Authors note: Hello. This is my first attempt at fanfiction. Ever. So please let me know what you think. I dont really have anything planned for this story, I just felt like the Saints in a zombie apocalypse would be an interesting tale. This story takes place after the second movie. So, again, please let me know what you think and thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints or The Walking Dead or any of their characters.

Chapter 1

Sheep are of a peaceful existence. They generally only trouble themselves over food and their young. They rarely quarrel amongst themselves as long as there is plenty to chew on. The air of peace surrounds them, emphasized by their rhythmic crunching on the spring grass and the quiet bleats that pass between ewe and lambs. Perhaps that is why my dreams have brought me here tonight. There are not many pleasantries left in the waking hours so I always cherish when my dreams treat me to a perfect day.

Which is exactly what this dream is. A perfect day.

The late afternoon sun throws shadows across the sheep. The lambs are at the perfect age, where they are small enough to disappear entirely in the lush grass but strong enough that they move around in leaps and bounds of sheer joy. I don't know if this dream is actually this vivid, or if my memory is kicking in to provide me with the familiar, calming smell of the horse which I sit astride as I watch the jovial lambs.

On my right is my twin brother, Connor, and on my left is Rocco, each atop their own beast. That's how I know without a doubt that this is a dream, not only was Rocco spared from this hell hole long before it even came to be, but that bastard wouldn't have been caught dead with livestock of any kind. He barely tolerated that fucking cat (Scrapy or Skippy or whatever the hell its name was) before he shot it. He never would have done it on purpose, but I think he was just relieved to be rid of it.

This is what I'm thinking about as I look at Rocco and his mount, I'm even starting to smile, when I hear it behind me. Heavy, gurgled breathing. Fuck, there goes my peaceful dreamland. I wince as I turn back to Connor, I already know what I will see but my dream wont allow me to spare myself the sight. My few precious dreams all end this way, as my worst possible nightmare. I face Connor just in time to watch the life drain from his eyes and his easy smile change to a growl of desperate hunger. His skin yellows and splits into huge wounds that don't bleed. Connor is dead. Well, undead. This is my greatest fear in a world that no longer knows anything but fear. I wake with a jolt. Not only do I not want to see Undead Connor, but more often than not, the breathing that interrupts my dreams comes from the real world. So I'm not at all surprised when the growl only gets louder as my scenery changes from the rolling hills of Ireland to the rusted fire escape of a Boston back alley.

I look down to the ground below and see a small group has gathered below me, pawing at the wall. They must be running out of living souls to devour because they appear weak, their attempts to reach me are pathetic at best. That's why I sleep out here, despite Doc's disapproval, I'm not worried about them reaching me. Of course they find me, I'm out in the open not very far above them so they can smell me easily. I don't tell Doc, but that's another reason I sleep out here, to attract the passersby. One must always remember to enjoy the little things in a world that's gone to complete shit, and one of my little enjoyments is being able to pick off a few more of these fuckers first thing in the morning.

Killing is one thing I am good at, always have been, even before when it was the living on the business end of my gun. That doesn't mean I enjoy it. I kill out of necessity. I wish I didn't have to kill these- well I can't call them people, but that's just it, they aren't people. They used to be people, they still sort of resemble people in their overall appearance and manner of motion. Take, for example, this female below me, I would guess she was a librarian based on her sturdy shoes and modest dress, but now the dress is soiled and torn, and her face is mostly missing revealing her toothy skull below the rotting layers of flesh. I don't feel bad as I send a bullet between her hallow eyes, in fact I feel certain that if there was even a shadow of the person she used to be left inside her, she would thank me for putting an end to what her existence has become.

"And shepherds we shall be," I mutter to myself sarcastically. Its been months since we uttered the family prayer. It doesn't seem to apply to this new life in this terrible new world. This is no command of God's that we are carrying out. This is survival, at least, and mercy, at best.

I finish the other two quickly and wait for a few minutes to make sure no more come around the corner. Not a day goes by that I don't thank God for the silencers on my Berettas, they only make enough sound to attract the undead that are nearby, unlike an uninhibited gunshot which would attract half the city. When I'm confident that nothing else heard the gun, I duck back in the window. Connor is already awake, and I silently send a prayer of thanks that Undead Connor is still exclusively in my dreams.

"How many this morning, Baby Brother?"

"Ah, shut the fuck up, Con, you know I'm probably older!"

"You know that's all bullshit, Murph. So, how many?"

"Just three. Slow morning for the end of the world." He smirks and nods to the coffee to indicate that its ready.

