Lips Of Fire & Eyes To Kill
ch_1: staying fabulous while shooting zombies is kinda hard sometimes
She brushes her blonde bangs out of her eyes. Though her long locks have been cropped short, she's still kept her signature style...only shorter. Without removing her eyes from the road, she asks, "How do I look, Ryan?"
Shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, he turns to her. In the absence of his ever-present hat, he looks older somehow, at least in her peripheral vision. "Very post-apocalyptic chic," he says encouragingly. He tugs at his own leather jacket, clearly uncomfortable.
Since childhood, she'd had dreams of being the brightest of Broadway's superstars. It sucked, she reflected, that New York had been blown up. Although at least she was definitely the most stylish person left alive in the U.S. Sharpay had definitely never planned on being a zombie hunter, but as Ryan had pointed out, even the most conservative estimates of the death toll were around one-third of the population. If someone wasn't up against the monsters, there'd be no Tonys for her to win!
When she'd realized that, she'd packed up Daddy's old camping equipment, covered herself in leather, and hit the road. The outbreak had hit Los Angeles hard, and people on the news were talking about blowing up that city as well. So here they were. Sharpay takes a long breath. Even the stench of rotting flesh couldn't quite overpower that California smell of beaches, boys, and brand names.
She wasn't dumb—they had practically their own armory in the backseat. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and that included breaking and entering. It was all for the greater good, of course.
Ryan seemed to finally be getting into it, too. They'd stopped by a ravaged cosmetics store yesterday (Sharpay was out of mascara) and he had picked up guyliner. "Might as well have the full look," he'd explained, sounding resigned. She got that. From her cropped hair to her thigh-high leather boots, she was totally embracing this whole butt-kicking style. With his gelled up hair, lined eyes, and heavy leather, he was starting to look the part of her sidekick.
He'd always said that he'd follow her anywhere, but she hadn't quite believed that he'd actually come with her to kill zombies. But when she'd slipped into her car for the first time since the outbreak, he was already in the passenger seat. Sharpay had gaped at him. "Ryan, what are you doing there?"
"Oh, did you want me to drive?" he had offered wryly. In reply, she had just pulled his white fedora off his head.
It's kind of funny how it seems so long ago now. Maybe everything changes after you kill your first zombie, she reflects, and turns the stereo up. Ryan gives a slight smile and looks out the window.
The streets in this part of town are deserted. It's a good neighborhood—most of the people here probably had the sense and money to get out before it hit the fan. Sharpay scans the hedges and purses her lips. "Looks clear," she sighs.
"Which...is good," Ryan reminds her, raising an eyebrow. She nods. Good, but boring. They hadn't seen any action in a couple of days.
So they drive on, for hours, it seems. Ryan rolls his eyes (he thinks she can't see) at the metal and post-apocalyptic electro she insists on blasting, but she can feel his feet tapping, itching to get up and dance. Sharpay smothers her smile and looks back at the sunny sky, chewing thoughtfully on a granola bar. First of all, ick—it tastes disgusting, and second...what was that? Someone, the first sign of life they've seen in awhile, is walking down the street.
Scratch that. Make it running.
Without a warning, she floors it. Ryan scrambles to grab onto the seat. She turns up the music as he shouts some kind of question containing a word she knows Mommy didn't approve of. With her right hand, she smooths her hair. Eyes are locked onto her target.
Gawd. She totally knows this guy. Her stomach flip-flops like a dying fish, and a wave of vulnerability takes her back to sixth grade (when she first caught a glimpse of him). She swallows, unable to look away.
Suddenly, he turns the corner into an alley. "Crap," she mutters under her breath (she's not really comfortable yet with the R-rated language her life now requires). Sharpay slams the brakes and blows out air. He'll have to come back eventually.
She is aware of Ryan's dumbstruck stare, but the expected question does not come.
"It was him," Sharpay says quietly.
Maybe the whole twin-psychic-link thing is real, or maybe she's just easy to read. Either way, Ryan nods. "Troy Bolton," he muses, eyes unfocused.
She swallows again.
"Wonder what he's—" Ryan's eyes widen and he cuts his sentence off.
"What?" she asks, a little irritated. He's always doing this.
He tries to gesture. Idly, she notices that he's put on gloves. Hm. "Uh-uh...Shar, zombie at...3? 4 o'clock?"
She turns and groans. "Hand me a gun."
"Which one?"
"Any of them!" Sharpay snaps. Something is pressed into her hand. She closes her eyes, feeling by instinct, and shoots. The bullet flies.
She misses. The zombie is coming closer. The movies were wrong about one thing—zombies are wicked fast, if a little wary to approach people with guns. Still, it isn't enough to ward them off. She's gotta kill them.
Another zombie is in the shadows, but the first one is practically on them. She shoots again, whispering something like a prayer.
Yikes, guns are so noisy.
This shot connects, smashing through the zombie's shoulder. She—because at this range, it's now clear that's what she was—looks down in surprise, a single blue eye widening slightly. Something like a twinge of regret courses through Sharpay. Maybe the zombies are more human than they realized. Maybe she should be focusing on finding a cure instead. Maybe she's killing innocent humans.
The she-zombie raises a hand slowly.
With a grim smile, Sharpay pulls the trigger, making a clean shot into the zombie's chest. She stumbles, gummy blood squeezing out over her black vest. Serves her right for wearing one, Sharpay thinks. Didn't anybody tell her that vests went out two seasons ago?
