.

But you never ran out of power.

No. My arc reactor, the energy of the future. It wasn't connected to the power grid at the time so wasn't affected by the power outages. We had to be one of the only fully functioning places in the whole US of A. Maybe even the world.

What did you do with all of that power?

[He snorted.]

I did what I do best. I locked myself in that house and got as wasted as possible.

[He gives me a dazzling smile that is reminiscent of his cover shoot days. ]

What else can you do when the world goes to shit? It was a good, good time but even my father hadn't stockpiled enough booze to last an entire apocalypse. I started running low, not that I even really noticed. Jarvis had stopped talking to me at that stage. I guess I'd pissed him off enough. He would just shut himself down and refuse to function for me. And then one day, intruders came and he didn't even warn me. He just let them in and didn't say anything. We ran across each other in one of the larger hallways. I don't actually remember very much but they were the first humans I'd seen in months. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. I didn't feel very human myself.

But you let them stay anyway.

If I'd known just who I was letting in, what I was getting myself into, maybe I wouldn't have let them.

[Captain Steve G. Rogers is the legend of all legends. He greets me with a polite smile and shakes my hand firmly. I somehow resist the urge to salute back at him when he calls me Ma'am. Once, he was the epitome of the American way, bursting with more patriotism than the President or the humble American pie. Now, he is the embodiment of the new world, still a pillar of justice the people look up to.]

It's an honour, sir.

[He waves off my compliments but blushes anyway.]

No need to stand on ceremony for me. We all fought our way through it. I don't deserve any more recognition than you do.

Mr Stark warned me that you would be, pardon me, 'irritatingly modest'.

Stark? Yeah, I'm sure he said that, sounds just like him. Surprising, though. That he can actually perceive modesty.

He also called you 'the face that launched a thousand ships'.

Yeah, that's an old one. I thought he'd grown out of his phase of referring to me as Helen of Troy. Obviously not. He used to get such a kick out of it and it would have been super embarrassing had there actually been other people around to hear it. MJ and Peter had known Stark longer than I had; they didn't really pass any remarks when he came out with that sort of thing. Throwing out insults, that's what Tony Stark does best.

How did you come to meet Mr Stark and the Parker family?

It's quite the long tale by now. I'll try and keep it as succinct as possible. I know you wanna book out of all o' this, but I'm sure you'd like some room for other people's words and not just mine. A lot of people, they know the story anyhow. I guess it was a bit different for me than most. I didn't belong to this world. I was only new to it when it all blew up. I didn't have the same kinda attachments others did. I couldn't exactly miss all those modern doohickeys they did. I didn't know anything about this place. All I could do was keep on surviving. Just like always.

I wasn't alone at the start. I'd woke up in this government facility not long before it all went downhill. They were doing their best to rehabilitate me into real life in this insane future after I'd spent seven decades stuck in an ocean. To say it wasn't really working…well that would be an understatement. We were all struggling along under the pretense that all was swell, unwilling to admit to each other that it was not. It sounds crazy but I was sort of relieved when the world ended. Not, god, not for those poor people who lost their lives or their loved ones. But it gave me the opportunity I was looking for, you know? I felt more free than I had in years. There were no institutions left to lay claim to me. 'Course I soon realized there wasn't much left at all. The novelty broke down pretty quickly. I still defined myself as Steve Rogers: the soldier. And what use is a soldier without someone to give him orders? Or her, sorry.

But I did get by. I lived on the streets of New York which looked more like the roads I'd been on in Europe than American ones. I encountered quite a few others living like me, off whatever scraps could be found. They had no idea who I was. We were all just remnants of the human race, scavengers. We looked like the stupid ones at the time, taking to the streets when all advice had pressured people to stay indoors. Now of course we know that it was actually safer on the streets than in your own homes. But it didn't really feel like it at the time.

Sometimes I'd run with a group or a family but that never lasted more than a couple days. I ran alone mostly. People didn't trust me. Can't say I blame them, but it sure was a big change to the days when people would hear my name and love me on principle. That always freaked me out, such potential for abusing the uniform. There's always been more safety in doubt and skepticism, especially on the streets.

It was good while it lasted, in its own way. I was missing warmth and being clean in the way I used to when we were stuck in the field for weeks on end. It was the closest I'd been to being back there among my men since I'd woken up. But it couldn't last forever. Nothing does.

I was being chased by a swarm of the Infected down some of the streets, carrying a load of food I'd just liberated from a corner store. I hadn't ate properly in hours so I was reluctant to lose it, but the roads I was on were particularly narrow and I was slower so they could chase me better than normal. I'd turned a corner, hoping to lose them on the next stretch when I ran straight into a dead end. As in, ran straight into it. [He laughs, rubbing absently at his head as if it still hurts him.] I was resigning myself to dropping my cargo in order to throw myself over the wall when a powerful artificial light blinded me. I ended up letting my food fall anyway, trying to protect my eyes from the sight. I could hear the Infected behind me but they didn't seem to be getting any closer.

The light cleared then and I looked up at one of the most bizarre sight I've ever seen. Standing there was a robot, shining in a red and gold paint job. It held out its hand to me and said,

"Come with me if you want to live."

I did the only thing that occurred to me. I grabbed on to the hand and held on.