Whether he intended it or not, Doc has a pretty good set up for an apocalypse. His building is located on the outer skirts of the city so we rarely encounter groups larger than five corpses. In addition to the prime location, the building has three levels: the upstairs with plenty of room for the three of us, the basement with food storage and an ancient water pump that is by some miracle still working, and the main level which is the bar which has more whiskey than any Irishman could dream of, for a little while. The old bastard has always been on the paranoid side so he was stock piling things long before the world came crashing down, especially whiskey, bless his heart. But people aren't supposed to survive an apocalypse as long as we have, and even with Doc's hoarding and the grocery store down the street, we are running low on supplies.

I'm just dipping a stale cracker in my coffee when Doc shuffles in the room.

"Morning, Fuck Ass! Beautiful day in the Zombie Apocalypse!" I greet him cheerfully

"Ah, Murph, you didn't sleep outside again d-d-did ya? FUCK! ASS!"

"Aye, Doc. Slow morning, though, only three corpses," he gives me a scowl over his thick glasses so I add, "don't worry I'll move them after breakfast."

I remember the first walking, rotting corpse I encountered. I told Connor that day that we will know all is lost when we are no longer fazed by that smell. Months later, we stand rigid with our noses scrunched against the odor. I guess it is comforting to know that not quite all is lost just yet. It has always amazed me that something that's relatively functioning can smell so absolutely wretched. It has become common, familiar even, but still not easily dealt with.

The smell doesn't improve any once they have been extinguished for good, either. Actually, come to think of it, nothing does. Death used to be simple. People would crowd around their departed loved ones and declare how peaceful the deceased looked, how they looked to be sleeping. These three corpses at my feet have long since resembled anything akin to serenity. Their faces are forever frozen in the state of mutated desperation that they were in when my bullet entered their skull. Connor and I kneel beside them and pray for souls that have long since departed these bodies. Even without our old prayer, it still seems wrong to neglect the souls that used to harbor in these shells. We cross ourselves and get to work.

In the old world, the warehouse was used for parties and teenage debauchery, but since there are no longer any sentient teenagers left in this part of the city, we have been using it for disposal. We call it The Tomb. It has been a long time accumulating corpses and our senses are overwhelmed by the sheer numbers every time we pass through the doors, which are always open. We've discovered that the stink of the mass corpses tends to drive most of the undead away from the warehouse, making it typically easy to pass the two block span from McGinty's pub to The Tomb.

I push the wheelbarrow with the three corpses while Connor keeps lookout. It has been so long since we have come across any of them this close to The Tomb that I've stopped worrying about it, Connor, on the other hand, is an ever vigilant lookout. That's why when I run into Connor's outstretched arm; I turn to him to tell him to "calm the fuck down" like I have on many such occasions. I see he's looking straight ahead with a mix of confusion and determination, and the words choke me before they can assault the quiet of street. Well, the usually quiet street, when I follow his gaze, I'm not sure how it took Connor physically stopping me to pull me from my thoughts. There are about a dozen of them, milling around between us and The Tomb, making inhuman guttural sounds. They haven't noticed us yet. Between the smell of The Tomb and the three corpses in our wheelbarrow, our scent is concealed. Without a word, we start backing up, careful not to make a sound. A slight breeze picks up from behind us. Fuck. I can almost watch our scent pass over the vacant space to the closest one. Its head snaps up and its body jerks towards us and its face contorts into a feral growl as it takes us in. we have officially lost any hope of subtlety. I don't know if it is in response to our smell or the growl but every single one of the mutated undead on the street stops to take on their own versions of the same reaction.

Connor and I each pull out our twin Barretas and start taking them down with precise ease, never wasting a precious bullet. Twelve is a manageable number. Con and I have handled that many living targets that were shooting back, these undead pose no threat. We can terminate these strays and haul them into The Tomb and be back to the pub for lunch. We just about have them all knocked off when another one comes around the corner, then another, then they are pouring into the street. Apparently, these stragglers hadn't strayed as far from their herd as I initially thought.

Every time we leave the safety of the pub our 9mm are completely loaded, 15 bullets in each gun. Even before the apocalypse, we rarely would leave home without our guns, they have become extensions of what we are. We stopped carrying additional clips, though, because we rarely ever used more than 10 rounds each, let alone 30. So here we stand, 60 bullets diminishing between us, and an ever increasing mob rushing towards us. It is evident that we no longer stand a chance.

"Run!" I yell at Connor, as if he doesn't already know.

"No fucking shit, Murph!" he counters as we turn back and run. Even as we are running for our lives, here at the end of the world, he is still a smart ass.

It is a blessing that we only have a block to go, because they are starting to fall in behind us from the alleys. We scramble into the door, slam it shut behind us, and push the reinforcements in place just as the mass of bodies pound into the side of the building, shaking the walls, a bottle of whiskey falls off the shelf and shatters across the floor. I look at Connor and I can see my thoughts reflected in his features.

Boston is no longer safe for the living.