"Say night-night," she says sweetly, and delivers a third shot into the zombie's now fully-exposed forehead. Handing the gun to Ryan, she dusts the imaginary dirt from her hands and makes a "hmm" of satisfaction.
He stares at her blankly.
"Um, hello? You wanna tell me something like, 'Nice job, Shar' or 'Wow, you're so much cooler than I'll ever be, sis!'" Her hands slip to her hips, fingers sliding over the smooth leather.
"How about look out?" Ryan says weakly, teeth clenching.
Before she can ask why, cold arms are wrapping her up and pulling her out of the car. All she can do is squeak and struggle.
The smell is terrible, like some disgusting blend of dollar-store coffee, wet cement, and eau du morgue. Sharpay, frantically tying to dredge up an appropriate move from what she remembers from Buffy, high-kicks a single boot-clad leg. This accomplishes nothing more than flashing her underwear to the empty street. She grits her teeth and stomps on the zombie's feet. Its only response is to pull her tighter. Ew.
Vaguely, she hears Ryan shouting, "Stay still!" If she could turn to look at him, she would have given him her best death-glare.
"What are you, crazy?" she screeches, trying to work her elbow far enough out to use it as a weapon. "If I stay still it'll eat me!"
He heaves a sigh and, using every drop of air in his singers' lungs, yells, "SHARPAY, AS YOUR OLDER BROTHER, I ORDER YOU TO KEEP STILL FOR ONE FRIGGIN' SECOND!"
Sharpay freezes. He never plays the older-brother card—in fact, most people didn't even know he was older (by six minutes, but still).
A shot rings in her ears, way too close for comfort. She 'eeps' and jumps slightly; in fact, she jumps right out of the gross zombie's grip. Now that he's down, she can see that he had been a middle-aged man, probably about Daddy's age before he was turned. By the smell and maggots, though, he's been gone awhile. The zombie groans and clutches the bullet hole in his leg.
She pulls out her pistol from the holster at her hip and holds it to his head, putting him out of his misery in a matter of seconds. "Thanks, Ry!"
He's still trembling when she climbs back into the car. Sharpay gently takes the gun out of his hand and slides it under her seat. She looks back up at him. "I mean it, Ryan. That was like...when that fat girl in Hairspray dances for the second time and gets the job."
"Tracy," he mumbles, not sitting down.
"Yeah, her. It was that epic, Ry." Sharpay isn't that big a fan of Hairspray—how unfair was it that the girl who got dreamy Link wasn't even hot? Ryan, on the other hand, loves it.
Her brother looks at her, and he looks so different with his lined eyes and fierce expression that she nearly loses her breath. "You're right. It was. If our lives were a musical, that would definitely deserve a big number."
"With a whole dance crew," Sharpay agrees as he slips back down into his seat.
He nods fervently. "And fire coming up from the stage and...lots of glitter."
"Absolutely."
She looks down the alley. "Doesn't look like Troy's coming back this way. Still, he's probably okay, right?"
"Yeah, of course," Ryan says encouragingly.
Sharpay cranks the car back up, letting the sound of electric guitars roll over her. The music is actually starting to grow on her.
Ryan, though, presses a finger to his lips. "Do you hear that?" he whispers.
She rolls both her eyes and the volume down. "Hear what?"
And then she does. A girl's voice, crying. Mixed in with the sobs, she can make out the words, "Help me. Please, please help me...somebody..."
"We have to help her."
"Excuse me?" Sharpay asks. "This smells like a perfume counter worth of trap. No way."
Ryan stands up and swings one leg over the door. "Fine. But I'm going." He runs a hand through his gelled hair and pauses. "Gun?"
Sighing, she slips one to him and climbs out of the car herself. "Five minute limit, Ry, and if it's a trap I will drive off."
"Whatever." He knows she doesn't mean it.
They follow the sound down the street and into another alley. "I don't see anything," Sharpay says, narrowing her eyes. "Let's go."
Ryan, however, creeps over to the trash cans. There, sandwiched between the overflowing bins, is a person (or zombie, Sharpay can't tell which). She is sniffling.
"Here, I'll help you up," Ryan says. Sharpay levels her gun, ready to shoot the whatever-it-is when (not if) it turns out to be less than kosher. The girl/zombie stumbles up, clinging to Ryan's arm like he's the last pair of Jimmy Choos on sale. She's dirty, disgusting, and probably dead. Her curly dark hair is matted, and her face is scratched. Her sundress had probably been cute once upon a time, but now it looks...
...well, it looks like it came out of the dump.
"Thank you thank you thank you," the girl is murmuring, lips trembling. Sharpay doesn't put her gun down.
"Shh," Ryan says soothingly. "It's okay."
The zombie girl looks up and Sharpay nearly drops her weapon in shock. Ryan visibly swallows, and looks closer at the dirty creature.
"G-gabriella?" he whispers.
End Notes: My zombies are different. What the heck possessed me to write this? I don't know. How long will it be? I also don't know that. When will it be updated?
...you can probably guess my answer to that.
This story disregards all of SFA, picking up after HSM3. How long after? I dunno. It might become clear later. Not long, anyway.
Also, yeah, Hairspray the musical movie is still a thing in this universe, despite the fact that...Zac Efron is in it. Hahah.